Chapter Ten
The book club met the following evening at Roz’s house. Roz had explained that unlike most book clubs, in which meetings were hosted by members in turn, hers had never met anywhere but in her large living room. “It started that way,” she said, “and somehow we never considered any other option. Some book clubs are conservative, I suppose. They do things a certain way, and the members don’t like change.”
Isabel had not intended to be the first to arrive, but when Roz opened the front door to her at seven-thirty that night, none of the other members was present.
“They arrive in dribs and drabs,” said Roz. “But we always start by eight. They like to chat before we get down to business.”
Isabel said that she understood. Book groups were not only about books, but about friendship too, and friendship thrived on casual conversation.
Roz agreed, but said that she sometimes struggled to get the discussion back on the rails. “One or two of our members need little encouragement to go on at length—about anything and everything. I try to steer them back to the book we’re talking about, but it doesn’t always work.”
“Better than long silences,” said Isabel. “I heard of a book group where nobody said anything. The only person who spoke was the organiser—the rest remained silent.”
Roz laughed. “What was the point?”
“I suppose they got something from simply being with other people,” Isabel suggested. “Have you ever been to a Quaker meeting? That’s what they do. They sit there until somebody is moved to say something. They can sit for a long time, I’m told.”
Roz took Isabel into the living room. “I’d introduce you to my husband,” she said. “But he isn’t here. Eric belongs to a wild swimming club, and he often goes wild swimming on my book-club nights. Lochs. The sea. Only in the summer, of course, although some of them like to do the Loony Dook on New Year’s Day each year.”
Isabel grimaced. The Loony Dook was an annual event in which hundreds of swimmers braved the water of the Firth of Forth on the first of January, irrespective of the weather. There were occasions in which they had taken to the water in a snowstorm—to the delight of shivering spectators.
The bell rang, and Roz went to the front door. When she returned to the living room, she was accompanied by two women in their late thirties or early forties. These were Virginia and Gemma. Virginia was elegantly dressed in a dark green trouser suit, while Gemma had a more homely appearance. Both gave Isabel an inquisitive look. Virginia smiled; Gemma seemed more unsure of herself and her expression remained passive. Isabel remembered what Roz had said: Virginia was the leader here—and Gemma followed.
Roz introduced them. “Isabel,” she said, “has very kindly agreed to join our group. She has been in a book group before, but not for some time.”
She looked to Isabel for confirmation, and Isabel nodded. “I was a member of one a few years back. It eventually fell apart.”
Gemma looked anxiously in Virginia’s direction. It was clear to Isabel that Gemma was concerned that this group was facing a similar fate, and that she did not want this to happen.
Virginia smiled. “That happens. People get new interests. They move on. That’s why…” She did not complete the sentence. Roz looked at her sharply. Gemma looked away.
“I know that you worry about these things,” said Roz suddenly. “I know that you’re concerned.”
“I just think that it’s important we don’t drown ourselves in trivia,” said Virginia. “Some of these clubs spend their time reading popular stuff and then discover that they’ve suffocated themselves with the superficial and the irrelevant.”
Gemma nodded solemnly. “That’s right,” she said. “Romantic novels, for instance.”
Roz was about to say something, but was beaten to it by Virginia.
“I will not read a romantic novel,” she said firmly. “I categorically refuse.”
“Nobody has suggested a romantic novel,” said Roz, evenly. “Or at least, I haven’t heard anybody say they wanted us to read one.”
Virginia looked doubtful. “Not openly,” she said. “But I think I know who might try to slip one in—under the radar, so to speak.”
“Doesn’t it depend on how you define a romantic novel?” said Isabel. “There are some great novels that are unashamedly romantic.”
“I think Virginia means those novels you can buy at the railway station,” said Gemma. “Bodice rippers—or whatever they’re called. Or even chick-lit.”
Virginia rolled her eyes. “You can tell by the cover. It usually reveals what’s inside. And romantic novels have good-looking men embracing receptive young women. In profile. Against a sunset, perhaps, or a Mediterranean backdrop.”
Roz said that nobody had ever suggested anything of that sort. “I agree with you, Virginia. If somebody proposed one of those, I’d simply say no. We aren’t that sort of book group.”
“Thank heavens,” said Virginia. “If we were, I, for one, wouldn’t be a member.”
