CHAPTER TEN

JAMIE HAD BEEN BUSY with bassoon lessons all day and was tired when he came back that evening.

“I had to teach that boy again today,” he said. “Gordon Christie. I don’t want to be uncharitable, but he’s utterly hopeless. It’s something to do with his ear—he can’t seem to hear any differences of pitch. Everything sounds the same to him, or so it seems.”

Isabel had heard Gordon Christie being complained of before. “Is he tone deaf?”

Jamie scratched his head. “I’m not sure if there’s such a thing as complete tone deafness. I suspect that just about everybody can tell that notes are different, even if they can’t work out which is which. No, I don’t think he’s hearing properly.”

Isabel wondered whether he had spoken to the school nurse, but he had not.

“It occurred to me his ears might be blocked,” Jamie continued. “So I discreetly tried to take a look. And you know what? I noticed that there was wax—I saw it. You could actually see the wax in his ear.”

Isabel shuddered. She was squeamish about wax—and ears, now that she came to think of it. “Did you say anything?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t want to. Wax in the ears is a bit personal, don’t you think?”

“I do. Somebody was talking about ear candling the other day. I didn’t enjoy the conversation. And I didn’t know even that candle was a verb…but I suppose anything can be a verb these days.”

Jamie was intrigued. “Ear candling?”

Isabel explained. “You lie on your side and stick the end of a long hollow candle into your ear. Then somebody lights the candle, and it draws air up through its hollow centre, creating a suction effect.”

“Which gets the wax out?”

Isabel nodded. “So people claim. But there are those who claim it’s nonsense and that what you think is ear wax is actually candle wax. It’s a bit like homeopathic medicine—highly unlikely and with no empirical evidence to support it.”

“But there’s always a placebo effect, isn’t there?” Jamie was thinking of an uncle of his, who always swore by homeopathic remedies. He was now dead.

“I don’t see how a placebo can clear your ears of obstruction,” Isabel pointed out.

“Oh well…” He smiled at her. “Let’s not talk about Gordon Christie’s ears. What about you? What did you do today—apart from look after your two children, organise the house, run the Review, think great thoughts and so on?” His smile broke into a broad grin. “I’d never accuse you of having too little to do.”

“This and that. Nothing special. Grace helped with the boys. She wants to monopolise them.”

She flushed as she spoke. She had told Jamie about her previous meeting with Rob, but this last occasion had been very different, coloured by the fact that he had entertained those embarrassing hopes of an affair. She could have told Jamie about this, but somehow she felt awkward about it. It would in no way reflect badly on her that she had been the recipient of unwelcome attentions, but she just did not want to talk to him about it. And that fact itself added to her discomfort: she had reproached Jamie for not talking to her about his visit to the doctor, and now here she was doing much the same thing—keeping something from him.

It was still open to her to qualify her reply. She could have said, “Nothing special. Apart from lunch with Rob McLaren.”

She could have done that; she had lunch with various people from time to time, particularly with people associated with the Review. Rob had nothing to do with that side of her life, of course, but it was relevant to this other thing she was doing—this other thing that Jamie knew all about.

“A day in your study,” said Jamie. It was a statement, not a question, yet she answered it.

“Yes, mostly.”

Now it was too late, and she frowned as she thought of what she had just done. I have lied to him, she thought. I did not spend the day in my study. And then she asked herself why she had done this. It crossed her mind that it was some form of subconscious revenge for his having gone to the doctor without telling her; often our conscious acts are that petty—stratagems pursued to compensate for the things that have happened to us—small acts of getting even, acts of punishment.

She pulled herself together. “Actually, I did go out. I went out to get hold of an address. It was to do with this Connie Macdonald business.”

Jamie did not show much interest. “Progress?” he asked, although she could tell that he was not especially keen to hear just what progress—if any—had been made.

“Rob McLaren,” she began. “He gave me…”

But Jamie was taking off his jacket. “I’m feeling very sweaty,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I always come back from the Academy feeling a bit hot and sticky. I’m glad that it’s the end of term.” He tossed his jacket onto a chair. Men, thought Isabel, never hang up their clothing.

“He’s a bit odd…,” Isabel began.

“Plenty of people are a bit odd,” said Jamie. “But I’m going to take a shower. I’ll cook this evening, if you like.” He moved off. “I hate feeling sticky like this—I really hate it.”

