34

Peppermint Tea

“Great view,” said Stuart, peering out of the window of Katie’s drawing room. “That’s St. Vincent Street down there, isn’t it?”

Katie was standing immediately behind him. He had looked out of the window because that was always something you could do in a strained social situation, or in circumstances where, as now, your heart was beating at twice its normal rate, it seemed, because the adrenalin was flooding your system, because you were somewhere you should not be, perhaps, or contemplating doing something you should not be doing. I am still a married man, he thought; but then he reminded himself of the freedom that he had been thinking about only half an hour or so ago. He was free. Irene had left him and gone to Aberdeen. He had not asked her to go, but she had chosen to do so herself. They had not divorced—yet—and so he was still married, but not in any moral sense, he felt. If he wanted to see somebody else, then he was surely entitled to do so.

“I’ve always liked St. Vincent Street,” Katie said. “I like short streets that go nowhere in particular.”

He turned to face her, and smiled. She returned the smile. He saw that her ears were small; he had not noticed that before. Don’t we see other people’s ears, he thought?

“There’s a pub down there,” he said. “The St. Vincent. And a church—same name—next door—an Episcopalian church. They have an order, I think. Something to do with St. Lazarus, with knights and so on; they wear rather nice green capes.”

Katie had seen them. One Sunday she had walked past the church, she said, and people had come out dressed in green robes. “People love that sort of thing,” she said. “And the clergyman who runs that place is called Maclean. He’s a historian, and he knows all about clan matters. He likes having lots of other Macleans about the place. If you’re called Maclean, then he’ll rope you into a procession.”

“Why not?” said Stuart. “If you’re a Maclean or whatever you probably enjoy rubbing shoulders with a lot of other Macleans.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Katie. “And I must say I rather like living in a city where people dress up and process about the place. There’s a lot of that going on in Edinburgh.”

Stuart looked out of the window again, past the tops of the trees, the boughs caught in the breeze, swaying across the line of the buildings further down the hill. St. Vincent Street descended rapidly to the corner of Cumberland Street; in a flat on that corner, he and Irene, with another couple, had been to dinner with a friend from his university days. He remembered it now. The friend had been a medical student and had married another medical student. Sitting in the kitchen before dinner, they had chatted while their host prepared moules marinières and had cut his thumb badly on the sharp edge of a mussel shell. There and then, at the kitchen table, he had unblinkingly sewed the wound closed with a few stitches while the horrified guests had looked everywhere but at the site of the casual human repair.

“I went to dinner in St. Vincent Street once,” he began to tell Katie.

“Oh yes?”

“And my friend cut his thumb on a mussel. Quite a bad gash.” He was aware that the story sounded lame and he wondered whether she would think him boring. She was younger than he was. Ten years, at least. That made him anxious. Older people told long stories that younger people found dull. Everybody knew that, except for older people.

But Katie did not appear to find his story dull. She said, “Ouch,” with some feeling. And then she said, “I know somebody who lives on St. Vincent Street. She collects old shawls. She has hundreds of them…or maybe not hundreds, but you know what I mean.”

“People collect all sorts of things,” said Stuart.

“Yes, they do.”

And then there was a brief silence.

Stuart moved toward a chair. “May I sit down?”

“Of course. How rude of me. Please do.” She smiled as she gestured at the room. “Anywhere you like.”

Stuart sat down, as did Katie. She glanced at him, and smiled again.

He drew in his breath. “I’m very sorry about what happened,” he began. “I wanted to tell you that.”

He forced the words out. There were fewer of them than he had intended, but now he had said more or less what he had planned to say.

Katie looked uncomfortable. “You don’t have to,” she said. She turned away for a moment, as if in distaste.

“But I do,” he pressed. “I didn’t want to stop seeing you. I really didn’t.”

“No?”

“No. It was my wife, you see.”

She closed her eyes, and he realized that what he had just said had been painful to her. That must be, he thought, because she did not like to be reminded that she had been involved with a married man. It was tactless of him, he felt, and he should not have mentioned Irene. But how else could he explain himself?

She opened her eyes. “I understand,” she said. “And I don’t think we should talk about it. Let’s not.”

“No?”

“No. Water under the bridge. Or…Choose your metaphor.”

The reference to metaphor reminded him of what she did, and one of the reasons why he had been drawn to her. Katie was working on a PhD in Scottish poetry. That had thrilled Stuart when he had first met her. He had been surrounded by actuaries and here was somebody who was immersed in poetry.

“Your PhD,” he said. “May I ask how it’s going?”

“Of course you may,” she said. “Why not?”

“Because people who are doing PhDs are often haunted by them. At least, that’s my experience. They have these PhDs hanging over them like the sword of Damocles…”

She interrupted him. “Now there’s a metaphor.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. And then people come and say How’s your PhD going? And that fills them with dread.”

Katie laughed. “There are support groups for people doing PhDs. But I don’t think I need to go to them—just yet.”

“So, it’s going well?”

“I’ll finish next year. On time, even. Or I hope so.”

“And then?” asked Stuart.

“Now that’s the question you really shouldn’t ask somebody who’s doing a PhD. That’s the really painful question.” She paused. “But what about your little boy? What about little…”

“Bertie.”

“Yes, Bertie. And his brother…”

“Ulysses.”

“How are they doing?”

Stuart looked down at his feet. “They’re doing really well. You see, their mother…my wife, Irene…she’s gone to Aberdeen. She’s started a PhD up there.”

Katie did not react.

“She hasn’t disappeared totally.” Stuart continued. He knew she did not want to talk about Irene—she had said as much—but he felt he had to tell her something. “But she’s more or less off the scene. She comes back for weekends, or is planning to. My mother’s helping with the boys. She’s moved into the flat.”

Katie listened. Then she stood up. “What about coffee? Or tea? Would you prefer tea?”

“Tea,” said Stuart. “If it’s no trouble.”

“Ordinary or peppermint? Or I think I’ve got lemon and ginger.”

Toss caution to the winds, thought Stuart. “Peppermint,” he replied.