Isabel looked at Roz. They had been together for no more than a few minutes, but already Virginia seemed to be identifying the high moral ground for her to scale. Roz caught Isabel’s look, and smiled weakly.
“I don’t think we should worry too much about that,” Roz said. “Although I might point out that Walter Scott was a romantic novelist—in the broad sense—and I shouldn’t want to exclude him on those grounds alone.”
“I find him a bit hard to read,” said Gemma, almost apologetically. “I’ve tried, but…well, I gave up on Rob Roy.”
“Scott’s not for everyone,” said Virginia. “His stories go on and on and don’t have a great deal of psychological insight, as far as I can see.”
Isabel frowned. “Did psychology exist in Scott’s day?” she asked.
The other three women looked at her.
Isabel explained what she meant. “As an identifiable discipline—or perspective. That’s what I wondered. Scott’s understanding of human nature would have been very different from our own.”
Isabel looked at Roz, who was smiling. “Nobody has recommended Scott yet,” she said. “But if they do, then…”
“I definitely don’t want to read Walter Scott,” Virginia interjected. “Walter Scott is not what this book group is about.”
Isabel was not surprised by this statement, in view of what she had heard about Virginia, but she took the opportunity to probe. “I’m obviously the newcomer,” she said. “Tell me: What is it about?”
Virginia hesitated. She glanced at Roz. “It’s about literature,” she said. “It’s about how books can enrich our lives.” She gave Isabel a brief, apologetic look. “I’m sorry if that sounds a bit pompous, but that really is what books mean, in my view at least.”
Gemma was nodding. “That’s right,” she said. “I used to read anything I came across. I don’t do that any longer.”
“There you are,” said Virginia. “Books, you see. That’s why we’re careful about what we choose to read.”
They were disturbed by the ringing of the doorbell. Roz left the room.
“Fredericka is always late,” said Gemma. “And she always makes the same excuse. Traffic. But the truth of the matter is that there isn’t all that much traffic—it’s her.”
Virginia gave Gemma a discouraging look. She pursed her lips. “Doesn’t matter,” she said.
Now Roz came back into the room with Fredericka and another woman whom Roz introduced to Isabel as Linda. The two new arrivals smiled at Isabel. “I’m so glad that you’re joining us,” said Fredericka. “We need to keep numbers up.”
Linda agreed. “You don’t want a book group to get too big,” she said. “We were getting slightly on the small side. A few new members would help.”
Virginia frowned. “Not too many,” she said.
Isabel looked at Fredericka. She did not want to stare, particularly as she could see that Fredericka was casting glances in her direction too. The two women were evaluating each other, as people will do on introduction—and yet such evaluation tended, as now, to be discreet and tangential. Isabel was struck by the other woman’s appearance, by the calm, almost melancholic beauty of her face. This was somebody, she thought, whom it would be impossible to ignore should one meet her in the proverbial crowded room. She was tall, perhaps even slightly willowy, and was wearing a russet shawl draped casually about her shoulders. Isabel found herself thinking: I want that shawl. She stole another glance, and then looked away quickly. Fredericka, she realised, was used to this: Attention was nothing new to her.
Roz invited everybody to sit down. “We’re quorate,” she said. “And since this is Isabel’s first time, I suggest we launch straight into the book. We can catch up over tea later on.”
There were murmurs of agreement as they sat down. Then Roz introduced the book. “I must say at the outset that I didn’t enjoy this one. I’m not saying that it’s totally without merit, but I was very pleased when I reached the end.”
This verdict took a short while to be digested. Virginia spoke next. “I’m afraid that I’m inclined to disagree. I thought this was one of the most interesting novels I’ve read this year. I thought it was exceptional.”
Gemma looked up. “It was superb,” she said. “Really superb.”
Roz shook her head. “I wouldn’t call it that at all. I don’t think this woman can write.”
“Of course she can write,” snapped Virginia. “It’s four hundred and twenty pages. You can’t produce four hundred and twenty pages unless you can write.”
“Plenty of people who can’t write do just that,” Roz retorted. “Style is pretty much discredited these days. It’s content that people pay attention to.”
Angela raised her hand, almost as if she were in a classroom. “Surely the point is simply this: Does the author make her case? That’s the issue, in my view. Does she do what she sets out to do?”
