The Novel Habits of Happiness (14 page)

“I saw how she looked at him when they were in Charlie's room.”

“And?”

Isabel hesitated. Then she decided. “Broody,” she said. “Unmistakable.”

Jamie said nothing for a while, and she wondered whether he had dropped off to sleep. Sometimes their conversations in bed ended that way; she would suddenly realise that he had gone to sleep while she was still talking.

“Another thing,” she said. “Another really extraordinary thing.”

“Yes,” he muttered drowsily.

“Didn't you think he looked just like you?”

Again there was a silence. He might have been awoken by this strange, even unsettling observation, but he did not stir, saying only, in the thick voice of near-sleep, “Me? I don't think so. But if you say so, maybe. Maybe a bit. But who cares? Who…”

His voice trailed off. She turned over. She was thinking of the nuns and their party. There might have been a small amount of sherry—not much; no Bellinis, of course, although the nuns would have liked them, she thought: Bellinis and smoked salmon. And then they all left, and went somewhere else where they did whatever it was that nuns did—kept the world out, perhaps; or sallied forth to make it a bit better here and there; lived out their years as best they could. Which is what we all do, she thought, as sleep came to her; we live out our years as best we can, not knowing their number, not really knowing, in the case of most of us, why we do what we do and how we came to be where we are; thinking we know it, but suspecting that we do not really know.

I
SABEL HAD BEEN IN TOUCH
with Kirsten, suggesting that she come round for afternoon tea the following day.

“With Harry,” she added. “Bring him after school.”

“They've just broken up for the summer. He's on holiday.” She paused. “Are you sure?”

“I'd like to meet him.” And then she asked, “Can we talk about it? I mean, can I talk to him about…his previous life?” She felt slightly foolish, but that was what the boy himself had been talking about.

Kirsten had reassured her that Harry was quite open about it. “He seems quite happy to speak about it. But I don't think you should go into this business of wanting to go back.”

“Of course not.”

“The doctors said that we should ignore that. Or one of them said that; another said that we needed to talk that through.”

“I'll keep off that,” said Isabel.

She asked Jamie to take Charlie to the Blackford Pond while the visit was taking place. Charlie admired older children and would distract Harry with his attention; the long-suffering ducks at Blackford Pond were capable of providing seemingly endless entertainment for the price of a bag of bread crusts.

Kirsten was early, and Isabel was still working in her study when she arrived. She had been editing a particularly opaque article and was beginning to ask herself why she had accepted it for publication. But the letter had been sent, and the author, a post-doctoral fellow at a university in New Zealand, had already been in touch to express his delight at the decision. “This makes all the difference to me,” he had written. “It's my first publication, you see, and…well, I'm just over the moon—I really am. My wife is having a baby, as it happens, and this is the icing on the cake. First baby, first publication!” She would persist, but it was trying, and the sound of the doorbell was a welcome release.

Harry was standing next to his mother on the doorstep, clinging to the fabric of her jeans, a small hand pinched tight for security. He was wearing a striped shirt of a sort that Jamie had bought for Charlie; small red shoes with white laces; stains on the legs of his trousers—mud, she thought; that aversion of eyes with which small children will express their embarrassment. Kirsten had said that he had just turned seven, but he looked slightly younger than that, she thought: five or six—no more.

Kirsten attempted to introduce Isabel, but the boy looked away, and then stared fixedly at the ground.

“You must say hello,” said his mother. “Come on, Harry. It's rude not to say hello to Isabel.”

Isabel bent down. “I've got a little boy too,” she whispered. “He's not here, but he said you can look at his cars. He's got some cars.”

Harry looked up and met her gaze. She was struck by the colour of his eyes: they were grey, or seemed to be grey in this light, and had an unexpected softness to them, like the eyes of some timid, small creature, which is what he was, of course.

She straightened up and led them into the hall.

“I know where some of the cars are,” she said to Harry. “Would you like to see them?”

“Aye.” The voice was barely audible; the response Scottish.

“Yes? They're in the kitchen. One has a battery, you know, and makes a noise.”

“We'll like that, won't we, Harry?” said Kirsten. “A car that makes a noise.”

Once in the kitchen, Isabel switched on the kettle and invited Kirsten to sit at the table. A small box of toy cars, jumbled together in democratic confusion, was taken from a cupboard under the sink. Harry watched intently.

“This is the one with the battery,” said Isabel. “You see, if you put this switch on—here—just like that, the lights go on. And if you press this button here, then the siren sounds. This is a police car, you see.”

Harry took the toy and examined it carefully. “Police cars have blue lights,” he said.

“So they do,” said Isabel cheerfully. “But this police car, I think, comes from China, and the Chinese police, it would seem, prefer green lights.”

Harry pressed the button to sound the siren, but there was silence.

“Their siren must be broken,” said Isabel. “They'll just have to drive carefully.”

While Harry busied himself with the cars, Isabel served Kirsten tea. They talked about local politics: a developer was planning to build on a piece of land currently cherished by dog owners and walkers. Kirsten had signed the petition to oppose this, but was doubtful as to whether the local council was listening. Isabel said that she thought they did listen—sometimes—but that one had to shout to get attention.

Harry seemed to have become more relaxed, and Kirsten, exchanging a glance with Isabel, brought him into the conversation.

“You should tell Isabel all about where you lived before,” she said. “She might like to hear about it.”

“I'd love that,” said Isabel.

Harry had been looking with admiration at a small, battered tow-truck. He spun its wheels contemplatively. “It was near the sea,” he said.

He had an unusually mature voice, thought Isabel; each word was clearly articulated, and spoken with an almost pedantic deliberation. She encouraged him. “I'd love to live beside the sea. You're lucky that you did.” She paused. “Did you swim in it?”

