CHAPTER SIX

ON THE SAME DAY as her meeting with Cat, Isabel went to see Laura Douglas in her house off Colinton Road. This was just around the corner from her own house, no more than five minutes away, and Isabel reflected on how she must have walked past it on numerous occasions without really noticing it. Not that there was much to set it aside from any number of houses in the area, where two-storey stone villas, solid in all their Victorian confidence, looked out from behind well-kept gardens. Isabel’s house also fell into this category, although her garden was larger than most in the vicinity, and for this reason had been singled out by Brother Fox as his particular territory. It may not have been of Serengeti dimensions, but it was large enough to provide him with the shelter he needed to shield from prying eyes the russet mysteries of his life. The Douglas garden was less private than Isabel’s, and any passer-by who was interested might catch a glimpse of the small gazebo on one side of the house, and hear, too, the sound of water playing in the small fountain on the other. In the short driveway that led off the road, a large electric car was parked, linked by a thick cable to a hidden charging point. The whole feel of the house was one of quiet comfort and low-key prosperity. It was not showy or attention-seeking, and even the fantoosh car seemed modest enough, proclaiming, discreetly but unambiguously, the cautious values of the household.

Isabel pressed the bell marked Please Pull. She smiled at the Please—a human touch that was being edged out of such instructions. Buttons now simply said Press, which was more in keeping with the straightforward tone of life today. Signs said Walk or Don’t Walk; they never said Please Don’t Walk, which of course had a ring of despair about it: We’ve told you so many times before not to walk…And then Isabel realised that she had missed something. She re-examined the button she had just pressed. She had pressed it in spite of the clear instruction to pull. But you could not pull a button.

The door opened, and Laura Douglas stood before Isabel. She looked puzzled as she saw Isabel peering at the button and its sign.

“Is there something…”

Isabel looked up. “Oh, I’m sorry…yes, I’ve just noticed that this little brass plaque says Please Pull. I don’t like to be pedantic, but shouldn’t it read Please Press?”

Laura stepped out to join Isabel in her scrutiny of the sign. “Well!” she exclaimed. “That’s indeed so. It does say Please Pull. And you, quite rightly, pressed, rather than attempted to pull.”

“I suspect most people would have done the same,” said Isabel. “It’s obviously a button rather than one of those old bell-pulls—you know, the brass ones connected to a long wire with a bell suspended at the other end, somewhere at the back of the house.”

Laura nodded. “Yes. And I think I know what’s happened. When we first came here, nothing had been done to the house for decades. The person we bought it from was very…” She hesitated.

“Old?” prompted Isabel. It was a word that contemporary squeamishness was on the point of retiring, in favour of a euphemism. But what was wrong with old? It was ridiculous to elbow it out of the language in the same way as we were losing the verb to die. We all died, and no amount of suggesting that we passed could protect us from that fact. So, too, did we become old rather than becoming senior or elderly or even fully mature, like cheeses.

Laura appeared relieved that she could speak directly. “Yes, very old. I believe she was close to one hundred.” She paused. “And proud of it.”

“So she should be,” said Isabel. “When I get to that stage—if I get there—I don’t want anybody telling me I can’t be old. I shall be happy to be described as ancient.” She thought for a moment. “And then when I proceed to die, I shall be most annoyed if anybody says that I am simply passing. Passing where, might one ask? Not everyone believes that we go somewhere when we shrug off this mortal coil.”

Laura laughed. “There’s an expression for you.”

“Shrugging off this mortal coil?” said Isabel. “Yes, it’s a wonderful expression. It suggests a certain relief, doesn’t it? It suggests that one might actually be rather relieved to get away from everything. With one shrug we are free…And then one might be described as defunct, which is a splendid way of putting it, isn’t it? There’s no arguing with being defunct—that’s it, so to speak.”

“She spent her whole life in this house. She was born in what is now the dining room.”

“How very middle class,” mused Isabel. “To be born in a dining room. Rather like being found in a handbag.”

“A handbag?” said Laura.

