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Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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information. Then they hand over the letter. Apparently they have a lot of them—requests for forgiveness, I imagine. Letters of explanation too: why they did it.”
Jamie was quite still beside her. She heard his breathing. He was listening.
“The letter was handwritten and dated years ago, when Jane would have been about five or six. Jane showed it to me. It was very short. It said something like: ‘I am your mother and I always will be. I want you to know that I love you and I think of you every day.’ That was it—just a few lines.
“Jane said that she wept and wept when she read it, and I could see that this was true: the ink was smudged.”
“It gave no details?” asked Jamie. “No address?”
“Nothing. She was shortly to get her mother’s name, of course. She was about to go to Register House and see the birth certificate. That told her that her mother was called Clara Scott; occupation: student. And it gave her parental address. There was no father’s name, but at least she had an address for the grandparents at the time of her birth.”
“She found them?”
“No. This is where it all goes cold, I’m afraid. She went up to St. Andrews and located the house. The people living there had some information for her: they had bought it from the executors of a Dr. Scott, who had died ten years ago. His widow was alive, but was in a home. She suffered from advanced Alzheimer’s, they told her, and she had no idea of where she was or even of who she was. There was absolutely no point in going to see her.
“And as for Jane’s mother, these people said that they’d heard she had been killed in a road accident years ago, when Jane would have been about eight. So that was the end of her family. It was very disappointing for her.”
Jamie moved his arms. “Numb. My arms were getting numb. But she had a father. What about him?”
“She has no idea who he is. None at all.” Isabel paused. “She asked me whether I could help her find out about him. She hasn’t any idea how to start—she’s in a strange city and doesn’t know a soul, apart from me and Cat.”
“Then you must help her,” said Jamie. “You have to.”
Isabel had not expected this. “You normally complain if I get involved in other people’s affairs—”
“Not this time.”
She was curious. “May I ask why?”
“Because I’ve decided to try to see things through your eyes,” he said. “I try to think of—what is it you call it?—moral proximity. And once I do that, I realise that you have no alternative, Isabel. You have to help this woman.”
She said nothing, but reached out and put her arms about him, under the sheet. She moved closer. She felt his breath upon her shoulder, his hair against her skin. I have so much, she thought; I have so much, and Jane, it seems, has so little, although that, she saw, was an assumption that was both unsupported by fact and condescending in its implications. Jane was not to be pitied: why should she be? She was an attractive woman who had an enviable job; the fact that she appeared to have no boyfriend or husband was neither here nor there; for all Isabel knew, she might want none. And if she did not know who she was, that was true only in one sense; in every other sense, Isabel thought it likely that Jane knew exactly who she was.
Yet she would still help Jane because she had asked her to do so, and that, for Isabel, was grounds enough.
Ask and ye shall receive
. Yes. But then there was the line that followed, or came soon afterwards:
Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?
Isabel was feeling drowsy. “Some knowledge is a fish,” she muttered. “Some is a serpent.”
Jamie, half asleep too, grunted. She was talking about fish. Was she still on evolution? Fish, he thought. Fish. And then his mind became pleasantly blank and soporific, but aware of the weight of her arm across his naked chest, of the closeness and completeness of their being together in this most
Jamie was quite still beside her. She heard his breathing. He was listening.
“The letter was handwritten and dated years ago, when Jane would have been about five or six. Jane showed it to me. It was very short. It said something like: ‘I am your mother and I always will be. I want you to know that I love you and I think of you every day.’ That was it—just a few lines.
“Jane said that she wept and wept when she read it, and I could see that this was true: the ink was smudged.”
“It gave no details?” asked Jamie. “No address?”
“Nothing. She was shortly to get her mother’s name, of course. She was about to go to Register House and see the birth certificate. That told her that her mother was called Clara Scott; occupation: student. And it gave her parental address. There was no father’s name, but at least she had an address for the grandparents at the time of her birth.”
“She found them?”
“No. This is where it all goes cold, I’m afraid. She went up to St. Andrews and located the house. The people living there had some information for her: they had bought it from the executors of a Dr. Scott, who had died ten years ago. His widow was alive, but was in a home. She suffered from advanced Alzheimer’s, they told her, and she had no idea of where she was or even of who she was. There was absolutely no point in going to see her.
“And as for Jane’s mother, these people said that they’d heard she had been killed in a road accident years ago, when Jane would have been about eight. So that was the end of her family. It was very disappointing for her.”
Jamie moved his arms. “Numb. My arms were getting numb. But she had a father. What about him?”
“She has no idea who he is. None at all.” Isabel paused. “She asked me whether I could help her find out about him. She hasn’t any idea how to start—she’s in a strange city and doesn’t know a soul, apart from me and Cat.”
“Then you must help her,” said Jamie. “You have to.”
Isabel had not expected this. “You normally complain if I get involved in other people’s affairs—”
“Not this time.”
She was curious. “May I ask why?”
“Because I’ve decided to try to see things through your eyes,” he said. “I try to think of—what is it you call it?—moral proximity. And once I do that, I realise that you have no alternative, Isabel. You have to help this woman.”
She said nothing, but reached out and put her arms about him, under the sheet. She moved closer. She felt his breath upon her shoulder, his hair against her skin. I have so much, she thought; I have so much, and Jane, it seems, has so little, although that, she saw, was an assumption that was both unsupported by fact and condescending in its implications. Jane was not to be pitied: why should she be? She was an attractive woman who had an enviable job; the fact that she appeared to have no boyfriend or husband was neither here nor there; for all Isabel knew, she might want none. And if she did not know who she was, that was true only in one sense; in every other sense, Isabel thought it likely that Jane knew exactly who she was.
Yet she would still help Jane because she had asked her to do so, and that, for Isabel, was grounds enough.
Ask and ye shall receive
. Yes. But then there was the line that followed, or came soon afterwards:
Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?
Isabel was feeling drowsy. “Some knowledge is a fish,” she muttered. “Some is a serpent.”
Jamie, half asleep too, grunted. She was talking about fish. Was she still on evolution? Fish, he thought. Fish. And then his mind became pleasantly blank and soporific, but aware of the weight of her arm across his naked chest, of the closeness and completeness of their being together in this most
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