A Distant View of Everything

  Eddie came in as she was finishing the wiping of the cheese boards. He had not been expecting Isabel to be working that day, and his pleasure at finding her there showed itself in a broad grin.

  “I’m glad you’re helping out today,” he said to her, his voice lowered so that Cat might not hear. “She expects me to do everything while she goes off to Glasgow to meet all those salami freaks.”

  Isabel suppressed a smile. Eddie’s language could be adolescent, but it was sometimes acutely descriptive. Salami freaks…She could see what he meant: they must be odd—they had to be—to take such a strong interest in sausages. In fact, it was glaringly obvious to anybody who had the slightest inkling of what Freud would have said on the subject.

  Eddie was tying on his apron, wiping his hands on the material.

  “Eddie, I wonder whether you shouldn’t wash your hands rather than wipe them…”

  It was the gentlest of reproofs, and it failed to meet its target. “They’re not dirty,” he said. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Isabel tried again. “I didn’t say they were dirty; it’s just that—”

  Eddie interrupted her, leaning forward to whisper into Isabel’s ear. “Have you heard about Pig?”

  “Pig?”

  “Yes, Pig—or at least that’s what I call her. She calls herself Peg. She’s the new assistant.”

  Isabel glanced across the shop to see if Cat could hear the conversation. But she was now on the phone, and Isabel heard the word salami. Cat would not overhear what she and Eddie were saying.

  “I don’t think that’s very kind.”

  “Well, it’s accurate, even if it’s not all that kind. Wait until you see her.”

  Isabel frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Eddie lowered his voice even further. “I mean she looks just like one.” He pointed to a large cured ham on the chilled counter.

  Isabel stared at him disapprovingly. “You’re being really juvenile, Eddie.”

  He shrugged. “I can’t help it if I notice these things.”

  She tried another tack. “I take it you don’t like her?”

  “No, I don’t. Not really. She keeps telling me what to do. She thinks that she’s senior to me because she’s a few years older—that’s all. And she doesn’t know anything, Isabel—I swear she knows hardly anything.”

  Isabel pointed out that Cat took the view that Peg was good at making filled rolls. It was an important part of their business, and if she had a talent for that, then surely that was something.

  “Anybody can make filled rolls,” said Eddie scornfully. “But can anyone slice meat really thin? No, they can’t. I’d like to see her try.”

  Isabel tried again. “Perhaps she doesn’t know she’s being bossy. Sometimes people don’t realise that, and others get the impression they’re trying to tell them what to do, when they aren’t.” She paused. “I think that maybe you should give her a bit more of a chance.”

  “It won’t make any difference and…” He looked out of the large display window. “And here she is. Look—see that girl who looks like a pig? That’s her.” He leaned forward again. “And here’s another thing: Cat thinks Pig’s the best thing since sliced bread. You should see the way they look at one another. You should just see it.”

  He turned away, and the door opened. Peg stood in the doorway for a few moments before approaching Isabel.

  “You’re Isabel, aren’t you?”

  Isabel smiled at the young woman standing before her. She judged her to be a few years younger than Cat—perhaps in her mid- to late twenties. She was attractive, with an open, slightly freckled face and a slightly retroussé nose, and was dressed in dark blue jeans and a white cheesecloth blouse. The blouse was decorated with a line of delicately embroidered flowers around the collar. Eddie’s comments about her appearance were, thought Isabel, not only immature but inaccurate.

  “I’m sorry I’m a bit late,” said Peg. “My bus broke down. They had to get another one.”

  Isabel reassured her that she was not late, she herself having arrived only a few minutes earlier.

  Eddie’s muttered comment was just audible. “Yes, but you’re not paid.”

  Isabel turned to glare at him, and he looked away guiltily. Isabel glanced in Peg’s direction, wondering whether she had heard. She decided she had not—either that, or Peg was not going to show that the provocative comment had reached her.

