The Lost Art of Gratitude_ An Isabel Dalhousie Novel - Alexander McCall Smith [37]
Isabel looked interested. “And did he?”
Grace tucked her scarf into the sleeve of her coat. Few people wore scarves in summer, but she did. This is Scotland, she had once explained to Isabel, and we must be prepared for every eventuality. At all times.
“Some people have no manners,” she said.
Isabel said nothing.
The indignation in Grace’s voice rose. “You’d think that if you have a perfectly civil remark addressed to you, then you’d respond accordingly.”
“It might be hard to drive and talk,” said Isabel mildly. “I’m sure that he wasn’t being deliberately rude.”
Grace glared at her. “He said, ‘Would you kindly address your concerns, in writing, and in duplicate, to the relevant office of Lothian Regional Transport, the address of which may be obtained from the telephone book.’ Those were his exact words. Can you credit it?”
Isabel suppressed the urge to laugh. She could picture the encounter: the outraged Grace and the phlegmatic driver, trying to drive a bus along Grange Road while being berated by his passenger.
“Ridiculous,” she said.
It was a comment that covered all aspects of the situation, but Grace interpreted it as referring to the driver’s response. Mollified, she nodded, and then, remembering what Isabel had said, she asked what it was that she had to tell her.
“Jamie and I are engaged.”
Grace smiled broadly. It was an immediate, spontaneous reaction, and it set Isabel at her ease. “About time,” she said, and she stepped forward and put her arms about her employer. “It’s great news. Great.”
Isabel was astonished. Grace had never given her even a token kiss—birthdays had been marked with no more than a handshake—and now this warm, enthusiastic embrace.
“I’m very glad you’re pleased,” Isabel muttered.
Grace disengaged herself. “But of course I’m pleased.” She looked at Isabel as if any other reaction were inconceivable. “Of course I’m pleased. Do you think that I liked it—your …” She paused and avoided Isabel’s eye. “Your living in sin?”
Isabel gasped.
“I’m sorry,” said Grace quickly. “I didn’t mean to say that. But it’s what I felt.”
Isabel made a gesture of hopelessness. “What do you expect me to say? How do you think I feel about that? Living in sin? What exactly do you mean?”
Grace was now becoming slightly flustered. “It’s an expression. That’s all. An expression. It’s what people say.”
“Used to say,” snapped Isabel, her growing anger now showing itself in her tone of voice. “Twenty, thirty years ago. It’s a dreadful expression.”
Grace shook her head vehemently. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not sin. Not really.”
Isabel stared at her. She forgave Grace a great deal—her outbursts, her possessiveness of Charlie, the implied criticism in many of her remarks, but she found it difficult to accept this. “My relationship with Jamie may not be entirely conventional,” she said, “but one thing I am very clear about, and that is that it is not in any remote sense of the word sinful.”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then what did you mean?”
Grace looked down at the floor. Suddenly she started to cry. She started to say something, but the sobs obstructed her words. Isabel immediately felt guilty. She should not have reacted so sharply; it was only an expression. It had nothing to do with sin.
She reached out and touched Grace’s sleeve. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I overreacted. I know what you mean.”
Grace did not look up. “I only want you to be happy,” she said. “I really do. I wanted him to marry you. All along I wanted him to marry you, rather than to live …”
“Together,” supplied Isabel quickly. She was sure that Grace had been about to refer to sin again, and she helped her avoid it.
“Yes,” said Grace. “And now that he’s asked you, I really am happy.”
Isabel comforted her. Grace’s shoulder was bony—surprisingly so—and it was hard to pat it reassuringly; but she did, even though the thought came into her mind that it felt like patting an old horse,