Read Online The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds: An Isabel Dalhousie Novel (9) by Alexander McCall Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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intending to give to the nation. The thieves,
then, had not just stolen from a private individual, they had stolen from the whole
nation. If she could help to deal with that—even if she had no real idea what she
could possibly do—then she would do it.
They said goodbye on the pavement outside. He turned and walked back into Bruntsfield,
on his way to visit his daughter in Nelson Street. Isabel watched him go and reflected
on how a casual observer, driving past, perhaps, and seeing him in the street, might
come to entirely the wrong conclusion: might see a rather formal, even slightly military
figure, might take him to be exactly what in one sense he was—a country gentleman—and
would not imagine for a moment that this was a man who knew, and cared about, art;
who could mourn the loss of a picture. But then we can misjudge one another so easily,
she thought; so easily.
CHAPTER FIVE
T HE FOLLOWING DAY , which was a Saturday, Jamie was playing in a concert in St. Cecilia’s Hall and Isabel
had a ticket. Grace had agreed to look after Charlie and arrived early so that she
could do his dinner and give him his bath too. Isabel would have preferred to do that
herself, but she knew how much Grace enjoyed her time with Charlie and so she did
not begrudge it.
“And perhaps give him a quick mathematics lesson,” she said.
She spoke jokingly, but Grace was immediately defensive.
“I only do that when he’s fresh and in a mood to absorb things,” she said reproachfully.
“The end of the day is no time for that sort of thing.”
Isabel made a conciliatory gesture. “Absolutely not.” She thought of something else
to say. “Could you put some of that oil in his bath? His skin seemed a little dry
the other day.”
Grace looked sideways at Isabel. “But I always do. You have to be careful about that.”
If she always did it, then the implication was that Isabel was at fault. “I am careful,”
she said, meeting Grace’s gaze.
They heard Charlie playing in the morning room with Jamie,and Grace went through to greet them. Isabel retreated into her study.
You have to be careful
. Of course she was careful about dry skin—as if she did not know about it. It was
too much—did Grace think that she knew more about looking after children than Isabel
did? It was ridiculous. She looked up at the ceiling. No, it was not really ridiculous:
what was ridiculous was her own attitude to Grace’s entirely understandable lack of
tact. All that Grace wanted to show her was that she knew what she was doing, and
the reason why she felt she had to do this was because she thought that she—Isabel—would
not think that she knew … Isabel laughed, and the tension, the resentment, disappeared.
“What are you laughing at?”
It was Jamie, who had followed her into her study and was standing behind her. Isabel
crossed the room to close the door behind him—Grace had acute hearing.
“It’s something Grace said,” she explained. “She reminded me that you have to be careful
about children getting dry skin.”
“Charlie’s skin isn’t dry.”
“No, but sometimes it can get a bit on the dry side. If you don’t use that baby oil
stuff.”
“But I always do.”
She smiled. “Not you too! I didn’t say that you didn’t use it. I’m not accusing you.”
“But Grace is? Grace is accusing you of letting his skin get dry?”
Isabel laughed again. “No, this is becoming absurd. She just wanted me to know that
she knew about it. I got all huffy and came in here thinking what a cheek she had
and then realised that I had no reason to think that. And shouldn’t. So I stopped.
And that’s when you came in.”
Jamie shrugged. “An argument about nothing.”
Isabel agreed, but pointed out that a great deal of life was all about small things
like that: arguments about baby oil, about eggs, about who’s put something in the
wrong place. She had not yet
then, had not just stolen from a private individual, they had stolen from the whole
nation. If she could help to deal with that—even if she had no real idea what she
could possibly do—then she would do it.
They said goodbye on the pavement outside. He turned and walked back into Bruntsfield,
on his way to visit his daughter in Nelson Street. Isabel watched him go and reflected
on how a casual observer, driving past, perhaps, and seeing him in the street, might
come to entirely the wrong conclusion: might see a rather formal, even slightly military
figure, might take him to be exactly what in one sense he was—a country gentleman—and
would not imagine for a moment that this was a man who knew, and cared about, art;
who could mourn the loss of a picture. But then we can misjudge one another so easily,
she thought; so easily.
CHAPTER FIVE
T HE FOLLOWING DAY , which was a Saturday, Jamie was playing in a concert in St. Cecilia’s Hall and Isabel
had a ticket. Grace had agreed to look after Charlie and arrived early so that she
could do his dinner and give him his bath too. Isabel would have preferred to do that
herself, but she knew how much Grace enjoyed her time with Charlie and so she did
not begrudge it.
“And perhaps give him a quick mathematics lesson,” she said.
She spoke jokingly, but Grace was immediately defensive.
“I only do that when he’s fresh and in a mood to absorb things,” she said reproachfully.
“The end of the day is no time for that sort of thing.”
Isabel made a conciliatory gesture. “Absolutely not.” She thought of something else
to say. “Could you put some of that oil in his bath? His skin seemed a little dry
the other day.”
Grace looked sideways at Isabel. “But I always do. You have to be careful about that.”
If she always did it, then the implication was that Isabel was at fault. “I am careful,”
she said, meeting Grace’s gaze.
They heard Charlie playing in the morning room with Jamie,and Grace went through to greet them. Isabel retreated into her study.
You have to be careful
. Of course she was careful about dry skin—as if she did not know about it. It was
too much—did Grace think that she knew more about looking after children than Isabel
did? It was ridiculous. She looked up at the ceiling. No, it was not really ridiculous:
what was ridiculous was her own attitude to Grace’s entirely understandable lack of
tact. All that Grace wanted to show her was that she knew what she was doing, and
the reason why she felt she had to do this was because she thought that she—Isabel—would
not think that she knew … Isabel laughed, and the tension, the resentment, disappeared.
“What are you laughing at?”
It was Jamie, who had followed her into her study and was standing behind her. Isabel
crossed the room to close the door behind him—Grace had acute hearing.
“It’s something Grace said,” she explained. “She reminded me that you have to be careful
about children getting dry skin.”
“Charlie’s skin isn’t dry.”
“No, but sometimes it can get a bit on the dry side. If you don’t use that baby oil
stuff.”
“But I always do.”
She smiled. “Not you too! I didn’t say that you didn’t use it. I’m not accusing you.”
“But Grace is? Grace is accusing you of letting his skin get dry?”
Isabel laughed again. “No, this is becoming absurd. She just wanted me to know that
she knew about it. I got all huffy and came in here thinking what a cheek she had
and then realised that I had no reason to think that. And shouldn’t. So I stopped.
And that’s when you came in.”
Jamie shrugged. “An argument about nothing.”
Isabel agreed, but pointed out that a great deal of life was all about small things
like that: arguments about baby oil, about eggs, about who’s put something in the
wrong place. She had not yet
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