Isabel noticed that Roz’s lips seemed fixed in a rigid smile. This had been triggered by Angela’s intervention. That was interesting. Was it impatience? She looked at Fredericka, who had turned her head away, and was fidgeting with the fringe of her shawl. She, too, seemed irritated—or was she amused?
Fredericka turned her head back. She was staring at Angela. She stopped fingering the shawl and adjusted it over her shoulders. “That’s interesting, Angela,” she said. “What do you think the case is?”
Angela returned Fredericka’s stare. “Well, it’s pretty evident, isn’t it? Her central point is right there. She doesn’t hide it.”
Gemma frowned. She was struggling to make sense of this, thought Isabel. Perhaps Gemma was not as intellectually nimble as the others. Fredericka was quick—Isabel had picked that up immediately—and Gemma must know that. Her loyalty, of course, was to Virginia—Roz had made that clear, and Isabel could see it in Gemma’s body language. She worshipped Virginia; that was the word. Or adored her—that was another possible word.
It was Roz who broke the silence that followed Angela’s comment. “I think we should find out who actually enjoyed this book. Then we can ask ourselves why.”
Fredericka now addressed Isabel. “We don’t vote in this group,” she explained. “Some book groups have a rating system—you know, six out of ten, seven out of ten—that sort of thing. We’ve never done that.”
“We should,” said Angela. “I’ve always thought that would be helpful. I can’t understand why we don’t do it.”
“Because it’s far too simple,” Fredericka retorted.
Angela raised an eyebrow. “What’s simple about a rating system? And, anyway, what’s wrong with simplicity?”
Fredericka shrugged. “It’s the way they do it on television reality shows—the dancing shows—that sort of thing. Or that ghastly song competition, where they give points to trashy music. No thank you.”
Roz intervened. “I think we get a clear enough idea of people’s feelings, even without an actual rating. But who liked this book? Just a general response—no out-of-tens.”
Hands went up. Angela hesitated, then decided that she had enjoyed the book after all. Perhaps she had enjoyed not reading it, thought Isabel, and she smiled at the thought. But then she corrected herself: She did not know for certain that Angela had not read the book, and she should not simply rely on Roz’s accusation to that effect. And, by a stretch of the imagination, there were perfectly legitimate reasons for not liking a book, even if one had not read it. One could dislike a book based on the report of others—on the basis of the book’s reputation among people whose views one respected. Isabel could think of several books that she disliked because she had a good idea of what was in them. That was a defensible position, she thought. It was not all that different from disliking a person you had never met, but who had been shown to be grossly offensive; there was good reason for your dislike, even if your paths had never crossed. That was a concomitant of being a public figure: You could be disliked by legions, few of whom would ever have met you personally.
The discussion of the book continued for half an hour or so. Then Roz rose to make tea, and the members chatted among themselves. Isabel felt slightly excluded, as there was some discussion of a local man she did not know but whose doings were the subject of local scandal. He had built a garage extension without getting planning permission from the city council. “It should be razed to the ground,” Virginia said, adding “at his expense, of course.” Gemma, unsurprisingly, had agreed with that, but Angela said that planning requirements were so stringent that it was perfectly understandable if people ended up building unauthorised extensions. Virginia remarked that if that view were generally held, then life in society would become all but impossible. “Remember your Hobbes,” she said pointedly, shaking a finger at Angela in mock reproach. They really don’t like one another, thought Isabel.
Roz returned with a large tea tray. Once she had poured everybody a cup, she raised the question of membership. “One of you has asked me in confidence,” she began, “whether we might open membership to men. Just a few men,” she added quickly. “And the right sort of men, of course.”
Virginia burst out laughing. “The right sort of men? Are you serious, Roz? Nobody talks about the right sort of anybody these days. The zeitgeist is dead set against that sort of non-inclusive language.”
Roz defended herself. “I don’t care what the zeitgeist says. There are some men who are clearly not the right sort. You know that as well as I do, Virginia.”
Virginia glared at her. “Do I? Perhaps you could enlighten me, Roz. What do I know about the right sort of men?”
Roz looked up at the ceiling. She spoke now as if explaining an elementary truth to somebody who might have difficulty in grasping it.
“Overbearing men,” she said. “Men who won’t let anybody else have their say. Pushy men. You know the sort.”