She watched him leave the room. At least she had told him, even if she had said nothing about Rob’s surprising behaviour. She could not bring herself to do that, but she still imagined that it would make no difference to anything. There must be many women, Isabel thought, who failed to mention to their husbands that somebody had made a pass at them; and many men, as well, who would not mention it if a woman showed an interest in them. Jamie, she imagined, must have people giving him second glances every day, but he never mentioned this. Perhaps he thought it unimportant—part of the background noise that went with being as good-looking as he was. She remembered that Auden had said something about that—about the blessed not caring what angle they were regarded from, having nothing to hide.

This conversation took place in the kitchen. Charlie was on the floor, constructing something from a set of plastic building bricks; Magnus, who had just woken up, was in his cot, preoccupied with a colourful mobile of fur-covered blocks.

“If Daddy’s going to have a shower,” said Charlie, “then I want one too. I want to shower with Daddy.” And then he added, “And with Mummy.”

“We could all have a shower together,” said Jamie. “And Magnus as well. We can’t leave little Magnus out.”

Jamie caught Isabel’s eye. “Bonding exercise,” he whispered.

“Magnus smells,” said Charlie. “But all right: all of us.”

It took time to get the water temperature right, and then, holding Magnus to her, Isabel stepped gingerly into the shower. Jamie held Charlie at first, but then the small boy wanted to stand on his own, clinging to his father’s leg. The water fell upon them, gathered in rivulets, then disappeared amongst feet and toes. Jamie smiled at Isabel. “What families are all about,” he said.

She returned his smile. “A family that showers together, stays together.”

He laughed. “That’s probably true,” he said.

“It’s definitely true,” she said.

From down below, Charlie made his contribution. “Let’s put Magnus down the drain,” he said.

—

CAT ASKED HER TO HELP in the delicatessen again the following day. She was apologetic about it, as she always was, and Isabel agreed to put in three or four hours—as she always did. It suited Grace, of course, for whom it would be an excuse to lavish attention on Magnus. She had found a café in Church Hill that particularly welcomed mothers and infants, and had taken to wheeling Magnus there in his pushchair and joining in the discussions that took place on diet and teething and sleeping patterns. Grace was an expert in all of these things, and announced to the other customers of the café that she was a governess. This was not true; Grace was a housekeeper, but took a liberal view of her position and occasionally described herself as, variously, a house manager, a “butleress,” and a lifestyle assistant. Her job included aspects of all of these, at least in so far as she had expanded it over the years, and Isabel was perfectly happy for Grace to announce herself as she wished. Isabel wanted Grace to be happy in her work, and if it helped her to enhance the description of her job, then that harmed nobody. It was a common enough practice, after all, and had led to an inflation of position resulting in the disappearance of many established roles; salesmen had long since vanished, to be replaced by sales or retail consultants; clerks had become IT operatives; and bank tellers were account advisers or associate managers. It was all obfuscation, of course, but it was, Isabel decided, generous obfuscation.

Cat needed help because she had been invited to a salami fair in Glasgow. “Don’t laugh,” she said. “It’s a sort of trade fair for salami people. It’s important.”

“I’d never laugh at those who profess to love salamis,” said Isabel.

Cat looked at her sideways. “I’m not joking,” she said.

“Nor am I,” said Isabel. “There is nothing wrong in dedicating yourself to salamis.”

This brought a reproachful look from Cat. “I don’t think you take this seriously enough…”

“Take salamis seriously enough? Of course I do.”

“You sound very condescending, you know.”

Isabel refuted this. “I am not condescending. And I’d remind you that I have agreed to help you out today, but if you’d prefer me not to…”

“Oh no,” said Cat quickly. “I’m grateful to you—I really am. It’s just the way you go on about salamis makes me think—”

“Let’s forget about it,” said Isabel. “Tell me what’s going on today. Who’s on?”

“Eddie’s coming in shortly, and there’s a new person.”

“A new employee? Full-time?”

“Yes,” said Cat. “You know how you were telling me I was understaffed? Well, I’ve found somebody. Peg. She started yesterday.”

Cat gave Isabel a triumphant look before continuing, “She’s very good. She has a degree in history. She’s going to be in charge of the pastas and the filled rolls.”

It was typical of Cat, thought Isabel, to conflate history with pasta and filled rolls. “Well, her degree in history will help,” she said, and then, noticing her niece’s dismayed expression, added quickly, “I wasn’t being condescending. I really wasn’t. I just meant to say that it’s good to have well-educated staff in any business involving people. It just helps, doesn’t it?”

Cat made a non-committal noise.

“Where did you find her?” asked Isabel.

“I met her,” said Cat. “We were chatting, and she mentioned that she was looking for a job. It was that simple.”

“Where did you meet her?” asked Isabel.

Cat ignored the question. “She’s got a natural feeling for filled rolls.”

Isabel smiled, wondering how such a feeling manifested itself. Perhaps it was in the eyes; perhaps in the way one looked at filled rolls.

