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“I stayed there,” he said casually. “I spent three weeks there when I was recuperating. It belongs to friends of ours. They invited us to come and stay.”
Isabel glanced at the house and then back at Ian.
“You stayed in that house?”
“Yes. Jack and Sheila Scott. They’re friends from university days. Do you know them?”
She steered the car over to a small patch of grass at the side of the road and drew to a halt.
Ian frowned. “Is there something wrong?”
Isabel turned off the engine. “I wish you’d told me, Ian,”
she said.
He looked puzzled. “About Jack and Sheila’s house? Why should I have told you about that?”
“Because it provides the answer,” she said. She felt angry with him, and there was an edge to her voice. “Did you go into the village itself ?”
“From time to time,” he said. “I used to go and browse through the bookshop. You know it?”
Isabel nodded impatiently. “Yes, I know it. But tell me, Ian, would you have seen people while you were there?”
“People? Of course I saw people.”
She hesitated for a moment. They were near, so near to the solution. But she did not know whether she dared to hope that it could be so neat and tidy.
“And spoke to people?”
He looked out of the window at the grey-stone dyke that followed the side of the road. “It’s difficult to find dry-stane dyk-ers,” he remarked. “Look at that one. The stones on the top have fallen off. But who can fix them these days? Who’s got that feeling for stone?”
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Isabel looked at the dyke. She did not want to talk about that now. “People,” she repeated. “Did you speak to people?”
“Of course I spoke to people,” he said. “I spoke to the man who runs the bookshop. He’s a composer, isn’t he? I spoke to him and sometimes I spoke to people who came into the shop.
He introduced me to some of the customers. It’s very villagey, you know.”
Isabel knew that she could not expect the answer she wanted to the next question, but she asked it nonetheless. “And did you meet a vet?” she asked. “A vet who lives in the village, quite close to the bookshop?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “I might have. I can’t remember it all that well. I was still a bit fuzzy round the edges then, you know. It was not all that long after I had left hospital.” He turned and looked at her, almost reproachfully, she thought.
“I’m doing my best, Isabel. You know, this isn’t very easy for me.”
She reached out and took his hand in hers. “I know you are, Ian. I’m sorry. It’s just that we’re very close now. So let’s not talk about it any further. Let’s just go and see him. He’s expecting us round about now.”
H E H A D J U S T R E T U R N E D from work and was still wearing his jacket, a green waxed-waterproof. One of the pockets in the front was bulging with what looked like a bottle of tablets.
Beneath the jacket she glimpsed a red tie which she recognised: the Dick Vet in Edinburgh, the university veterinary school.
He opened the door to them and gestured for them to come in.
“This place is a bit of a bachelor establishment,” he said. “I mean to tidy it up, but you know . . .”
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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Isabel glanced about her. It was not unduly untidy, she thought, but it was spartan, as if nobody really lived there. She stole a glance at Euan Macleod: there were the high forehead and the eyes; yes, he was not unlike Graeme. But his was a kinder face, somehow, a gentler face.
“You said that you wanted to see me about Gavin,” he said, as he motioned for them to sit down. “I must confess, I was a bit surprised. You know that I am separated from my wife? You know that we’re divorcing?”
Isabel nodded. “I know that.”
Euan looked directly at Isabel as he spoke, but there was no note of challenge in his voice. “So that meant that I didn’t see the children very much. In fact, my wife made it more or less impossible for me. I decided not to make a fuss. Only the youngest is under eighteen. The other two could decide for themselves in due course.”
Isabel caught her breath. This was a different story from his wife’s, but of course one expected very different accounts of a marriage ending in an acrimonious divorce. Both parties could rewrite history, sometimes without even realising that that was what they were doing. Both could believe their own accounts.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your son,” she said.
He lowered his head in a gesture of acknowledgement.
“Thank you. He was a very nice boy. But that illness . . . well, what can one say? Such a waste.”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “But there was something salvaged from the tragedy. And that’s what we came to tell you, Mr. Macleod.”
He started to speak—something she did not catch—but lapsed into silence.
“Consent was given by your wife to the use of your son’s heart,” she said. “He was the donor in a transplant. And my F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
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friend here is the person who received it. This is why he is alive today.”
Euan’s shock was visible. He stared at Isabel, and then he turned to Ian. He shook his head. He put his hands over his eyes.
Isabel rose to her feet and approached him. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I can imagine what you’re feeling,” she whispered. “Please, I do understand. The reason why we came to see you is that Ian, my friend, needed to be able to say thank you. I hope you understand that.”
Euan took his hands away from his eyes. There were tears on his cheeks. “I didn’t see him,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face the funeral. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t go . . .”
Isabel bent down and placed her arms about him. “You mustn’t reproach yourself about that. I’m sure that you were a good father to him, and to the others.”
“I tried,” he said. “I really did. I tried with the marriage too.”
“I’m sure that you did.” She looked at Ian, who rose to his feet and joined her beside Euan.
“Now listen to me very carefully,” she said. “Please listen.
Your son is living on in the life of this man here. And this man, who owes your son so much, has come to you because he needs to express his gratitude. But there’s another thing—he can say to you that farewell that you and your son did not exchange.
Look. Look.” She reached out and took Ian’s hand and turned it over, to expose his wrist. “Put your hand there, Euan. Can you feel that pulse? Can you feel it? That is your son’s heart. Your son would forgive you, you know, Euan. Your son would forgive you anything that you felt needed forgiving. That’s true, isn’t it, Ian?”
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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h a token of forgiveness and gratitude. Isabel left them together for a few moments. She crossed the room to the window and looked out on the village, at the lights and the darkening sky.
Rain had set in, not heavy rain, but a gentle shower, drifting, soft, falling on the narrow village street and her green Swedish car and the hills, dark shapes, beyond.
“I see that it has started to rain,” she said. “And we must get back to Edinburgh soon.”
Euan looked up. She saw that he was smiling, and she knew from this that she had been right; that something had happened in those moments, something which she had thought might happen, but which she had not allowed herself to hope for too much, for fear of disappointment. I am often wrong, thought Isabel, but sometimes right—like everybody else.