The Lost Art of Gratitude_ An Isabel Dalhousie Novel - Alexander McCall Smith [38]
“You must understand,” Isabel began, “that sometimes I feel a bit sensitive about the fact that Jamie is younger than I am. That’s probably why I bit your head off just then. I don’t mean it.”
Grace wiped at her cheek with a small handkerchief. Isabel noticed that it had been embroidered in one corner with an elaborate letter G. It was a small thing, but the sight of this made her feel a sudden rush of sympathy for the other woman. Our small possessions, she thought, can say so much about vulnerability.
“You shouldn’t feel like that,” Grace said. “Not these days.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Isabel. “Everybody says that it’s absolutely fine. They keep saying it, and I suppose I know that they’re right. But every so often, just every so often, you see an expression on somebody’s face that tells you that’s not the way they’re thinking.”
“A look of disapproval?”
“Exactly. Nothing too obvious, but it’s there. People can’t hide their feelings, you know.”
“Ignore them. It’s none of their business.”
Isabel sighed. “Oh, I do ignore them. But I don’t think they see it as being none of their business. We are great interferers, you know. We’re an inherently moral species. If we see something we disapprove of, we experience reactive feelings, even when we know it’s none of our business. And maybe it’s just as well that we do.”
Grace was puzzled, and Isabel explained. “If we didn’t react to the behaviour of others when we’re not directly affected, then people would get away with murder. Literally. We wouldn’t intervene over genocide if it was happening in somebody else’s country. We wouldn’t have done anything about Hitler. Tyrants could act with impunity.”
“They do, anyway,” said Grace.
“I suppose so. We’re selective in our moral outrage. We’re very ready to vent it on the weaker tyrants but not so much on the strong ones. Who did anything about Stalin?”
“They didn’t want a nuclear war.”
Isabel had to agree. “No, they didn’t. I suppose that demonstrates that moral philosophy has to be practical. It has to take into account who has a big fist. It also has to bear in mind who we are, our human limitations. It’s not just something that one does in armchairs.” As she spoke, she thought of her own armchair. The last time she had sat in it, she had drifted off to sleep while watching the news. For a moral philosopher’s armchair, she thought, it’s somewhat under-used.
GRACE WAS ONLY TOO PLEASED to be left in charge of Charlie that morning while Isabel went into Bruntsfield. She would take him down to the canal, she said, to look at the boats. And then there was her friend who lived in Harrison Gardens and who always welcomed a visit from Charlie. After that he could have his sleep.
With these arrangements in place, Isabel made her way along Merchiston Crescent to the post office at Boroughmuirhead. The streets were quiet; students from Napier University had been discouraged from parking in the area since the introduction of a permit system that restricted parking to the local residents. This uncluttered the streets, except on occasions when a student was late for a class and decided to feed the meter. It was also, she thought, an example of how people might be forced to be good. If we were not prepared to walk—the environmentally responsible thing to do—or to wear crash helmets—the personally responsible thing to do—then those in power over us might force us to do these very things. The difficulty with this, of course, was squaring such an approach with human freedom. Isabel had not been much of a skier, but on her relatively few ventures on to the slopes she had enjoyed the feeling of the wind in her hair. Having to wear a helmet to ski—as some people were proposing—would spoil that sensation. And where would such enthusiasm end? Walking itself had some dangers—as the late Dr. Henderson had unfortunately found out—and there must be figures somewhere for the risk of falling over and cracking one’s skull even when walking a short distance,