“A whole life in one place,” Isabel went on. “An awful thought for some, but I’m not so sure.”

“It would have its consolations,” said Laura. “As far as I’m concerned, I want to stay here for the rest of my life.”

“And the bell?”

“Of course—the bell. That sign was there when we still had a pull arrangement. We replaced it with a button.”

“That explains it,” said Isabel. “A disparity.”

“Modern signs are all so plastic,” said Laura. “We liked the brass, and decided to keep it.”

“Which was undoubtedly the right thing to do,” said Isabel. “Aesthetically, that is, if not semiotically.”

Laura laughed. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“But we need to talk about these matters,” said Isabel. “Things of no apparent importance are often things of great importance.”

Laura gestured for Isabel to follow her. “You must come in. It’s very rude of me to keep you there.”

Isabel followed her into the hall. There were flowers on the table, and their powerful scent reached her quickly. “From your garden?”

Laura nodded. “I spend a lot of time on it.”

Isabel thought of Voltaire. He said one had a duty to cultivate one’s garden. Il faut cultiver notre jardin. But did he do that himself? Did Voltaire have a garden, and if so, did he cultivate it? Somehow she could not see Voltaire plucking out weeds or pruning roses. He presumably meant that one should get somebody to cultivate one’s garden, it being implicit that enlightenment philosophers were not expected to get their hands too dirty.

Laura had said something to her, and she’d missed it, thinking of Voltaire and his garden. Of course he didn’t really mean an actual garden; it was all metaphorical—as Voltaire himself eventually came to be. And metaphorical gardens were really very easy to look after, as long as they remained metaphorical.

Laura was looking at her expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” said Isabel. “Those lovely flowers of yours made me think of something.”

“I said that my husband was looking forward to meeting you. Shall we go and join him?”

A door led off the hall into the drawing room. She saw the paintings first: the Fergusson naked woman, all flesh and angles; the Peploe view of Mull from Iona or Iona from Mull; the Blackadder with its prowling cats and convenient flowers. Then she saw the man getting up from his chair, laying aside a newspaper—that day’s Scotsman—and coming forward to meet her.

They shook hands.

“I’m Bruce,” he said. “And I take it you’re Isabel Dalhousie.”

“Isabel and I have been talking about language and euphemism,” said Laura.

Bruce glanced at his wife, as if uncertain whether to take the remark seriously. Then he smiled. “It’s best to get things out of the way.”

Laura said, “I shall make tea.” She turned to Isabel. “Unless you’d like coffee?”

Isabel said that tea would suit her perfectly. She was looking at the Peploe, but looked away quickly. She remembered something her mother had told her. “Never stare at other people’s pictures,” she had said. “It’s bad manners.” She had never worked out why. Was it because you might be thought to be appraising their worth? “Or look at the titles of the books on their shelves,” her mother had added. “Definitely not that. Unless you do it discreetly. You can do anything, Isabel, as long as you do it discreetly.” But then her mother had paused, and said, “Do I really mean that? No, perhaps not.”

“China? India?” Laura asked.

“Oh, India please,” said Isabel. People sometimes said “builders” in answer to that question, but that implied that builders could not be expected to have sophisticated taste in tea. And that was condescending, because there was no reason why builders should not like China tea, or Earl Grey, for that matter. And perhaps some did.

Isabel glanced at Bruce. You might not be able to look at paintings or bookshelves, but you could certainly look at people.

He was a man in his late fifties, or thereabouts; tall, and on the thin side. He had what was called a Roman nose, although Isabel had always doubted that the Romans actually had such noses, which may have been accentuated by sculptors. Ancient busts were presumably not always the best of likenesses, either being works of flattery, or of the imagination. We really have no idea what Homer looked like, in spite of the marble busts in which he is represented with rather crude features. “Not the sort of man you’d expect to write an awfully long poem,” Jamie had once remarked.

