Jane laughed. “There’s a very unflattering picture of me online,” she said. “It must have been put there by one of my enemies.” She paused. “Not that I have many enemies—I hope.”
“We all have enemies,” Isabel had said, trying to think of who hers were—or had been. Minty Auchterlonie, that scheming, ambitious woman with whom Isabel had crossed swords more than once? Hard-faced … No, she should not be uncharitable. Christopher Dove, the plausible, ruthless philosophical sidekick of Professor Lettuce? She wondered whether Jane had come across Christopher Dove, or even Professor Lettuce, great slug, great—Charity. Charity.
Now Jane came in, and Isabel, waving, rose to greet her.
Jane took off the lightweight mac she had been wearing; there had been a few drops of rain—not much—and she brushed these off the fabric of the coat before she sat down opposite Isabel.
Isabel pointed to the menu on the board behind the counter. “You choose from that,” she said. “I always have the same thing. Mozzarella and tomatoes. Caprese. And if you ask, you might get olive oil from the Zyw estate in Tuscany. Aleksander Zyw was a Polish painter who settled in Edinburgh after the war. His son makes olive oil in Italy. And his grandson, Tommy, works with Guy Peploe in the Scottish Gallery.”
Jane smiled. “What a nice thing that even the olive oil in your life has its associations. That’s what I like about Edinburgh. Everything is … connected somehow. It still has a sense of itself, of what it is.”
Isabel said, “But Melbourne must be like that too.”
Jane shook her head. “A bit, but only a bit. Our identity’s changing—as everybody’s is.” She looked at Isabel. “I’m not at all sure what it is to be an Australian. Do you know what it is to be Scottish?”
“I think so,” said Isabel. “I’m half American, though—on my mother’s side. So I suppose I know what it is to be a half-Scottish, half-American woman who’s a working philosopher and a mother and … well, that’s the whole point about identity today: it’s much freer, much looser. Which is a good thing, don’t you think?”
Jane inclined her head slightly; she agreed.
“It used to be very hard to be British,” Isabel continued. “The strain on the upper lip was pretty intense. Or American. All those short haircuts for the men and Betty Crocker cakes for the women. Identity was a straitjacket. Not any more.”
They were both silent for a moment. Their conversation had started in the deep end, unlike most conversations, which launched themselves into the shallowest of shallows.
Isabel had not finished. “Identity’s difficult. I suppose it brings about social cohesion, but it’s not much fun if you don’t quite fit. Being gay, for example, used to be pretty miserable. Or being a Protestant in a place like Ireland when the Catholic Church ruled the roost. Or being a woman in Ireland under the thumb of all those priests. Those big, dominant identities have been weakened, I suppose, but I think that might be a good thing, on balance. It’s allowed other identities to flourish.”
Jane did not look convinced. “Yes, but if you weaken identity, people end up not knowing who they are. They end up living bland lives with no real content to them. No customs, no traditions, no sense of their past. And I think one needs to know who one is.” She hesitated. “I guess we’ve spent so much time feeling ashamed of ourselves, it’s made us rather apologetic about being what we are. As a result we don’t want to be anything.”
Isabel was intrigued. “Ashamed of our history?”
“Yes. After all, we forced ourselves on others. We despoiled and plundered the world. Destroyed cultures left, right and centre.”
“Perhaps.”
“But we did! No perhaps about it. We did!”
“Well, at least Australia’s said sorry,” observed Isabel. “I’m not so sure that the West as a whole has. And even if we did all those things, we also invented penicillin and computers and human rights. We don’t need to be ashamed of any of that.”
Jane sighed. “No, we can’t browbeat ourselves for too long.”
As she toyed with the salt cellar, Isabel watched her. There was energy there; a controlled energy that was both intellectual and physical.
“An identity can’t be founded on guilt,” Jane continued. “We have to decide who we are, what we represent, and then defend it.”
“Enlightenment values? Defend those?”
Jane nodded. “Probably. Because if we don’t, then all is lost. Hobbes’s nightmare.”
