The Forgotten Affairs of Youth (15 page)

“A sensible idea,” said Georgina. “We all need to adjust.” She turned to Isabel. “I think it would be best if Rory met her alone. I’d love to meet her too, of course, but I think the first meeting should be just the two of them.”

Isabel agreed, and then Georgina suggested that she would show Isabel the garden while Rory collected himself. It was obvious to Isabel that her intention was to have a private talk, but Rory appeared to be quite content with this. They went outside, into the sun that had now dispatched the
haar
and was bathing the garden in a thick summer light, an impasto of gold.

“
PERHAPS YOU SHOULD KNOW
something about my husband,” said Georgina. “He’s a disappointed man.”

They were walking around the perimeter of the walled garden. There was a line of lavender bushes, old and gnarled, in need of pruning, and a row of espaliered apple trees.

“I had heard him described as a bit unhappy,” said Isabel.

Georgina raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well, that’s very perceptive of whoever it was—Kirsty, I imagine.”

Isabel was hasty to point out that Kirsty had not been critical. “All she said was that she felt Rory was a bit unhappy. She didn’t run him down.”

“Of course not,” said Georgina. “And she’s right, anyway. He is.” She paused and bent down to pick up a stick that had fallen across the path. “Most of us are unhappy to a degree—if we have anything between our ears at all. It would be impossible to be completely sanguine about the world, don’t you think? Not with the state that it’s in.”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “Hardly anybody can be completely happy. And who would want to be, anyway? A life without moments of unhappiness would be monotonous, I would have thought.”

“Exactly,” said Georgina. “But for poor Rory the prevailing emotion is unhappiness, I’m afraid. He’s never been happy with what he’s been doing. Never.”

Isabel said nothing. Was the marriage unhappy too, she wondered?

“You see,” Georgina continued, “he was sent off to boarding school when he was eleven. That was the start of it, I think. He went to one of those places where all sorts of cruelties were practised. They’ve closed a lot of those places down now, or they’ve changed of their own accord. You can’t bully these days—but when Rory was at school bullying was written into the life of those places. It was a tradition.

“And so his unhappiness started. He told me that before he was sent back to school at the end of each holiday he would cry until he was sick. Actually throwing up. And then he was subjected to all sorts of indignities and, well, I’m sorry to have to say this, sexual abuse. The older boys. Nothing was done about it. Nothing. The younger boys didn’t dare mention it or report it because they knew it was hopeless.

“Then he got a place at university but went on to choose the wrong career. He went into the army because his father was keen that his son should join his old regiment. He was in a Highland regiment, and you know how family-oriented those are. Well, Rory joined and found that he did not like it at all. But rather than resign his commission and upset his father, he stayed put. I hated it too. I found the company of the other officers’ wives insufferable—I know that sounds snobbish, but they were the snobs, not me. I hated the whole thing and tried to live my life as if the army didn’t exist.

“And then he had to do something that really upset him. He’s never told me exactly what it was, but I know that it distressed him greatly. I don’t like to think about it, of course, but sometimes I dream about it. I see him … Well, I shouldn’t burden you with that, I really shouldn’t.

“At long last he left the army and looked for another job. A post at a golf club came up and he applied for that. It was not a well-known one—a rather poor club, and in fact it’s no longer in business. He went there and I think he was good at what he did. But he did not enjoy golf in the slightest. And yet he found himself being drawn into the game. Now he has friends who expect him to play regularly and he goes along with it—he pretends to enjoy golf. It’s every bit as inauthentic for him as the army was.” She sighed. “His whole life has been spent doing things he didn’t really want to do. What a complete waste.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Georgina shook her head. “He shouldn’t have let it happen. But then, quite a few people do, don’t they? They live lives that are all wrong for them.”

She turned around. Isabel’s eyes were drawn to a brooch that she was wearing—an art nouveau twirl with a peridot in the centre. There was something intensely poignant, she thought, about the little things we do to adorn ourselves, to present a face to the world; our tiny vanities; our desire for the beautiful. How human.

