The Forgotten Affairs of Youth (8 page)

“Oh, Rory? He was on an army cadetship at university and he went to Sandhurst when he graduated. He was in one of the Highland regiments, I think—not the Black Watch, but one of the others. I saw him years later at the Skye Ball in his full dress kilt. He cut a dash even then. A kilt helps if a man has lost his looks—mind you, he hadn’t.”

The Skye Ball: Isabel knew people who went to that, but had never been herself. It was not her milieu—the world of Highland society and the more fashionable end of military, and it would definitely not suit Jamie. But unlike some, she did not begrudge socialites their enjoyment. Harmlessness was the test of the acceptability of fun, and spending an evening on the island of Skye dancing Highland reels until four in the morning struck her as being clearly and convincingly on the harmless side.

Catherine continued, “I heard that he left the army. Somebody told me that he didn’t like it much, that he got stuck. He got as far as being a major, though, and then he threw it in and took up a post as the secretary of a golf club somewhere near Gullane or North Berwick. Not Muirfield, but one of the others. And that was the last I heard of him.”

“He married?”

“Yes. I don’t know much about her, other than that she was the daughter of a farmer in Northern Ireland somewhere. She was sporty too. A horsewoman, I think, but I’m not absolutely sure.”

She paused. “You seem very interested in Rory. Does this Australian relative of Clara’s actually want to meet these people from Clara’s life?”

Something in the tone of Catherine’s question—a slight edge to it—made Isabel feel wary; again she wondered whether it was resentment of the intrusion. She did not want to lie to the other woman; she would not do that.

She chose her words carefully. “Yes, she might.”

“I wonder why?” asked Catherine. She asked the question quietly, but for a few moments it hung in the air ominously.

“Curiosity about family past,” said Isabel. “People want to know about family—and sometimes speaking to friends is the only way of finding out.”

Every word of what I have said is true, thought Isabel: every word.

Catherine seemed satisfied with the answer. “Yes, that’s quite understandable.”

“One thing, though,” said Isabel. “Clara left university towards the end of her second year. What happened? Do you know?”

“She took a year out,” said Catherine. “She must have had some private reason: her own affair. She came back and completed her degree, of course—she didn’t throw the whole thing over. Then, of course, there was that awful road accident. That was only five years after she graduated. A terrible waste.”

Isabel was on the point of asking Catherine whether she knew what the private reason was, but there was something in the judge’s choice of words that inhibited her.
Her own affair
. That was code for: keep away from this.

There was a final question to ask.

“Were there any other boyfriends?” Isabel said. “Was it just Rory Cameron, or were there others, do you think?”

Catherine did not hesitate. “No, just him. There was nobody else.”

Isabel finished her tea and quickly glanced at her watch. “I’ve taken up enough of your time,” she said.

Catherine rose to her feet. “I don’t know whether what I’ve said is of any help,” she said as she accompanied Isabel downstairs. “I do hope that your Australian friend feels that she can now fill in the gaps in the family history.”

Isabel said that she shared this hope, but as she replied she found herself thinking that Catherine Succoth did not really hope this; that she was indifferent to the quest of this relative and, furthermore, that she was not convinced of the existence of this person from Australia. Judges, Isabel remembered, develop an uncanny ability to tell when somebody is lying or, and perhaps more significantly, telling only half the truth.

Isabel went out into the street, the dark blue door closing behind her. She felt vaguely ashamed of herself, as if she had gained access to another’s house by false pretences, and then abused the hospitality she had been shown. It would have been better, she felt, to have told Catherine Succoth exactly why she had come and exactly what Jane wanted. That’s what a true Kantian would have done; she, by contrast, had behaved in a way that would not for a moment have troubled the most superficial relativist.

She had walked only a few paces down the street when she turned round and made her way back, decisively, to the doorway she had just left. She rang the bell, firmly, and waited.

“Oh,” said Catherine Succoth, as she answered the door. “Have you left something behind?”

“I did not tell you the whole truth,” said Isabel. “I am very sorry about that and I apologise.”

If the judge was surprised, she did not show it.

Isabel swallowed hard. “My friend from Melbourne, Jane Cooper, is Clara’s daughter. She was adopted, taken to Australia, and now she wants to find out about her father. That is why I came to see you.”

For a moment Catherine did not respond, and Isabel, holding her gaze, looked into astute, unblinking eyes.

