She decided that she would have lunch at Cat’s delicatessen. It was often quiet during Monday lunchtime for some reason, and she was sure to find at least one of the tables free.
And she could offer to lend a hand in the early afternoon if Cat wanted a break; when she had run the delicatessen while Cat had been in Italy she had developed a taste for it and was happy now to help out when she had the time. Of course, Cat’s new employee, Miranda, might be there, so there might be no need.
Miranda was there, standing behind the counter serving a customer while Eddie sliced ham with the electric slicer. He looked up and Isabel’s blood ran cold; she hated that slicer, with its whirring circular blade, and she cringed each time she saw it.
It had the same effect on her as the sound of chalk on a black-board will have on others, or pumice stone on the surface of a bath: a chilling, nerve-wrangling effect. Eddie should not take his eyes off the ham, he should not; although the slicer had a T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
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protective device which meant that it would be difficult to remove a whole finger, it could still remove a top if one were not careful. She winced. When she was young there had been a butcher in Morningside Road who, as was common with butchers in those days, had cut off two fingers. He used to amuse children by placing the stub of one of them into his ear, or occasionally at the entrance to a nostril, and this caused boys to laugh with delight and girls to squeal with horror and disgust.
There were no butchers like that any more; a lesson, somewhere, had been learned; the state had intervened.
Isabel pointed to the slicer and grimaced. “Careful,” she mouthed.
Eddie smiled and returned to his work, sending shavings of Parma ham down onto a square of greaseproof paper below. The customer whom he was serving watched the process intently.
When she had finished serving the customer, Miranda came over to the table where Isabel had sat down and greeted her warmly.
“I’ve worked here two days already,” she said. “And it’s great.
Cat’s a great boss, and Eddie’s a sweetie, he really is.” She lowered her voice. “At first I thought that there was something wrong with him, I really did. Then I think he realised that I wasn’t going to bite his head off and he was really nice to me.
He showed me where everything is and he . . . Well, he was just very helpful.”
“He’s a bit shy,” said Isabel. “But we like him very much.”
“Has he got a girlfriend?” asked Miranda.
Isabel was slightly taken aback by this question. Was Miranda interested in Eddie? That seemed a bit unlikely; she could hardly imagine Eddie with this outgoing Australian, but then perhaps that was what Eddie needed—a girl who would make 2 2 4
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h the first move. She could not imagine his making the first move, or indeed any move. Or was there another reason for the question: a veiled enquiry as to whether Eddie was interested in girls at all?
Isabel glanced across the room. Eddie had finished with the ham and was busy measuring out stoned black olives into a small white tub. She had felt that she had got to know Eddie better when they had worked together, but when she asked herself what she knew about him—about what he did in his spare time, about who his friends were—she came to the realisation that it was very little. He sometimes went to the cinema on Lothian Road—he had mentioned that once or twice—and there was a band that he liked to follow—Isabel could not remember its name and had called it the Something Somethings when she had asked him about it. But that was all she knew about him; that, and the fact that there had been some traumatic incident some time ago. She would not tell Miranda about that, though, as it had nothing to do with her.
“I don’t know about girlfriends,” she said quietly. “He doesn’t talk about his private life. And I don’t think that he likes us to ask.”
Miranda looked thoughtful. “That’s what he needs,” she said. “He needs a girlfriend to give him confidence.”
“It may not be so simple,” Isabel objected.
Miranda looked over her shoulder to check that nobody was waiting at the till. “Every boy needs a girlfriend—or a boyfriend, depending, you know.”
Isabel nodded. “Having somebody else is important.” She looked at Miranda, at the fresh, open face, at the optimistic expression. That was what she liked about Australia and Australians; there was no angst, no complaining, just a positive T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
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pleasure in living. And there was such friendliness, too, embodied in that rough-edged doctrine of mateship that they liked to talk about. That had even found its way into the Australian Philosophical Review, where Isabel had found a curious paper called “What Is Mateship?” And mateship, it appeared, was a philosophy of looking after one’s fellow man, and sharing in adversity. She had been doubtful that Australians had any monopoly on that idea, but then she had gone on to read about how mateship had saved lives in the Second World War when captured Australian servicemen coped much better with the privations of the camps because their officers had shared with the men and taken a greater interest in their welfare than had the British officers, with their insistence on separation and privilege. British officers might have something to say about that, she thought, but it was interesting. Of course, mateship had its negative side: one had to take one’s mates’ side in any argument with the authorities, which was immature, thought Isabel—she had never understood why people found such difficulty in accepting that their friends might be wrong. I am often wrong, she thought, often, and I assume my friends are too.
Miranda was staring at her. “You’re a philosopher, aren’t you? Eddie was telling me.”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “That’s what I do.”
“I might have guessed that,” said Miranda. “Even if I didn’t know. You seem to think so hard about things. Just then you were sitting there and thinking about something, weren’t you?”
Isabel laughed. “Yes, I suppose I was. I find myself thinking at a bit of a tangent. I think of one thing and then I go on to think about something connected with it. And so it goes on.”
“And you get paid to do that?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. Philosophy doesn’t pay very well.”
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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Miranda was looking at her quizzically. “And yet Eddie says that you’re rich. He told me that you live in a large house and that you have somebody who works for you there.”
There was no malice in the observation, and Isabel found that she did not resent it. “I’m very fortunate,” she said. “I’m well-off. I was left money. That’s where it comes from. But I try not to splash it around, I assure you. I don’t live in great splen-dour or anything like that.”
“Pity,” said Miranda. “I would, if I had money.”
“You don’t know that. You might find that it made no difference. And it doesn’t, you know. Once one has the minimum required for reasonable comfort, any more makes no difference to how you feel. It really doesn’t.”
It was clear that Miranda did not believe this, but the conversation came to an end as Cat came in the front door. “The boss,” said Miranda. “When the Cat’s away the mice will play. I must get back to work. Nice to talk to you, Isabel. And thanks again for getting me this job.”
Cat moved over to the counter and said something to Eddie before she came over to Isabel’s table and sat down opposite her aunt. Isabel could tell immediately that there was something wrong. Cat was tense, and her greeting of Isabel verged on the cold. Patrick trouble, she thought. This was how Cat behaved when her emotional life became complicated; it had happened with Toby and with the others, and although it tended not to last long, it was uncomfortable for everybody.