CHAPTER TWO

IN AND OUT AGAIN as quickly as possible was the philosophy of the maternity unit at the Royal Infirmary—a policy approved of by accountants as much as by medical opinion. The accountants would have preferred it if nobody were in hospital at all, empty beds being less of a drain on the state’s resources than those occupied by patients, while doctors for their part understood that recovery was always quicker on one’s own two feet. Isabel, as a second-time mother in good health, was judged to require only one night in hospital before being allowed home. That suited her—at least in some respects, as she found the atmosphere of the post-natal ward less than peaceful. Babies were no respecters of normal hours when it came to choosing their time of arrival, and the delivery suite, just down the corridor, was a noisy place. Deprived of sleep, she felt utterly exhausted; even more so than she had felt after the birth of Charlie, when she had endured a much longer and more difficult labour. She was a bit weepy too, and Jamie, alerted at childbirth classes to the possibility of post-natal depression, exchanged an anxious word with one of the doctors.

The response was reassuring. “It’s utterly normal to feel a little low after a birth,” said the doctor. “But we’ll watch her—I’m sure she’ll be all right.”

Jamie brought Charlie to the hospital to meet his new brother. Charlie, who was now almost four and every bit as articulate and aware as a child a year or two older, had been encouraged to talk about the arrival of a sibling, but had said very little about it. During the pregnancy, even while eyeing Isabel’s increasing girth, he had been tight-lipped.

“You’re going to have a brand-new sister or brother,” Jamie had said cheerfully. “Lucky boy!”

Charlie, showing no sign of emotion, had changed the subject. “I want to play football,” he said.

This provided Jamie with an opportunity. “Just think,” he said brightly. “When the new baby comes, you’ll be able to play football together. Think of how much fun you’ll have.”

There was no response.

“And other games too,” enthused Jamie. “Hide and seek. Pirates!”

Pirates were a current interest at the time, but even the prospect of games of pirates evinced little response.

Now, making their way into the maternity unit, Jamie clutching a bunch of flowers in one hand and leading Charlie with the other, the crucial first meeting was about to take place.

“I don’t like hospitals,” said Charlie, looking about him. “I want to go home.”

“But we must see Mummy,” insisted Jamie. “She’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“I want to go home.”

Jamie’s tone became firmer. “After we’ve seen Mummy. And your new brother.”

Charlie shook his head. “I haven’t got a brother,” he said. “No brother.”

“Yes, you have,” said Jamie. “You’re very lucky. You’ve got a brother now and he’s called Magnus. Isn’t that a nice name? Magnus.”

“A smelly name,” said Charlie.

Jamie gave an inward groan. He had been warned that this might not be easy. And when they reached the maternity ward, the extent of the problem became apparent. Isabel opened her arms to Charlie and embraced him warmly, but the small boy remained stiff and rigid, his arms firmly down by his sides.

“Kiss for Mummy,” said Jamie, catching Isabel’s eye.

“Want to go,” said Charlie.

“But you’re going to say hello to Magnus,” said Jamie, with forced breeziness. “There he is. Look. That’s Magnus right there.” He pointed to the small crib beside the bed in which the wrapped bundle of Magnus lay.

Charlie averted his eyes.

“Say hello to Magnus,” said Isabel gently. “I think he would love that. I’ve told him that you were coming to see him. He was very pleased.”

Charlie saw through this. He closed his eyes. “Don’t need a baby,” he muttered.

Isabel glanced anxiously at Jamie before turning to Charlie. She stroked the small boy’s cheek gently, only to have her hand brushed away. “But, darling, we’re very lucky to have a baby. Especially such a nice baby as Magnus. Your brother, you see. Your own very special brother.”

“Don’t want this baby,” said Charlie. “He can stay here.”

“But we can’t leave poor little Magnus in the hospital,” appealed Isabel. “He’s so looking forward to coming home.”

“It’s not his home,” said Charlie resolutely. “He lives in the hospital.”

Jamie whispered to Isabel. “I think we should perhaps move on. He’ll come round.”

Isabel sighed. “I don’t feel I can face this right now.”

Jamie sought to reassure her. “I’ll work at it,” he said. “I don’t think it’s at all abnormal. After all, whose nose wouldn’t be out of joint in such circumstances?”

