CHAPTER TEN
GRACE MET HER at the front door. “He’s fast asleep,” she said, nodding in the direction of upstairs. “Exhausted. Out for the count.” She rolled her eyes heavenwards. “I wish I could sleep like that. The benefits of a clear conscience, perhaps.”
“Or no conscience,” said Isabel.
Grace, who had started to go back into the kitchen, stopped sharply and turned round to face Isabel. “Why do you say that?”
Isabel did not feel like engaging in a discussion; she felt weary and defeated. But she had to explain herself, and so she told Grace that in her view Charlie did not yet understand right and wrong, and that she very much doubted whether he would be plagued by conscience, were he to do something wrong. “Or not just yet,” she added. “A child that small doesn’t really understand the feelings of others. Charlie can’t see the world from our point of view.”
Grace listened with what seemed to be growing impatience as Isabel trailed off with a half-hearted reference to the Swiss psychologist Piaget and his theories of moral development in children.
“Charlie understands more than you think,” she said grimly.
Isabel shrugged. “It’s not really about understanding things. It’s about empathy.”
Grace was not to be put off. “I’ll give you an example,” she said. “When I took him to see the ducks at Blackford Pond once, there was a horrible little boy there. He was five or so; bigger than Charlie. A horrible, vulgar little boy. And he picked up a rock and threw it at one of the ducks. Do you know what Charlie did?”
Isabel noted the use of the word vulgar. Grace could get away with saying such things; she could not. She shook her head. “What did he do?”
“He screamed with rage and then …” Grace paused. “And then he shouted Mine, mine!”
“Well …,” Isabel began.
“So he was cross because that other boy had done something to his duck. Charlie knew it was wrong, you see, and he protested.”
Isabel was lost in thought. She thought of Jamie, and then she dragged herself back to where she was: standing in the hall discussing ducks and conscience with Grace.
“I’m not sure if he knew that it was wrong,” she said. “Charlie shouts Mine! when other children touch his toys. I think he was cross because the other child was doing what he would have liked to do, had it occurred to him.” She looked at Grace half apologetically, aware of how disloyal it must sound to be attributing to her own son so base a motive. “I’m afraid that Charlie would love to throw a stone at a duck.”
There was an audible intake of breath from Grace. “No. You’re wrong.”
Isabel shrugged. “I don’t think we need to get ourselves all het up over it. All I’m saying is that very small children don’t really know what’s right or wrong. He’ll learn, but not just yet.”
Grace moved off towards the kitchen. “And by the way, ducks do eat fish. I looked it up on the Internet. It said that the diet of ducks includes weed and fish.”
JAMIE RETURNED to the house shortly after one, carrying his bassoon case. Isabel was in her study when she heard the front door open, and the sound made her heart lurch. She rose to her feet, and then sat down again. She had tried to work since she had returned from her visit to Peter and Susie, but she realised that she had done very little other than read through a few pages of the proofs of the new issue of the Review. She kept losing her place as her mind wandered, and had read and re-read the same bit of text several times. It was not an interesting article, she decided, and she wondered why she had accepted it for publication. “Citizenship and the Duty to Vote”: Should criminal law be used to ensure that everybody who could vote did in fact do so? It was a potentially interesting subject, but the author, she felt, rendered it ineffably dull: Rights, as the classic Hohfeldian analysis of jurisprudence reminds us, exist in a close relationship with corresponding duties, one of which is to do that which gives the right its basis … She had checked up the spelling of Hohfeld; did it have a second h? And did the author need quite so large a footnote—twelve lines—to explain who Hohfeld was when his relevance to the main thrust of the paper was so tangential? And what exactly was the main thrust of the paper, anyway? That you should vote and could be obliged to do so? But was that not intolerant of those who might not like the choice available at a particular election? Should the ballot paper provide None of the Above as an option for the reluctant voter?
She pushed the proofs to one side and waited. She could hear Jamie outside in the hall, and then the door of her study opened and he came in. She held her breath. She suddenly felt that she hated him; she hated this man coming into her study. It was so easy, so very easy.
He smiled at her. “Busy?”
How dare you smile? she thought. How dare you? She looked away.
“Isabel?” He sounded anxious.
“Yes.”
He immediately picked up the coldness of her tone. “Is something wrong?”
She opened her mouth intending to say that nothing was wrong, but that was not what came out. Instead, she said, “Did you enjoy that film?”
He looked puzzled. “What film?”
“That Italian film.” Her voice faltered.
The effect was immediate, and dramatic. “Oh God …” He moved quickly towards her, and then stopped. He had been carrying an envelope that he had picked up off the hall table, and now he dropped it. He did not bend down to pick it up. He said, “Oh God …”
He was now standing close to her. He reached out, but she avoided his touch.
“Eddie told you,” he said simply.
