The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds

  At first she dismissed the idea. People did not steal well-known paintings in order to hang them on their walls—it was far too risky. Nor, she imagined, were many paintings stolen by apocryphal South American collectors who could display them with impunity in their remote Amazonian villas.

  The idea seemed unlikely, and yet, as Isabel thought about it under the stinging water of the shower, she remembered that Alex had said, “I loved that painting … I adored it.” Was it not possible to love something so much that you would do anything to get it—even if it meant that the pleasure derived from possessing it would be a solitary one? If Alex adored the painting, and felt possessive of it, then she was likely to be strongly opposed to its being given to the National Gallery after her father’s death; in which case, the solution was obvious—the painting could simply be removed from Munrowe House and hidden in the flat in Edinburgh until Duncan’s death. Alex would hardly be able to hang it on a wall where it might be seen by visitors, but she would at least have it in her possession, which might well be enough for her. It would be important, though, to mask the whole exercise as a theft. That would require elaborate subterfuge—and accomplices too: the solicitor and the men in the van, who might also have been the ones who removed the painting in the first instance. It was possible; yes, it was possible. However, the problem was that for those who live in the normal world—a world in which people did not steal beautiful objects from family members purely for the aesthetic pleasure they might bestow, did not defraud them in that way—such actions seemed vaguely improbable.

  She stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. Jamie had come back upstairs, and he now walked into the bedroom. He hesitated at the bathroom door; they still respected each other’s privacy in spite of their common life.

  “I’ve finished,” she said. “I stood in the shower for ages—thinking.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “About?”

  “About the Poussin.”

  He nodded. “Well, here’s something else for you to think about.”

  She slipped past him. The bedroom carpet was soft underfoot; her hair was wet upon her shoulders. It was summer, but only a Scottish summer, and goosebumps could still make themselves felt. She turned to face him. He was smiling.

  “What am I to think about?”

  He spread out the palms of his hands, as an illusionist might do. “Grace—she’s back.” He seemed pleased with the look of surprise—and gratitude—on Isabel’s face.

  “Oh.”

  He came towards her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She shivered—from the cold, from the contact.

  “Apparently everything is normal. She said nothing about having resigned, and she’s already cleared the dishwasher. She said something about ironing my shirts.”

  Isabel smiled. “I’m glad.” She looked at Jamie enquiringly. “What shall I say to her? Sorry?”

  He shook his head. “You have nothing to apologise for. Just say nothing. It’s always better, I think, to say nothing. If things sort themselves out—as they have done here—then why say anything?”

  She was not sure he was right that saying nothing was always preferable. Not always: there were occasions when it was clearly unwise to remain silent—when there were misunderstandings, for instance, or suspicions; where a few words could explain something or defuse ill-feeling. There were occasions, too, when those few words might be words of apology—short, potent words that could erase whole landscapes of resentment, undermine entire edifices of anger or hatred. But perhaps he was right; although Isabel would have preferred to resolve her disagreement with Grace by talking things through, Grace had her own way of coping with disagreements, which involved pretending that they had never occurred. And if that worked for her, then Isabel was prepared to let it be.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll act normally. I’ll pretend she didn’t resign.”

  “Good,” he said. He reached out to touch her, laying his hand gently on her forearm. His skin was warm against hers, which was chilled by the evaporation of the wet from the shower. She wanted to hold him; she wanted to take him in her arms, but the towel was precarious and there was always an awkwardness between the clothed and unclothed body. So she simply looked at him, and saw the colour of his eyes, and the light within them, and the shape of his brow.

  “I’ll tell her again how much we appreciate what she does,” said Isabel. “We do, don’t we?”

  “Of course. And I think she knows that.”

  While Isabel dressed, Jamie went back downstairs and when she made her way into the kitchen he could be heard in the music room beginning a session of practice: scales, arpeggios, the technical limbering-up that even the most experienced professional musician must undertake; musical press-ups, Isabel called it.

  She entered the kitchen unannounced. Grace was seated at the table, a piece of paper in front of her, and Charlie was perched on her lap.

  “Four,” said Charlie. “No, six. Six, Grace! Six!”

  “Six,” said Grace. “Yes, six.” And then she turned round and saw Isabel, and she immediately lifted Charlie off her lap and stood up. Isabel did not see what happened to the piece of paper; it was there and then it was not there, vanishing so quickly that she might have doubted that she had seen it in the first place.

  She felt her heart race. Mathematics! Grace had been teaching Charlie mathematics. It was blatant and it dismayed Isabel, because she did not relish conflict and she did not want to have to speak to Grace again, not so soon after the row that had led to her resignation. Grace was quite capable of resigning again, and Isabel could not face that. So she turned away and simply said good morning to Grace as if nothing had happened; as if there had been no resignation, no mathematics.

  She walked to the window and looked out. There was no reason to look out of that particular window, which had no view to speak of. She was not looking out of it to see what the weather was like, nor was she looking out of it to see whether Brother Fox might be lurking in the rhododendrons which could be seen—just—if one craned one’s neck slightly to get a sight of what was happening alongside the house. She realised that she was looking out of the window because she did not have the courage to look in the direction in which she should have been looking. Blind eye, she thought. Turn a blind eye.