Charlie was now investigating the lifting mechanism underneath Isabel’s bed, and they were able to speak more freely.

“I couldn’t bear it if he became hostile,” said Isabel.

“He won’t be. He’s just warning us not to forget that he’s the kingpin. When he realises that Magnus is no threat to him, he’ll be fine.”

The problem, thought Isabel, was that Magnus really did constitute a threat from Charlie’s perspective. “Well, let’s hope…” She sighed again. “I’ve heard some awful stories of children who’ve gone into a huff for years when a new sibling arrives.”

“That won’t happen,” said Jamie. “We’ll make him feel special.”

“Bribery,” said Isabel.

“If you must call it that,” said Jamie. “I call it the judicious use of collateral benefits.”

“Ask them to take the baby away,” came a little voice from under the bed. The tone was plaintive; the request heartfelt.

Jamie took a deep breath. This had become an issue of appeasement. For a moment he hesitated, but then decided. “Certainly not,” he said.

Charlie was silent.

“You see,” whispered Jamie. “Psychology up to a point—and then a firm hand.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Isabel. She looked at the flowers that Jamie had brought and then, quite inexplicably—at least she could see no reason for it—she began to cry.

Jamie bent forward to put his arms about her. He felt the tears on her cheek. “My darling…”

“I feel so helpless. Tired and helpless.”

He stayed where he was, awkwardly embracing her. “It’ll be different when you’re back home. We’ll have Grace there to help. And me too, of course. Everything will be fine.”

But Isabel was thinking of other things; the world, viewed from a hospital bed, can seem a daunting place. “There’s the Review,” she said, between sobs. “I’m all over the place with the next issue.”

The Review was the Review of Applied Ethics, the journal that Isabel not only owned but edited from the study of her house in Edinburgh. It was not a full-time job, as the Review only appeared quarterly, but like anything that involved a deadline, it was a taskmaster that was always there in the background. No sooner had an issue been consigned to the printer than the next one would have to be planned, put together and copy-edited. And then there were the articles for the following issue and the issue after that—these had to be solicited or selected from the uninvited submissions, the latter category being a rag-bag that included a good measure of rants and obsessions, often amounting to defamatory diatribes directed at other philosophers. An argumentative tribe, Jamie had labelled philosophers, and the unsolicited papers tended to confirm this judgement.

“Get somebody to help,” said Jamie. “What about the editorial board? What’s the point of having an editorial board if you can’t ask them to take some of the burden off your shoulders?”

Isabel shook her head. “They’re useless,” she said.

Jamie pursed his lips. He had never heard Isabel describe her board in this way; indeed, she had often said how helpful its members were. He thought about them: there was that professor in Aberdeen whom he had met and who had struck him as being so level-headed; and that woman in Dublin, in Trinity College, who had gone out of her way to help Isabel when there had been that row with the professor from Cork who had accused her of insensitive editing because she had proposed a cut on the length of his piece on…what was it again? Self-delusion and moral reasoning, or something of that nature. These people were not useless by any stretch of the imagination, even if some of the board members were far-flung. Modern electronics made Singapore and New York neighbours to Edinburgh, and surely a bit of virtual help could be invoked for the next issue—at least until Isabel was back on her feet. He looked at her. Could she not see that?

She reached for a tissue from her bedside table. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “I just feel that things are on top of me.”

“Quite natural,” Jamie said soothingly.

From beneath the bed there came a winding sound. Charlie had found the handle that altered the angle of the bed, and was turning it energetically.

“Don’t do that, Charlie,” said Jamie. “You don’t want Mummy to fall out of bed, do you?”

“I do,” came a voice from below.

Jamie sighed. “Patience,” he muttered.

But the effect on Isabel was quite different. For the first time on this visit, Jamie saw her smile.

“There’s a professor in Bloomington,” Isabel suddenly said. “His address is written on a pad on my desk—you’ll find it easily. Could you send him an email telling him that I’ve almost finished editing his paper and that we’ll use it in the next issue? Could you do that?”

Jamie felt that a corner was being turned. “Of course.” And then he added, “What’s it about? His paper?”

“Friendship,” said Isabel. “A well-written essay on friendship.”

