The Novel Habits of Happiness by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

knew that their worlds were different, and she did not want to mention Grace. Yet she could not lie. “With the woman who helps me in the house.”
    Kirsten nodded. “Harry—that’s my son—is at soccer practice. He loves it. He comes back covered in mud and cuts on his knees and so on, but that’s what they’re like, aren’t they?”
    Isabel laughed. “Yes, they are. Boys are highly efficient magnets for dirt. And children in general are walking reservoirs of infection—every cold in circulation seeks them out so they can pass it on at school. Ask any parent about that.” She paused. The ice, such as it was, had been broken and she did not want to prolong the small talk. “Sam told me about you and Harry,” she continued. “She told me how worried you were.”
    Something in Kirsten’s demeanour changed. Now Isabel noticed tension around her eyes and mouth—a guardedness.
    “I find it hard to talk about it,” Kirsten muttered. “I know I shouldn’t, and that keeping it all to myself just makes it more difficult, but…”
    Isabel reached out instinctively, placing her hand on the other woman’s. She kept it there for a moment, and then withdrew it. “But you mustn’t feel that way,” she said. “I’m very happy to listen.”
    Kirsten looked up, and their eyes met. “I’m sorry,” said Kirsten. “I’ll tell you. But it’s…it’s not easy.”
    Isabel waited.
    “It’s because I’m a bit embarrassed,” Kirsten went on. “It’s that too. I’ve never had any time for this sort of thing. Never. Superstition. Rubbish.”
    Isabel encouraged her. “Many people would agree with you,” she said.
    “But not everyone.”
    “No, not everyone.”
    Kirsten sighed. “I don’t want my wee boy to grow up…to grow up
mental.
”
    Isabel was taken aback.
Mental
was a word used so casually to cover so many things—odd or aggressive behaviour. It was a word that had associations for her of pain, of rage, as well as of the despair that such things brought. “Oh, I’m sure there’s no question of that.”
    “You’ve never met him,” said Kirsten flatly. “You don’t know—” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.
    “Mental,” she said again, and shook her head ruefully. “That’s why…It’s because I was trying to convince myself that he was all right that I wanted to find out whether there might be anything in it. I thought we could show him. That’s why I wanted to talk to somebody who might be able to help me to do that. I couldn’t do it myself…”
    Isabel stared at her. It had just dawned on her that the role anticipated for her was not just somebody to listen, but somebody to do something. “So you don’t just want to talk about it? You want me to find out for you whether there’s any truth in this? Is that it?”
    Kirsten seemed unabashed. “She said you would.”
    “Who?”
    “Sam said you’d help me. She said that this is what you did. You helped people.” She paused, and then added rather lamely, “She said that you had a reputation for it.”
    Isabel had been toying with her coffee. Now she lifted her cup and drained it; it had cooled down enough. Over the rim of the cup she saw Eddie looking in her direction. He appeared anxious; he had rescued her before when she had been trapped by somebody. She shook her head slightly, and he looked away.
    Isabel made an effort. She felt slightly irritated that Sam had presumed on their friendship, but that was not Kirsten’s fault. She would not reveal her irritation to this woman who so clearly needed her help. At the most, she allowed herself an entirely internal sigh—a sigh that expressed resignation. She knew what Jamie would think, even if he did not say it:
Isabel, please think before you commit yourself to everybody else’s problems. Just think.
But Jamie had not been asked to help—she had—and that was the difference.
    “All right,” she said. “Tell me about it.”
    —
    KIRSTEN