That was all that the film was about: exile and return, and the small needs of quiet people. She had wept then, as she watched the film, as she wept now, for very different reasons.
S H E M E T JA M I E in the front hall and led him through to the kitchen, where she had been preparing their supper. He yawned, stretched and said, “I’m really tired, you know. We had a party last night—the people from the workshop. I didn’t get to bed until two.”
“We can eat early tonight,” she said.
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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h
“I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“No, I know that.” Her heart was beating hard within her; her stomach felt light, topsy-turvy. She walked over to the fridge and took out the opened bottle of New Zealand white wine which she had put in to chill. She poured Jamie a glass of wine and a glass of ginger ale for herself.
He took the wineglass from her, looking at her glass as he did so. “Ginger ale?”
“Yes,” she said, trying to steady the glass in her hand, which was shaking.
He raised an eyebrow. He knew that Isabel enjoyed a glass of wine in the evening, particularly at the end of the week.
“Why?”
She closed her eyes. Her glass was chilly on her fingers, moist. Now was as good a time as any, perhaps the best.
“Because I’m pregnant,” she said.
He dropped his wineglass. It fell to the floor, to the Victorian stone flags; it shattered, although the stem remained intact, a little glass tower catching the light from the window. There was the sharp smell of wine, released in a sudden rush of bouquet.
She looked at him. “Oh, Jamie.”
He fell to his knees and began to pick up the glass. He cut a finger, just a small cut, but there was blood, and she bent down beside him and took the cut finger and pressed it against her blouse. It was his blood; his blood. Their faces were close together, and she kissed him. He kissed her back, and placed a hand on her shoulder, steadying himself.
“How clumsy of me,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“You couldn’t be clumsy if you tried,” she said.
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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He looked at her in amusement, and then laughed. They stood up. He held her hand in his. There was a small patch of blood on her palm now; his blood. He squeezed her hand.
“What are we going to call him?” he asked.
T H E Y AT E TO G E T H E R in the garden room at the back of the house, because it was so warm. The French doors were left open, and there was the scent of lavender on the air; there was only one topic of conversation, of course. She allowed herself a half-glass of wine, and they raised their glasses to each other.
She had been uncertain as to how he might react, but she had not expected this enthusiasm. “I’m glad for you, and for me,” he said. “I love children. I love them. I really do. And you’ll let me help, won’t you?”
“Of course,” she said. “After all, you will be the father.”
He repeated the word, and dwelt on it. “All of a sudden I feel very responsible,” he said.
She said nothing. He might not feel this way later on, she thought; she would have to see. But for the moment, her happiness was profound, and that was sufficient.
They sat together. Later, without ringing the bell and announcing her presence, Cat left a peace offering for Isabel at the front door: a package of French cheeses and a spiced Italian sausage from the delicatessen. She had taped a note onto the package which simply said, We must never have another argument. Never! And then, in a spirit of what might have been realism, or humour, or both, she added, Until the next one!
Shortly after Cat had left this present outside the door, Brother Fox, skulking through the front garden, hungrily sniff-2 7 6
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h ing at the evening air, detected its presence and padded cautiously up to the small package. He made short work of the wrapping paper—no challenge for a fox—and ate the sausage within a few minutes, spitting out the open elastic stocking in which it had been encased. After that he moved on to the cheeses, which he also ate, although not in their entirety, leaving small bits of rind littered about the path, evidence of the gift that he had so fortuitously intercepted. Then, replete and content, he moved away, back into the welcoming shadows, the undergrowth.
A B O U T T H E A U T H O R
Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the international phenomenon The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series. He is professor emeritus of medical law at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland and has served on many national and international bodies concerned with bioethics.
Document Outline
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three