“I hope I’ll get the chance to read it.”

“Of course you will.” She had pulled herself up in her bed, partly to counteract the alterations that Charlie had achieved. And Charlie himself had appeared from down below and was peering over the edge of the crib.

“His eyes are closed,” said Charlie.

Jamie and Isabel exchanged glances. “That’s because he’s sleeping,” said Isabel. “Babies sleep a lot.”

“Can I make him some popcorn?” asked Charlie.

Isabel smiled. “Yes, of course. We’ll make him popcorn together. Would you like that? It may be a little while before he can eat it, but we can certainly make it.”

“And a hamburger?” asked Charlie.

“Yes,” said Isabel. “We could make a hamburger for Magnus…but will you be able to eat it for him?”

Charlie nodded.

“Psychology,” whispered Jamie.

“Psicologia omnia vincit,” said Isabel. “If Latin has such a word as psicologia.”

“I’m sure it does,” said Jamie. “Or something like that. And if it doesn’t, it should.” He paused, looking at her fondly. My wife, he thought. My coiner of words. My wonderful Isabel. “I think you’re beginning to feel better.”

“Possibly,” said Isabel.

“Let’s take Magnus home,” said Charlie. “Now.”

—

GRACE WAS BUSY in the kitchen when Jamie and Charlie returned from the hospital. Although Jamie was a keen cook, Grace had insisted on preparing meals for them while Isabel was in hospital. Jamie had tried to dissuade her, as he found Grace’s cooking too heavy, but she had brushed aside his objections. “You have so much else to do,” she said. “This is no time for you to be attempting to cook.”

Jamie might have taken offence at her unfortunate choice of words—deliberate as it was, rather than accidental. But he always handled Grace carefully, as she was quick to take offence and see any criticism, even the gentlest, as a direct slight.

“I enjoy being in the kitchen,” he said. “I know some men don’t, but I do.”

“Yes, it’s a nice place to sit,” said Grace.

“No,” said Jamie. “That’s not exactly what I meant. I like cooking.”

Grace continued with what she was doing, but smiled wryly. “You’re right about a lot of men not liking to be anywhere near the kitchen.”

“Some men,” said Jamie mildly. “Men can be excellent cooks, you know. Look at all those chefs on television.”

Grace sniffed. “Television doesn’t show what really goes on,” she said. “You see the pots and pans on the cooker and you see people stirring things, but everybody knows that most of the dishes are already cooked.” She paused, and looked at Jamie defiantly. “By women. Did you know that? By women who are employed by the television studios to cook in the background.”

Jamie stared at her incredulously. “Where on earth did you hear that?”

Grace tapped the side of her nose. “Everybody knows it,” she said. “I’m surprised you didn’t.”

He was finding it difficult to contain his irritation. Sometimes he felt there was an open season on men, many of whom seemed passive in the face of even the unfairest attack. Well, he would not let this sort of thing pass; tact was all very well, but there came a point where one had to defend oneself. “I don’t like to disagree with you,” he said in measured tones, “but I think you might be a little bit out of date on this. Just a little bit. The days when men couldn’t cook are over. Boys are taught how to cook at school. And girls learn woodwork. It’s all changed.”

“Hah!” said Grace. “Some things never change.”

“I disagree,” said Jamie. “The world is not the same place it was twenty years ago. Sexism is a thing of the past.”

He knew, even as he spoke, that this was not true. There was less sexism, perhaps, but it had not disappeared entirely. And there were plenty of societies where the lot of women was still appalling; half the world, it seemed, was prepared to countenance their subjugation. And the other half was frightened to talk about it.

Grace just looked at him and shook her head, but by unspoken consent neither pursued the issue any further. From Jamie’s point of view, he realised that nothing he could say would shift Grace from her position; she was convinced that men were inferior cooks and that he, Jamie, may be able to make potatoes Dauphinoise but could not do much else. He would have to leave the discussion there; when Isabel returned the next day, rationality would once again prevail. So now, as he brought Charlie into the kitchen on his return from the Infirmary, he accepted that the lumpy Irish stew that Grace was cooking was going to be their dinner and he could do nothing about it. He knew that Charlie referred to Grace’s Irish stew as “Irish mud,” although he hoped that he would not use the term in her presence.

