The Forgotten Affairs of Youth by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online

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