Harry seemed to think for a moment. “Sometimes. There was a beach with black rocks. The water was cold, though. I sometimes swam with my brother. And the dog. The dog liked to swim.”

“They do, don't they?” said Isabel. “What was your dog called?”

He did not answer immediately. But then he said, “I don't know his name.”

Isabel probed. “You can't remember? Or nobody ever told you?”

He looked up at her. He was a very beautiful child, she thought; and where did the great eyes come from?
From this family or the last one?
No, she told herself; that was ridiculous.

“Nobody used his name. They called him…No, they called him nothing.”

“I see. But what sort of dog was he? I like dogs, you know. Do you like them?”

He nodded. “I like dogs a lot.”

“And they like us, don't they? Or most dogs do. I suppose there are some bad dogs who don't like people all that much, but most dogs are friendly.” She returned to her question. “But what sort of dog was he? What did he look like?”

“He was black and white. He had black fur and some white fur under his chin. Here.”

A small hand demonstrated where the white fur was. “He chased rabbits,” he said. “He didn't eat them—he just chased them.”

“Well, that's good,” said Isabel. “It would be sad if he ate the rabbits.”

Harry replaced the tow-truck and reached for another toy car—a small black taxi. This had small, functioning doors that he now opened. Tiny moulded passengers were visible inside—a man and a woman, immobile on their seats. This was one of Charlie's favourites.

“You said something about your brother,” said Isabel after a few moments. “What was his name? Do you remember?”

There was a silence. The door of the little taxi was closed, then opened again.

“He's dead now,” said Harry suddenly.

Isabel caught her breath. “What was his name, Harry?”

“Nothing.”

“He was called nothing?”

“No. He had a name, but it was nothing. I can't remember.”

Isabel looked at Kirsten, who raised an eyebrow.

“But your brother's dead, you say?”

The taxi was placed on the floor and moved slowly backwards and forwards. “He went away. He's gone now.”

“And what about the other mummy and daddy? What were their names?”

It seemed as if the boy was going to ignore the question, but then he spoke. “They're called Campbell. Mr. Campbell. Mrs. Campbell.”

“Can you tell me about them? What did he do, Mr. Campbell, your other daddy? Did he have a job?”

“He worked somewhere else. He didn't have a job there—not in that house.”

“And what was his work?” She pointed at the taxi. “Maybe he drove a taxi?”

He seemed to think about this. “He didn't tell me.” Then, after a short pause, “I think he had an office. Yes, he had an office. A big office.”

Isabel considered this reply and thought: He's making this up—the inconsistencies are just so obvious. First the doubt: He didn't tell me…and then, almost immediately, the certainty: Yes, he had an office. And then it's revealed as a big office.

She concealed her disbelief. “And your mummy? The other mummy?”

“She was nice.”

“She was kind to you?”

“Most of the time.”

Suddenly he seemed to lose interest in the cars. “Can I have some cake?” he asked. He had seen the cake that Isabel had placed on a plate near the sink. It was a sponge cake dusted with icing sugar.

Kirsten reprimanded him. “You mustn't ask for cake, Harry,” she said. “It's not polite to ask for cake.”

“Oh, I think it's perfectly all right,” said Isabel. “Cake is there to be eaten—as a general rule.”

Harry looked at her appreciatively. “The house was white with blue round the windows,” he announced. “There was a tree behind it and there were some hills too.” He gave the information as if it were a reward for the promise of cake.

“It must have been very pretty,” said Isabel. “And the lighthouse too—what was that like?”

“It was white. No, it was sort of grey. It was very big.” He looked up at the ceiling. “As high as that. High as a hill.”

“Lighthouses warn ships, don't they? They tell the sailors where the rocks are.”

But he was not interested in that, and now, in a matter-of-fact tone, continued, “There were some islands. You could see them.”

Isabel hesitated. She did not want to suggest too much to him: children—and people in general for that matter—tended to tell you what they thought you wanted to hear.

“There were lots of islands,” he continued. “Some were very big, but there was a small one too. There was an island with lots of hills on it. It was behind the other islands.”

Isabel nodded. “I see.” She saw that he was looking longingly at the cake. “How silly of me. We forgot to have some cake. Shall we do that now?”

JAMIE HAD OFFERED
to cook again that evening, and she had readily agreed. They had had a busy time of it socially, what with the previous night's dinner with Cat and Mick, and with a whole stream of other engagements over the previous few weeks: a fortieth birthday party for a colleague of Jamie's in one of his orchestras, a book launch, a dinner to raise money for a charity that made football fields in deprived areas. Now they were both ready for a quiet night at home, with nobody to entertain or talk to.

“How do people cope?” asked Jamie as he started to chop onions.

Isabel, seated at the kitchen table, looked at the fridge door and then at the clock above the doorway. It was a Swiss railway clock that she had found in a shop in Morningside some years ago and bought on impulse. There was something about a Swiss railway clock that inspired confidence: their railways ran on time, of course, and therefore any clock that purported to guide the Swiss railway system would be reliable; more than that, of course—by owning such a clock one was stating one's wish to have a more ordered life. Isabel had always thought that this was why we bought the things we did—an insight that was as old as the profession of advertising itself.

But a Swiss railway clock can be as reproachful as it can be inspirational. If you had a Swiss railway clock and it declared the time to be only six-fifteen, then it would surely frown on your opening the fridge door and serving yourself a glass of New Zealand white wine at such an early hour. But if it declared the time to be almost seven-thirty—as the clock now did—then even the Board of Management of the Swiss Railways would not disapprove.