The Charming Quirks of Others

everyday life? What liberties could we legitimately take when we were entrusted with the property of others? Could you read a book you were looking after for somebody? Yes, she thought, you could. Drink from their bottle of water? No. Germs dictated that. Take fruit from a bowl? No. A nut from a dish of nuts? Yes. Sit in their chairs? Of course: chairs are public, and one only needs to seek permission to sit in another’s chair if the owner of the room is present; once you were by yourself, any chair was fair game. Except the chairs of really important people—one should not sit on a throne when left unattended in a monarch’s throne room; that really was going too far. And yet who would miss such an opportunity? There could surely be little doubt but that visitors to Her Majesty sat down on the nearest throne when Her Majesty went out to fetch something. And, indeed, polite American presidents actually engineered excuses to leave the Oval Office for a few moments so that their guests could run round and sit in the President’s chair for a few seconds. The only occasion when this had led to embarrassment was when President de Gaulle had visited the White House and had momentarily dropped off to sleep while seated in the President’s chair.

Isabel smiled. Cat glanced at her suspiciously.

“Parapsychology,” said Gordon. “Cat tells me that you’re going to a lecture on parapsychology.”

Isabel laughed. “I know that sounds a bit odd,” she said. “It’s rather complicated. My housekeeper, you see, is a great enthusiast for these things and keen that we should go. I’m not a believer in parapsychology myself. But …” She knew that she was telling only half the truth. The full truth, she thought, is that I’m trying to find out about three people, of whom you, Gordon, are one.

“Well, plenty of people take it seriously enough,” said Gordon. “And isn’t there evidence for the existence of telepathy?”

“No,” said Isabel. “Not as far as I know.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” said Jamie, and laughed.

Cat looked at him sideways. What was so funny?

Isabel changed the subject, asking Gordon about the school he was currently teaching at, Firth College.

Gordon nodded. “I’ve been there for five years now. I like the place.” He paused. “Although I’m currently in for another job.”

Isabel found herself warming to him. He need not have said that—a more … more closed person would have said nothing. She looked at his face; his expression was frank.

“A promotion?” she asked.

“Yes. A headship.” He looked at Cat, and at that moment Isabel realised that as far as Gordon was concerned, his plans included her niece.

“Well, good luck,” said Isabel. “I have the luxury, I suppose, of being self-employed. But I know what it’s like to apply for jobs.”

She thought of the last time she had applied for a job, which involved being interviewed by Professor Lettuce for the position of editor of the Review. The interview panel had consisted of three people: Lettuce, who had been in the chair; a woman from King’s College London, who had gazed out of the window throughout the interview; and a slight, rather thin-faced man, who had been a fellow of a Cambridge college but who had looked, in Isabel’s view, like a bookmaker from Newmarket Racecourse. Lettuce had barely bothered to look up from the table when Isabel had come in, and the nature of their subsequent relationship had been dictated from that morning. Yet she had been given the job, presumably because nobody else had been prepared to do it for the salary offered, which was virtually nothing.

“Thanks,” said Gordon. “But I really don’t think that I stand much of a chance.”

“Don’t assume anything,” said Isabel under her breath. She wanted him to get the job now—and that complicated matters immensely: How could she be objective in her enquiry if she started off wanting one of the candidates to emerge unsullied and papabile? Life’s goalposts, and hurdles too, are never in the right place, she told herself; and they have the unfortunate habit of shifting within seconds. One sees them, and then suddenly they are no longer there, where they should be, but somewhere altogether elsewhere.

CHAPTER SIX

AFTER THE DANISH LECTURE, Isabel and Jamie said goodbye to Grace, who was going to have tea with a fellow member of her spiritualist circle in Stockbridge. They had seen this woman at the lecture, and had both noticed her eyes, which were grey and cloudy, as if in the advanced stages of some occluding condition, cataracts perhaps. But no, explained Grace, she saw perfectly well: “She sees more than we do—far more, I assure you.” Isabel had avoided catching Jamie’s eye when this was said, but she saw him discreetly mouth the word “Strange!” She shook her head in warning; this was not meant to be funny, and he was not to laugh. “Don’t even think of laughing,” she whispered as they walked away up the street. “These people have ways of telling.”

They had reserved a table at the Cafe St. Honore in Thistle Street Lane, a restaurant that they had been going to for some years now. It was Paris transplanted, but without the falsity that sometimes goes with transplantation. Jamie, in particular, disliked Irish pubs outside Ireland. “All these O’Connor’s Taverns and McGinty’s Bars and so on are completely bogus,” he had complained to Isabel. “I went into one with the band the other day and it was full of old Guinness signs. I looked closely at one of them and saw that it was made in China. And the barman, who had a name badge which said Paddy, was Russian, or sounded like it.”

“People have their dreams,” said Isabel. “And it’s harmless enough. We go to French bistros and Italian restaurants. What’s the difference between them and Irish pubs? The intention in each case is to provide you with an illusion. Don’t look out of the windows and you could be in Paris or Naples. That’s what people want.”

Jamie was not convinced. “It’s a Disneyland culture,” he said. “Insincere. Infantilised.”

She looked at him sideways. “I’m not sure about insincerity. Disneyland may not be to your taste, but I don’t think it’s insincere. They mean to be syrupy.”

“Mickey Mouse,” said Jamie dismissively.

She raised an eyebrow. “Mickey Mouse? I don’t see anything wrong with Mickey.” She paused; one did not associate Auden with Disney characters, but she recalled an interview in the Paris Review in which the interviewer had asked the poet, for some reason, what he thought of Mickey Mouse. And Auden had replied, “He’s all right.” She mentioned this to Jamie, who said, enigmatically, “Is he?”

“Yes, he is. Mickey’s decent. He represents the little person.”