The Lost Art of Gratitude Read online

  Minty knew that she was coming, as Isabel had telephoned in advance. As Isabel made her way up the drive, the car wheels crunching the expensive gravel mix below—pink and grey—she saw Minty appear at the front door. She was carrying something in her hands, a magazine or a sheaf of papers—it was difficult to tell at that distance. She went back in, deposited the papers somewhere, and came out again just as Isabel brought the car to a halt in front of the house.

  Minty’s manner was warm. “I know better than to offer you something to drink,” she said. “That’s one thing about living in the country—people have to drive out to see you and so your drinks cupboard rarely has to be stocked up.”

  Isabel smiled weakly. “I like tea,” she said, “if that’s on offer.”

  “Of course it is. Anything.”

  Isabel instantly regretted her request. She did not want her visit to be transformed into a social meeting conducted over a cup of tea. She knew that this would be a danger with Minty, who would use her considerable skills to forfend any threat to her command of a situation. “Actually,” she said, “I’m not sure that I even want a cup of tea.”

  Minty started to frown, but obviously thought better of it, and the incipient frown became a smile. “It would be no trouble.”

  They were still standing outside, and Isabel, sensing that Minty was about to invite her in, looked over her shoulder at the expanse of rough-cut grass behind her. “It’s such a warm evening,” she began. “Couldn’t we go for a walk down there? The view must be stunning.”

  Minty looked over Isabel’s shoulder, towards the hills. “It looks like rain’s heading our way.”

  Isabel was insistent. “But not just yet. Come on.”

  Minty conceded, and they began to stroll over the grass towards the bank of shrubs at the end of the garden. Beyond the shrubs there was a field, and beyond that more fields, woods, and, in the distance, the hills themselves.

  “I hope you’ll hear me out in what I have to say,” Isabel said. “You may not like it.”

  Minty was all innocence. “Not like it? Why? What could you say that I wouldn’t like?”

  Isabel went straight to the point. “I know that you’ve used me,” she said. “You’ve deliberately misrepresented me …”

  She did not finish. “Misrepresented?” snapped Minty. “I explained to you, remember. I told you in the café. I told you what happened.”

  “And George Finesk? The letter you wrote?”

  They did not stop walking. It was easier, Isabel felt, to utter these lines while walking.

  “George Finesk?”

  “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”

  Minty hesitated. Then: “George Finesk carried out a totally unwarranted attack on our property. And I have the evidence to support that.”

  “But you didn’t tell me about that,” retorted Isabel. “You led me to believe that it was Jock Dundas. Yet you knew all along that it was George.”

  “So? So what?”

  Isabel stopped walking. She took a step to the side so that she was now standing directly in front of Minty. “You used me,” she said again. “You forged my signature.” She was looking directly into Minty’s eyes, hoping to see the effect of truth upon them. But there was none. Minty stared back at her, bemused. She controls even her gaze, Isabel thought.

  Minty spoke. “I haven’t caused you any harm, have I? I’ve had to deal with two … how shall I put it? Two little problems. And I’ve done it—with some assistance from you, I admit, for which I really am grateful.” She paused. “Two women helping one another deal with troublesome men. But if it’s payment you’re looking for, I can certainly …”

  “I don’t want money,” Isabel hissed. “I want …” What did she want? “I want an apology.”

  Minty did not hesitate. “Of course. Sorry. Yes, I’m very sorry if you’ve been offended by my somewhat unconventional tactics. But you must admit, surely, that they seem to have worked.”

  Suddenly Minty took a step backwards. “Do you mind? I feel a little bit claustrophobic when I’m too close to people.”

  “Because you’re forced to see them as real?” asked Isabel.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You do. You know exactly what I mean.”

  Minty looked at her watch. “Look, it’s almost eight. I really have to get on with things. Gordon …”

  Isabel looked past Minty towards the house. There was a light on in one of the rooms to the front of the house, and she saw a figure move across a window, silhouetted. It occurred to her that it would be very easy.

  “Gordon doesn’t know.”

  Minty, who had also turned, spun round. “What?”

  “I said that Gordon doesn’t know about your affair with Jock …”

  For a moment Minty said nothing. Isabel saw her colour though, saw the flush of anger, or was it fear?

  “You’d tell him?” Minty’s voice was small—constricted by something.

  Isabel was aware of the moment’s significance. It was a strange feeling—having somebody in your power and completely at your mercy. One might relish it, if one were insecure or perverted, or simply cruel.

  Minty spoke again. “You wouldn’t tell him? You gave me your word, you know.”

  She had to decide, and now, at this extreme moment, she found it remarkably easy to choose. There was no self within her saying, Go on, go ahead and threaten her; all that she heard was the self that said, It would be wrong; what you have to do is forgive her.

  “I told you that I wouldn’t tell him, and I won’t.”

  Minty’s relief was palpable. “Good.”

  Isabel watched her. “I notice that you said good and not thank you.”

  “Thank you,” said Minty.

