The Lost Art of Gratitude

I don’t have to do this, thought Isabel. I really don’t have to put up with all these hypersensitive people. This was Cat’s business, and Eddie and all these difficult customers were her problem and not Isabel’s. She saw that Eddie was still looking at her. There was something odd about his stare, and for a moment Isabel thought: What if he knows that I know? What if he knows that I’ve read the report about the attack? What if he realises that now that I know, I’m a danger to him—a danger that can only be solved by … She brought this train of thought to an end. It was absurd, and she would not entertain any such absurd, fanciful thoughts about Eddie; she simply would not.

BY THE END OF THE DAY, Eddie had become quite talkative. His earlier surliness had disappeared, and even the scratch on his face looked as if it had calmed down. Isabel tried not to think about that, and largely succeeded: her imaginings had been ridiculous, anyway, and she felt not unlike one of those nervous women who keep phoning the police about the men they were convinced were hiding under their beds. Wishful thinking, the police might say, although they were always so tactful in such cases.

As she prepared to lock up, Eddie stood behind the counter, untying the strings of his apron.

“Cat washes that for you, does she?” asked Isabel, nodding in the direction of the apron.

“She’s meant to,” said Eddie. “But she always forgets. So I give it to my mum. She does all my washing.”

“You’re lucky,” said Isabel.

“But you have somebody to do all your washing too,” Eddie said. “Cat says that you have this lady who does everything.”

Isabel winced. “I’m also lucky. Not that Grace does everything. But she does a lot.”

“It must be great being rich,” said Eddie. There was no envy in his voice; it was just an observation.

Isabel smiled to cover her embarrassment. “I’m not really rich,” she said. “Again, I’m lucky. And if you have money, you know, you tend not to talk about it—or throw it around. If you’ve got anything approaching a conscience, you try to use it well.”

“Well, I’ll never be rich,” said Eddie, dusting a small patch of flour off his apron. “Not that it matters.”

“Exactly,” said Isabel.

Eddie folded the apron and slipped it into a plastic bag. “Cat says that she has to be careful. She’s got a bit of money and she doesn’t want a boyfriend who’s interested in the money rather than her. That’s what she told me, anyway.”

“She’s very wise,” said Isabel, realising that she had never before said that of her niece, and perhaps she should have. Wisdom came in different forms, she reminded herself. “There’s nothing worse than a gold-digger.” She paused, before continuing: “Is there anyone at the moment?” She intended to sound casual, but she suspected that Eddie could sense the depth of her interest.

He looked at her sideways. “Cat?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. There is someone.”

Isabel waited for him to expand on this. After a while she encouraged him gently. “Do you like him?”

Eddie shrugged. “Her boyfriends don’t seem to last long, do they? Do I like him? Well, I haven’t really seen much of him. This one has only been round here once or twice. He’s too busy, I think.”

Isabel probed gently. “Busy doing what?”

“You’re not going to believe this,” Eddie said with a smile. “He’s a tightrope walker!”

Isabel said nothing. She did believe it. It was typical of Cat, even if it was somewhat original.

She picked up the keys. Eddie was ready to leave now; he had had enough of talking about Cat, and the evening lay ahead of him. “A funambulist!” muttered Isabel.

Eddie, moving towards the door, stopped. “What’s that?”

Isabel explained. “Cat’s new boyfriend. A funambulist. One who walks on tightropes.”

Like all of us, she thought. In the final analysis.

CHAPTER FIVE

RODERICK McCAIG’s second birthday party was to take place at three o’clock on Sunday afternoon, with carriages at five. Isabel smiled at the thought: baby carriages.

Jamie was not enthusiastic. “Do we have to go? I don’t like that woman, you know. And Charlie hates Roderick. Do you really have to sit through the birthday party of somebody who tries to pull your shoes off?”

Isabel conceded that Roderick was, at present, not perhaps the friendliest company for Charlie, but pointed out that there would be other children there. “He’s got to start making friends at some point. Who has he got at the moment?”

“Me,” said Jamie lamely. “You. Grace.”