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Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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impersonal or desiccated, even if so many of them were just that. Did it matter one whit whom people loved and admired? It did not, she told herself. She remembered Auden’s lines,
When I was a boy I had a pumping engine
/ Thought it every bit as beautiful as you.
It did not matter. She knew people who loved people they had not even met; that was not unheard of.
I look forward to your paper,
Professor Trembling,
she thought.
Please send it to me the moment you’ve finished writing it in your house up at Napa. I await it eagerly. And I hope that you enjoy your time up there and that the weather is kind to you.
—
HER RESPONSE WENT OFF, not without some misgiving, but nonetheless giving Professor Trembling due encouragement. That done, she had had the rest of the day to catch up with what she called the “guilt pile”—difficult correspondence that had been shelved for reply at a later date. Grace was coming in later that morning and would be able to collect Charlie from nursery school, which meant that Isabel had until just after three to devote to work. Grace had just returned from holiday, having spent two weeks with her penfriend in the Netherlands. This woman, to whom Grace had first written when she was a girl of sixteen, had proved exceptionally loyal, and the two had exchanged a monthly letter for decades, sharing holidays with each other every second year. Neither had married, and both had similar working lives: Grace had been housekeeper to Isabel’s father and then to Isabel, while Sonja, having started as a chambermaid, had become a deputy housekeeper in the official residence of the Dutch royal family. “She’s very discreet,” said Grace. “They have to be, of course, but she can still tell me interesting, non-controversial things about those Oranges.” Isabel had been amused by the expression—
those Oranges
—the equivalent of
those Joneses next door,
and yet accurate enough: they were the House of Orange, after all, which made them Oranges in a sense.
She had waited for the interesting facts to be divulged, but Grace had at first said nothing. Isabel prompted her. “Such as?” quickly adding, “Of course I don’t mean to pry. Oranges are entitled to as much privacy as anybody else.”
“She’s called Beatrix,” said Grace, who was ironing one of Jamie’s shirts at the time. “She was the queen over there until a short time ago. Then she handed over. She wasn’t toppled, you know; she just said to her son, ‘That’s quite enough—you take over now.’ And she was entitled to do that, don’t you think?”
Isabel felt a momentary irritation. Sometimes Grace imagined that Isabel knew nothing, giving explanations of things that were well within common knowledge. Of course I know that she’s called Beatrix, Isabel said to herself. And I know that her mother was called Juliana and that her grandmother was Wilhelmina. I also know that Wilhelmina was one of the first people in the Netherlands to have cosmetic surgery.
“Beatrix is Queen Juliana’s daughter,” said Isabel testily.
“I know that,” said Grace. “And the grandmother was Queen Wilhelmina.”
“She had cosmetic surgery,” Isabel continued.
Grace was silent, but Isabel noticed that the iron was passed over Jamie’s shirt with more than the usual vigour.
“She had it a short time before her husband died,” said Isabel. “It gave her a permanent smile.” She paused. “That was a bit of a problem when the King died and there she was, smiling away.”
Grace lifted the iron off the shirt. “You mean she was smiling at the King’s funeral?”
“So I’ve read,” said Isabel. “It goes to show that you should be careful about cosmetic surgery.”
“Couldn’t they remove the smile?”
“I’m not sure. I have a vague memory that they did, but I’m not sure. It’s one of those things you read and you don’t forget, but you forget where you read it and you also forget exactly what you read.”
Grace
When I was a boy I had a pumping engine
/ Thought it every bit as beautiful as you.
It did not matter. She knew people who loved people they had not even met; that was not unheard of.
I look forward to your paper,
Professor Trembling,
she thought.
Please send it to me the moment you’ve finished writing it in your house up at Napa. I await it eagerly. And I hope that you enjoy your time up there and that the weather is kind to you.
—
HER RESPONSE WENT OFF, not without some misgiving, but nonetheless giving Professor Trembling due encouragement. That done, she had had the rest of the day to catch up with what she called the “guilt pile”—difficult correspondence that had been shelved for reply at a later date. Grace was coming in later that morning and would be able to collect Charlie from nursery school, which meant that Isabel had until just after three to devote to work. Grace had just returned from holiday, having spent two weeks with her penfriend in the Netherlands. This woman, to whom Grace had first written when she was a girl of sixteen, had proved exceptionally loyal, and the two had exchanged a monthly letter for decades, sharing holidays with each other every second year. Neither had married, and both had similar working lives: Grace had been housekeeper to Isabel’s father and then to Isabel, while Sonja, having started as a chambermaid, had become a deputy housekeeper in the official residence of the Dutch royal family. “She’s very discreet,” said Grace. “They have to be, of course, but she can still tell me interesting, non-controversial things about those Oranges.” Isabel had been amused by the expression—
those Oranges
—the equivalent of
those Joneses next door,
and yet accurate enough: they were the House of Orange, after all, which made them Oranges in a sense.
She had waited for the interesting facts to be divulged, but Grace had at first said nothing. Isabel prompted her. “Such as?” quickly adding, “Of course I don’t mean to pry. Oranges are entitled to as much privacy as anybody else.”
“She’s called Beatrix,” said Grace, who was ironing one of Jamie’s shirts at the time. “She was the queen over there until a short time ago. Then she handed over. She wasn’t toppled, you know; she just said to her son, ‘That’s quite enough—you take over now.’ And she was entitled to do that, don’t you think?”
Isabel felt a momentary irritation. Sometimes Grace imagined that Isabel knew nothing, giving explanations of things that were well within common knowledge. Of course I know that she’s called Beatrix, Isabel said to herself. And I know that her mother was called Juliana and that her grandmother was Wilhelmina. I also know that Wilhelmina was one of the first people in the Netherlands to have cosmetic surgery.
“Beatrix is Queen Juliana’s daughter,” said Isabel testily.
“I know that,” said Grace. “And the grandmother was Queen Wilhelmina.”
“She had cosmetic surgery,” Isabel continued.
Grace was silent, but Isabel noticed that the iron was passed over Jamie’s shirt with more than the usual vigour.
“She had it a short time before her husband died,” said Isabel. “It gave her a permanent smile.” She paused. “That was a bit of a problem when the King died and there she was, smiling away.”
Grace lifted the iron off the shirt. “You mean she was smiling at the King’s funeral?”
“So I’ve read,” said Isabel. “It goes to show that you should be careful about cosmetic surgery.”
“Couldn’t they remove the smile?”
“I’m not sure. I have a vague memory that they did, but I’m not sure. It’s one of those things you read and you don’t forget, but you forget where you read it and you also forget exactly what you read.”
Grace
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