The Lost Art of Gratitude_ An Isabel Dalhousie Novel - Alexander McCall Smith [79]
Minty seemed to warm to her theme. “He doesn’t care, does he? This business with Roderick was just to put me on the spot, to exert pressure on me. And then, when push comes to shove, he drops the claim like that—just like that. No man who really loved his son—really loved him—would choose professional promotion over the boy himself. He just wouldn’t, would he?” She pressed her hands together in a curious gesture that Isabel could not interpret.
Isabel said nothing. Her earlier belief that Minty had lied was now being undermined by the apparent logic of what Minty said. What Minty said could be true. In fact, as she thought about it, it seemed to her that she was very probably right. But if this was so, then she had misjudged Minty again, and that conclusion made her feel foolish. It was as if she was swithering this way and that, quite unable to make up her mind—a reed blown in the wind. “Don’t you think I’m right?” asked Minty.
Isabel started to leave again. But not before she said, “Yes, you may be.”
GRACE WAS LATE in bringing Charlie home, but was apologetic. “Annie didn’t draw breath,” she said. “That woman! Talked and talked, which meant that lunch was late. I was getting hungrier and hungrier.”
Isabel thought of the contrast with her own lunch.
“Mind you,” Grace continued, “she had a lot to say. It was very interesting.”
“She’s seen something, has she?”
Grace nodded. “She said there’s going to be trouble.”
“Where?”
“She didn’t say.”
Isabel was silent for a moment. “But there’s always going to be trouble, isn’t there? Whichever way one looks at it? It’s like saying it’s going to get dark tonight. It always does. It’s the same with trouble. It’s always brewing.”
Grace put on a pained expression. She had explained these things to Isabel on numerous occasions, and her employer just did not seem to grasp them.
“It’s just that if people like Annie,” Isabel continued, “would be a bit more specific in their predictions it would be helpful. But they tend to vagueness, don’t they? Look at Nostradamus. He’s so opaque: those strange quatrains can be interpreted to cover anything. Why don’t these people say things like: ‘Next Tuesday at four in the afternoon there’ll be an earthquake’? Why do they have to be so Delphic?”
Grace sighed. “When you see something, you don’t see the details,” she explained.
“Why?” asked Isabel. “If one has good eyesight in this dimension, so to speak, then why should one’s eyesight be different in the other dimension?”
“You’re not taking it seriously,” said Grace.
“I am,” protested Isabel. “Look, I am. It’s just that …” She trailed off. There was something else that she wanted to ask Grace. “Do you mind if I change the subject?”
Grace made an indistinct gesture of assent; in her view, Isabel would never understand these matters—how could one ever see something that one was determined not to see?
“Do you think,” began Isabel, “that a man who loved his son would agree never to see him again? Let’s say that he had to choose between his career and his son?”
Grace gasped. “Jamie?”
“No, certainly not. Not Jamie. Somebody else.”
Grace looked out of the window. “Well, I’m glad it’s not Jamie. But if you want to answer that question, just apply it to Jamie. Imagine that it’s Jamie you’re thinking about. We know how much he loves Charlie. Would he do that?”
Isabel answered immediately. “Of course not.”
“Then there’s your answer,” said Grace.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EVERY BIT THE ANGEL OF DEATH, Billy McClarty, scourge of foxes, chairman of the Dalkeith and Bonnington Model Railway Association, father and husband, stepped out of his van and made his way down the driveway to Isabel’s front door. He was carrying a metal-barred cage, heavy enough to give him a curious, unbalanced gait. The cage was surprisingly small if