The Charming Quirks of Others

The singing teacher drew level with Isabel and, seeing Charlie, slowed her pace.

“Such a beautiful little boy,” she said. “Do you mind my asking: what’s he called?”

This was the first time that Isabel had heard her voice; it was high, with a West Highland lilt to it.

“Charlie.”

“Bonnie Charlie,” said the woman, bending down to examine Charlie more closely.

Isabel took a deep breath. I am not going to cry, she told herself. I am not. But when the woman looked up, she saw the tears in Isabel’s eyes.

“My dear …”

Isabel reached in her pocket for a handkerchief. “It’s nothing. I’m all right.” She realised, as she spoke, how trite the words were. People said things like that without thinking, but it helped neither them nor the people trying to comfort them.

The woman placed a hand on Isabel’s arm. “It’s hard being a mother, isn’t it? There are so many things.”

Isabel nodded. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“If I can do anything to help?”

Isabel shook her head. “Thanks. I’ll be all right. I must get Charlie back for his sleep.”

They parted, although the singing teacher looked over her shoulder a few yards on. She saw Isabel continue her journey, walking more swiftly now, head down, as if to fight a wind that was not there, on this calm day, with its clear sky and darting birds.

CHAPTER NINE

THERE HAD BEEN PAINFUL DAYS in Isabel’s life, as there are in the lives of all of us. There had been days during her brief marriage to John Liamor when she had felt a blanket of despair about her—a dark, enveloping blanket that prevented her from doing anything, from thinking about anything other than her distress. And it brought with it self-pity, for which she had a particular distaste when she saw it in others, but which she nevertheless understood perfectly well. I shall not, she said to herself as she returned to the house. I shall not. No. But what was it that she would not do? Think Jamie capable of deception, of …? She could hardly bring herself to think the word, let alone mutter it to herself; but now she said it, the word escaping her lips in an almost inaudible whisper: Unfaithfulness. And then, the word still hanging in the air, she muttered: Affair.

She passed the photograph of her sainted American mother in its place on the hall table; her sainted American mother who, as she had subsequently discovered, had had an affair. She had learned this from a conversation with her mother’s cousin, Mimi McKnight, who had tried to protect her from the knowledge but who had had it drawn out of her. Mimi had put it as tactfully as she could, and had wanted Isabel to forgive her mother, which she had done, of course; forgiveness, Mimi pointed out, can be as powerful when it is posthumous as when it is given in life; perhaps even more so. This had intrigued Isabel, and she had realised that it was quite true: forgiveness of others allows us to adjust our feelings towards the past, assuages our anger. Our parents may disappoint us in so many ways: they could have done more, they made us neurotic, they should have insisted we learn the piano—and now it is too late; they were too strict, in big things or small; they were too poor, too ignorant, too rich and possessive. There are so many grudges we can hold against the past and for the love and approval that we did not get from it. But if we forgive, then the past can lose its power to hurt.

She looked at her mother. The photograph had been taken on a trip that she had made to Venice with a college friend whose name Isabel had now forgotten. The friend was in the background, clutching at a straw hat she was wearing; there was a breeze and there were flags fluttering in the background; St. Mark’s Square, and the outside of the Caffe Florian, which had been such a favourite with Proust, and had been portrayed in a glorious Scottish Colourist painting. She looked at her mother’s face; she was smiling, and now it seemed to Isabel that the smile meant, My dear, life is like this; there are so many disappointments; so many …

Isabel turned away. Charlie, whom she had taken out of his pushchair in the outer hall, was niggling. He was tired and would settle quickly, but now nothing would satisfy him. She picked him up as Grace came out of the kitchen, a tea towel in her hand.

“I heard you come in. I’ve just made tea. Would you like a cup?”

“He’s so tired,” said Isabel. “Tea? No thank you.”

Grace approached Charlie and picked him up. “Little darling. Tired? Tired now and ready for a nap?”

Charlie made a fist and struck Grace across the chin.

“No!” Isabel’s voice was harsh, and Charlie looked at her in wide-eyed astonishment.

“That’s all right,” said Grace. “Didn’t hurt.”

“It’s not all right,” said Isabel testily. “Don’t tell him it’s all right to hit people. Just don’t!”

Grace looked at Isabel, registering much the same surprise as did Charlie. “He didn’t mean it.”

Isabel half turned away. “He did. He hit you.” She turned back and looked at Charlie. “You mustn’t hit people, Charlie. Wrong. Bad.” She thought, inconsequentially and absurdly: I speak as the editor of the Review of Applied Ethics, not just as your mother. Wrong. Bad.

Grace was stroking Charlie’s cheek, and the little boy was smiling in response. “Grace put you to bed?” said Grace. “Grace tuck you up?” She looked to Isabel for confirmation.

“Yes,” said Isabel. “If you wouldn’t mind. I have …” She gestured towards the study door. “I have work to do … Or rather, I have to …”

“If you need to go out,” said Grace, “I’ll look after our wee friend here. I’ve done all the ironing—it’s all stacked away. I could take him to Blackford Pond later on.”

“Ducks,” shouted Charlie.

“You see,” exclaimed Grace. “Clever boy. Clever, clever boy! There are indeed ducks in Blackford Pond.”