She was working, the computer whirring and a desk lamp lighting up piles of papers, the rest of the flat beginning to sink into darkness.
“I think you just keep that thing on in case somebody comes to the door,” he said as he settled himself into an armchair. “I bet if I go through into the bedroom, I’ll find magazines and chocolates and the radio playing, eh?” Keiko laughed back at him. “Now you know I’m only joking, hen, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Keiko. “And anyway, I’m used to it. If my mother went out when I was supposed to be doing my schoolwork, she always put her hand on the television when she came back to see if it was warm. But it never was, because I was always working. I’m always working.”
“Well, that’s a good girl,” said Mr. McKendrick. “So long as you don’t work too hard.” He waited for inspiration about how to begin. To fill the lengthening silence, he went on: “At least that’s one worry I don’t have with young Craig.” He laughed. “He’s full of nonsense, always was. I hope you’d take anything he says with a grain of salt.”
“A grain of salt?” said Keiko. “Is that a proverb? I hear so many things and if I don’t understand, I just ignore them.”
It wasn’t quite the assurance he was looking for, but it would have to do.
“So… how’s it all going?” he said. He laced his fingers together across his stomach in a comfortable gesture and felt his cuffs begin their upward creep.
“The pilot study is complete.”
“This was the smoke and fire questions?”
“It was.”
“And the food will come up next time, you assured me. Because it was food you said you were studying, and it was that that convinced us you were right for Painchton. Someone interested in traditions and beliefs and willing to learn our ways.”
“I’m not an anthropologist, Mr. McKendrick,” she said. “But yes, the food will be there in the end. I’m working on it. The pilot study smooths out the wrinkles in the format and then the profiling questionnaire… smooths out the wrinkles in the subjects-or shows me where they are so I know to allow for them-and then the study itself can begin.”
“You must have patience of a saint,” said Mr. McKendrick. “Not that doesn’t sound very-I mean to say, I’m sure it’s-” He cleared his throat.
“When eating poison, lick the plate,” Keiko said. “That’s a proverb my mother often says. In for a penny, you would say. And also, each to their own,” she said, echoing Malcolm.
“Exactly,” Mr. McKendrick said. “And how’s everything else? The house… et cetera.” And then, his nerve failing him, he changed the subject, almost. “I hope everybody’s treating you well. I drew up a schedule. I hope it’s being adhered to.”
“You mean for entertaining me?” said Keiko. “I can assure you, Mr. McKendrick-”
“It wasn’t supposed to be just tea and a bun for entertainment now and then,” said Mr. McKendrick, frowning. “We agreed we would help you out day to day.”
“Oh!” said Keiko. “You mean the groceries. If it’s the groceries, I don’t know where to begin. I can’t keep up with it all. I’m drowning. In soup.”
Mr. McKendrick chuckled at her and sat back in his chair. “Drowning in soup!” he said. “What a turn of phrase you have on you.”
“I’m not joking,” Keiko said, gesturing towards the kitchen as though Mr. McKendrick could see what was in there; the tubs of soup she made as a last resort when all hope of finishing up the food was slipping away, tubs stacked three deep in the freezer and more than once already defrosted and poured away when new consignments of frozen foods arrived and there wasn’t an inch to spare. Kilo bags of chip shop chips, thin French fries, Cajun skins, extra-thick wedges, crumbed croquettes, and Granny Sarah’s roasties (oven or microwave). And towers of cinnamon bagels, blueberry waffles, croissants (cook from frozen), and brioche (defrost at room temperature for twenty-fours and check that product is thoroughly thawed throughout before serving). And Mrs. Watson’s cauliflower cheese in Pyrex, Mrs. Dessing’s shepherd’s pie in Le Creuset, Mrs. McMaster’s cottage pie in a tinfoil tray like the tinfoil trays from the Imperiolos with the cardboard lids and the sauce seeping out along the seal. And then the knock at the door and it was Mr. Glendinning straight from the cash and carry and he couldn’t resist the Boston cream pies at two-for-one, and she could have a slice now and just put the rest in the freezer.
“Good,” said Mr. McKendrick. “As long as you’re not going hungry. I’d hate to send you home to your mammy like some wee waif and stray and have her thinking we didn’t take care of you.”
“There’s no chance of that,” Keiko said.
“Not that I’m assuming we’ll be sending you home at all, mind,” he added. “Maybe you’ll stay.”
“Maybe I will,” said Keiko. “I have never met with such kindness before. Mrs. Watson and Mrs. McMaster and Fancy. Rosa and the McLuskies-well, Mr. McLuskie, since his wife is so busy with her political life.”
“And Mrs. Poole,” said Mr. McKendrick, resisting the temptation to pass comment on Etta McLuskie’s political life. As if he couldn’t have been the new provost if he hadn’t thought it would be too hard on Grace to see him in Duncan’s chain of office. In a roundabout way, annoyance at Etta helped him. He finally dived in and said what he had come for.
“Do you think Mrs. Poole is all right?”
Keiko could not help her eyebrows rising.
“I just thought,” continued Mr. McKendrick, “with you trained up in it, you know.”
“Trained up? In?”
“All of this,” said Mr. McKendrick, waving his hand at the papers on her desk. “People’s… How people cope with things like… like what Grace is going through.”
“Ah,” said Keiko.
“And what with you being right here.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. McKendrick, but I would never use my training to encroach on my neighbour’s privacy. And even if I couldn’t help forming a view, I wouldn’t share it with anyone. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
Mr. McKendrick drew himself up and back a little in his chair. “Very proper,” he said. “Very commendable.” Then he paused. This was the second time in one day he had found himself bested, but this wee lass was no Willie Byers, surely. “Up to a point, mind you,” he said. “But you’re only human-ethics or no-and seeing her every day you must have some-”
“I’m not trained in clinical psychology, Mr. McKendrick,” she said. “I have no specialism in grief and mourning. And I don’t see her every day, actually. I really can’t help you.”
“Grief and mourning,” Mr. McKendrick said. “So you think that’s all it is, then? Good. I’m glad to hear it. Good to know.” He gave her a sharp look. “Are you all right? You’ve gone a wee bit peelie-wally all of a sudden.”
Keiko nodded. “Just tired,” she said, and he got to his feet.
She could barely hear his goodbyes as she saw him out, struggling to find her feet in a flood of ideas that had surged up too fast for her to get astride them. She had just lied to Mr. McKendrick. She did see Mrs. Poole every day. Because every day Mrs. Poole scrubbed the building in the back yard, even though Malcolm said no one ever used it. Why would anyone do that? Her own words came back to her. “I am not a clinical psychologist; I have no specialism in grief and mourning.” I don’t need one though, she thought. You don’t need training to know that a woman doesn’t clean an unused room because her husband died. You only need to have seen a bit of Shakespeare to know why someone keeps on endlessly cleaning.