Georgina resumed. “What you told Rory this morning will be terribly important to him, you know. I expect that he’s thrilled. But we must be careful about it—the whole point of my speaking to you as I just have done is that he is very vulnerable, believe it or not, and this is a very emotional area for him. I’ve been unable to have children, you see.”

Isabel drew in her breath. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in like this—”

“But you did the right thing,” said Georgina. “It’s just that we must be quite tactful with Rory. That’s all I’m saying.” She stopped for a moment, as if weighing up what to say next. “In fact, there’s something that perhaps I should …”

Isabel waited, but Georgina had evidently decided not to say whatever she had on her mind.

“Yes?” she prompted gently.

Georgina shook her head. “Let’s get back to the house,” she said.

I
SABEL HAD TOLD GRACE
about Gareth’s telephone call. “That medium was spot on,” she said.

Grace looked puzzled. There are so many mediums in her life, Isabel thought; perhaps one séance fades into another and she becomes blasé. And so many spirits jostling to communicate; after all, the other side must be pretty crowded by now …

“The one who told you, the audience—”

“The meeting,” Grace corrected primly.

“Yes, told the meeting about that firm West of Scotland Turbines. That one. Well, I bought some of their shares and I’m happy to say they’ve gone up in value tremendously.”

Grace smiled. “I told you so,” she said.

You didn’t,
thought Isabel.
You never said anything about the shares.

But Grace was determined to claim whatever credit was available—or to claim it on behalf of the spirit world.

“They’re usually absolutely right,” she said. “I can think of hardly any occasions when they’ve been wrong.”

Isabel could. She very clearly remembered the spirits being reported—through Grace—as having predicted the outcome of a French presidential election entirely wrongly; the spirits, it appeared, tended towards a conservative view of politics and the victory had gone to the socialists. And she remembered, too, when one of the spirits had said that an Irish horse was going to win the Grand National when it was an English horse owned by an Arab sheik that eventually romped home. The spirits had also warned Grace about a volcano in the Canary Islands that they said would explode within two months. That was eight years ago. And while seismologists may get it wrong from time to time, spirits surely could get it right, given their location, as Grace often put it, beyond the constraints of our ordinary human time and place.

The conversation about the rising share price of West of Scotland Turbines had taken place the day before Isabel went to see Rory and Georgina. Isabel had not thought much of it and certainly did not expect the outcome that Grace revealed to her when she came back from East Lothian.

“I’ve invested in West of Scotland Turbines,” Grace said, as Isabel came into the kitchen.

Isabel frowned. “When?”

“This morning,” said Grace proudly. “You remember that legacy I got from my father’s cousin? The one who lived in Aberdeen? The twelve thousand pounds?”

Isabel nodded weakly.

“Well, I had that in the bank and it wasn’t getting much interest with these rubbishy interest rates these days. So I spoke to the bank on the phone and they have a stockbroking service that buys shares. I told them to buy shares in West of Scotland Turbines. They’ve done it for me.”

Isabel tried to sound a note of caution. “You have to be careful,” she warned. “Just because something has gone up, it doesn’t mean that it’s going to stay up.”

“But you made a profit,” said Grace. “You told me so.”

“I did,” said Isabel. “But you have to remember that the stock exchange is volatile.”

“But yours went up,” said Grace.

“I know,” said Isabel patiently. “But yours may not.”

“Are you saying that they’re going to go down? Is that what you’re saying?”

Isabel tried to reassure Grace that she was not suggesting this. She was careful: Grace was touchy about a whole range of matters, and money was one of them. It was not that Grace resented Isabel’s financial position; she did not. It was more a question of independence, which was something that Grace defended assiduously. She did not like Isabel to advise her on anything, and even when it seemed that advice was exactly what her housekeeper was looking for, Isabel knew better than to offer it. And that, she felt, was precisely what many people wanted who sought advice. They did not want you to tell them what to do; they wanted you to confirm that what they intended to do was the right thing.