  And that thought changed everything. To turn a blind eye was morally reprehensible; it was an affront to the whole concept of seeing—and it was the beginning, in so many cases, of significant failure. No, she would not turn a blind eye. She would not allow herself to be a moral coward.

  She turned, her heart hammering within her. “I’m sorry, Grace,” she began. “The last thing I want is for you to be upset. But please see it from my point of view. With this mathematics …” She paused. The solution had come to her. “Look, I think that it will be fine for Charlie to develop his mathematics. But why don’t we wait? How about waiting a couple of years and then, when he’s six or so, we can look at it again. Both of us. We can go and talk to somebody about it and do the thing together. I’ll read that book of yours then and we might even be able to work from it. How about that?” She paused again. Grace was looking down at the floor. “Are you listening to what I’m saying?” asked Isabel.

  Charlie answered. “Charlie listening,” he said solemnly.

  Isabel bit her lip. She wanted to laugh. Charlie listening. Perhaps she might say that in the middle of some discussion with Jamie: Isabel listening. It would be so comic, so disconcerting. It would derail anybody.

  She could not suppress her amusement, even in this grave moment of challenge. She smiled. And Grace did too.

  “Mummy is shouting at Grace,” said Grace to Charlie.

  “I wasn’t exactly shouting,” said Isabel.

  “Well, I heard you well enough,” muttered Grace. “And that sounds fine by me. Now I’ve got to go upstairs and start the washing.”

  Isabel felt the tension flood out of her. Her heart returned to its normal beat. r />
  “I really do understand why you wanted to do it,” said Isabel. “And we appreciate that—both Jamie and I. We both appreciate it.”

  Grace acknowledged the thanks. “That’s fine,” she said. “It’s probably a good idea to wait anyway. He’ll be even better then.”

  She stood up, straightening her skirt. Isabel noticed that it looked creased and rather worn in the front, although Grace normally looked smart and attended to that sort of thing. She felt a pang. She paid Grace generously—she always had, as had her father before her—but by the very nature of things she had so much more than the woman who worked for her, and she did not want there to be any sense of a victory having been won.

  “Another thing, Grace,” she said. “I’m sorry if you’ve been upset.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Grace. And then, in a quieter voice, “My fault.”

  “Not Grace’s fault,” said Charlie suddenly. He had picked up the tension in the room, and he now slipped his hand into Grace’s and squeezed it.

  “Look,” said Isabel. “He loves you.”

  Grace looked down. She hesitated, and then bent down and kissed Charlie on his brow. She stood up. “Washing,” she said, and moved towards the door. Then she added, “One of Jamie’s shirts is missing two buttons. Two! I’ll replace them this morning.”

  “Thank you,” said Isabel, adding: “Men!”

  It was a curious, inconsequential thing to say. Men lost the buttons on their shirts, as did women, but there was no evidence, not one scrap, to show that men lost more buttons than women did. However, Isabel suspected that they did, and this comment, this single word, made her belief quite clear.

  “I agree,” said Grace. She sighed. “Men.”

  AFTER THAT DRAMATIC START, the rest of the morning went smoothly. With the return of Grace and the resolution of the mathematics question—quod erat demonstrandum, Isabel could not stop herself from thinking—she was able to concentrate on her work. The Review imposed many deadlines, not just those that loomed when it was due to go to press. There were deadlines for the receipt of papers; there were deadlines for the obtaining of reports on articles submitted for peer review; there were minor, self-imposed deadlines for Isabel to answer letters and emails. Those two categories differed, of course. Electronic mail, that pervasive, intrusive means of communication that could penetrate, like the most sophisticated of missiles, the thickest bunkers of privacy, had to be answered within three working days; letters could be left one week before an answer was sent. Or so Isabel had decided, knowing that these periods were arbitrary and, in the case of electronic mail, quite out of kilter with expectations. Many people, she understood, expected emails to be answered within hours, if not minutes, and judged others accordingly. One would-be author of a paper on environmental ethics had actually complained to Isabel one afternoon that she had not answered his email of that morning. I contacted you some time ago, he wrote at four o’clock, and I was wondering whether your reply has been lost. I’ve looked in my spam folder, but I don’t see it. His original message had arrived at ten that morning, which meant that he considered six hours to be more than enough time for a reply to be formulated, typed and sent.

  Isabel had drafted a reply. Dear Professor Grant, Your message was received this morning. I have read it but have not yet had time to reply. I’m so sorry to test your patience in this way. I know that six hours can seem a very long time, but please be assured that I shall reply to you when I have had time to think a little bit about what you said in your message and to give your remarks the weight they undoubtedly deserve. Yours sincerely, Isabel Dalhousie (Editor).

  She had not sent this message because she had felt, quite rightly, that it was cutting. It was easy to cut; too easy sometimes, and so she had sent back a simple message: I received your email. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. I.D. Doing the right thing, she knew, was often not as enjoyable as doing the wrong thing. The wrong thing often made for a better story, but it was still the wrong thing—nothing could change that.