When Catherine spoke, her tone was measured, the few words chosen carefully. “I assumed that,” she said quietly.

It took Isabel a few moments to absorb what Catherine had said. It made it far worse, she felt; the other woman had been sitting there throughout their encounter, knowing that Isabel was concealing something.

“I really am very sorry,” said Isabel. “I felt that I could not reveal what Jane had told me. I wasn’t sure whether she wanted anybody to know.”

Catherine seemed to assess this, as she might weigh a defence to an indictment. This, thought Isabel, must be what it’s like to be in the dock of a criminal court: to be judged by a rational and dispassionate mind, one that would not be easily misled, nor unduly lenient.

“I see.”

“It’s a strong desire,” Isabel went on. “This desire to know who you are is terribly powerful. I’m only doing this to help her.”

It was not much of an excuse, she thought, but it was at least the truth.

“Of course. That’s good of you.” The judge looked at her watch. “Look,” she said. “I appreciate your frankness, and I really don’t hold it against you. You were being discreet—which is nothing to reproach yourself for, given that everybody seems compelled to be transparent, so to speak, to the point that … well, to the point that nothing remains private any more. So please don’t worry.” There was another glance at the watch. “But I really must get back to work—I’m in court tomorrow and I have to write something up.”

Isabel took a step back as they said goodbye. She felt that her apology had been accepted, but there was something else in Catherine’s manner that suggested the door closing behind her was metaphorical as well as real. And who can blame her? she thought, as she began to walk back down Northumberland Street.

J
AMIE COOKED DINNER
that evening while Isabel read a bedtime story to Charlie. Like most young children, Charlie was conservative in his reading habits, demanding the same book time and time again, and impatiently rejecting any attempt to introduce new fare. Only when a book had collapsed through overuse or had been mislaid—deliberately or otherwise—would he allow something new. Until then, the same text had to be repeated
ad nauseam
, on its young audience’s insistence, to the point that Charlie knew every word of the narrative and would protest loudly at the omission of any sentence or paragraph.

The current enthusiasm was a once-suppressed book about a small boy who is stalked by a tribe of frightening tigers. The boy’s name, and his description, may not have caused its original Victorian readership to cringe; but a modern reader—at least, one sensitive to stereotype and condescension—might do just that. The story, though, was enough of a classic to remain in print, and was vastly appreciated by Charlie, to whom it was simply a story of a little boy in bright clothes who turns tigers (which is what he called the neighbourhood cats) into butter by making them chase their tails round a palm tree. Tigers, Isabel explained, were rather different from the cats they saw in the street; to which Charlie had solemnly replied, “Cats,” and nodded.

After the tigers had turned to butter for the third time, Charlie dropped off to sleep and Isabel was able to join Jamie in the kitchen downstairs.

“White wine, please,” she said, in mock desperation. “And please don’t mention either tigers or butter.”

Jamie had been and was smearing a layer of butter on sliced potatoes in a dish—the beginnings of his potatoes dauphinoise. “I won’t,” he said, showing her the buttery knife.

Isabel shuddered. “I know it’s a classic, but I really have had enough. And it’s so full of … well, every sort of assumption that we don’t want people to make. We’re laying them down in Charlie’s young mind. Who gave him that book?”

“Cat. She said she’d enjoyed it as a child.”

Isabel thought for a moment. Charlie had addressed Cat as “Tiger” the other day, and she had wondered why. It was so obvious, now that she came to think of it.

“Oh well,” she said. “There’s plenty of that stuff ahead of him. And we can’t change—and shouldn’t, I suppose—things and books that … just were.”

“Same with music,” said Jamie. “We play what was written, not what we think composers should have written.”

“But would you play something with really unpleasant associations? Music can be like that, can’t it?”

Jamie laid down his buttery knife. “Perhaps,” he mused. “Some people believe that Wagner’s tainted. There used to be a tacit agreement in Israel that he wouldn’t be played there—and still is, I think, even though Barenboim played Wagner in Jerusalem.”

“I can understand how people feel,” said Isabel. “And some don’t like to listen to
Carmina Burana
for much the same reason. It was wildly popular in Nazi Germany, after all. But it’s also pretty vulgar, isn’t it?”