Grace quizzed Charlie on his new brother. “You must be very excited about Magnus,” she said. “A brand-new brother! What a fortunate boy you are!”

Charlie busied himself with one of his toy cars that he had found under the table. The toy, a model of an old Citroën police car, with miniature metal doors that could be opened and shut, had come to rest against the table leg after some forgotten car chase. A few inches away, lying abandoned on its side, was a battered red Mercedes that had been the getaway car of some tiny desperadoes. The small-scale drama of flight and pursuit had ended in victory for the law, and indeed on the faces of the diminutive metal figures in the front of the police car broad smiles had been painted, reflecting this fact. In the world of these models, theirs was a permanent triumph.

Grace waited for an answer, but none came.

“Answer Grace,” said Jamie. “She’s talking to you, Charlie. Answer her, please.”

“I was wondering what you thought of your new baby brother,” said Grace gaily.

Charlie made a strange throat-clearing sound.

“You liked him, didn’t you, Charlie?” volunteered Jamie.

“No,” said Charlie.

Jamie caught Grace’s eye. “The tune seems to have changed,” he said. “Earlier on, I thought we were making progress.”

Grace put a finger to her lips. “Later,” she said. “It’s time for the afternoon nap.”

—

WITH CHARLIE UPSTAIRS and asleep, the conversation in the kitchen was able to resume. The casserole of Irish mud was now ready, and had been safely stored in the fridge along with several small dishes of accompanying vegetables.

“You can heat it up for Charlie at six,” Grace told Jamie. “And then you can have yours later. Eight o’clock maybe.”

Jamie looked out of the window. He felt as if he were being spoken to as if he were not much older than Charlie. It was no business of Grace’s when he had his dinner; if he wanted to eat at nine, he would do so, and now, in the face of Grace’s bossiness, he decided that was what he would do.

“No,” he said. “Nine o’clock.”

Grace seemed puzzled. “Nine’s too late. You’ll be awfully hungry.”

Jamie drew in his breath. It was quite foreign to his nature to be sharp with anybody, but this really was too much. “I’ll decide when I want to have dinner,” he muttered.

Grace glanced at him quickly, and then looked away. He realised that he had hurt her feelings and he immediately apologised. Grace could be difficult, but there was something that Isabel had said that always stuck in his mind. Remember what you have and the other person doesn’t. It was simple—almost too simple—advice and yet, like all such homely advice, it expressed a profound truth. When he had pressed her for an explanation, she had said, “Many of our dealings with others are unequal. We have an advantage because we are the customer or the client, or the one with the money, or the one who’s paying somebody else. Or we may have somebody in our lives and the other person may not have anybody. Or we may be taller than them, or stronger, or older and more worldly-wise, or whatever it is. There are all these things that need to be borne in mind.” And then she had added, with a laugh, “Not that I’m lecturing you.”

But she was right, and now, after his assertion of his right to choose when he had dinner—not an unreasonable thing for him to do—he felt that he should make some ameliorative remark.

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry; you’re right. Nine is very late. Perhaps eight-thirty.”

The compromise was enough.

“That’s more sensible,” she said. “And I hope you enjoy it. There’ll be enough for tomorrow too, so Isabel needn’t worry about cooking the moment she gets back.”

Jamie thought: But I’ll be here. He said nothing, though, and they returned to the subject of Charlie.

“He was very stand-offish in the hospital,” said Jamie. “At least to begin with. He refused to acknowledge that he had a brother. Then suddenly—”

“They’re as changeable as the weather at that age,” interjected Grace. “One moment it’s this, and then the next it’s that.”

“After being pretty awful, he suddenly perked up and said that we should bring Magnus home right away. Prior to that he’d even suggested leaving him in the hospital.”

Grace shook her head. “Jealousy,” she said.

“Of course.”

“It’s everywhere,” Grace went on. “And it’s not just children—adults are every bit as bad.”

“Some of them, maybe,” said Jamie. “But most of us grow out of it, surely…”

Grace disagreed. “Lots don’t. And do you know, it can carry on—even on the other side.”