  “An afterthought.”

  Isabel swallowed. Her heart was thumping again, as it always did at these moments. Minty’s heart, she thought, will not be thumping, or turning somersaults, or doing any of the things that the hearts of normal people are said to do.

  “One final thing,” Isabel said. “You have wronged me, but you have wronged others—George Finesk included.”

  Minty stared at her. “George Finesk? Let me tell you something. That man has a dispute with me. A simple business disagreement. He’s the one who’s taken it nuclear.”

  Isabel held her gaze. “But I know what happened. And it seems to me that you should have told him that you were going to sell the bank’s holding in that company.”

  Minty’s expression now showed amusement. “But I did. I told him about it. There was complete disclosure.”

  “He says there wasn’t.”

  Minty waited for a few moments before she replied. “He’s a liar.” She paused, watching the effect of her words on Isabel. “Can’t you tell when somebody’s lying?”

  No, thought Isabel. I don’t seem to be able to do that at all.

  She looked away, unsure as to whether she would have the courage to challenge Minty. “People tell a lot of lies, don’t they? So what if I were lying when I told you that I wouldn’t tell Gordon about your affair? What then?”

  Minty froze. She opened her mouth, but said nothing. Isabel felt her eyes upon her; cold rays.

  “Well, I wasn’t lying when I said that. But tell me something—have you heard of the liar paradox?”

  Minty looked uncertain. It was what Isabel wanted; she had forced the other woman on to her own territory.

  “It’s something that philosophers talk about,” said Isabel. “A Cretan says ‘All Cretans are liars.’ But he’s a Cretan, you see. More to the point, though, I might say to you, ‘All Scots sometimes tell lies,’ which is probably true. There can’t be anybody, really, who hasn’t told a lie—even a little one—at some point in life, particularly as a child. So what this suggests is that you shouldn’t always believe what a Scottish person tells you. And, of course, I’m a Scot …” She smiled. “What a ridiculous conversation, though. Please don’t pay too muc
h attention to what I say. I’m a professional philosopher, you see, and we go on about things rather a lot. Strange, unrealistic speculation, and so on.”

  Minty was watching her, but Isabel now felt confident. Wickedness was tawdry when you came right up against it—as she felt she was doing now. It was tawdry and banal. There was nothing impressive or frightening about Minty Auchterlonie; she was very ordinary.

  “Yes,” Isabel went on, “I love philosophical speculations. So I might ask myself, for example, whether in a case like this it would be appropriate for one person to compensate another. What do you think, Minty—do you enjoy speculating about that sort of thing?”

  Minty remained quite still. “I understand what you’re saying,” she said. “I will. I’ll do something.”

  Isabel watched her. No, she thought, she’s lying. Again. But she had played with her enough. It was not for her to punish Minty.

  “I don’t think you will at all,” said Isabel. And then, rather reluctantly, she added, “And I don’t think that you really understand me. So let me reassure you. When I said that I wouldn’t say anything to Gordon, I meant that. You can trust me.”

  IT TOOK HER TIME to calm down as she drove back, but by the time she reached the turn-off for Flotterstane she felt normal again. Her visit to Minty Auchterlonie, she decided, had not been a waste of time; nor had she allowed herself to become angry. She found herself wondering what would have happened had she yielded to the temptation to force Minty to make amends to George by threatening to tell Gordon of the affair. Again, she had made the right decision, as to do otherwise would have been to play by Minty’s rules, and Minty, she suspected, would always win in any such game.

  She looked out of the car window, down towards Roslin and Dalkeith beyond. The evening air seemed to have applied a wash to the countryside, like the layer of faint blue that a water-colourist will use to blur the details. It gave the land that feeling of peacefulness, of near somnolence, of a country getting ready for the darkness that was still an hour or two away. She loved that view; she loved that bit of land, which, when she turned the next corner following the road that curved round Hillend House, would become the city.

  Charlie had been put to bed by the time she arrived at the house.

  “I would have kept him up for you,” said Jamie, “but he was ready to drop.”

  They crept into Charlie’s room together, and she bent down and kissed him gently, imperceptibly, on the side of the head. His hair smelled of baby shampoo, and beside him was his stuffed fox staring up at the ceiling with the patience that only stuffed animals seem capable of. It made her think of Brother Fox, who must be better by now, she thought, unaware of why it was that his wound had stopped aching. That was the best way of doing good, she thought; do it when the person for whom you are doing the deed is under heavy sedation and will never remember. So might one leave presents for others—while they were asleep or otherwise unaware of what you were doing.

  They went downstairs. Jamie had prepared an elaborate salad, which they would eat with wild Scottish salmon steaks and boiled new potatoes. She poured a glass of New Zealand white wine for both of them, chilled and dry. Then she told him what had happened that evening.

  “That’s the end of that,” he said. “Odd ending, though.”

  She found herself agreeing. It had indeed been an odd ending, but it was, she felt, exactly right. “If it had ended any other way I think I would have felt uncomfortable,” she said. “I just would.”