She saw, too, that Bruce had kind eyes; light blue, gentle. He was exactly as she’d imagined he might be—this owner of a stone Victorian villa, with its well-tended garden, a scion of a claret-importing family, the husband of a woman who was on a lot of committees, a reader of a cautious, middle-of-the-road newspaper like the Scotsman. There was nothing unsettling about him, and she warmed to him. This family schism would not be his fault…She stopped herself. Appearances were deceptive. Every piece has a villain, and it could just as well be this man, for all his reassuring looks and unthreatening demeanour.

While Laura was out of the room, he asked Isabel about the Portrait Gallery committee. “I’m not one for committees myself,” he said. “But Laura’s good at them. It’s a talent, I think—being able to sit there and listen to other people going on and on.”

Isabel explained that she had yet to attend a meeting of this particular committee. She was about to say something about the gallery, but Bruce spoke instead. He said, “She told me that she’d asked you to help us.”

He looked at her. This was entreaty.

She made a gesture of powerlessness. “I’m not sure how much use I’ll be.”

“It’s worth trying,” he said. “And we’d be so grateful.” He paused, and now he looked away. There was a movement on a branch of a shrub outside the window. A small bird. He was watching it.

“Our son, Richard,” he went on, “has been taken away from us. Taken—and I mean taken. He has been poisoned against us by another young man who has…” He swallowed. She noticed the pain, which was of a particular and recognisable sort—that which is triggered in a parent by a child’s misfortune. He struggled to finish. “Poisoned by another young man who has some sort of power over him.”

He turned back to Isabel. “I know that sounds melodramatic.”

She shook her head. “No. I wouldn’t say that.”

Laura had entered the room silently. She lowered the tray she was carrying, and placed it on a table. She began to pour tea into a cup. “He’s called Paul,” she said. “The other boy, that is.”

“Men,” Bruce corrected her. “They’re not boys any longer.”

“Oh, I know, I know. It’s just when it’s your own son you still think of him as being a boy. I can’t help it, really. He’s still…my little boy.”

A warning bell sounded. This was exactly what could drive a wedge between mother and son, thought Isabel. Mothers who found it hard to let go often drove their sons away. And as she thought about this, Isabel was again reminded of the futility of her involvement in this family’s affairs. Family pathology was usually deep-seated and recalcitrant; a well-meaning outsider would be able to do little to shift it from its ancient moorings. As Jamie might put it, this was not the best of ideas.

But she had said that she would help, and she would at least try. She had to.

“This other young man,” she began. “Could you tell me about him? Where did they meet?”

Bruce and Laura exchanged glances. For a few moments, neither spoke. Then Laura said, “University. He and Richard were students together—here in Edinburgh. They both studied Scottish history. They became friends right at the beginning, I think.”

Isabel noticed that Bruce had lowered his eyes, and it occurred to her that there was another dimension altogether to any animosity between father and son. Of course; of course. This may not be a political difference at all, but an objection to something that was more than a simple friendship. If that were the case, then it would be even more inappropriate for her to get involved. It was not always easy for parents to accept the situation if their offspring came out as gay; things had improved, and it was certainly easier than it used to be, but there was no point in denying that for some parents it was an emotionally difficult issue.

“Close friends?” she asked.

Bruce looked up sharply. It was as if he resented the question.

Laura replied. “Richard was never interested in other boys,” she said. “If that’s what you’re suggesting.” She waited briefly before continuing, “Anyway, neither Bruce nor I would have a problem with that.”

She looked at Bruce, as if expecting confirmation. He hesitated, Isabel thought—but only briefly—before nodding his agreement. But Isabel was not entirely convinced. They were not telling the truth, she decided.

“It really is political,” said Laura. “Or that’s how it manifests itself—this influence I mentioned. It’s as if Richard has become a member of one of those religions that turns you against everybody…”

“Who isn’t a member of the same religion,” Bruce supplied. “You know the sort. Those fanatical sects that won’t eat with anybody else, or even speak to them. That think that everybody who’s not with them is fair game.”

“Exactly,” said Laura. “And it’s very painful when you realise that it’s his own family he’s writing off in this way—his own father.”

Bruce sighed. “I never expected him to agree with me on everything. It’s not as if I ever forced any beliefs down his throat.”

