The Lost Art of Gratitude

He looked up at the sky. “Sorry, but this really is none of your business.”

You’re quite right, thought Isabel. It’s absolutely none of my business. But she did not say so. She did not like Jock’s attitude. It was the attitude of a bully, and bullies never liked others to become involved in their programmes of intimidation.

She took a deep breath. “Listen, Mr. Dundas. You are treading on very dangerous ground, you know.”

Her remark clearly took him by surprise. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound emerged. Isabel decided to press her advantage; she felt more confident now.

“You have no right,” she began. “You have no right to do what you’re doing. You should count yourself fortunate that Minty hasn’t contacted the police by now.”

Jock’s surprised expression now turned to one of astonishment. “The police? What on earth are you talking about? What have the police got to do with my efforts to see my son?”

He stopped himself, as if he had given away something he had no intention of revealing.

“I know he’s your son,” Isabel said quietly. “I know that.”

“Well then, I have a right to see him, I’d have thought.” There was a note of petulance in his voice.

“But no right to intimidate Minty,” Isabel countered. “Threatening phone calls. Sending a wreath to the house.”

Jock’s look of astonishment returned. “What?” His voice rose. “What are you saying?”

Isabel could tell immediately that his surprise was genuine, and she was entirely thrown by the realisation. Immediately she reached a conclusion: Jock had not been intimidating Minty—that was clear. Either that, or he was a most accomplished actor.

“Come on,” he said angrily. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

The woman who had been coming down the path was now not far away, and Isabel thought that she could probably hear what was being said. She nodded in the direction of the hothouse door. “Look, can we go inside?”

Jock, still angry, muttered his agreement and they went into the greenhouse. The warmth of the day meant that the air inside was uncomfortably hot, in spite of the automatic windows having opened to their maximum extent. The air was heavy, too, with the scent of a flowering plant, a thick, rather sickly smell.

“Let’s walk to the other side,” said Isabel. “We can talk.”

“And you can explain to me exactly what you meant just then.” The anger in Jock’s voice had not abated.

Isabel told him about Minty’s belief that he was trying to put pressure on her to surrender custody of Roderick. “Is that true?” she asked. “Are you?” She imagined what the answer would be.

The accusation appeared to surprise Jock. “Of course not. Of course I’m not doing anything of the sort. My God, what do you take me for? I’m a lawyer, for heaven’s sake.”

Again, Isabel was in no doubt about the genuineness of his indignation. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been misled. I’m not accusing you of anything.”

Jock brushed aside the apology. “All I want is to see him. That’s all. And I don’t want to break up her marriage or anything like that. That’s why I’m trying to see him discreetly—so that her husband doesn’t realise.”

Isabel shook her head. “All right. But surely you realise that you can’t go on doing that. Sooner or later he’s going to mention something to his father …” She corrected herself quickly. “Mention something to Gordon about seeing a man with his mother. Can’t you see that? And then what?”

“I’ve thought of that,” said Jock. “I’ve told Minty that these meetings can be described as business ones. I’m a lawyer. I could easily be doing business with her bank.”

It seemed rather unlikely to Isabel, and she gave him a searching look. “Really? Do you really think that would be credible? And what’s the point? What’s the point of getting to know this little boy when you know that in the long run nothing can come of it? He’s never going to treat you as his father.”

Jock was silent. The confident, rather arrogant expression of a few moments ago had yielded to something rather different. Now there was a look of defeat—a look of sadness.

“I hoped,” he said quietly.

“Hoped? What for?”

He did not answer.

Isabel decided to probe. “Why can’t you just accept it? Why can’t you say to yourself that Roderick may be your son but in reality he’s hers—and Gordon’s? Find somebody else. Have a proper son. One you can bring up yourself, not see furtively, like some sort of criminal.”

They were standing still now, next to a tropical creeper that had sent out elongated tendrils and strange cup-like blossoms. Isabel did not like the scent of the flowers, which was vaguely meaty, with a whiff of carrion.

Jock looked into her eyes, and she saw pain. “Has it occurred to you that you don’t know what you’re talking about? Sorry to be blunt, but has that possibility occurred?”