The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds: An Isabel Dalhousie Novel (9) (11 page)

She read the critic’s review. “Why are we fascinated by the life of large-scale wrongdoers?”
he asked. “Why do we find the tawdry doings of the wicked anything but banal?”

Isabel stopped reading for a moment. The tawdry doings of the wicked: it was a beguilingly
succinct dismissal of evil. And it was quite right, she thought, to deny any possible
romance to wrongful deeds. Most major criminals, in or out of uniform, in or out of
political office, in or out of the corporate boardroom, were simple bullies, prepared
to use force to achieve their goals—and a Colombian drug lord would be a bully par
excellence. Should we even bother to look at the life of a bully? What was there to
say about it?

“This man,” the critic continued, “is vile. He has used murder to progress through
the criminal
cursus honorum
. He has profited from the endless misery of the illicit drug trade. He has grown
rich on death. And yet here is a sophisticated London audience, a group of middle-class
music-lovers, thrilling to the biography of this foul creature. And when he dies,
as he does in the final scene, the music that accompanies his death is every bit as
tragic as that which sees Mimi out in
La bohème
! Can that be right, or is there something here that needs to be considered by a social
psychologist?”

Isabel looked up. Eddie was leading a young woman to her table. She thought:
the Huntress
, and then corrected herself. Not the Huntress; not the Huntress. Diane, plain and
simple; Diane.

“This is Diane.”

Isabel folded the paper and stood up to greet her visitor.

Eddie, who was clearly nervous, announced that he would bring two cups of tea. “Diane
doesn’t drink very much coffee, do you, Diane?”

“No,” said Diane. “I don’t.”

“Too much coffee is bad for you,” said Eddie.

“Everything in moderation,” continued Isabel.

“In what?” asked Eddie nervously.

They were still standing, and Isabel gestured for Diane to sit down. “In moderation,”
she said to Eddie.

He nodded and went off behind the counter. Isabel noticed that Diane’s eyes followed
him. Yes, she thought, she loves him. I’ve seen the answer Eddie wanted.

“I’m really pleased that I’m getting the chance to meet you,” said Isabel. “I’m very
fond of Eddie.”

She discreetly studied Diane as she spoke. Twenty-six was about right, she thought.
And she’s rather attractive in a slightly bony sort of way. Too thin? One had to be
aware of that because so many people were anorexic now. Eddie himself was thin, though,
and he definitely did not have an eating disorder, whatever other problems he might
have. He ate rather a lot, in fact; he was always nibbling on the shavings from blocks
of Parmesan or on scraps of ham or salami.

“He’s very fond of you too,” said Diane.

They were both silent for a moment. “What do you do?” asked Isabel.

“I’m a nurse,” said Diane. “But now I’m studying to be a physiotherapist. I’ve got
two years to go.”

“They’ll go very quickly,” said Isabel.

“I think so,” said Diane.

There was a further silence.

“Eddie tells me that you and he are planning to share,” said Isabel.
To share
sounded better than
to live together
, she felt. It was not suggestive of anything beyond simple cohabitation, and sounded
less prying as a result.

Diane said that this was their plan. “But …” Her voice trailed off.

Isabel waited.

“But I don’t really see how we can.”

“Why?”

“Money,” she said simply. “We can’t afford it. A flat costs at least eight hundred
a month for a one-bedroom place. Usually more. Often a thousand.”

“It’s expensive,” agreed Isabel. She was out of touch; she had thought three or four
hundred was about right.

“And there’s something else,” Diane went on. “My parents are dead against it.”

Isabel raised an eyebrow. “But you’re twenty …”

“Twenty-six,” supplied Diane. “Yes. And Eddie’s …”

Isabel held her breath.

“Twenty-one,” said Diane.

Isabel stared at her. She was taken aback, but now she made up her mind very quickly:
this was her chance to defuse the situation for Eddie. “Eddie sometimes likes to think
he’s twenty-four,” she said. “I suppose it’s because he’d like to be twenty-four and
sometimes we—”

“Sometimes we make things up,” said Diane. She explained. “I know somebody who was
in his year at school. That’s how I realised.” She shrugged. “I understand. I really
do. I remember wanting to be older than I was. I really did. So, don’t worry.”

“He wants to tell you, you know,” whispered Isabel. “Make it easy for him.”

“I will,” said Diane. “Of course I will.”

Isabel felt a surge of affection rise within her. She liked this young woman. She
was just right for Eddie. She loved him,
and she was straightforward and sensible. She was exactly what Eddie needed.

“Your parents?” prompted Isabel.

Diane looked apologetic. “I live with them at the moment,” she said. “They live here
in Edinburgh, in Murrayfield. They’ve got this large house, you see, and it’s much
cheaper for me to stay there than to rent a flat, or even a room in a flat, while
I’m a student.”

“Naturally,” said Isabel. “And lots of people do that, don’t they?”

Diane confirmed this. “But it’s a bit more complicated in my case,” she said. “They
give me money. I’ve taken out a large student loan, but it’s never enough, even if
you’re careful. So they give me money each month.”

“Many parents do that. And the child can pay it back later on.”

Diane nodded. “But the complication is this: they don’t like Eddie. They just don’t.”

“Have they seen much of him?”

“They’ve met him twice. It wasn’t a success.”

Isabel sighed. “Eddie might not come across all that well on a first or second meeting.
He’s shy. He becomes anxious.”

Diane said that she knew that, but the problem with her parents was deeper-rooted.
“They think he’s not good enough for me. It’s as simple as that. And …”

Isabel waited for her to continue.

“And they think that it’s not going to last. They think that I’ll grow out of him;
that I’ll realise we don’t have very much in common; that I’ll decide Eddie doesn’t
quite fit in.” She paused. “They’re snobs, you see.”

