The Lost Art of Gratitude

ISABEL’S DREAMS that night might have been about Brother Fox, or foxes in general, but it was Minty Auchterlonie of whom she dreamed: Minty in her garden, talking about something that she could not quite make out; Minty at a table in a restaurant pointing a finger at her, jabbing at the air to emphasise her point. And then, quite suddenly, Minty was no longer there, and Isabel found herself in a place that she thought might be Mobile, Alabama. She was with an aunt in a garden shaded by oak trees, and her aunt, whom she hardly knew, was talking about her sister, Isabel’s mother: “Such a pity she had an affair and your poor father was so upset by it.” Isabel felt embarrassed, and ashamed for her mother, and was about to protest that the affair was long ago and should not be talked about, when her aunt suddenly and severely said, “We must finish what we begin, Isabel. Your mother should have taught you that, but clearly has not. Too busy having an affair perhaps.”

Jamie touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Isabel?”

The garden in Mobile disappeared. “Oh.”

“You were having an unpleasant dream.”

“Yes.”

“You were muttering, you know. It was quite loud.”

She sat up. There was light flooding into the room through the chink in the curtains. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was almost seven; Charlie would have had Jamie up already. She looked at Jamie, who was standing beside the bed, having leaned over to touch her; he was already dressed, in dark trousers and a lightweight navy-blue jacket.

She got out of bed. “I was dreaming of Minty Auchterlonie,” she said. “Minty—of all people.”

Jamie moved across to the dressing table. He picked up a silver-backed clothes brush and used it cursorily on his jacket. The brush had belonged to Isabel’s mother, and she wondered: What would she have thought about Jamie? She would have approved; Isabel’s mother had only wanted her to be happy, and Jamie made her happy. She would have understood.

Jamie spoke without turning round. “That woman. You know what I think?”

Isabel retrieved her dressing gown from the back of the door. “What do you think?”

Jamie turned round now. “I think that she’s not going to go away.”

Isabel frowned. “Meaning?”

Jamie’s eyes met hers. “I think that she’s like a piece of unfinished music. It wants to resolve, but the notes aren’t there. So it goes round and round in your head until you work out an ending for it.”

She fumbled with the cord of her dressing gown. It was frayed and she would need to replace it. The dressing gown was beginning to look shabby, but she still loved it. She looked up. Jamie’s words hung in the air between them; one of those observations that on occasion comes out as an accusation.

“You think I should do something?” It was not what she expected; whenever Jamie offered her advice in this sort of situation, he usually told her to do nothing, to avoid further involvement.

“Normally …”

“Normally you wouldn’t.”

“No. I mean, yes, you’re right, I wouldn’t. But it seems to me now that this Minty person has really got under your skin.”

It was a good way of describing it. Minty had indeed got under her skin, like one of those little jigger creatures that one found in the American South; her aunt, the one she had dreamed of, had complained about those in the grass of her lawn. “Like a jigger,” said Isabel.

“Those parasite things?”

“Yes. My mother used to talk about how she took them out from under her skin as a child. With a pin.”

Jamie shuddered. “Maybe. But you need to sort out what you think of her. You can’t leave things up in the air, as they are. Many people could—but you can’t. You’re too much of a worrier.” He paused. “Use a pin.”

Isabel listened carefully. Why should she be surprised that Jamie thought of her as a worrier? Was she really?

“Do you think that I should …?”

“Have it out with her again?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated before replying. “Maybe. Just tell her what you think of her. Tell her that you don’t believe a word she says, and leave it at that. If you don’t do anything, she’s likely to draw you into something again. You don’t want that, do you?”

She thought about this. Charlie, who was in his playpen downstairs, had begun to cry. He would have thrown one of his soft toys out of the playpen confines, like one prisoner helping another to escape over the prison fence, and now he was regretting it.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

She thought: he’s right. And he often is.

He seemed pleased with her response. “Do you want me to come with you?”

She did not. He had done enough: he had pushed her in a direction that she might have gone in anyway, and she was confident that she could manage by herself. And she did not want to expose Jamie to Minty; she was not sure why, but she felt somehow that Minty was a threat to him, and that he was vulnerable.