Alexander Mccall Smith - Isabel Dalhousie 05 Read Free Page A

AMSAY GARDEN,” said Isabel.
    â€œGardens,” corrected Grace, her housekeeper. Grace was punctilious in all matters and would not hesitate to point out mistakes, whether made by her employer or by anybody else. She was particularly fond of correcting politicians, whose pronouncements she weighed with great care, searching for inconsistencies—and for half-truths—of which she said she found many.
    This time she was wrong. “Actually it’s Garden,” said Isabel. “Singular. Probably because the houses were built up around a small garden.”
    Grace was glowering at her, but Isabel continued: “Mr. Ramsay’s garden, no doubt. The poet, that is, not his son the painter. He had a house there, I understand. He came to Edinburgh as a wigmaker and did extremely well. Then he became a bookseller and his son became an artist.”
    Grace was tight-lipped. “I see.”
    They were in the kitchen of Isabel’s house, Grace having just arrived for work. She had found Isabel at the table, the
Scotsman
crossword in front of her, a cup of coffee at her side. Grace regarded crosswords as a form of addiction, to be handled with the same caution as alcohol, and in her eyes to do a crossword so early in the morning seemed akin to taking a glass of whisky with one’s breakfast. And now, of course, there were sudokus, an even more dangerously addictive pursuit, although she had not seen Isabel stray over to them just yet.
    There was no sign of Charlie, apart, that is, from a small red fire engine and an already-battered stuffed bear propped up against the leg of a chair. His absence, though, was quite normal: Charlie was a child of habit, and he awoke every morning at five forty-five more or less exactly. Isabel would give him his breakfast and play with him for precisely two hours, when, with the same regularity with which Immanuel Kant took his daily walk in Königsberg, Charlie would begin to yawn. By the time Grace arrived he would be sound asleep, and would remain in that state until nine thirty, when he would awake with a hungry howl.
    Isabel had adjusted remarkably quickly to these early starts to the day. She reminded herself that there were parents whose day began much earlier. At the informal mothers and toddlers group that she attended at the coffee bar at the top of Morning-side Road, there was a mother who was wakened each morning at three by a hyperactive son; she at least did not have to contend with that. And there was another respect in which she knew that she was inestimably privileged. She had Grace to help her with Charlie during the day, and Jamie, of course, to help her in the evenings. And when it came to babysitting, as it had the previous night, there was a sixteen-year-old girl farther down the street who was always available and keen to earn a little pin money. Nobody else in the mothers and toddlers group was in that position, and so Isabel was discreet; Grace had never been mentioned in that company, although, if asked, she would have admitted that she had help. Wealth, thought Isabel, was something that should not be flaunted—even indirectly—but one should not lie.
    â€œAnd did you enjoy it?” Grace asked, moving to the sink, where a few cups had accumulated.
    â€œOh, it was the usual sort of dinner party,” Isabel said. “A fair amount of gossip. Chitchat. And we didn’t particularly enjoy it. In fact, Jamie didn’t enjoy it at all.”
    She looked at Grace, and found herself wondering whether the other woman ever had meals with friends. Grace lived by herself; there had been a man, some time ago, but he was never mentioned, and Isabel realised that she did not want to talk about him. Once, only once, had Grace mentioned him, and had been on the point of saying more, but tears had intervened and the subject was dropped. He had been unfaithful, Isabel assumed, or merely indifferent perhaps; hearts can be broken in so many