Isabel was not sure what to say. It certainly sounded to her as though Diane’s parents
were behaving snobbishly, and yet she could hardly admit that she agreed with her
and her parents really were snobs. One may speak disparagingly of one’s own parents,
but one did not like to hear others expressing the same sentiments.

“They’ve said that if I go and live with Eddie, then I won’t get any more money. They
spelled that out.”

Isabel waited a few moments before saying anything. Then she said, “I’m very sorry
to hear it.”

“No,” said Diane. “But you see the problem now?”

“I do,” said Isabel.

“So we can’t live together,” said Diane. “It’s just not on. Eddie thinks it is, and
I’d love him to be right. But he isn’t. It’s just not possible. I’m too much in debt
as it is. End of story.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
 

C
AT
’
S RECOVERY WAS QUICKER
than expected. On the following day she telephoned the delicatessen to tell Isabel
that she was now up and about and that it looked as if the vomiting had stopped. She
felt well enough to come in to work but thought it wiser to remain off for a further
day in case she was still infectious. Isabel encouraged her in this. “The last thing
you want is to pass these things on,” she said. “One wouldn’t wish projectile vomiting
on anyone.”

After Isabel had rung off, Eddie, who had overheard Isabel’s side of the conversation,
called out to her, “What did you say about projectile vomiting? Is she still doing
it?”

“Why the big interest in it?” asked Isabel. Vomiting was vomiting, she thought, projectile
or otherwise.

Eddie defended himself. “Well, it is pretty interesting, isn’t it? I wonder how far
she was projecting? Two or three feet, do you think?”

Isabel assumed an expression of disgust. “Really, Eddie, I don’t share your fascination
with the subject.”

“Well, you mentioned it first,” he said. “You were talking to her about it. You raised
the subject.”

“I just said that it’s not something you would want to pass on to others. That’s all.
And it isn’t, is it?”

“Of course not.” He looked thoughtful. “I suppose with projectile vomiting you could
really pass it on, couldn’t you. If you hit anybody, even if they were standing a
couple of feet away, thinking they were safe …”

“Eddie! You’re disgusting.”

“I was just thinking aloud.”

“Well, please don’t. You can keep those sorts of thoughts to yourself.”

He was silent for a few moments. Isabel had noticed that Eddie’s mood was very changeable
that morning; perhaps he was anxious about Diane. She eyed him carefully. Now, something
had come over him; maybe something triggered by this odd discussion. She had seen
him do this before—slip into a sombre mood—although she thought that it happened much
less frequently these days.

He lowered his voice; there was a customer within earshot, browsing the shelves. “What
if you thought that you might … might have something because of something that happened … What
should you do?”

Isabel looked at him with concern, causing him to glance away sharply.

“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” she said carefully. “Do you mean, what if you
think you’ve got some sort of infection: Should you go to a doctor? Is that what you’re
asking me?”

He hesitated. He was fiddling with the strings of his blue-striped butcher’s apron.
The strings were frayed and he was tugging at them nervously. She noticed again his
less than clean fingernails. He was just a boy; just a boy with the unwashed
hands that boys have. And suddenly, with no warning at all, he had become a frightened
boy.

He spoke slowly, stumbling over the phrases. “Yes. That’s right. Except it may not
be your fault that you might have something that … something that you wouldn’t want
to have. And then you suddenly think, maybe I shouldn’t take the risk of passing it
on to anybody. Say, a heavy cold, or something like that. Something like what Cat’s
had. That stuff. Or even … or even something worse than that. But it wasn’t your fault,
you see.”

She waited, but he seemed to have finished what he wanted to say.

“Something worse?” Isabel asked quietly.

Eddie nodded mutely. He had been standing on the other side of the counter, and Isabel
now crossed over to him. Taking his hand, she led him through the door into Cat’s
office. He did not resist. His hand, she thought, felt so soft. Over by the shelves,
the customer turned and looked briefly in their direction, but then turned away.

“Eddie, I think I know what you’re talking about. I think I do—but I’m not sure.”

“I …”

“No, listen to me, Eddie. You don’t have to tell me. I don’t want you to feel that
you must. There are things that happen to people that are very cruel, and people don’t
have to talk about them if they don’t want to. You know that, don’t you?”

His gaze was fixed on the floor, his head bowed. But he nodded—almost imperceptibly.

“So all I’m going to say to you is this: I know that something bad happened to you,
and I’m so, so sorry, Eddie. And if you think that because of this thing that happened
you may need
to have a check-up, then that’s exactly the right thing to do. I’m sure that you’ll
be all right because it must have been quite some time ago, mustn’t it, and you seem
fine, don’t you? But you can set your mind at rest.”

He said nothing. He was weeping.

Isabel put her arm around his shoulder. She drew him to her. His frame was shaking
with sobs. “Do you want me to go with you? I can go with you to the doctor.”

He reached in his pocket for a handkerchief that was not there. Isabel took a tissue
from the box on Cat’s desk and handed it to him.

“Yes, please.”

Isabel put her hand against his cheek. She reached for another tissue and dabbed at
his tears.

“Dear Eddie,” she whispered. “You’ve been very brave. And you’re not alone, you know.
You’ve got me, Cat, Diane. You’ve got all of us. Your friends.”

“I feel stupid,” he said. “And I feel dirty too.”

She was shocked by his words. “Eddie, every one of us, every single one feels stupid
about something. And maybe dirty too. And often it’s not a big thing and it’s not
our fault either. All right, Eddie? All right?”

“I still feel stupid.”

Isabel felt a rush of sympathy for the young man. “I know somebody who can help,”
she said. “They help people who have these worries. It’s a charity. I’ve supported
them in the past. You can talk to them and they’ll arrange everything for you. And
I’ll come too, if you like.”

His voice was small. “Please.”