“Where did you meet her?” she asked again.

“Oh, somewhere or other,” said Cat. “I can’t remember.”

Isabel noticed that as she answered, Cat’s cheeks became red. It was as clear a sign as any that her niece knew her answer was unsatisfactory. While it was true that we might forget where or how we met old friends—friends we had had for years, for decades—that was not the case with friends of a more recent vintage. Cat remembered perfectly well where she had met her new assistant, but did not want to tell Isabel. Such reticence, annoying as it was, was nothing new: there had been other occasions on which Cat had been reluctant to reveal even the most insignificant piece of information—such as where she had bought a particular item for the delicatessen—and had claimed not to remember it. Isabel thought this entirely unbelievable amnesia was something to do with power: knowing something, but yet not disclosing it to another, made one feel stronger than the person denied the information.

“I look forward to meeting her, anyway,” said Isabel. “I’ve always thought you made life more difficult for yourself by being short-handed.”

Cat nodded absently. “Maybe. Anyway, if you could show her anything she needs to know. She’s still finding her feet.”

Isabel confirmed that she would be happy to do this and set about the task of cleaning the work surfaces. This was something that Cat was lax about, and Eddie disliked doing. Yet it was high on the list of must-dos in running any food business, and Isabel was very conscious of safety issues. She read copies of the trade magazine the Grocer, which she found lying about in Cat’s office, and paid particular attention to the occasional report of a health-related prosecution. She left the magazine on Cat’s desk, turned, in warning, to the relevant page, but she was not sure whether the message had been received and, if it had, whether it was ever acted upon.

Eddie came in as she was finishing the wiping of the cheese boards. He had not been expecting Isabel to be working that day, and his pleasure at finding her there showed itself in a broad grin.

“I’m glad you’re helping out today,” he said to her, his voice lowered so that Cat might not hear. “She expects me to do everything while she goes off to Glasgow to meet all those salami freaks.”

Isabel suppressed a smile. Eddie’s language could be adolescent, but it was sometimes acutely descriptive. Salami freaks…She could see what he meant: they must be odd—they had to be—to take such a strong interest in sausages. In fact, it was glaringly obvious to anybody who had the slightest inkling of what Freud would have said on the subject.

Eddie was tying on his apron, wiping his hands on the material.

“Eddie, I wonder whether you shouldn’t wash your hands rather than wipe them…”

It was the gentlest of reproofs, and it failed to meet its target. “They’re not dirty,” he said. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Isabel tried again. “I didn’t say they were dirty; it’s just that—”

Eddie interrupted her, leaning forward to whisper into Isabel’s ear. “Have you heard about Pig?”

“Pig?”

“Yes, Pig—or at least that’s what I call her. She calls herself Peg. She’s the new assistant.”

Isabel glanced across the shop to see if Cat could hear the conversation. But she was now on the phone, and Isabel heard the word salami. Cat would not overhear what she and Eddie were saying.

“I don’t think that’s very kind.”

“Well, it’s accurate, even if it’s not all that kind. Wait until you see her.”

Isabel frowned. “What do you mean?”

Eddie lowered his voice even further. “I mean she looks just like one.” He pointed to a large cured ham on the chilled counter.

Isabel stared at him disapprovingly. “You’re being really juvenile, Eddie.”

He shrugged. “I can’t help it if I notice these things.”

She tried another tack. “I take it you don’t like her?”

“No, I don’t. Not really. She keeps telling me what to do. She thinks that she’s senior to me because she’s a few years older—that’s all. And she doesn’t know anything, Isabel—I swear she knows hardly anything.”

Isabel pointed out that Cat took the view that Peg was good at making filled rolls. It was an important part of their business, and if she had a talent for that, then surely that was something.

“Anybody can make filled rolls,” said Eddie scornfully. “But can anyone slice meat really thin? No, they can’t. I’d like to see her try.”

Isabel tried again. “Perhaps she doesn’t know she’s being bossy. Sometimes people don’t realise that, and others get the impression they’re trying to tell them what to do, when they aren’t.” She paused. “I think that maybe you should give her a bit more of a chance.”

“It won’t make any difference and…” He looked out of the large display window. “And here she is. Look—see that girl who looks like a pig? That’s her.” He leaned forward again. “And here’s another thing: Cat thinks Pig’s the best thing since sliced bread. You should see the way they look at one another. You should just see it.”

He turned away, and the door opened. Peg stood in the doorway for a few moments before approaching Isabel.

“You’re Isabel, aren’t you?”