  He thought about that, and after a few minutes he agreed. “You have done nothing wrong.”

  “In fact, I’ve done virtually nothing,” she said. “Everything happened without my really doing anything. I was a complete pawn in Minty’s hands.”

  “I suppose so,” he said. “But then you showed her something at the end.”

  “Did I?”

  He was quite sure. “I think you did. She may take no notice, but she may have learned something. May have.”

  He took the salmon steaks from the fridge and prepared the pan.

  “I love you in your apron,” she said, looking across the room at him from her chair at the kitchen table. “Why is it that men look so good in aprons?”

  Jamie had no idea. He did not think of himself as looking good; he was without vanity.

  “Oh,” he said, remembering something as he dropped the steaks on to the surface of the pan. “Guy Peploe phoned.”

  She looked up. “About that portrait?”

  Jamie nodded. “He left a message, since he was going to be in London tomorrow and might not be able to speak until he came back. He said his view of that painting has been confirmed. It’s not the lost one. It was done by an Italian, I think he said.”

  “By Dupra. I see.” She felt a pang of disappointment. “He told me that was probably the case. I still like it, though. And I’m glad we bought it.”

  “Well, there you are,” said Jamie. “I’ve often thought about the value that we give to things that are authentic. Does it matter if something is not made by the person we’d like it to be made by? If a violin plays like a Strad, does it matter if it’s by a lesser maker?”

  Isabel was about to answer “Not really,” but then she realised that sometimes it did matter. “It matters if we’re interested in where things come from,” she said. “Maybe it doesn’t matter if it’s just utility we’re bothered about.”

  “So if I composed something that sounded like Mozart, would it count for as much as the real thing?”

  Isabel smiled. “It would to me,” she said.

  He averted his gaze in momentary embarrassment, but soon turned round again and smiled at her. “Thanks,” he said.

  Jamie returned to the stove and Isabel crossed over to the kitchen window. She stared out into the garden. A clump of valerian stood along the wall, a curious, light purple plant, a faithful returnee whom she had never had to encourage. It brought sleep, she knew, like the poppy. Balarian, she thought; Balarian in German. A German visitor, a professor of philosophy from Frankfurt, had seen it in her garden and called it Balarian. She had asked why, and he had replied that it was named after a Norse god called Baldur—“so good and so true that the light shone forth from him.” There were people like that, not just gods—but only a tiny handful. How many in Scotland? Ten? Twenty?

  Her thoughts returned to the picture and to Guy’s call. Things were not what they seemed to be; sometimes that mattered, while other times it mattered not at all. It was not important that the picture of Bonnie Prince Charlie was not what she had hoped it would be; the prince himself was probably not what so many people had hoped he would be. He was a military failure, he was proud and seemingly rather vain—as the later Stuarts tended to be. Minty was palpably not what she claimed to be; nor was George Finesk; nor Jock Dundas. She should not have taken any of these people at face value; she had been naive. But this conclusion, she realised, pointed unambiguously in the direction of cynicism, and she would not be a cynic. It was better to be naive—much better.

  The salmon steaks cooked, Jamie served the potatoes and put the salad bowl on the table. “Very delicious,” remarked Isabel. She was looking away as she spoke and Jamie could tell that her mind was elsewhere. He assumed that all philosophers were like that—not only his philosopher.

  “I think we should invite Cat and Bruno back for dinner,” she said. “How about next week?” She did not want to do this, but she knew that she had to make an effort. Ill feeling, in whatever quarter it existed, was like a slow and insidious poison, a weedkiller that strangled the life about it. She would make an effort with Bruno, no matter how hard it might be.

  He shook his head. “It might be too late,” he said.

  “Why?”

  He delivered the news in even tones. “Because I don’t think they’re still together.”

  Isabel had half expected this. Cat was incorrigible; she was ashamed of her, but she was also pleased. How quickly, she thought, have my good intentions bee
n replaced by delight in the end of Cat’s romance. She was human, made up of a will to do good, but also with human failings. It was the end of Bruno, but she resisted any hint of triumphalism, or evident relief, restricting herself to asking Jamie how he had formed this impression.

  “Eddie said something,” Jamie replied.

  Isabel felt her pleasure fading rapidly. Eddie was not always to be relied upon.

  “Eddie went to a show on the Meadows,” Jamie went on. “It was some sort of sample of what was coming up at the Fringe—the usual thing, actors, jugglers, musicians. And Bruno was doing a tightrope walk.”

  Isabel could see it. There would be colour and music and the very faint hint of marijuana smoke mingled with cheap perfume.

  Jamie continued with his explanation. “Bruno’s wire was not very high—about twelve feet or so, Eddie said. But he was doing all sorts of tricks on it—he rode a unicycle across and skipped—you know what these characters do.”

  Isabel imagined Bruno padding across the wire in his elevator shoes. No, he would take those off and don a pair of soft kid slippers. Did they make elevator slippers? she wondered.

  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.”