The Lost Art of Gratitude

Minty knew that she was coming, as Isabel had telephoned in advance. As Isabel made her way up the drive, the car wheels crunching the expensive gravel mix below—pink and grey—she saw Minty appear at the front door. She was carrying something in her hands, a magazine or a sheaf of papers—it was difficult to tell at that distance. She went back in, deposited the papers somewhere, and came out again just as Isabel brought the car to a halt in front of the house.

Minty’s manner was warm. “I know better than to offer you something to drink,” she said. “That’s one thing about living in the country—people have to drive out to see you and so your drinks cupboard rarely has to be stocked up.”

Isabel smiled weakly. “I like tea,” she said, “if that’s on offer.”

“Of course it is. Anything.”

Isabel instantly regretted her request. She did not want her visit to be transformed into a social meeting conducted over a cup of tea. She knew that this would be a danger with Minty, who would use her considerable skills to forfend any threat to her command of a situation. “Actually,” she said, “I’m not sure that I even want a cup of tea.”

Minty started to frown, but obviously thought better of it, and the incipient frown became a smile. “It would be no trouble.”

They were still standing outside, and Isabel, sensing that Minty was about to invite her in, looked over her shoulder at the expanse of rough-cut grass behind her. “It’s such a warm evening,” she began. “Couldn’t we go for a walk down there? The view must be stunning.”

Minty looked over Isabel’s shoulder, towards the hills. “It looks like rain’s heading our way.”

Isabel was insistent. “But not just yet. Come on.”

Minty conceded, and they began to stroll over the grass towards the bank of shrubs at the end of the garden. Beyond the shrubs there was a field, and beyond that more fields, woods, and, in the distance, the hills themselves.

“I hope you’ll hear me out in what I have to say,” Isabel said. “You may not like it.”

Minty was all innocence. “Not like it? Why? What could you say that I wouldn’t like?”

Isabel went straight to the point. “I know that you’ve used me,” she said. “You’ve deliberately misrepresented me …”

She did not finish. “Misrepresented?” snapped Minty. “I explained to you, remember. I told you in the café. I told you what happened.”

“And George Finesk? The letter you wrote?”

They did not stop walking. It was easier, Isabel felt, to utter these lines while walking.

“George Finesk?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”

Minty hesitated. Then: “George Finesk carried out a totally unwarranted attack on our property. And I have the evidence to support that.”

“But you didn’t tell me about that,” retorted Isabel. “You led me to believe that it was Jock Dundas. Yet you knew all along that it was George.”

“So? So what?”

Isabel stopped walking. She took a step to the side so that she was now standing directly in front of Minty. “You used me,” she said again. “You forged my signature.” She was looking directly into Minty’s eyes, hoping to see the effect of truth upon them. But there was none. Minty stared back at her, bemused. She controls even her gaze, Isabel thought.

Minty spoke. “I haven’t caused you any harm, have I? I’ve had to deal with two … how shall I put it? Two little problems. And I’ve done it—with some assistance from you, I admit, for which I really am grateful.” She paused. “Two women helping one another deal with troublesome men. But if it’s payment you’re looking for, I can certainly …”

“I don’t want money,” Isabel hissed. “I want …” What did she want? “I want an apology.”

Minty did not hesitate. “Of course. Sorry. Yes, I’m very sorry if you’ve been offended by my somewhat unconventional tactics. But you must admit, surely, that they seem to have worked.”

Suddenly Minty took a step backwards. “Do you mind? I feel a little bit claustrophobic when I’m too close to people.”

“Because you’re forced to see them as real?” asked Isabel.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do. You know exactly what I mean.”

Minty looked at her watch. “Look, it’s almost eight. I really have to get on with things. Gordon …”

Isabel looked past Minty towards the house. There was a light on in one of the rooms to the front of the house, and she saw a figure move across a window, silhouetted. It occurred to her that it would be very easy.

“Gordon doesn’t know.”

Minty, who had also turned, spun round. “What?”

“I said that Gordon doesn’t know about your affair with Jock …”

For a moment Minty said nothing. Isabel saw her colour though, saw the flush of anger, or was it fear?

“You’d tell him?” Minty’s voice was small—constricted by something.

Isabel was aware of the moment’s significance. It was a strange feeling—having somebody in your power and completely at your mercy. One might relish it, if one were insecure or perverted, or simply cruel.

Minty spoke again. “You wouldn’t tell him? You gave me your word, you know.”