“Alpha males?” suggested Fredericka.
“Precisely,” said Roz. “You know what they’re like. They’d inhibit our discussion because they’d behave as if their views carried more weight than ours.”
Gemma looked interested. “I’m not sure that I know any alpha males. Or at least I’m not sure that I would know how to recognise them.”
“Oh, you’ll have encountered them all right,” said Virginia. “They will be the men who have taken the things that might otherwise have come to you—the opportunities, the encouragement, the praise. You may not have realised at the time that they were alpha males, but that’s what they would have been.”
Isabel found herself wondering about Virginia’s husband. Roz had said that he was the dullest of men, and so he would hardly be an alpha male. Was there such a thing as a beta male? That, perhaps, was not quite the right term, because the term beta was used to describe a prototype of something that was still being developed, and one could hardly apply it to men. Perhaps omega male was a better description of dull men, as that was at the other end of the Greek alphabet from alpha. For a moment, she pictured Virginia’s husband in his domestic setting, wearing carpet slippers, perhaps, and a beige-coloured sweater with faux-leather buttons up the front. He would be sitting in an armchair reading the Edinburgh Evening News impassively until he put down the paper with a sigh and began to stare into space, or watch football, which was much the same thing, Isabel thought. Or he would be in his garage, painstakingly working on a home carpentry project—a three-legged stool—that will have occupied him for at least several weeks, and that would never be stable enough to sit upon. Roz was right, she thought: Virginia’s husband was very dull.
She imagined him walking the dog in Morningside, and the dog would be a very plain animal indeed—a dispirited-looking creature of unidentifiable breed—neither large nor small, just immensely dull: a defeated dog. That was Virginia’s omega-male husband—poor woman. Of course, he would be happy enough, her dull man in his cardigan, because he would have no idea of what he was missing. There would be no passion there, no despair over the state of the world, no enthusiasm. He would not be open to anything new and would remain quiet about the great issues of the day, voting for the least offensive, the least radical option, desperate to avoid rocking any of the boats in which he might find himself. His life would run narrowly and correctly to the grave. How many women were married to men like that, and secretly longed for some spark that would ignite their lives?
But then she thought, who am I to disparage such people? The world needed men like Virginia’s husband, because they uncomplainingly did what they had to do. Not much happened to them, but they plodded away, going into their offices or factories every day, week upon week, month upon month, year upon year, while more adventurous people diverted themselves with interesting, challenging things. We should not condescend to such people, she reminded herself. They were the bedrock of any society. If she ever met him, perhaps she should go up to him and whisper, “Well done! It’s people like you who keep us going! Thank you!” And he would look at her in puzzlement, but she would be able to see that he was pleased because nobody else would ever have said something like that to him. And he would respond with, “Do you really think so?” And she would reply, “Yes, I do. And don’t listen to anybody who tells you that you’re dull.” Of course, that might not be quite the right thing to say, but still…
She walked back home after the book group ended. She did not have far to go—no more than a few blocks of quiet houses tucked up for the night in their leafy gardens. Summer evenings in Scotland were long ones: Edinburgh, at fifty-six degrees latitude, was still bathed in an attenuated, lambent light, gentle and failing, but still there. A small group of students, three girls and a boy, were walking in the same direction as Isabel, but more slowly, and she overtook them. They moved aside politely to let her pass, and she said, “Good evening.” The boy smiled and said “Good evening” in return, but once Isabel was some distance away, she heard sniggering. One of the girls intoned “Good evening” in exaggerated tones, and Isabel was unsure whether the mockery was directed at her or at the boy, who might be being accused by his companions of good manners. She almost turned to send a glance in their direction, but stopped herself. They were young—nineteen, perhaps—and when you are nineteen it’s just you, really, and nobody else matters very much. They would not be nineteen for ever, but for the time being they should be allowed as much self-absorption as they needed.
She paused at her gate, and looked up at the façade of her house, set back from the shrubbery that dominated the front garden. It had been built in the late eighteen-eighties, with the reddish-pink stone from one of the quarries that had been used for the building of the southern suburbs of the city. The land here, although less than two miles from the castle, at the heart of the city, had been farmyard until a speculative builder had acquired it. This now forgotten developer had conceived of houses for a certain sort of person, and had not been embarrassed to specify in the original title deeds that the house, and those around it, were to be exclusively for “bank managers and above.” Isabel had hooted with laughter when her lawyers had drawn her attention to the unenforceable condition. “Such complete confidence,” she said. “Even in Scotland, where school-children read Burns’s ‘A Man’s a Man for a’ That’? Yes, but…” She sighed. “Such a pity.”