“Of course.”
“Self-interest, naked materialism, authoritarian government: all of these are alive and kicking in the undergrowth, ready to take over, ready to fill the vacuum created by the decline of Christianity.”
The mention of religion stuck out. The laicisation of conversation—even about major things—had been so complete that religious references seemed inappropriate, almost gauche. And yet that was what had made us, thought Isabel. That had been at the heart of our culture; it had given our society its fundamental outlook. And could the Enlightenment have flourished in quite the same way in the absence of Christian sentiments of love and cherishing of others? Society may be post-Christian, but could hardly ignore its Judeo-Christian past; we did not, after all, come from nowhere.
“I know this is a bit blunt,” Isabel said, “but do you mind my asking whether you have a particular religious position?”
Jane looked at her directly. “Because I mentioned Christianity?”
“Not just that—”
Jane cut her short. “I sometimes envy those who have a strong faith. But in answer to your question, no, I can’t believe.”
“So you’re like most of us today,” said Isabel. “I have misgivings about people not having a spiritual life. It’s so … so shallow. I sometimes think that life without a spiritual dimension must be like being made of cardboard—and as deep and satisfying.” She paused. “I feel that there is something there—some force, or truth, perhaps—to put it at its most general. I sense it, and I suppose I’d even go so far as to say that I yearn for it. I want it to be. Maybe that’s God. But I find it difficult to accept any statement as to his identity. And as for claims to be the sole interpreter of that force—the sort of claim made by religions that tell you that they have the sole answer—well, what can one say about such arrogance …”
“Yet you say that we need religious belief?”
Isabel did not answer immediately. The problem for her was the divisiveness of religion, its magical thinking, its frequent sheer nastiness. Yet all of that existed side by side with exactly that spirituality that she felt we could not do without; that feeling of awe, of immanence, which she knew was very real, and which enriched and sustained our lives so vitally.
“Yes, we need it,” Isabel eventually replied. “Because otherwise we live in a world in which there is no real answer to evil.”
Jane looked at her quizzically. “Not even a socio-biological one? An evolutionary basis to morality?”
“No. And the point is that we don’t want to live in such a world. We would be unhappy if we thought there was no final justice. And so we have to tell ourselves that it exists.”
Jane sensed a flaw. “Even if we think it doesn’t?”
Isabel hesitated. “The fact that we want something to be the case—that we need it to be so—may be reason enough for saying that it actually does exist.”
“Surely not … Surely it’s more honest to say that arbitrary biological drives compel us to create morality.”
Isabel did not think so. Evil had to be combated, and we had to be motivated to engage in the battle. If we did not have a compelling intellectual reason to fight against evil, then it would have free play.
Jane made a gesture of acceptance with her hands. “And so we need a theological perspective to cope with evil? A belief in God is just a tune we whistle to keep our spirits up in the face of something nasty?”
“No,” said Isabel. “It’s not that simple.”
Russell, the pr
oprietor, was at their table, ready to take their orders. “And have you decided?”
Isabel smiled. “About the nature of reality? Or about lunch?”
They placed their order, and the subject of religion was tacitly set aside. It was a debate, Isabel thought, that had taken centuries and would require centuries more.
Jane had an afterthought. “Talking of identity,” she said. “A culture requires territory, doesn’t it? Or most do. And lots of territory and lots of people make for influential cultures. Imagine if Sweden were massive—”
“It is quite big,” suggested Isabel. “Look at a map.”
“Population-wise.”
“Rather small,” conceded Isabel.
“Yes. But imagine that Sweden were the dominant power in the world today. Imagine what a difference it would make. All those wonderful, highly civilised ideas of social democracy and concern for others would have a great army behind them.”
A Swedish world. The Swedish century. Isabel had to admit that it sounded attractive, but there was a flaw in the argument, which she pointed out to Jane.
“Of course, if Sweden were massive, and powerful too, then it wouldn’t be Sweden. It would behave in exactly the same way as any massive and powerful country behaves.”