Grace was an enthusiastic spiritualist. Every week she attended a spiritualist meeting where a medium would contact what she called the other side, usually with messages of one sort or another for some of those present. She took it entirely seriously, and was also a regular borrower of spiritualist literature from the psychic library in the city’s West End.

Jamie was intrigued by this twist. He had great difficulty keeping a straight face when Grace expounded on spiritualist matters, but this was a fresh dimension of the matter. Did the grudges and battles of…this side—if that was what one called it—run over onto the other side? It was a depressing thought, as it implied the existence of arguments and feuds lasting for all eternity, with petty disputes stretching out over the centuries, waged from whatever trenches people could dig for themselves in such firmament as the other side afforded.

“Oh yes,” Grace continued. “We had an example of this the other week. It was a visiting medium—a man from Inverness, actually, who has always been rather good. He had somebody coming through from the other side who said that she still resented the fact that her sister had been more successful than she had.”

Jamie sought clarification. “More successful on this side?” he asked. “Or on the other side?”

Grace frowned. “No, this side. Once you’re on the other side, you don’t have to be successful at anything.”

“Because there’s nothing to do?”

Grace was quick to dispel the heresy. “Oh, there’s plenty to do on the other side,” she said.

Jamie found himself wondering whether there were offices, perhaps, or even factories. Did one have to work on the other side, or was there a full social welfare system? He decided not to ask.

“The point is,” said Grace, “that jealousy persists. It doesn’t go away.”

Jamie contemplated this. “So we’re in it for the long haul with Charlie?”

“Maybe,” said Grace. “People can dig in. And children do that as much as anybody else. But you never know. My cousin’s daughter ignored her little sister for the first ten months and then suddenly saw the possibilities. That changed everything. She started to dress her up in all sorts of outfits—ballet tutus and the like. She treated her like a doll, and even told her friends that she ran on batteries.”

Jamie smiled. “We assume so much, don’t we? We assume that our children are going to be reasonable. We assume they’re going to see things as we see them. And then suddenly we discover that they can look at things quite differently.”

“Yes,” said Grace. “And maybe we’re bound to be disappointed because we want our children to see things in the same way as we do, and they may not.”

Jamie made a gesture of resignation.

“But,” said Grace, brightening, “I don’t think it’ll last.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll be off then,” she said. “You’ll be all right, I hope.”

Jamie assured her that he would. “Thanks for the Irish m…” He stopped himself in time. “Irish stew.”

He saw her to the front door. Closing it behind her, he turned back into the hall, stopped and stared up at the ceiling. Grace’s tactless words came back to him: This is no time for you to be attempting to cook. He smarted at the thought. I can cook—I can cook just as well, if not better, than she can. My potatoes Dauphinoise…He stopped himself, aware of how ridiculous it was to remind oneself of one’s potatoes Dauphinoise. He might have been feeling slighted, but then women had put up with this sort of condescension from men forever, and it was only very recently that anything had been done to stop it. So if men now experienced something of that themselves, should they be too surprised?

Something that Isabel had said came back to him. She had remarked, he seemed to recall, about how in this life we were allocated people by chance. These were the people we knew or came across, the people who might be in our lives for no particular reason. In a sense they were allocated, rather than deliberately chosen, a concomitant of what philosophers called moral luck. Grace came with the house—so to speak. She had looked after Isabel’s father and had simply stayed on. She could be opinionated, and that could be trying, but she had never let them down, not once, and…Jamie paused. He had never really thought about it, but it was probably the case that Grace loved them—him, Isabel, Charlie. He had never thought of it that way, because we tend not to use the word love when talking about how we feel about our friends and acquaintances—and how they might feel about us. We talk about affection or fondness, but rarely love. But it could be love—and of course in this case it was love, and to use a lesser word was to diminish the thing that was there. Now it came to him that the fact of this love was in no sense a burden—rather, it was a privilege.

He made his way back into the kitchen. As he did so, he thought, I’m beginning to think like Isabel. And then, as if in confirmation of this unexpected self-assessment, he said to himself: We become the people we live with. Imperceptibly at first, but with a certain inevitability, we become the other. He smiled as he imagined the composite Jamie/Isabel, who would play the bassoon, read philosophy, interfere in other people’s affairs rather too much, drive a green Swedish car and make legendary potatoes Dauphinoise.