“We never did that,” Laura interjected. “We let them form their own opinions—within reason, of course.”

“Yes, within reason,” said Bruce. “You can’t bring your children up to believe in nothing.”

“Did you discuss politics with them?” asked Isabel. “The subject must have come up from time to time, I imagine.”

Laura and Bruce exchanged glances. She spoke. “Not really. Maybe occasionally, I suppose—indirectly. We might have passed some comment on a politician now and then—but nothing much, really. We aren’t a very political family, you see. Neither of us is a member of a party, or anything like that.”

“But you have your views?”

It was Bruce who answered. “Of course we do. But we don’t burden others with those opinions. We keep them to ourselves—mostly.”

Isabel nodded. “But Richard would know how you felt about things?”

At first, neither seemed keen to answer. Then Bruce said, “I think so. But he’d also know that we expect people to be tolerant of other people’s convictions. I would very much hope he knows that.”

“Oh, he does,” said Laura. “He knows that all right. It’s Paul who’s somehow persuaded him that tolerance counts for nothing.”

Isabel asked about Paul. Had they had much to do with him? When had his influence come to bear on Richard? Laura explained that they’d been aware that he and Richard were friends, but it was only after they’d both graduated that Richard had seemed to come under his friend’s spell. Then, rather quickly, relations had broken down. Richard had accused his father of indifference to Scotland’s cause, and this had shortly been followed by a freezing-over of relations. “And all the time,” she said, “I can just imagine Paul, smirking in the background, egging him on—filling his head with this stuff.”

“If I could get my hands on that young man…,” muttered Bruce.

Laura corrected him sharply. “You don’t mean that.” And then, turning to Isabel, she said, “It’s very difficult for Bruce. He used to have a very good relationship with Richard.”

Isabel glanced at Bruce. He looked embarrassed. “It’s just that…” He trailed off.

Laura reached for the teapot. “They live together now,” she said.

“They share a flat,” Bruce said quickly.

Isabel asked where.

Laura pointed vaguely out of the window. “Down near the canal. They’re both keen rowers. It’s handy for that.”

“And does Richard have a job?”

“He has a wine shop,” said Bruce. “You probably know it. It’s in Bruntsfield—Holy Corner Wines. Richard bought it with some money his grandmother left him. It’s nothing to do with us, though. Our family business, you see, is wine importation. We’ve been in it for generations.”

Laura explained that they had expected Richard to go into the business, but he had declined to do so.

“He won’t work with me,” Bruce said.

Or vice versa, Isabel thought.

“Paul works there too,” Laura said. “We don’t know much about him, other than that they were students together.”

“Actually,” Bruce interjected, “we’ve never met Paul.”

Laura explained, “Richard has never offered to introduce us. I’ve heard a bit about him from Richard, but not much—even though we own the flat that Richard lives in.”

“He doesn’t invite us,” said Bruce.

Laura glanced at her husband. “No,” she said. “There have been no invitations.” She paused. “Paul’s from Inverness, I think, but I’m not sure. Stephanie said that his father is a farmer up there.”

“Richard told her that?” asked Isabel. “Do she and her brother…”

“Talk to one another?” Laura shook her head. “He used to talk to his sister, but now he doesn’t. Oh, they’ll exchange a few words out of politeness, but it doesn’t go further than that.”

“He disapproves of her?”

Laura was about to answer, but Bruce intervened. “Stephanie’s fiancé is English. He must have said something about Scottish politics that Richard took objection to. There was a dreadful argument, I believe, and that led to a souring of relations.” He looked at Isabel, as if uncertain whether to add to what he had said. Then, “The truth of the matter is—”

“No,” said Laura. “That’s not it, Bruce.”

“It is. It is. The truth of the matter is that he doesn’t like him because he’s English. He’s picked that up from Paul. That sort of attitude is infectious. It’s a virus. Breathe it in and you catch it.”

“Oh, darling,” Laura protested. “You’ve no evidence of that.”