  Cat came out of the office and greeted Peg. Isabel saw that Eddie, although busying himself with a task behind the counter, was watching the two young women.

  Cat reached forward and took Peg’s right hand. She gave it a squeeze. “Everything all right?” she asked.

  Peg nodded.

  “Isabel will be able to help if you need to find out about anything,” said Cat, smiling at Isabel. “She knows everything.”

  “Well, hardly,” demurred Isabel.

  “Just ask her,” said Cat. “You’ll be fine.”

  Isabel saw the effect that this had on Eddie; she realised that he would resent the implication that Peg should turn to her for advice rather than ask him—and yet he was a full-time employee who had put in far more hours than Isabel had.

  “I’m sure Eddie will be able to help too,” Isabel said.

  Cat turned towards Eddie. “Oh, yes, of course. There’s Eddie too. Of course. Eddie’s dealt with most things.”

  Too little, too late, thought Isabel. She thought that Cat had been tactless, but then she had always shown a lack of tact in her dealings with people.

  Cat nodded towards her office, and Peg followed her. The office door closed.

  Eddie caught Isabel’s eye. “See?” he whispered.

  —

  IT WAS A BUSY MORNING. While Eddie and Isabel dealt with a stream of customers, Peg spent her time preparing the filled rolls that were the staple of their lunchtime trade. Isabel surreptitiously inspected one of the rolls; it had smoked salmon, boiled egg and lumpfish caviar at its centre. Cat was right: it had been made by someone with a real feeling for filled rolls—and yes, it looked good. At eleven o’clock they entered their slack period—too late for morning shoppers and yet too early for the lunchtime rush. Isabel suggested a coffee break, and when Peg accepted, asked Eddie to look after the counter.

  He agreed to do this, but not without a reproachful glance at Isabel. She ignored it; she was still cross with Eddie for his remarks about Peg. And yet she had to agree that the greeting Cat had given Peg was warmer than she might have expected. That was no excuse, though, for Eddie to coin a hurtful nickname, nor did it justify the slightly huffy, slightly distant attitude towards Peg that he had maintained since her arrival that morning.

  After Isabel had made coffee for both of them, they sat down at a table by the window. They were far enough away from Eddie to be able to talk freely, and Isabel decided to broach the subject of Eddie’s attitude right away.

  “You may have noticed that Eddie’s a bit sour this morning,” she said.

  Peg’s expression gave nothing away. “Oh,” she said.

  Isabel persisted. “I don’t know if Cat told you anything about him.”

  “A bit.”

  “He’s a nice young man, but he’s had a tough time in the past. Things are much better now. But he’s still a bit insecure.”

  “I see.” And then, after a few moments, she added, “I’d picked up his negativity. But it doesn’t matter.”

  Isabel took a sip of her coffee. “Have you and Cat known one another long?” she asked.

  Peg played with her spoon. “A few months, I suppose. Not long.”

  Isabel tried to sound casual as she posed the next question—the one that Cat had avoided answering. “How did you meet?”

  Peg put down her spoon and lifted her coffee cup to her lips. Isabel waited. The coffee cup was placed back on its saucer. “Oh, I forget. I think it was through somebody, but I can’t really remember.”

  But you can, thought Isabel. It’s just that you
don’t want to tell me.

  She was now intrigued, but she understood that she would get nowhere with any further questions on that topic. There were other avenues to be explored, and now she asked Peg about where she was from. Surely that could not be classified information, and she could hardly say that she had forgotten.

  “Haddington,” she said.

  Haddington was in East Lothian—the centre of a rich farming area. It was the sort of town to which well-heeled Edinburgh people drifted on their retirement while its own young people migrated in the opposite direction. It was a comfortable, safe place, sure of itself and its values.

  “You came to live in Edinburgh when you went to university?”

  Peg looked at her quizzically. “Cat’s told you about me?”

  “Yes,” said Isabel. “Not very much, but she did mention that you studied history.”