Jane nodded. “Yes, I suspect you’re right. And I suppose that at the end of the day things are the way they are and we have to accept them.”
She paused, trying to recall something, then looked directly at Isabel. Her eyes, thought Isabel, have that curious quality of depth; eyes that drew you in. Unusual, intelligent eyes; a bit like Jamie’s, perhaps.
Jane looked away. She had brought to mind what she wanted to remember. “When I was a young girl there was a poem that I loved—something from A. A. Milne.” She closed her eyes—the memory of poetry sometimes comes easier if eyes are closed—and recited:
If Rabbit were bigger
And stronger than Tigger
Then Tigger’s bad habit
Of bouncing at Rabbit
Would matter no longer
If Rabbit were stronger.
“That is undoubtedly true,” said Isabel; and she thought of A. A. Milne and the Hundred Acre Wood and felt, for a moment, rather sad.
“MADE FROM BUFFALO MILK,” said Isabel, as they began their Caprese salad.
Jane sliced off a fragment of the soft white mozzarella. “The real thing.” She speared the cheese with her fork and popped it into her mouth. “It was kind of you to get in touch. I haven’t really got to know many members of the philosophy department at the university yet. I know a few, of course, but I’ve been put in the Institute—the Humanities place—and it’s a bit tucked away. Good for work, of course.”
“I remember how I felt in Georgetown,” said Isabel. “I was there as a research fellow and it took me months to get to know anybody.”
“Well, I appreciate it,” said Jane.
Isabel plucked an olive from the small tub at the side of her plate. Olives made her think of Charlie, who was being looked after by Grace while she came out to lunch. Grace never gave him olives, which she did not consider nursery food, and when Charlie shouted “Olive, olive!” she pretended not to hear. Grace had a tendency, Isabel noticed, of not hearing that which she did not wish to hear. It was a very useful talent.
“Tell me about yourself,” she said and immediately apologised. “Sorry, that’s a rather intimidating thing to say to anybody, rather like saying to a teenager, ‘What are your plans?’, when we all know they have none.”
“I don’t mind in the least. In Australia people sometimes say, ‘What’s your story?’ It’s an invitation to go on about whatever one wants to go on about.”
Isabel liked Australian directness. “So you can tell them your back-story, as the novelists call it, or just tell them what’s been happening that day?”
“Exactly.”
Isabel thought about this. It was the back-story that was often the more interesting.
“So if I were to ask you about your childhood, say …”
Jane put down her fork. Watching her, Isabel saw a shadow pass over the other woman’s face, and she thought: I shouldn’t have asked. There was some awful sadness, she felt; some disappointment, some loss. I shouldn’t have asked.
“I’m sorry,” she blustered. “That was rather rude of me. I wasn’t thinking. You can’t ask people about their childhood, just like that.”
Jane shook her head. “It wasn’t rude at all. After all, childhood is one of the most interesting things to happen to people in their lives—probably the most interesting. Not that children know it …”
“Let’s just leave it—”
“No. I’d like to talk to you about it. Do you mind?”
“Not in the slightest. But are you sure you want to?”
Jane smiled. “Listen to us. That’s another thing I like about Edinburgh. It’s so polite. How does anybody ever get through a door? Everybody would be waiting for others to go through first.”
“But that happens,” exclaimed Isabel. “There are people who have almost perished—yes, perished—waiting for others to go through doors. Do you know that there was an afternoon tea dance in Edinburgh not all that long ago when a fire broke out. Everybody was so polite it was half an hour before anybody went through the door of the fire exit. Half an hour! You first; no, please you go first; no, after you … The fire brigade turned up and they eventually got in—only after the firemen had said a lot of You go in first with the hose, Bill, please go ahead. No, after you, Jim … and so on.”
Jane looked at her in astonishment.
“Oh, I’m not serious,” said Isabel. She had been covering her embarrassment, as she often did: she would ask an intrusive question and then, flustered, go off on one of her odd tangents.
