The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds: An Isabel Dalhousie Novel (9) by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

mathematics: she seemed to remember
     being told that if you developed the wrong way of doing mathematics when you were
     young, you could be lumbered with it for the rest of your life. It was the same with
     many activities—from typing to playing the violin: it was sometimes far harder to
     unlearn bad habits than to learn them in the first place. But the issue would have
     to be handled delicately; Grace was touchy and could take offence at the slightest
     reproach, even if unintended.
    “I suppose he must have natural ability,” said Isabel mildly.
    Grace looked thoughtful. “Probably no more than any other child of his age. It’s the
     teaching, I think. The book is really good. It says any child can be really good at
     calculating if you follow their method.”
    Isabel looked doubtful. “Surely not every single child. Genes must play some sort
     of role,” she said. “Mathematical ability and musicality often go together. Jamie’s
     a musician, after all, and maybe Charlie gets it from him.”
    Grace shook her head. “It’s the book, I think.”
    Isabel decided not to argue. This was not the time to voice her reservations—especially
     when Grace was feeling sleep-deprived as a result of the snoring Ayrshire farmer.
     “Oh, well,” she said.
    “Yes,” said Grace. “I’m going to teach him to count money next. There’s a chapter
     on that in the book. It’s called ‘The Baby Accountant.’ ”
    Isabel bit her lip. She was grateful to Grace for all she did for Charlie, but did
     she really want him to be a baby accountant? Charlie should develop at his own pace,
     she thought. He should get every help, naturally, but Isabel was definite that she
     did not want to be a pushy parent who made her child jump through all sorts of hoops.
     Surely Grace did not want that for Charlie either. Surely not.
    “ MISS DALHOUSIE ?”
    He was already sitting at a table when Isabel arrived at Falko’s Konditorei, the German
     bakery and coffee shop along the street from Cat’s delicatessen. There were only a
     few other people in the café, but even had there been a much larger crowd Isabel would
     have had no difficulty in picking out Duncan Munrowe. It was largely a matter of dress—a
     jacket in a quiet browny-green; a dark-blue tie, discreetly checked; brown brogues:
     the uniform of the moneyed countryman—nothing ostentatious, nothing loud. And that
     was just the clothing; the physiognomy, too, revealed his origins: regular features,
     chiselled, showing a certain intelligence, even if not the face of an intellectual
     or aesthete. It was a handsome face, she thought, and the man’s overall bearing was
     impressive.
    “Isabel, please.”
    “Of course. And I’m Duncan: Duncan Munrowe.”
    They shook hands. The handshake, too, conformed to type.
    Duncan Munrowe thanked her for agreeing to see him. “It’s an awful cheek on my part,”
     he said. “We haven’t met, and here I am inviting you to listen to my problems.”
    Isabel laughed. “I don’t mind.” And she decided that she didnot; her immediate impression of him was positive. This man, she decided, was exactly
     what he purported to be: a country gentleman, for want of a better term; nothing more,
     nor less, than that. He was at the opposite end of the spectrum from … She hesitated:
     Who
was
at the other end of the spectrum? It came to her: Professor Lettuce and Christopher
     Dove. Scheming philosophers. Waspish backbiters.
    “Well, you’re very kind,” Duncan said. “But I must admit I feel a trifle embarrassed.”
    She assured him that this was unnecessary. As she did so, she considered his voice.
     There was a hint of a Scottish burr, but only a hint. That would have been taken out
     of the Munrowe voice two or three generations ago through being educated at schools
     that modelled themselves on the English public-school system, even if they were in
     Scotland. Or they would have been sent off to the South, to Harrow or Eton, or