  Isabel noticed that Peg now relaxed, the information that Cat had not told Isabel very much seeming to reassure her.

  “I studied here in Edinburgh,” Peg said. “Scottish history. Then I had a job as a researcher in the Scottish Parliament. I did that for three years.”

  Isabel asked what that had entailed.

  “Anything the members wanted to find out. They asked for all sorts of stuff. Crime statistics, trade figures, sea temperatures off Orkney in the winter…” She smiled. “A lot of it was pretty obscure, and I can’t imagine they used it for anything very much. But sometimes you heard the facts and figures you’d unearthed being spouted in parliament. I enjoyed it.”

  “But you gave it up?”

  “I wanted to try something different. So I took a job with a television company. They made historical documentaries—sometimes rather good ones. I really enjoyed that, but…”

  Isabel waited. “But?”

  “But it didn’t work out in the end. So that was that.”

  There was a note of finality in her voice, and Isabel realised that she was not being encouraged to enquire further. “So this job cropped up?”

  “Yes. Cat told me she was looking for somebody, and I was free. So here I am.”

  It was a brief curriculum vitae, adequate as far as it went, but Isabel felt there was nothing personal in it. There was so much she wanted to know, including where Peg lived. Now she asked her.

  Peg took a sip of coffee. “In the New Town.”

  Isabel nodded. “Nice.”

  “Yes.”

  There was nothing more; at least, nothing more was being offered. Peg was now gazing out of the window, as if looking for something in the street. Isabel felt a sudden desire to wave a hand in front of her in a crude attempt at attracting attention. “Whereabouts?” she asked.

  Peg continued to stare out of the window. She did not answer Isabel’s question but said, instead, “I like this part of town. I like the small shops.”

  “Oh yes,” said Isabel. “Small shops…” She felt a sudden irritation. Conversation was not only an art—it was sometimes a duty. If you were drinking coffee with another, then you had a right to attention: for them not to engage properly was a discourtesy.

  She decided to give it one more try. “Do you share a flat down there?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  That was all: yes. There was still nothing about where the flat was, nor about whom she shared it with. But then it occurred to Isabel that this reticence on Peg’s part had arisen because she understood why Isabel was prying. If Peg knew that these seemingly innocent questions—small talk really—concealed an intrusive agenda, then she might feel entitled to give monosyllabic answers. And what exactly is my agenda? Isabel asked herself. The answer embarrassed her in its simplicity: to find out whether there was a boyfriend. She wanted to know that because she had tried over the years to understand Cat and her difficulties with men, and it was possible that the key to understanding that issue had evaded her—just as it might have evaded Cat herself. She wanted Cat to be happy; of course she did, and if there had been anything in her attitude or her expectations that had made it difficult for Cat to find that happiness, then she was truly sorry.

  “We should get back to work,” said Isabel.

  “Yes,” said Peg, standing up to take the two coffee cups to the small kitchen in the back.

  Eddie came over to Isabel. “What were you and Pig talking about?” he whispered.

  “Don’t call her that.”

  “All right then, Peg.”

  Isabel gave a non-committal answer. “This and that.”

  “You know what I think?” said Eddie, sniggering. “She and Cat are an item.”

  Isabel looked him in the eye. “So?”

  He seemed surprised. “What about all those men of hers? And what do they do in the office? Why do they close the door?”

  Isabel shrugged. “None of this is our business.”

  She was aware, though, that it was. If Cat and Peg were lovers, then Isabel wanted her to know that she did not disapprove. But she was not sure how she could do that. She would ask Jamie. And she would also ask him to speak to Eddie, because Eddie listened to him.

  She glanced towards the far end of the shop, where Peg, having returned from the kitchen, was beginning to stack packets of pasta on a shelf. Peg had noticed Eddie whispering in Isabel’s ear and was looking uncomfortable.

  “I can’t work out,” said Eddie, his voice barely lowered, “what Cat sees in Pig. Sex, I suppose.”