Jane smiled. “I like conversations that drift. But childhood … well, the point is that’s really the reason why I’m in Edinburgh. I was born in Scotland, you see, and I’m very keen to find out something about my childhood. I’m afraid I’m on something of a quest, even if that sounds a bit ominous …”
“It’s doesn’t sound ominous at all,” said Isabel. “It sounds intriguing—which is quite different. So, please go ahead. I’m listening.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THAT EVENING Isabel and Jamie went to a concert in the Queen’s Hall. It was Jamie who had suggested it.
“We hardly ever go to listen to music together,” he said. “When we go it’s because I’m playing and you’re in the audience. It’s not the same as going together, is it?”
She realised that what he said was true. She tried not to miss any of his performances in Edinburgh, but she had relatively few memories of sitting next to him and listening to others.
“No. It isn’t. In fact, have we been to anything this year—together, that is?”
He looked at her quizzically. Isabel spent a lot of time thinking about other things; perhaps that was why she forgot events that he remembered quite vividly.
“Yes, we have.”
She could not remember. “Oh, well. What was it?”
“That concert in aid of Breast Cancer Research. When they did the Tallis. And Byrd too. They had that counter-tenor. Remember? The one from the Academy in Glasgow?”
It came back to her; it had been four months ago, in February. There had been a snowfall and the streets had been filled with slush. She had got her feet wet as they crossed the street in front of the concert venue, and she had spent the first half of the concert in discomfort. And then the singers had sung “Sumer Is Icumen In” and she had forgotten about her cold feet. And “Sumer” had been followed by …
She turned to Jamie. “They sang something I liked. You found the words for me afterwards. It was that counter-tenor.”
Jamie had a prodigious memory for music and for the words of songs. “ ‘Thus saith my Cloris bright.’ Was that it?”
“Yes it was.”
“You liked it, didn’t you?”
&nb
sp; She asked who could possibly not like it, and he nodded, reciting:
Thus saith my Cloris bright
When we of love sit down and talk together
Beware of Love deere
Love is a walking sprite …
She muttered the words, “ ‘When we of love sit down and talk together.’ ” She paused. “Is Love really a walking sprite?”
Jamie was not sure exactly what a sprite was. “A spirit?”
No, it was not quite that. A sprite could be a spirit, Isabel said, but it meant something else in this context. A sprite was elusive, a will-o’-the-wisp, something you grasped at, only to find that it had slipped through your fingers. Love was exactly that.
“So we can never really hold on to it?” Jamie asked.
She did not want to say that one could not. That, she felt, was defeatist, but love did not last: at least, not in its intoxicating, overwhelming form. You could not love like that for ever—could you?
She became aware that Jamie was watching her.
“There are so many different sorts of love,” she said. “And being in love has a lot of meanings. Affection. Tenderness. Infatuation. Obsession. It’s as if love were a disease with a whole range of symptoms.”
He was still watching her and she looked away. “This concert tonight, what is it?”
He told her the programme, which was contemporary. “A piece by Kevin Volans. Another made popular by the Kronos Quartet. A cello concerto by Sally Beamish. All interesting.”
Grace had stayed to look after Charlie, settling herself in front of the television with a disc of a long-running adaptation of Jane Austen and a large packet of pistachio nuts.
“Heaven,” she had said. “No need to hurry back.”
They took a taxi to the Queen’s Hall and had a drink in the bar before the concert began. Isabel felt a curious sense of joy at being with Jamie, unencumbered by responsibilities, with just music to listen to and nothing else. She thought, I’m very happy, and this is all that I want in life. Just this. The realisation surprised her—even shocked her. She never would have imagined that she might have such a simple ambition. She had always wanted to make her mark in philosophy, to contribute to the wider world in some way. She never imagined that she would want only to be with a man, to live a day-to-day life with him. She knew that for many people this was their greatest ambition: to have a partner and a child, to live the domestic life, but she had never thought it would be enough for her. Yet it was.