“I’ve all the evidence I need,” Bruce shot back. “There are plenty of people in this world who don’t like others because of what they happen to be. Greeks and Turks, for instance. Are you telling me that they’ve always been friends? There are a hundred other national animosities. This tribe dislikes that tribe because of something that happened a long time ago. Or because they needed somebody to dislike and these others were available for the purpose. Or because this set of people believes in one interpretation of history and that set believes in another one altogether. Look at the Balkans. Look anywhere. Sunni and Shia. Take your pick.”

Isabel sighed. He was right. The world was a patchwork of animosities: Hate had a hundred different flavours, and its sinister salesmen knew all about marketing. And the point about such feelings was that once they took hold, they ran deep. “You know,” she said, “I really don’t see that I’ll be able to do very much here. Oil can always be poured on troubled waters, but…” She sighed again.

Laura seemed not to have noticed her reservations. “Just find out a bit more about this young man who’s influencing him. And maybe talk to Richard. Tell him that his father loves him very much,” she urged. “Tell him that. He won’t take it from me. Somebody outside the family has to try to get through to him. For us, it’s like trying to talk to somebody who’s on a different wavelength.”

Wavelengths, thought Isabel, were a useful metaphor. If you shared a wavelength with somebody, then you would find it easy to talk. You would be comfortable in their company and there would be no intrusive static, no distortion. It was like that between her and Jamie; it always had been. Sometimes, in fact, she felt they hardly needed speech at all, but could say everything through looks and gestures, or even through something which might be called telepathy, which did not exist, the physicists told us, and yet which seemed to surprise us from time to time with a telephone call coming in just as we thought of somebody and knew, even before we answered, who it would be. Coincidence…yes, of course it was that, and nothing more; we could not start to believe in things for which there was no evidence, because if we started to believe in one such thing, even if it was harmless, then there was nothing to stop the siren call of other, more harmful beliefs. And if we dismantled science, and scientific notions of observable cause and effect, then what certainty would we have of anything?

She and Jamie were on the same wavelength—there was no doubt about that—but Cat was another matter altogether. Cat thought differently, Isabel sometimes felt. And although they could talk to one another, they sometimes meant different things by the same words. That was a common issue, and it cropped up in all sorts of circumstances—including, she thought, right here in this Edinburgh house, with its neat garden and its air of solidity and correctness—under this roof there had been a misunderstanding as to what the word Scotland meant. For a father, it meant one thing, and for a son it appeared to mean another. And that difference could be extrapolated to cover so many cases where there was a difference of opinion. She thought of her cousin in Mobile for whom the word America meant something quite different from what it meant to her cousin in Dallas. They both believed in the good—neither was malicious in her temperament—but when they used the same words, they were often talking about radically different things.

“Different wavelengths?” said Isabel. “Yes, I know what you mean.”

Laura clasped her hands together—the body language of entreaty. “We’ve heard, from several people, that you have a gift for sorting things out for people. They all say the same thing. That’s why we’ve asked you.”

Isabel thought: I have no alternative. Then she went on to think: Strictly speaking, that isn’t true—there is the thing you can do, which may be the rational, sensible thing to do, and then there is the thing you must do because none of us is entirely rational and sensible, however much we might like to be. So she had no choice, in a manner of speaking.

“I’ll do what I can,” she said.

As she said this, she thought: This is ridiculous. Here am I agreeing to barge into a family mess that I shall probably only make worse. This is none of my business. It is not a complicated situation—it is really quite simple. A young man has broken away from his conventionally minded family. He has gone off with a friend whom the parents cannot accept because they do not want their son to be what his nature prompts him to be. They are doing exactly what they should not do in such a case, and are losing him. The quickest way to lose one’s children was to fail to accept the person with whom they want to spend their lives: Any number of fractured families were evidence of that. In this case, they’re blaming his friend; they’re blaming his political views; they’re accusing him of intolerance when they themselves are lacking in tolerance.

Then she thought: perhaps not. Perhaps what they say is correct, and Richard has been mindnapped. Was there such a word? There should be, she thought.