  Isabel turned to Eddie. “Eddie,” she muttered, “if you can’t behave in a civil, adult way, I’m going to speak to Cat about you.”

  He gasped. “I only…”

  He got no further, but burst into tears.

  Isabel caught her breath. What on earth am I doing? she asked herself. All this crying! Three men had been in tears, or close to tears, in her company, within the space of two days: Jamie at the piano, in tears about his visit to the doctor; Rob, at the very edge of tears when remembering his boarding school; and now Eddie, suddenly weeping when threatened with dismissal by somebody who was not even his employer and had no right to fire anybody.

  Then she remembered Charlie and Magnus—both of them had cried in the last twelve hours, although of course they were still very young, of an age at which male crying was expected, permissible and not the subject of shame, as it still was, in spite of everything, for so many men.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ISABEL LEFT THE DELICATESSEN shortly after lunch. The afternoon was usually considerably less busy than the morning, and Eddie and Peg would be able to manage perfectly well by themselves. The atmosphere, though, was prickly; Eddie was taciturn and from time to time gave Isabel a reproachful look; Peg was clearly aware of the tension, but avoided addressing either Isabel or Eddie directly, at one point retreating into Cat’s office to attend to a task that neither Isabel nor Eddie could divine. Eddie broke his silence to whisper to Isabel, “What right has she got to go into her office?” Isabel did not answer; for her part, she had decided that there was nothing she could do to ameliorate the situation, which was Cat’s problem rather than hers.

  She did, however, apologise to Eddie for threatening to speak to Cat. “I over-reacted,” she said, “and I’m sorry that I upset you.”

  At first, Eddie said nothing. Then, in a somewhat grudging tone, he said, “All right.”

  “Friends?” said Isabel.

  “Sort of,” said Eddie, and then returned to slicing a large Milanese salami with more than usual vigour. Isabel felt like warning him that one should never use cutting equipment of any sort while in an emotional state. Never approach a salami in anger, she thought, and smiled. Salamis…she wondered how the salami conference was going in Glasgow. Did people move from stand to stand tasting salamis and noting down their qualities, as at a wine tasting? Of course, at a wine tasting you spat out the wine into a conveniently placed spittoon, avoiding the swallowing of too much alcohol—would one do that at a salami tasting to avoid excessive calories? It was an unattractive thought—even more unappealing, perh
aps, than an olive-oil tasting where you might try to spit it out but would inevitably succeed only in leaving a slick of oil across one’s chin and one’s front. She smiled again.

  “What’s so funny?” muttered Eddie. “I don’t see the joke.”

  “Just thinking,” said Isabel. “Not about you, Eddie; something else altogether.”

  Eddie turned away. “You do that all the time, you know. You think about things that have nothing to do with what you’ve been saying—or what other people have been talking about—and then you start smiling.” He turned back to look at her accusingly. “It’s rude. It’s really rude to other people.”

  She was taken aback by the sudden onslaught. Eddie was usually mild—inoffensive to a fault—but his tone now was heavy with grievance. And it occurred to her that he had a good point: it really was rude to allow oneself to daydream while somebody was talking to you. In a way, it was every bit as discourteous as taking a telephone call while engaged in conversation with another; or closing one’s eyes and drifting off to sleep in a concert in full view of a performer. And yet how did you prevent thoughts coming into your mind? And once they were there, how did you stop yourself from entertaining them? The answer was that you had to make an effort; you had to concentrate—and she would try.

  “Eddie, I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, Isabel, you don’t realise, do you, that other people know you’re thinking about them—judging them, laughing at them. But they do.”

  “I don’t laugh at other people…”

  “You do. You laugh at them all the time.”

  She felt herself becoming angry. His comment on her smiling was reasonable enough, but she did not mock people in the way he was suggesting.

  She defended herself. “This is ridiculous. And anyway, you’re one to talk, Eddie. Who called Peg ‘Pig’? Who’s sniggering over Cat’s private life? You, Eddie.”