Read Online The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds: An Isabel Dalhousie Novel (9) by Alexander McCall Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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and I
have a son of twenty-seven. Both live in Edinburgh—my daughter lives in Nelson Street.
I’m going down there immediately after this. We see each other regularly.”
“And your wife?” Isabel asked.
“Frederika. Freddie for short. I remarried about ten years ago. I had lost my first
wife to cancer a few years earlier. The children were still at school. Alex—that’s
Alexandra—was just about to leave and Patrick had a couple more years to go. It was
very difficult for him. Had he been a little older, he would have coped better, I
think.”
Had his words been written, the last sentence would have been underlined in red, thought
Isabel.
“It’s always difficult,” said Isabel. “I lost my mother at quite an early age. I was
twelve.”
“Yes, it’s not easy. Alex says that her memories sometimes get jumbled up—even though
she was almost eighteen when her mother died.”
“They will,” said Isabel. “I remember my mother, but the memories are sometimes fuzzy,
like a film that’s not quite in focus. I remind myself by looking at photographs and
by thinking about her.”
Isabel thought for a moment:
If she could only walk in through that door. If she could only do that …
They were both silent. Then Duncan glanced at his watch before looking out of the
window, as if expecting somebody. His appointment in Nelson Street, Isabel imagined;
his daughter opening the door to him, a kiss on the cheek, the exchange of small talk,
a cup of tea—how precious. She noticed the watch, which was thin, and made of rose
gold. It was discreet, understated. It was exactly right for him.
“Alex has been very upset by the whole business,” he said. “She was particularly attached
to that painting—she always has been. I keep off the subject because it’s just too
painful for her.”
Isabel thought this quite understandable. She was remindedof a picture of her own that she could not bear to lose—a drawing by James Cowie of
a boy, one of his Hospitalfield portraits. Cowie drew the young people whom he taught;
they were delicate portraits, entirely natural, catching what the language of James
VI’s time referred to as “man’s innocency.”
Innocency
: what a wonderful word, and different, in some indefinable way, from
innocence
. The difference, she thought, lay in the poetry.
“And I must confess it’s painful for me too,” Duncan suddenly added. “I suppose I’m
mourning that picture. Or that’s what it feels like.”
He reached for the raincoat he had draped over a chair. “I’ll tell Martha about our
meeting,” he said. “She’ll be pleased.”
Isabel inclined her head. “Good.”
Duncan rose to his feet. “Dear Martha.”
Isabel was not sure what to say. So she said, “Of course.”
It was the best thing to come out with in any circumstances in which one was at a
loss for anything more. “Of course” fitted most occasions, as it meant that whatever
the other person had said was perfectly understandable, and indeed correct; which
is what most of us want to hear.
“Although she can occasionally go on a bit,” he added.
Isabel noticed that there were the traces of a smile about his lips.
“Of course,” she said. “But we all can, can’t we?”
“Of course,” he said.
They went to the counter, where he paid the bill. “I’ll be in touch, if I may, when
we hear from … from these people.”
“Please do.”
“And we’d very much like you to come out to the house. Come and have dinner and stay
the night. You and your husband. And little …”
“Charlie.”
“Yes, Charlie too. Would you like to do that?”
She said she would. She was intrigued. But it was more than that. She had taken a
liking to this man—to the subtle and sensitive mind that she had detected beneath
the unlikely exterior. And she felt sympathy for him. He had lost a painting that
he loved and that he had been, generously,
have a son of twenty-seven. Both live in Edinburgh—my daughter lives in Nelson Street.
I’m going down there immediately after this. We see each other regularly.”
“And your wife?” Isabel asked.
“Frederika. Freddie for short. I remarried about ten years ago. I had lost my first
wife to cancer a few years earlier. The children were still at school. Alex—that’s
Alexandra—was just about to leave and Patrick had a couple more years to go. It was
very difficult for him. Had he been a little older, he would have coped better, I
think.”
Had his words been written, the last sentence would have been underlined in red, thought
Isabel.
“It’s always difficult,” said Isabel. “I lost my mother at quite an early age. I was
twelve.”
“Yes, it’s not easy. Alex says that her memories sometimes get jumbled up—even though
she was almost eighteen when her mother died.”
“They will,” said Isabel. “I remember my mother, but the memories are sometimes fuzzy,
like a film that’s not quite in focus. I remind myself by looking at photographs and
by thinking about her.”
Isabel thought for a moment:
If she could only walk in through that door. If she could only do that …
They were both silent. Then Duncan glanced at his watch before looking out of the
window, as if expecting somebody. His appointment in Nelson Street, Isabel imagined;
his daughter opening the door to him, a kiss on the cheek, the exchange of small talk,
a cup of tea—how precious. She noticed the watch, which was thin, and made of rose
gold. It was discreet, understated. It was exactly right for him.
“Alex has been very upset by the whole business,” he said. “She was particularly attached
to that painting—she always has been. I keep off the subject because it’s just too
painful for her.”
Isabel thought this quite understandable. She was remindedof a picture of her own that she could not bear to lose—a drawing by James Cowie of
a boy, one of his Hospitalfield portraits. Cowie drew the young people whom he taught;
they were delicate portraits, entirely natural, catching what the language of James
VI’s time referred to as “man’s innocency.”
Innocency
: what a wonderful word, and different, in some indefinable way, from
innocence
. The difference, she thought, lay in the poetry.
“And I must confess it’s painful for me too,” Duncan suddenly added. “I suppose I’m
mourning that picture. Or that’s what it feels like.”
He reached for the raincoat he had draped over a chair. “I’ll tell Martha about our
meeting,” he said. “She’ll be pleased.”
Isabel inclined her head. “Good.”
Duncan rose to his feet. “Dear Martha.”
Isabel was not sure what to say. So she said, “Of course.”
It was the best thing to come out with in any circumstances in which one was at a
loss for anything more. “Of course” fitted most occasions, as it meant that whatever
the other person had said was perfectly understandable, and indeed correct; which
is what most of us want to hear.
“Although she can occasionally go on a bit,” he added.
Isabel noticed that there were the traces of a smile about his lips.
“Of course,” she said. “But we all can, can’t we?”
“Of course,” he said.
They went to the counter, where he paid the bill. “I’ll be in touch, if I may, when
we hear from … from these people.”
“Please do.”
“And we’d very much like you to come out to the house. Come and have dinner and stay
the night. You and your husband. And little …”
“Charlie.”
“Yes, Charlie too. Would you like to do that?”
She said she would. She was intrigued. But it was more than that. She had taken a
liking to this man—to the subtle and sensitive mind that she had detected beneath
the unlikely exterior. And she felt sympathy for him. He had lost a painting that
he loved and that he had been, generously,
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