“I’m sure that everything will be fine,” said Isabel soothingly. “There is never enough electricity, is there, and so West of Scotland Turbines should hum along nicely.”

“I think so too,” said Grace. “That’s why I did it.”

“And I’m quite sure that if there is any danger of a real dip in their value, the other side will give you adequate warning.”

Grace looked at her suspiciously. She was very defensive of the spirit world and she was not sure whether Isabel’s comment was serious enough. One mocked the spirit world at one’s peril, in Grace’s view.

The subject of stocks and shares was put to one side. Charlie had received a lunch invitation—his first—and did not need to be collected until three o’clock. Grace had offered to do the collecting, as the house of Charlie’s new friend was only a few streets away.

“You can work,” said Grace. “The morning post was massive, I’m afraid.”

Isabel groaned. “Manuscripts?”

“They looked like it,” said Grace. She smiled at Isabel. “Why do these philosophers do it?”

Isabel was not sure what this meant. “Do what? Philosophy?”

“Write all those articles. Surely there isn’t much new to say. Surely it’s all been said before.”

Isabel thought about this. Had it all been said before? A lot of it had, she decided, but that did not mean that it was not worth saying again. And even when something has been said before, there was some point in its being said again by different people, and said
to
different people.

She was about to say this when Grace changed the subject. “A man telephoned,” she said. “He left a message.”

Isabel wondered whether it was Gareth Howlett, who had said that he would call her to confirm the sale of the West of Scotland Turbines shares.

Grace shook her head. “No. I know Gareth. I didn’t know this one.”

She waited for Grace to retrieve the piece of paper on which she had written the details of the caller. Grace’s notes were laconic, but enjoyable for their sometimes astringent comments.

Now Isabel listened as Grace read from her aide-mémoire: “Max Lettuce. Is in Edinburgh today and tomorrow. Would like to see you, if possible. Could you phone him on his mobile? Full of himself. Thought I would know who he is. Did not say please. Asked if I was cleaning lady.” Grace regarded her balefully. “That’s the message,” she said. “I wrote down the number of his mobile—not that I wanted to, but I did anyway.”

She passed Isabel the scrap of paper, on which the mobile number had also been noted.

“This is rather unexpected,” said Isabel.

“Not the Lettuce I met?” asked Grace. “That big—”

“Slug,” said Isabel quickly. And then immediately retracted her comment. It was wrong; it was uncharitable. “No, I didn’t really mean that. Professor Lettuce may not be everybody’s cup of tea; in fact, I suspect he’s nobody’s. But we should not belittle him.”

Grace was more robust. “But he
is
a slug,” she said. “That describes him perfectly.”

Isabel ignored the encouragement. “This is his nephew. The lesser Lettuce.”

Grace laughed. “I assume he’s taken a leaf out of his uncle’s book.”

Isabel could not help but smile. “
Let us
not descend to puns,” she said. “Even good ones.” She paused. “I suppose I have to phone him.”

Grace did not see why. “You don’t have to phone people back. Why should you?”

“Because they’ve addressed you,” said Isabel. “If somebody said something to you in the street, would you not feel that you had to reply?” As she asked the question, she realised its complexity.

For Grace, the answer was simple. “No. Not really. If a stranger comes up and says something that you don’t want to hear, you don’t have to say anything. Why should you?”

“Because …” Isabel shrugged. “It’s to do with minimal moral obligation.”

“And what about minimal disturbance?” retorted Grace. “I’m entitled not to be disturbed when I’m going about my business, aren’t I?”

Isabel nodded. “Yes, I suppose you are.”

“Well then,” said Grace, with the air of one who had won her point.