Isabel smiled at the young woman standing before her. She judged her to be a few years younger than Cat—perhaps in her mid- to late twenties. She was attractive, with an open, slightly freckled face and a slightly retroussé nose, and was dressed in dark blue jeans and a white cheesecloth blouse. The blouse was decorated with a line of delicately embroidered flowers around the collar. Eddie’s comments about her appearance were, thought Isabel, not only immature but inaccurate.

“I’m sorry I’m a bit late,” said Peg. “My bus broke down. They had to get another one.”

Isabel reassured her that she was not late, she herself having arrived only a few minutes earlier.

Eddie’s muttered comment was just audible. “Yes, but you’re not paid.”

Isabel turned to glare at him, and he looked away guiltily. Isabel glanced in Peg’s direction, wondering whether she had heard. She decided she had not—either that, or Peg was not going to show that the provocative comment had reached her.

Cat came out of the office and greeted Peg. Isabel saw that Eddie, although busying himself with a task behind the counter, was watching the two young women.

Cat reached forward and took Peg’s right hand. She gave it a squeeze. “Everything all right?” she asked.

Peg nodded.

“Isabel will be able to help if you need to find out about anything,” said Cat, smiling at Isabel. “She knows everything.”

“Well, hardly,” demurred Isabel.

“Just ask her,” said Cat. “You’ll be fine.”

Isabel saw the effect that this had on Eddie; she realised that he would resent the implication that Peg should turn to her for advice rather than ask him—and yet he was a full-time employee who had put in far more hours than Isabel had.

“I’m sure Eddie will be able to help too,” Isabel said.

Cat turned towards Eddie. “Oh, yes, of course. There’s Eddie too. Of course. Eddie’s dealt with most things.”

Too little, too late, thought Isabel. She thought that Cat had been tactless, but then she had always shown a lack of tact in her dealings with people.

Cat nodded towards her office, and Peg followed her. The office door closed.

Eddie caught Isabel’s eye. “See?” he whispered.

—

IT WAS A BUSY MORNING. While Eddie and Isabel dealt with a stream of customers, Peg spent her time preparing the filled rolls that were the staple of their lunchtime trade. Isabel surreptitiously inspected one of the rolls; it had smoked salmon, boiled egg and lumpfish caviar at its centre. Cat was right: it had been made by someone with a real feeling for filled rolls—and yes, it looked good. At eleven o’clock they entered their slack period—too late for morning shoppers and yet too early for the lunchtime rush. Isabel suggested a coffee break, and when Peg accepted, asked Eddie to look after the counter.

He agreed to do this, but not without a reproachful glance at Isabel. She ignored it; she was still cross with Eddie for his remarks about Peg. And yet she had to agree that the greeting Cat had given Peg was warmer than she might have expected. That was no excuse, though, for Eddie to coin a hurtful nickname, nor did it justify the slightly huffy, slightly distant attitude towards Peg that he had maintained since her arrival that morning.

After Isabel had made coffee for both of them, they sat down at a table by the window. They were far enough away from Eddie to be able to talk freely, and Isabel decided to broach the subject of Eddie’s attitude right away.

“You may have noticed that Eddie’s a bit sour this morning,” she said.

Peg’s expression gave nothing away. “Oh,” she said.

Isabel persisted. “I don’t know if Cat told you anything about him.”

“A bit.”

“He’s a nice young man, but he’s had a tough time in the past. Things are much better now. But he’s still a bit insecure.”

“I see.” And then, after a few moments, she added, “I’d picked up his negativity. But it doesn’t matter.”

Isabel took a sip of her coffee. “Have you and Cat known one another long?” she asked.

Peg played with her spoon. “A few months, I suppose. Not long.”

Isabel tried to sound casual as she posed the next question—the one that Cat had avoided answering. “How did you meet?”

Peg put down her spoon and lifted her coffee cup to her lips. Isabel waited. The coffee cup was placed back on its saucer. “Oh, I forget. I think it was through somebody, but I can’t really remember.”

But you can, thought Isabel. It’s just that you don’t want to tell me.

She was now intrigued, but she understood that she would get nowhere with any further questions on that topic. There were other avenues to be explored, and now she asked Peg about where she was from. Surely that could not be classified information, and she could hardly say that she had forgotten.

“Haddington,” she said.

Haddington was in East Lothian—the centre of a rich farming area. It was the sort of town to which well-heeled Edinburgh people drifted on their retirement while its own young people migrated in the opposite direction. It was a comfortable, safe place, sure of itself and its values.

“You came to live in Edinburgh when you went to university?”

Peg looked at her quizzically. “Cat’s told you about me?”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “Not very much, but she did mention that you studied history.”