“A pity?” asked the lawyer.
“For all those who weren’t quite bank managers—for those who were at the bottom of the heap.”
The lawyer agreed. “Social stratification is an absurd thing,” he said.
“And yet,” mused Isabel, “can you name one society—just one—where it doesn’t exist?”
The lawyer thought. “The United States?”
Isabel shook her head. “The Americans have a class system—it’s just that they don’t like to admit to it. Money determines where you are—and, to an extent, which college you went to. You buy your way into a particular level of society when you pay your tuition fees.” She paused. “And then geography enforces it. Not everybody can live in Santa Barbara or the Hamptons.”
The lawyer tried again. “Communist countries? The Soviet Union—when it was still in business?”
Isabel looked at him in astonishment. “Are you serious? Class was inherited there, just as it could be everywhere else, the only difference being that in Soviet Russia it was immutable: If your origins were bourgeois you were at a considerable disadvantage—all your life. And what about the nomenklatura? If you were a high-ranking Party official, regular access to caviar was assured. Just as it was to smoked salmon, lobster and Scotch whisky. No, you’ll have to think again, I’m afraid.”
He made a last attempt. “Australia?”
Isabel considered this. There was an egalitarianism to Australian society that had always appealed to her, but for a long time it had major limitations: Not everybody was equal. There had been many who were altogether excluded. But at least they were doing something to acknowledge and make up for that. So, she said, “To an extent, yes.”
Now she opened the gate and began to make her way up the path to the front door. There were no lights in the windows, but Jamie, she imagined, would be in the music room at the back of the house. There was Dawn, of course—she suddenly remembered her—but her room, on its attic floor, was also at the back. She did not want to think about Dawn—her life was quite complicated enough without adding to it any concerns about her strange tenant.
There was a movement, barely perceptible in the rhododendrons on one side of the path. It was nothing much—perhaps no more than a slight stirring of the sort that a breeze might cause—but then she heard a rustling noise, as of leaves being disturbed in the undergrowth. Like the movement, it was brief and was followed by silence. She stopped, and gazed into the dark space beneath the plant’s spreading foliage.
“Brother Fox?”
Her voice a whisper. Somewhere in the distance, a siren sounded for a second or two, a faint whistle of emergency.
“Brother Fox?”
What do I expect? An answer?
She moved very gingerly towards the plant and lowered herself to her haunches. He would take fright, she thought; this was not the way to gain the confidence of a fox: Putting distance between them would be a surer sign of pacific intention. And who could blame him for being wary, given the long war between our species and his; given the atrocities we had visited on his kind? But surely, she told herself, he knows by now that I am no threat to him—that I am a non-combatant in that war.
Her eyes accustomed themselves to the relative darkness. Now she could make out his shape against the background of leaf and branch; the head, the ears, the curve of the spine, the long sweep of the tail. And the eyes, too, for a shard of light from somewhere, one of the streetlights perhaps, was reflected in a small, dark well.
He moved his head, and she saw him more clearly now. He was staring at her. He could have turned tail and slunk away, but he did not. He took a hesitant step forward, and she thought for a moment that he might come out to meet her; that she might extend a hand and he would nuzzle at it, just as a dog might do.
“Oh, my darling,” she whispered. “My darling friend.”
He looked at her inquisitively, as if awaiting her next move. But she had nothing to offer him. She thought of the fridge in the kitchen and its contents. There was half a Melton Mowbray pie, which he would adore, because what fox would not like pork? But if she went inside to fetch it, he would almost certainly be away by the time she returned. And even now, he was beginning to move again. He had to leave—the night was just starting for him, there was so much else for him to do.
She stood up again, because she had been uncomfortable crouching down. There was a further rustling sound, and he was gone.