She looked at Jamie, expecting a challenge. The concept of the vulgar was not one that everybody accepted any more. And yet some things were vulgar: there was just no other word for them. The houses of overpaid football players sprang to mind in that regard; large jacuzzis; cheap eateries with brightly coloured plastic furniture …

Jamie picked up his knife and licked it.

“Don’t do that,” protested Isabel. “We can hardly stop Charlie from doing it if he sees you. And there’s the cholesterol. Not good for you.”

He put the knife down again, almost absent-mindedly. “I was thinking about Orff,” he said, as if it were an explanation for licking the knife. “I like
Carmina Burana
. That wailing swan. The drums. The sheer viscerality of it.” He paused. “Can you say
viscerality
?”

“If you wish,” said Isabel. “If you say it with conviction. That’s how neologisms get going. Somebody uses a word with conviction. Or shall I say
convictionness
.” She remembered the words she had invented as a girl, and smiled. “I don’t like to boast, but I came up with some really good words when I was just a little bit older than Charlie. Or so my parents told me.
Hashoo
.
Oshlies. Gummers.
”

“
Hashoo
? A sneeze?”

She shook her head. “No, a saxophone. I couldn’t say saxophone, apparently, and so it became
hashoo
, which is beautifully onomatopoeic, don’t you think?
Oshlies
is orange juice—another good word, if you ask me—and
gummers
are the pads on a cat’s feet. And what else could they be but
gummers
?”

“Delectable words,” said Jamie. “I’ll use them all. We’ll teach them to Charlie.
Hashoo
in particular: that’s definitely what it is.”

“But he might not be able to say
hashoo
,” Isabel suggested. “And then he might say
saxophone
for
hashoo
.”

“And if he can’t say
gummers
he would have to say—”

“There is no other word for that,” Isabel interjected, then remembered a story. “Your saying that’s what it is reminds me,” she began. “It’s a story of English assumptions. Would you like to hear it?” She did not wait for Jamie to reply before she continued, “An Englishman was reflecting on the different words that people use for fish. ‘Isn’t it strange,’ he said, ‘that the French say
le poisson
, the Spanish say
el pescado
, and the English call it
fish
—which is what it is.’ ”

They both laughed. Jamie, who had been struggling with the corkscrew while Isabel told this story, succeeded in getting the cork out of the bottle, and poured wine for Isabel.

“Here,” he said, passing her the glass. “New Zealand white wine. Sauvignon blanc—which is what it is.”

The chill of the wine made the glass cold to the touch. She felt the tiny drops of condensation against her fingers. We forget, she thought inconsequentially, how
wet
air is.

“I suppose we’ll have to give it some consideration,” she said.

Jamie returned to his cooking. “Give what?”

“What Charlie reads. It’s just such a notion: that there’s a little mind there, and we have the power to shape it. That amounts to … to making a person, I suppose. What power! And should we try to make him in our image? To think like us? To like the things we like?”

“That’s what parents do,” said Jamie. “Who doesn’t? Children can’t choose their own culture—they’re born into something.”

Isabel saw that this was true; of course it was. “But we can be aware of the sort of message that they’re getting, can’t we? And this is put across quite subtly in children’s literature.”

“Maybe.”

“No, it is. I’m not one of those hyper-sensitive censors you hear about, but when you look at it, it’s there, and you can make out a case.
Babar the Elephant,
for example. It really is crammed full of imperialist notions. Celesteville is a French provincial city inserted into the middle of Africa. And that’s not the only bit of aggressive cultural imposition: the elephants, remember, are made to wear Western clothes. And as for Tintin, our friendly boy detective is a really nasty piece of work.”

“Surely not,” said Jamie. “I rather like Tintin … And Captain Haddock. All that whisky and colourful language. He was clearly meant to be Scottish.”

“Have you ever read
Tintin in the Congo
?” Isabel asked. “You Tintin enthusiasts pretend that that book doesn’t exist, but it does. Tintin shoots whole herds of antelope and his reaction to a rhinoceros, be it noted, is to drill a hole in its back and stuff it full of explosive. And then there’s
Huckleberry Finn,
while we’re about it, not to mention the entire oeuvre of Enid Blyton.”

“Oh well,” said Jamie. “Children have to read something.”

“They do. And I don’t think that we should run around removing things from Enid Blyton. The fact that Noddy and Big Ears sleep in the same bed, for example.”

