The Lost Art of Gratitude

Jamie was watching her. “Are you trying not to laugh?”

She could reply—quite honestly—that she was not. But she sensed that laughter was there, not far away, and that this would spoil all her moral effort, her determination to like Bruno.

“Anyway, he was walking along the wire, and Cat and Eddie were watching from down below. Cat suddenly called out to him and waved—Eddie said that he thought she was really proud of seeing him up there being admired by everybody.”

“I suppose so,” said Isabel. But she thought: I wouldn’t be.

“He looked round, apparently, and then fell off. She had distracted him.”

Isabel gasped.

“He wasn’t hurt, apparently, or not badly,” Jamie went on. “He twisted an ankle a bit, but picked himself up and went over to Cat.”

“And?”

“And he yelled at her,” said Jamie. “Ranted and raved in front of everybody. Then apparently he stormed off. Eddie said that Cat was in tears and nothing’s been seen of Bruno since then. No apology. Nothing.”

Isabel sat in silence. It was a painful discovery to make, but one very much better made before she married him.

“The end of Bruno,” she muttered.

“Yes,” said Jamie. He pointed to the salmon steaks on their plates. “Don’t let the salmon get cold.”

She lifted her knife and fork. Cat had made numerous mistakes, and seemed destined to make more. One day she would stop—she would have to—and take stock of the men she had chosen. Every one of them had been unsuitable, in one way or another, apart from Jamie, that is. But then Jamie had been unsuitable for Cat—principally because he was so suitable for virtually anybody else. Poor Cat: Could she not see the problem?

They exchanged glances. “Let’s be honest,” said Jamie. “It would have been a disaster. Those elevator shoes.”

Isabel was thinking more of his temper, but she agreed that the elevator shoes were a problem too. And the tightrope walking. And the stunts. And Oil.

“You’re right,” she said.

They finished their meal. Then Jamie said, “I composed something today. The words are by somebody else; the music by me. Would you like to hear it?”

Isabel said that she would. She would make coffee and bring it through to the music room. He could go through and get ready.

She ground the coffee, alone in the kitchen, savouring the smell of the grounds. She thought of Italy, and of the little coffee bar in Siena where she had stood at the high tables and drunk coffee with her friends. That was many years ago, and she was a different person now, and they were scattered to the four corners, as so many of us are. Were they happy? she wondered. For she wanted for them only that—happiness and wisdom, if their hearts were open to these two things, these principal things, that were the foundation of the good. I have been so fortunate, she thought, and Cat so unfortunate. She was grateful for that—for her own good fortune, that is, she was grateful. And she hoped that things would change for Cat, but she feared that they would not. We are condemned to repeat our failures, she thought, and some do so all their lives, to the very end, elderly children who have never learned.

She took the coffee through and put the cups down on the small table beside the piano. Jamie, seated at the keyboard, had his fingers on a chord and played it gently. Isabel sat down and waited for him to begin.

“Go on.”

It seemed to her that he was blushing. It was unusual for him to be embarrassed to play before her; they had done that countless times before. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m not sure how it’s going to sound.”

She sought to reassure him. “It’ll sound just fine. It always does.” She looked at him. “You don’t have to—if you don’t want to.”

“No, I will.”

She asked whether he had given it a name, and he thought for a moment. “No, I don’t want to. It’s just a tune I’ve made up. Nothing important.”

“What’s it about? Olives? Or potatoes dauphinois?”

He smiled. “I suspect nobody’s ever written a song about potatoes dauphinois.” He played another chord, as if he were looking for something on the piano. “This is about losing things,” he said. “About thinking you’ve lost something, and then finding you haven’t.”

Isabel sat down next to him, on the piano stool. I would go ten thousand miles for you, she thought; as she was now sure he would for her. That was another song altogether, something about turtle doves.

Jamie began.What we lose, we think we lose for ever,

But we are wrong about this; think of love—

Love is lost, we think it gone,

But it returns, often when least expected,

Forgives us our lack of attention, our failure of faith,

Our cold indifference; forgives us all this, and more;

Returns and says, “I was always there.”

Love, at our shoulder, whispers: “Merely remember me,

Don’t think I’ve gone away for ever:

I am still here. With you. My power undimmed.

See. I am here.”

The music accompanying the words was simple, but it followed their mood closely, fittingly, as a well-made