Jamie had decided on an early night and was already in bed by the time she returned. He had switched off his bedside light but had left hers on. His clothes were draped across the chair on his side of the room—his favourite shirt, a Bengal stripe from Thomas Pink; his olive chinos, loved so much that they were now almost threadbare and would have to be replaced soon; the bamboo socks that he said were cooler than wool and more sustainable. The distress signals from the planet were getting through, Isabel had remarked, when men were beginning to insist on sustainable socks. She glanced at their bed, at his head upon the pillow, at his bare shoulders, for it was a warm night and he had never liked pyjamas. He is mine, she thought; he is the centre of my world, mine.
He had not yet gone to sleep, although his voice, when he spoke, was drowsy.
“The book group,” he muttered.
“Interesting,” she said.
He moved his head on the pillow. “I did nothing much.” He was on the verges of sleep, and his words faded away.
“You can go back to sleep,” said Isabel, crossing the room. “We can talk tomorrow.”
He took a little while to respond, and she thought he might have drifted off. But he had not. “I wasn’t asleep yet. Tell me about it.”
Isabel sat down on the edge of the bed. She reached out and took his hand. He felt so warm; was that because she was cold, having just some in from outside?
“I saw Brother Fox,” she said.
“Under the rhododendrons?” asked Jamie.
“Yes. He looked at me. I thought he was coming out to say hello.”
“He loves you,” said Jamie. “He told me so himself. He said: I don’t trust you, but I like the woman. Those were his exact words.”
She laughed. “Flatterer.”
“No, I’m not making it up. Foxes are good judges of character. You can’t fool a fox.” He turned his head on the pillow to look directly at her. “What were they like—the book-group ladies?”
Isabel thought for a few moments about how she might answer the question. The meeting had been more or less as she imagined it might be. “I was forewarned,” she replied. “They don’t like one another. That’s the basic problem.”
Jamie smiled. “Then what’s the point?”
“I’m inclined to agree,” said Isabel.
“I don’t see what you can do,” said Jamie.
“I don’t either,” sighed Isabel.
“Tell her that,” Jamie said. “Just tell this Roz person that you can’t wave a magic wand and make everything better.”
She stood up and began to prepare for bed. She opened a curtain. She liked the room not to be entirely dark, a legacy of childhood fears. The last of the evening glow had faded, and there was a pale, almost full moon, suspended in the sky like a giant night-light.
“Tell her tomorrow,” said Jamie, his voice once again drowsy. “Tell her that you can’t do anything.”
“I shall,” said Isabel.
“Promise?”
“No,” she said. “Or, maybe. Possibly.”
She was tired too, just as he was. But in her mind she heard the line about promises and sleep. Who was it who had promises to keep and miles to go before he slept? Yes, it was Robert Frost. He had said that, in that poem about snow and his little horse, and woods of uncertain ownership.
Jamie’s breathing became deeper and more regular. Sleep, she thought, our nightly adventure. She wondered about his dreams and whether she featured in them. He had never said anything about that, and, for her own part, she was not sure he featured in hers. Dreams were parallel, private lives, and those with whom one spent the day could well be excluded from them.
She puzzled over that for a few minutes, and then her thoughts drifted to the events earlier in the evening. Now she pictured the members of the book club sitting in a circle. She saw herself addressing them, their doleful eyes fixed on her. You are a most unedifying group of people, she might say. You should be ashamed of yourselves.
They stared back at her, each a wraith that slowly disappeared as sleep embraced her. The image of Roz came to her, looking at her pleadingly. “You have to help us,” she said. “You have to.”
She resisted. “Why? Why ask me to do this for you?”
Roz answered as if it was completely obvious. “Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You help people.” And then, after a short pause, and almost as an accusation, “It’s your job, I believe.”
It seemed to Isabel to be grossly unfair that she should shoulder the burdens of so many other people—Dawn, Roz and her squabbling cohort, Gordon, Cat, Eddie, Professor Lettuce, even Brother Fox—who was most undemanding when compared with the others. Why did people expect her to sort out all these things? I am not a one-woman United Nations…
John Donne…John Donne. No woman is an island…The change in gender sounded quite natural now: It was about time that the great statements were amended. No woman is an island…If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less…Any man’s death diminishes me…But clods were being washed away by our rising seas, thought Isabel, and we are diminished as a result. We might remember Canute and the tide, she thought…
“I can’t,” Isabel whispered. She was imagining herself saying this, but she spoke it out loud. But not enough to wake Jamie.