The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds: An Isabel Dalhousie Novel (9) Read Online Free

and Martha sat down at one of the tables Cat kept for
     the serving of coffee. The customers were thinner on the ground in the pre-lunchtime
     lull, and Eddie had time to prepare and bring to their table two large, steaming cappuccinos.
    “Here we are, ma’am,” he said as he placed Martha’s cup in front of her. The intonation
     was contrived American, overlaid with a heavy dose of Scotland.
    Martha looked at him. “You from Glasgow?” she asked.
    Eddie looked down at the floor, humiliated.
    Martha smiled at Isabel, and winked conspiratorially.
    “Eddie has just spent quite a bit of time in America,” said Isabel quickly.
    “Yes,” said Martha, still smiling. “I suppose it must rub off eventually.”
    Eddie went back to the counter in silence.
    “That wasn’t necessary,” Isabel said quietly. “That young man has had a lot to put
     up with.”
    Martha looked towards Eddie on the other side of the counter. “Seems robust enough
     to me. And I was only joking.”
    Isabel wanted Martha to know the implications of her casual tactlessness. “Something
     bad happened to him some time ago. Something traumatic.”
    Martha looked interested. “What? What happened?”
    “I’m not absolutely sure.”
    Martha shrugged. “Dreadful things have happened to just about everyone,” she said.
     “It’s called growing up. You know the statistics …”
    Isabel decided to change the subject. She was not sure that she wanted to spend too
     much time with Martha—time that could be better spent making up the salad that would
     go with the onion tart. “You wanted to talk to me about somebody?” she said.
    Martha looked at Isabel over the rim of her coffee cup. “I did. Of course I don’t
     want to impose …”
    Isabel cut her short. “Don’t worry.”
    Martha lowered her cup. “You’re very good, you know. Everybody knows that you help
     people in all sorts of ways. Where does it come from?”
    Isabel squirmed with embarrassment. “I’m no better than anybody else,” she said. “I
     have all the usual faults and flaws.”
    “And you’re modest too,” said Martha.
    Isabel said nothing, waiting for Martha to continue.
    “So,” said Martha. “This problem: Do you know somebody called Duncan Munrowe?”
    She did not give Isabel time to answer. “You might have read about him. He crops up
     in the
Scotsman
from time to time. He does a lot for charity.” Martha paused, but only briefly. “He’s
     the sort of person everybody hears about but doesn’t really meet very much. That’s
     not to say that he hasn’t got any friends. He has quite a few actually.”
    Isabel waited until it looked as if she would be allowed to speak. “I’ve heard of
     him. I get him mixed up, though, with those other Duncan Munroes.”
    “They’re Munro with an
o
. He’s Munrowe with a
w
and an
e
at the end. Not to be confused with all those Munros that are mountains over three
     thousand feet.”
    “I see,” said Isabel. She decided to be brief; sometimes people like Martha, who spoke
     at excessive length, eventually exhausted themselves. The problem then was that they
     lacked the energy to listen to what you had to say.
    Martha continued. “These Munrowes—Duncan’s lot—are originally from Wigton or somewhere
     near there. I’ve always thought of that part of Scotland as being virtually Ireland,
     it’s that close.” She looked at Isabel with sudden interest. “Have you got any Irish
     blood in you?”
    “On my mother’s side there was some, I think. Irish and Acadian. They drifted down
     to the South generations ago. The Acadian part of the family was from Nova Scotia,
     I believe.” She thought: My sainted American mother, who would have been patient even
     with somebody like Martha. And I must try.
    “You’ve probably got a temper then,” said Martha, almost to herself.
    Isabel sipped at her coffee. Martha was impossible—risible, really.
    “Not that I’m one to talk,” Martha went on. “There