  The deadline that morning had nothing to do with letters or emails, nor with anxious printers waiting to press the buttons that would set their presses rolling. Rather, it had to do with the gathering-in of reports on several papers on which an editorial decision had to be taken. Isabel took this process very seriously, being only too aware of the anxious state of those awaiting her response: researchers, post-doctoral fellows, junior lecturers in neglected and unfashionable universities and colleges in obscure places; the unrewarded infantry of the academic profession, who needed publication in order to hang on to their poorly rewarded jobs. And behind these people there were wives and husbands, partners, boyfriends, girlfriends, who were waiting at home and who might ask at the end of the day: “Have you heard from her yet?” The her was Isabel. That weighed heavily.

  Already she had one letter of rejection to write, and would have to do it that morning. She had received three reports on a paper submitted for a special issue of the Review that would be concentrating on the ethical issues surrounding adoption. These issues were manifold and more complex than one might imagine. There was the right to know parentage, widely accepted now and the subject of a very good paper from someone at Lenoir-Rhyne University in Hickory, North Carolina. They would publish that, and she would write a response to this effect later that morning. That was easy.

  Then there was a paper on surrogacy and the finality of the mother’s consent. Should a surrogate mother be allowed to change her mind after the birth of the “commissioned” child? Could she refuse to hand over the child fathered by one of the prospective parents? Isabel imagined the scene and had made her mind up on that. Of course she could: you could never snatch a child from its natural mother, no matter what pieces of paper had been signed while the child was in utero. No, you could never do that. But, asked the author of the paper, what of the rights of the father, or indeed of the child? Teleologically speaking … Isabel sighed. No, one could not obscure the issue by bringing in teleology. Mothers were mothers, and being a mother meant that you had a right against all the world in respect of the baby that had been part of you, within you, for months. No amount of philosophising could change that fundamental, bedrock fact.

  This paper was provocative and well argued, and both reviewers had agreed that it should be published. So that presented no problems; but … Isabel picked up the file that she had been subconsciously avoiding since entering her study that morning. The topic was difficult, and one that had been the subject of some debate in the newspapers. That fact alone meant that it deserved a place in the Review of Applied Ethics which was, after all, heralded by its very title as being involved in the day-to-day world. “Should children be placed with families of a different ethnic group?” Isabel’s initial reaction to the question had been one of puzzlement. Surely there was no reason why this should not be done: loving homes and families had nothing to do with ethnic groups. But then the complications, and the doubts, introduced themselves. What if there were two sets of prospective parents—each belonging to a different group—or, more likely, the choice was between remaining in a children’s home or being adopted by parents from a different background? The solution, Isabel thought, would be to ignore ethnicity altogether and concentrate on the home life that the child might expect. Love was love, no matter in what social context it was offered. But not everybody felt that, it seemed, and there were those who argued that taking a child out of its community was to deprive it of a heritage; more than that, it could imply that one group was actually preferable to another.

  The paper on this subject was well presented and the argument was cogent. It defended the implicit rejection in many parts of Canada of the adoption of native Canadian children into non-native families. The previous taking of native children out of their communities was a form of cultural genocide, the author argued, and was responsible for cutting off many children from their culture and roots. Isabel was aware of that shameful past and could see the ar
gument against allowing its continuation, even in an attenuated, less culturally arrogant form. She saw that, but the two reviewers did not, and one of these was Professor Lettuce.

  Does the author of this paper really suggest, his report asked, that it would be better for a child to stay in an institution for its entire childhood—as happens, I believe, only too often—rather than be given the chance of a life in a non-native home, with loving parents and all the benefits and chances that go with having loving parents? If he does, then I disagree most profoundly and would recommend strongly against the publication of a paper with such a heartless message at its core.

  The other reviewer had been less bombastic, but had still been against publication. I’m not impressed with the author’s conclusion that the appalling schemes of the past, where native children were snatched from their parents, have much bearing on modern, child-centred adoption regimes. Nobody is taking these children from their mothers or communities. They are taking them from children’s homes. Should ideology stand in the way of a child’s happiness?

  Isabel read and reread the reports. She found herself inclined to ignore Lettuce simply because he was Lettuce, and she disliked him intensely, and with good reason. Allowing her mind to wander, she thought of Lettuce as a small lettuce being transplanted from a bed of lettuces into a bed of cabbages, and not flourishing at all because the cabbages had thicker leaves and were more vigorous in their growth. She smiled. It was such a childish thought, but so vivid, and so satisfying, and surely one could allow oneself the occasional reverie, the occasional dream of revenge.

  She reread the paper itself, and after doing so went to make herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. She returned with the cup and held the paper lightly in her hand, as if weighing it. Its tone was assertive and there was an air of grievance in it. That had clearly registered badly with the reviewers, but her job as editor was to be dispassionate and also to ensure that the pages of the journal were open to unpopular views. And if there was an air of grievance, it might be that grievance was understandable: injustices had really occurred, even if an effort was now being made to make up for them. Victimhood, however, should not last for ever; the Highland Clearances had been a great wrong to Scotland and to Gaelic culture, but she was not sure that the Scots should continue to regard themselves as victims, even if there were people whose purposes it suited.