The Lost Art of Gratitude

The jeweller handed Isabel a small piece of paper and a pen. Isabel gave her back the ring and took the paper. But then she realised that she had no idea what she wanted engraved. Jamie’s initials? The initials of both of them? A date? The problem for Isabel was that she found herself in this realm of personal, emotional gesture, and she was unsure of the territory. There were people, she felt, who were much better at this sort of thing than she was. There were people who were unembarrassed by writing Eternal Love or I’ll love you always, or such messages; people who thought nothing of putting the most intimate Valentine Day’s messages in the newspapers, or proposing to somebody on the scoreboard at sporting events. That was not really her style. Perhaps she could have Amor omnia vincit—Love conquers all things; but then that was masking sentiment in Latin, and it also raised issues of truth. Did love indeed conquer everything, or did we merely hope that it did? She did not want to engrave something that was debatable.

She picked up the pen and wrote out a few words. Then she handed the piece of paper to the jeweller.

The jeweller read the message. “Isabel Dalhousie gave this ring.” She smiled. “That’s nice wording. I was worried that you were going to write Eternal Love.”

“I couldn’t,” said Isabel. “Because it isn’t. Nothing’s eternal.”

The jeweller put the piece of paper down on her desk. “You should see some of the things that engravers are asked to do,” she said.

“People are odd,” said Isabel, adding, “but generally they mean well.”

The jeweller seemed intrigued by this. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “Most people know what’s right. Most people understand the needs of others. They know what we should do.”

“Maybe,” said the jeweller as she looked for a suitable ring box. “May I congratulate you, anyway? I assume that the ring is for somebody special.”

“My husband-to-be,” said Isabel.

The jeweller smiled. “Congratulations. May I ask: Who is he?”

Isabel had been looking out of the window. There was a small knot of pedestrians on the other side of the road waiting for the crossing light to turn green. One of them was Jamie.

“As it happens,” she said, “that’s him over there, on the other side of the street.”

The jeweller came round to the front of the desk. “Him? The one in the red sweater?”

Isabel noticed that it was an older man. “No,” she said. “The one next to him.”

The jeweller said nothing for a moment. She watched Jamie waiting to cross the road. “He’s lovely.”

“Thank you,” said Isabel. “He is.” She hesitated. “May I bring the ring back for engraving later? I want to give it to him now. Since he’s there.”

“Of course.”

The jeweller passed over the ring. Isabel could come back later and pay, she said. She knew her; that would be all right. “I shouldn’t watch,” she said. “I promise I won’t.”

“But you can,” said Isabel.

She went out into the street. Jamie had crossed the road now and was heading towards her. Seeing her, his face broke into a broad smile.

“I was going to Hughes’,” he said when he reached her. Hughes’ was the old-fashioned fish shop on Holy Corner, the intersection so-named for the three churches overlooking it. “I decided to make kedgeree tonight. I was reading about it and it made me want to make it. Is that all right with you?”

“I love kedgeree,” she said. And then added, “And you.”

He looked taken aback, but he was clearly pleased. “Thank you. And I love you too.”

She was holding the ring in her hand, holding it tight. Now she opened her fist and he looked down. He raised his eyes to hers; surprise yielded to a tender look of enquiry. “For me?”

“Yes.”

He took the ring from her and slipped it on his finger.

Now Isabel looked at him questioningly. “Does it fit?”

“Yes. A tiny bit loose, maybe. But it fits.”

“They can adjust it.” She tossed her head in the direction of the jeweller’s window; there was a slight movement within, nothing noticeable from outside.

“You’ve beaten me to it,” he said. “That’s where I was going.” He paused. “Should we go there right away?”

She nodded. “They’re open.”

He looked at the ring, holding up his hand to admire it. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, Isabel.”

He had to stoop slightly to kiss her. She raised her face to his. She saw behind his head, above the rooftops of Bruntsfield, a gull riding a current of air, briefly dipping and then disappearing behind the stone chimney stacks.

ONCE THEY HAD FINISHED their business in the jeweller’s, Jamie would brook no opposition from Isabel. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

“Is it wise?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. Maybe not. But we can’t creep round the issue, can we?”