Grace was right about being entitled not to be disturbed, but even if the people doing the disturbing were in the wrong, it did not mean that they ceased to be of any account: it all
depended
, as everything did. If you were in a great hurry, then you might be excused for ignoring a stranger who addressed you. But if you had time enough, then surely you could at least say no thank you, or sorry, or something of the sort; that was surely easy enough. After all, the other person—the stranger—shared those attributes that made each of us, every single one of us, so interesting, so morally significant: a life; a particular set of experiences; emotions; hopes; a family. In each of us there is something of human value, some grain of wisdom. If that did not count for something, then nothing, she thought, counted.

“I think I should phone him,” she said, looking at the piece of paper.

Grace frowned, disapproving. “Of course,” she said. “If that’s what you want to do.”

Isabel left the kitchen. She felt rather irritated by Grace’s attitude. Her housekeeper was entitled to her opinions, and of course she should express them. But there were tactful ways of doing so and when you were sharing space with somebody—as she and Grace were—then you had to avoid too many disagreements. The relationship between Isabel and Grace was, after all, a working one. They were bound together by circumstance, and Isabel always treated Grace with consideration, but surely she was entitled to stand in her own kitchen and not be contradicted quite so firmly.

It was the same with friendship. Disagreement between friends—and spouses, too—had to be carefully handled. If the time you spent with friends was consumed by disagreement, then there was no room for the essence of friendship, which was a sharing of the world. And that sharing involved seeing things the same way, or at least seeing things through the eyes of the friend. That, surely, was why friends tended to be of the same general view. Jack Spratt, of nursery-rhyme fame—he who notoriously could eat no fat—could hardly have had a very comfortable marriage to his wife, who could eat no lean. And yet, of course, they proved to be a good team, as the last two lines of the nursery rhyme made clear:

The rhyme, then, was about how opposites may complement one another for practical purposes. But they may still be unhappy, of course.

Isabel’s irritation with Grace did not last; it never did. She knew that Grace would do anything for her, and she would do anything for Grace. It was just that, on some subjects, they did not see the world in quite the same way. And Isabel was sufficiently self-aware—and modest—to know that this was not because she, Isabel, was always right. She was, in fact, often wrong—and knew it. Life became difficult when those who were often wrong did
not
know it.

She went into her study and dialled the number that Grace had written down. At the other end, the telephone rang only once or twice before being picked up.

“Max Lettuce.”

Isabel gave her name in return.

A short pause followed. “Oh, yes. Of course. It’s very kind of you. I just phoned on spec. I didn’t expect you to call me back.”

Why not? wondered Isabel.

“My uncle,” Max continued, “said that I should contact you when I was in Edinburgh.”

Why? Isabel asked herself. But what she said was: “How nice.”

There was another short pause. “I was wondering whether we could meet. I’m in Edinburgh for a rather short time, but …”

I don’t really want to meet you, she thought, but said: “I’d be very happy to see you.”

Max asked whether that same day would be possible, and Isabel replied that it would. Where was he? She had been thinking of going into town and could meet him, if he wished, at Glass & Thompson. She would buy him coffee.

“No, you must let me do that!”

“We’ll sort that out when we meet.”

The call ended and Isabel frowned. Why had she done this? It would have been simpler to tell him that she was busy and that she hoped they would have the chance to meet the next time he came to Edinburgh, whenever that would be. But she realised that Max Lettuce’s telephone call was a perfect illustration of the point that she had made to Grace. Max was the stranger addressing her in the street, and thankfully she had replied in exactly the way she had said one should reply. So at least she was being consistent.

Yet she did not want to do it. Max Lettuce, she was sure, would embody all the worst qualities of his uncle: he would be ambitious and scheming, an academic
operator
. He would be impossible, and she should not have agreed to meet him. And yet she had readily and without hesitation done just that; the internal moral automatic pilot had taken over and she had put herself out, and ruined her day—or so she suspected—by being obliging when she was fully entitled to protect her time from encroachments. She sighed. It would be simpler, she thought, to stop thinking.

She went into the kitchen to check with Grace on the arrangements for collecting Charlie. She would be back, she hoped, not long after Grace picked him up. He might need a piece of bread and peanut butter when he came back; it depended on what he had been given for lunch.