She looked up at him. It was true; there was no innocent explanation. If there had been one, he would not look like this: drained, guilty. The onset of conscience, she thought. Throwing a stone at a duck.
“I didn’t want you to know,” he admitted.
She turned on him angrily. “Evidently not.”
“Because I felt so awkward about the whole thing.”
Awkward? She shook her head in disbelief. “As one might,” she said. And then, almost under her breath, but audible none the less, she continued: “I hate you, you know.” The words were flat, were ugly, and she regretted saying them the moment she uttered them; she did not hate Jamie, she loved him, but she hated him too, wanted to harm him, to strike him, push him away from her. She closed her eyes. This isn’t happening. I don’t know what I’m thinking or doing. Go away.
Her eyes were still closed, but she felt his hands upon her shoulders. She tensed: it was not a lover’s touch, would never again be such.
“Isabel,” he whispered. “It’s not what you think. It really isn’t. Prue invited me there. The rehearsal finished early and she asked me to go to the cinema with her.” He paused. She heard his breathing; she felt his breath against her cheek. “What could I do? You know about her. She’s the one who’s ill. Dying.”
She opened her eyes. She looked at him; there were the beginnings of tears in his eyes.
“I only went with her because … because I couldn’t say no. She has nobody.”
She reached out and took his hand. Her relief made her feel almost dizzy. “Oh, Jamie …”
“And there’s something more,” said Jamie. “I wanted to talk to you about it, but I didn’t know how to.”
“I’m sorry,” said Isabel. “I thought …” She did not know how to say what she had thought. How could she tell him that she had not trusted him?
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t blame you for feeling as you did.”
She shook her head. “What’s this other thing?”
He looked away. “It’s very difficult to know how to put it. Prue asked me to go back to her flat with her after the film.”
Isabel was quite still. She felt her hand in his, but she did not press it as she normally would. “And?”
“Well, of course I said no. But I didn’t say to her what I should have said.”
“Which was?”
“That I can’t. She knows about you, but she behaves as if it makes no difference. She’s pretending that you don’t exist.”
Isabel tried to smile. “I do.”
“I don’t want to hurt her. She’s only got a few months to live.”
“Of course you mustn’t hurt her. Of course not.”
She felt a sudden tenderness; a return of tenderness really. He was so kind; he could never hurt anybody, even a persistent girl who needed, however gently, to be told that what she wanted could not be.
Jamie seemed to be preparing to say something more. Was there anything more? Suddenly it occurred to her that he might already have been unfaithful, and that the cinema outing was nothing important; a sequel rather than a prequel to something else. She felt herself tensing again.
“She said something to me,” said Jamie, his voice lowered. “She said that she had never had a proper boyfriend. Then she said that she did not want to die without ever having had a lover. That’s what she said. The implication was … well, I could hardly misread it.”
Isabel drew in her breath. “Oh …”
“What could I say? So I didn’t say anything. I called her a taxi and came home. But I felt … well, so awful about it.”
Isabel rose to her feet. Now she felt angry. “I don’t know what to say either. What can one say? This is … well, it’s blackmail, moral blackmail—if there’s such a thing. It’s terrible. She’s trying to get you to sleep with her because you feel sorry for her—and who wouldn’t feel sorry for somebody in her position. But it’s an awful thing to do to anybody.”
Jamie nodded his head miserably. “Yes, it is. I should have felt angry with her, but …” He shrugged. “How could I? How can you feel angry with somebody in her position.”
Isabel looked out of the window. What Jamie said was right: you could not be—should not be—angry with somebody who was dying; or … or could you? The fact that somebody was suffering from an incurable disease did not give them licence to behave as they wished; that was absurd. And presumably there were people who knew that they were dying who did things for which they could quite properly be censured. One might feel sympathy for them; one might exempt them from punishment; but one could still be angry with them and tell them that their actions were unacceptable.
She turned round to face Jamie again. He was sitting on the edge of her desk now, looking at his hands. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to talk to her.”
He answered bluntly, “What should I say?”
She felt slightly irritated that he had asked this question. Everybody should know how to let a would-be lover down gently. Did she have to spell it out for him?
“Say that your relationship can be a friendship, but nothing more. Tell her that you’re fond of her, but that’s as far as it can go.”
He nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”
“So when will you do it?”
He looked away. “Sometime. I don’t know.”
“But you will do it?”
He looked hounded. “It’s not going to be easy …”
She felt a growing sense of frustration. “Of course not. But life isn’t necessarily easy, Jamie. It’s messy.” A further possibility occurred to her; not an obvious one, and she barely thought about it before she expressed it. “Unless I do it myself.”
He did not think this a good idea. “You can’t do that,” he protested. “I don’t want her to know that I’ve spoken to you about this. And anyway, why should you do my dirty work for me?”
