The Lost Art of Gratitude

Isabel wrote down the reference and returned to the stacks. Professor Ponder’s article had been published in the American Philosophical Quarterly, and she quickly located the relevant volume. Taking it back to her seat at the window, she went straight to the article. Again there were footnotes, though fewer than in Dove’s own piece—four in all, only one of which had a reference to another paper. She noted down the reference, this time to the Canadian Journal of Philosophy, and to an article by a professor from the University of Toronto. Armed with her note, she made her way back to the stacks, replacing the American Philosophical Quarterly in its place as she went past. A, B and then C: the Canadian Journal of Philosophy, special symposium on “Reasons for Action.” She opened the volume and began to read as she walked back to her table. She stopped. It met her eye, leapt from the page, the result of an absurdly long shot. But some long shots come home to roost, just as some metaphors are destined to be mixed. Dove, she thought, you shouldn’t have done this. But you have. And now it is with your own petard that you are hoist.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THERE WAS AN ISSUE that had now become pressing. She had put it off, as one postpones a difficult encounter, a confession or an apology, but she now had to confront it. How would she break the news to Cat that she and Jamie were planning to marry? In the usual run of events, that issue presents itself the other way round, and if anybody worries about announcing a potentially awkward engagement, then it is the niece who worries about the reaction of the aunt. But this was a rather unusual situation, as the aunt does not normally become engaged to the niece’s former boyfriend.

But before Cat was informed, Grace would have to be told. There was no real reason why this should be difficult, but Isabel still found herself feeling anxious about how her housekeeper would react. She had time to think about it, though, as the day following the proposal was Grace’s day off and it was not until a day later that she was able to broach the subject.

“I have something to tell you,” she said to Grace as she came into the kitchen on Tuesday morning.

Grace hung up the lightweight raincoat that she wore throughout the summer, irrespective of the weather; she appeared not to have heard Isabel. “That bus,” she said.

“What bus?”

“My bus. The one I waited twenty minutes for this morning. Twenty minutes!”

Isabel made a sympathetic sound. Grace had strong views on public transport and what she considered its egregious failings.

“I had a word with the driver as I got on,” Grace continued. “I said to him: ‘Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?’ I spoke perfectly politely. I didn’t shout. I didn’t even raise my voice. I simply said, ‘Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?’ ”

Isabel looked interested. “And did he?”

Grace tucked her scarf into the sleeve of her coat. Few people wore scarves in summer, but she did. This is Scotland, she had once explained to Isabel, and we must be prepared for every eventuality. At all times.

“Some people have no manners,” she said.

Isabel said nothing.

The indignation in Grace’s voice rose. “You’d think that if you have a perfectly civil remark addressed to you, then you’d respond accordingly.”

“It might be hard to drive and talk,” said Isabel mildly. “I’m sure that he wasn’t being deliberately rude.”

Grace glared at her. “He said, ‘Would you kindly address your concerns, in writing, and in duplicate, to the relevant office of Lothian Regional Transport, the address of which may be obtained from the telephone book.’ Those were his exact words. Can you credit it?”

Isabel suppressed the urge to laugh. She could picture the encounter: the outraged Grace and the phlegmatic driver, trying to drive a bus along Grange Road while being berated by his passenger.

“Ridiculous,” she said.

It was a comment that covered all aspects of the situation, but Grace interpreted it as referring to the driver’s response. Mollified, she nodded, and then, remembering what Isabel had said, she asked what it was that she had to tell her.

“Jamie and I are engaged.”

Grace smiled broadly. It was an immediate, spontaneous reaction, and it set Isabel at her ease. “About time,” she said, and she stepped forward and put her arms about her employer. “It’s great news. Great.”

Isabel was astonished. Grace had never given her even a token kiss—birthdays had been marked with no more than a handshake—and now this warm, enthusiastic embrace.

“I’m very glad you’re pleased,” Isabel muttered.

Grace disengaged herself. “But of course I’m pleased.” She looked at Isabel as if any other reaction were inconceivable. “Of course I’m pleased. Do you think that I liked it—your …” She paused and avoided Isabel’s eye. “Your living in sin?”

Isabel gasped.