Isabel noticed that Peg now relaxed, the information that Cat had not told Isabel very much seeming to reassure her.

“I studied here in Edinburgh,” Peg said. “Scottish history. Then I had a job as a researcher in the Scottish Parliament. I did that for three years.”

Isabel asked what that had entailed.

“Anything the members wanted to find out. They asked for all sorts of stuff. Crime statistics, trade figures, sea temperatures off Orkney in the winter…” She smiled. “A lot of it was pretty obscure, and I can’t imagine they used it for anything very much. But sometimes you heard the facts and figures you’d unearthed being spouted in parliament. I enjoyed it.”

“But you gave it up?”

“I wanted to try something different. So I took a job with a television company. They made historical documentaries—sometimes rather good ones. I really enjoyed that, but…”

Isabel waited. “But?”

“But it didn’t work out in the end. So that was that.”

There was a note of finality in her voice, and Isabel realised that she was not being encouraged to enquire further. “So this job cropped up?”

“Yes. Cat told me she was looking for somebody, and I was free. So here I am.”

It was a brief curriculum vitae, adequate as far as it went, but Isabel felt there was nothing personal in it. There was so much she wanted to know, including where Peg lived. Now she asked her.

Peg took a sip of coffee. “In the New Town.”

Isabel nodded. “Nice.”

“Yes.”

There was nothing more; at least, nothing more was being offered. Peg was now gazing out of the window, as if looking for something in the street. Isabel felt a sudden desire to wave a hand in front of her in a crude attempt at attracting attention. “Whereabouts?” she asked.

Peg continued to stare out of the window. She did not answer Isabel’s question but said, instead, “I like this part of town. I like the small shops.”

“Oh yes,” said Isabel. “Small shops…” She felt a sudden irritation. Conversation was not only an art—it was sometimes a duty. If you were drinking coffee with another, then you had a right to attention: for them not to engage properly was a discourtesy.

She decided to give it one more try. “Do you share a flat down there?” she asked.

“Yes.”

That was all: yes. There was still nothing about where the flat was, nor about whom she shared it with. But then it occurred to Isabel that this reticence on Peg’s part had arisen because she understood why Isabel was prying. If Peg knew that these seemingly innocent questions—small talk really—concealed an intrusive agenda, then she might feel entitled to give monosyllabic answers. And what exactly is my agenda? Isabel asked herself. The answer embarrassed her in its simplicity: to find out whether there was a boyfriend. She wanted to know that because she had tried over the years to understand Cat and her difficulties with men, and it was possible that the key to understanding that issue had evaded her—just as it might have evaded Cat herself. She wanted Cat to be happy; of course she did, and if there had been anything in her attitude or her expectations that had made it difficult for Cat to find that happiness, then she was truly sorry.

“We should get back to work,” said Isabel.

“Yes,” said Peg, standing up to take the two coffee cups to the small kitchen in the back.

Eddie came over to Isabel. “What were you and Pig talking about?” he whispered.

“Don’t call her that.”

“All right then, Peg.”

Isabel gave a non-committal answer. “This and that.”

“You know what I think?” said Eddie, sniggering. “She and Cat are an item.”

Isabel looked him in the eye. “So?”

He seemed surprised. “What about all those men of hers? And what do they do in the office? Why do they close the door?”

Isabel shrugged. “None of this is our business.”

She was aware, though, that it was. If Cat and Peg were lovers, then Isabel wanted her to know that she did not disapprove. But she was not sure how she could do that. She would ask Jamie. And she would also ask him to speak to Eddie, because Eddie listened to him.

She glanced towards the far end of the shop, where Peg, having returned from the kitchen, was beginning to stack packets of pasta on a shelf. Peg had noticed Eddie whispering in Isabel’s ear and was looking uncomfortable.

“I can’t work out,” said Eddie, his voice barely lowered, “what Cat sees in Pig. Sex, I suppose.”

Isabel turned to Eddie. “Eddie,” she muttered, “if you can’t behave in a civil, adult way, I’m going to speak to Cat about you.”

He gasped. “I only…”

He got no further, but burst into tears.

Isabel caught her breath. What on earth am I doing? she asked herself. All this crying! Three men had been in tears, or close to tears, in her company, within the space of two days: Jamie at the piano, in tears about his visit to the doctor; Rob, at the very edge of tears when remembering his boarding school; and now Eddie, suddenly weeping when threatened with dismissal by somebody who was not even his employer and had no right to fire anybody.

Then she remembered Charlie and Magnus—both of them had cried in the last twelve hours, although of course they were still very young, of an age at which male crying was expected, permissible and not the subject of shame, as it still was, in spite of everything, for so many men.