Jamie thought it ridiculous to worry about something like that. “Of course they did. They were friends.”

“But not exactly contemporaries,” ventured Isabel.

“Possibly not,” said Jamie.

They fell silent for a while. Isabel sipped her wine and thought of her morning; she had not told Jamie about her visit to Catherine Succoth and was not sure whether she wanted to do so. She still felt a pang at the thought of those final moments of the encounter on the judge’s doorstep and her admission and apology. Social embarrassment was like that: the memory of some faux pas or gaucherie, of some bit of bad behaviour on our part, brings a sinking feeling later, makes us think,
Was that really us? Did we do that?

The words came back to her from the general confession of the Book of Common Prayer, on the subject of sins and transgressions:
The memory of them is grievous unto us
. Yes, it was.
The memory of them is grievous unto us.

Jamie, who had finished his potatoes dauphinoise, was making a mushroom tart. He looked up from his task of chopping the mushrooms. “What did you do today?”

She hesitated, unsure that potatoes dauphinoise went with a tart. But she addressed his question. “I think I found Jane’s father. But I must admit I felt a bit bad about the way I did it. I misled somebody.”

He did not seem interested in the misleading. “You found him? Already?”

She explained about her conversation with Catherine. “She came up with the name of the boyfriend. Rory Cameron. He became an army officer and ended up as the secretary of a golf club.”

“Could be worse,” said Jamie. “Jane could have found a father who did something terrible. If she gets the secretary of a golf club, well, it could be far worse.”

“Are you being sarcastic? Are you laughing at secretaries of golf clubs?”

He was not. It was, he said, a respectable thing to be. And there was nothing wrong with respectability.

“Have you told her?” he asked.

Isabel had thought about this. She had considered telephoning Jane straightaway, but she had decided against it. All that she had so far was the information that Rory Cameron had been Clara’s boyfriend in her second year at university—the year in which she became pregnant. But she did not know how long they had been together. For all she knew, they might have been seeing one another only for a month or two, maybe less. She needed more information, and she needed to find out whether Jane would like to approach him herself or whether she wanted Isabel to speak to him first. An intermediary could be helpful where there was a chance of being rebuffed, and Isabel imagined that there was always a chance of that in cases like this.

“I’ll have to talk to her about it,” she said. “I’m going to tell her that I have a candidate—if that’s the right word. And then we’ll see.”

“
I LIKE YOUR MUSHROOM TART.
Delicious. Really delicious.”

“Not the usual mushrooms,” said Jamie. “I get fed up with those white button ones you see in supermarkets. I wanted something more unusual.”

Isabel manoeuvred a bite of the tart on to her fork and popped it in her mouth. “Chanterelles? Oyster mushrooms? Is that what these are?”

“More exotic than that,” said Jamie. “You can get those in the big stores now. They’re almost as common as button mushrooms. No, I got these from Cat’s. She had a whole box of hand-gathered country mushrooms. All sorts and sizes. I forget what these ones were called.”

Isabel swallowed. “All sorts? Really? Who picked them, I wonder?”

“She said it was a friend of hers.”

Isabel cut another slice of the tart, but hesitated before putting it in her mouth. She laid down her fork.

“Which friend? Did she say?”

Jamie shrugged. “No. Some person who lives near Perth, who also supplies her with quail eggs. She didn’t give the name.”

Isabel lifted her fork tentatively. “I hope the friend knew what she was doing.”

She stared at the mushroom tart. No, it was ridiculous to worry about that sort of thing: Cat took food safety seriously, surely she would never sell anything at all dubious. She must have been confident in her friend’s ability to tell edible mushrooms from deadly fungus.

She put a further slice into her mouth and chewed ruminatively. Everything tasted fine.

“Of course the problem with poisonous mushrooms,” Jamie went on, “is that they taste so good. Apparently you can munch your way happily through a whole plateful of death’s cap mushrooms and comment on how delicious they are—even as they’re doing their dreadful work inside you.”

The rhythm of Isabel’s chewing slowed down. “Really? Didn’t Pope Clement VII die from eating that particular mushroom?”

“Who knows?” said Jamie. “If you suddenly found out that you’ve eaten the wrong thing, apparently there’s very little you can do. You may feel perfectly all right but you’re destined for kidney failure. And that can take some time to show itself. You just have to wait. It must be like swallowing a time bomb.”