“Because I’m not sure that you’re going to do it,” Isabel challenged. She did not see why Prue should not know that they had discussed what had happened. Engaged people shared secrets with their fiancés; did Prue not know that? Perhaps not: Jamie had said that she had never had a proper boyfriend, and it could be that she simply did not understand the emotional intimacy of such relationships.
“I suppose I’m just putting it off,” said Jamie.
He was, she thought, but only because he had no desire to hurt. “Kindness is holding you back. You don’t want to hurt her, but I’m afraid she has to be hurt here—even if only a little.” She paused. Perhaps it was not such a bad idea for her to take this matter in hand. “And it might be easier if I were to do it, rather than you. That way she may still be able to idealise you—she won’t blame you; she won’t think that you’ve turned against her.”
It was not his fault. Some people attracted others to them through flirtation, implying availability even when they were not. She had encountered that type before, and they were dangerous. There had been somebody like that in her undergraduate philosophy class, a girl who timed her entrances into the lecture theatre with calculated precision, so that the men were already mostly seated and she could brush past them on her way to her place, smiling coyly, invitingly. And there was another such person she had met in Cambridge, a good-looking young man from Yorkshire, avowedly heterosexual, who had nevertheless picked up at his expensive boys’ boarding school the habit of fluttering his eyelids at other males without understanding the confusion that this could cause. These people asked for a particular sort of attention—and got it. Jamie, with his matinée-idol looks, turned eyes—and heads—but did not contrive to do that and never encouraged it. No, it was not his fault that this unfortunate girl had been drawn to him, moth-like; and while a flirt who got what he asked for might reasonably be expected to dig himself out of a self-created hole, that did not apply to an innocent victim like Jamie.
She seemed to be convincing herself, even if Jamie’s expression betrayed his continued doubts. If she spoke to Prue—gently, of course—she could make it quite clear to her that Jamie was unavailable. Not only that; she could go further and tell her that she, Isabel, had asked Jamie not to see her, other than in a professional context. Isabel would come across as the ogress, the possessive woman, and the poor girl could continue to harbour whatever romantic notions she liked of Jamie, keeping him unsullied. And that, thought Isabel, was surely kinder. Prue would spend her last days in the knowledge that there had been somebody, and he had been fond of her, but another woman prevented him from showing just how fond he was. It was an easier version of the truth; a better conclusion to a life.
They left it unresolved between them, although in Isabel’s mind, at least, it was clear that she would save Jamie the discomfort of a showdown with Prue. What was an awkward half hour or so tactfully explaining to a much younger woman the boundaries over which she should not cross? Nothing; and she would do it soon.
But first she had to make it up to Jamie. She had said that she had hated him, and while it did not seem to her that he was taking her words seriously, they had to be withdrawn.
She put her arms about him. “I didn’t mean what I said.” She kissed him. “I wasn’t thinking.”
He smiled at her, touching her cheek gently. He had a way of doing that, as if he was confirming the reality of something he could not quite believe. It was a flattering gesture, and one that made her weak with pleasure. “I didn’t hear you,” he said. “What did you say?”
She thought quickly. An apology for something forgotten or not heard was not always helpful. “Oh, I said something silly.”
He smiled again. “You? Something silly? I don’t believe that. Anyway, what was it?”
“I was cross with you. It made me …”
“I know you were cross. But I wasn’t listening. You didn’t say that you hated me or anything like that?” He laughed: the very thought.
“You did hear,” said Isabel reproachfully.
Her hands on his shoulders, she felt him stiffen. It was almost imperceptible, but he had reacted.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” she continued. “I was all over the place, and I feel awful that I could even have thought that you would allow somebody to come between us.”
He was gentle. “Let’s not give it any more attention. It’s over. Remember: we’re going to get married soon. Just think of that.”
/> She hugged him to her. “I know. I know.” They had not talked about it much since that evening when the decision had been taken. There were dates to discuss. Was one month too short a period for preparations? What exactly had to be prepared if one was going to have a small, virtually private wedding? And there was the next issue of the Review of Applied Ethics to consider; or should one not take notice of such things when one was getting ready to be married?
“Misunderstandings occur,” said Jamie.
She moved her hands up to the back of his neck; his skin was so smooth, like a piece of silk. “They do, don’t they?”
“And then they go away. Just like that. And the sun comes out again.”
She smiled at the words. “That sounds very poetic.”
He slipped a hand round the back of her blouse, the inside. “Do you remember that funny little poem you made up about the tattooed man? Remember it?”
She did—even if she had not given it a second thought after the telling of it. Something about a tattooed man who had a tattooed wife and was proud of his child, the tattooed baby; it was a snippet of nonsense; a haiku-like bit of nothing. It was surprising that he remembered it, she thought, but he sometimes tucked her words away and came up with them later.
“Make up something about the sun coming out again.”
“Do you really want me to?”
He said that he did. “It will show that you forgive me.”
She thought for a moment. Then she whispered to him, “Gentle as love itself is Scottish rain / Before the healing sun will shine again.”