The Lost Art of Gratitude_ An Isabel Dalhousie Novel - Alexander McCall Smith [26]
“Oh, but it is,” said Minty.
Isabel took a bite of her scone. She was not sure if she wanted to get into an argument with Minty about the merits or otherwise of Cheddar, and so she simply said, “A chacun son fromage.”
Minty looked at her. “And mine is definitely not Cheddar.”
Isabel said nothing. The scone tasted very good, and she decided to compliment Minty on it; it would be a way of ending the debate about Cheddar. But Minty, who had now put the plate down on a nearby sideboard, suddenly took Isabel by the arm, holding her just below the elbow. Isabel felt a momentary shock; surely a disagreement about Cheddar would not lead to a fight about Cheddar. For a moment she imagined the headlines in the press—it would be a gift for a sensationalist sub-editor: Edinburgh Ladies Slog It Out in Georgian Mansion over Cheese Disagreement; Shocked Kids Look On. Minty’s grip, though, was not confrontational, but conspiratorial.
“Let me show you the garden. Come.”
Minty did not wait for an answer but gently propelled her guest towards the door. They went outside and crossed the lawn towards the entrance to the walled garden. A child’s toy, a broken helicopter, lay sideways on the lawn, plastic rotors bent from impact; ditched on a sea of green.
“This garden was one of the things that really sold the house to us,” said Minty. “There’s something special about a walled garden, don’t you think? And it’s very useful here, of course, with the wind that comes up from Lanarkshire. Biggar, you know, is one of the coldest places in Scotland. Really freezing.”
They reached the doorway into the garden and Minty gestured for Isabel to go in first. Isabel ducked, although the doorway was quite high enough to accommodate her easily, and found herself faced with the fruit bushes that she had seen from the house. There were more of them than she had imagined, though, as they occupied at least half the area of the garden, the other half being given over to salad vegetables—lettuces, red and green; kale; spring onions.
“Very functional,” said Minty.
Isabel thought of her failure as a gardener. “I should grow something,” she remarked. “Even a few potatoes. But we have a fox, you see, and he digs things up.”
“Get rid of him,” said Minty. Then she added, “We had a fox too.”
For a moment Isabel imagined a fox in this domain, using one of the espaliered apple trees to get to the top of the wall, sleeking his way along the top, and then finding his way down into the garden itself. What harm would he have caused? There was plenty of room for him to dig, to make his earth, without impinging on Minty’s vegetables. Four words showed that this woman, this successful banker, had no heart, Isabel thought: Get rid of him. Four words.
Then Minty said, “I couldn’t bring myself to have him … well, they don’t mince their words in the country, the farmer offered to shoot him. I said no.”
I have misjudged you, Isabel said to herself. Again, I have misjudged you.
“I know how it is,” said Isabel. “I rather like him.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that you do him in,” Minty explained. “But you can get somebody—there’s a man in Dalkeith, I think—who will come and collect him from town and release him somewhere in the country.”
“I’ve heard of that,” said Isabel. “But I wondered whether he would really …”
“We have to trust people,” interrupted Minty. And it seemed to Isabel that as she said this, the other woman looked at her more pointedly.
Isabel wondered what had happened to Minty’s fox. Had the man from Dalkeith called?
“What …”
Minty seemed to have an ability to anticipate questions. “He died a natural death. I found him on the other side of the wall. At first I thought he was sleeping and then I saw that he was quite still. His grave is down by the burn over there.” She pointed away from the house. Isabel looked; it would be a fine place to be buried, she felt, with those hills crouching on the horizon