The Sweet Remnants of Summer by Alexander McCall Smith

Author:Alexander McCall Smith [McCall Smith, Alexander]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Canada
Published: 2022-07-19T00:00:00+00:00

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ON THAT MORNING, Isabel was late in getting the children out of the house. Jamie had left early to catch a train to Glasgow, where he was rehearsing with Scottish Opera. They were working on a production of the Meistersingers. “Lots of noise,” he said. “Lots and lots of it. Bang! Crash!” He liked Wagner because, as he put it, the music washed over you; you could sleep through sections of a Wagner opera, he claimed, half seriously—even if you were in the orchestra. Not that Jamie did that, although at a rehearsal recently an oboist had dozed off and had to be reminded by the conductor that there were still several hundred bars to go.

Without Jamie to assist her, Isabel had to struggle along with both children, carrying Magnus, who was not in a mood to walk, and dragging a reluctant Charlie behind her. Both boys had perked up on entering the school gates—a good sign, Isabel thought—and the walk was thereafter easier. Even so, she was relieved when they reached the entrance to the two side-by-side classrooms and she was able to consign Magnus to the care of a member of the pre-school staff.

“Sausages for lunch today?” asked the assistant, ready to note the preference on a clipboard. “Or vegetable lasagne with salad?”

Charlie chose for his brother. “Sausages,” he said.

“Shut up,” snapped Magnus.

Isabel bent down to admonish him. “That’s not a nice thing to say to your brother.”

Magnus made a scatological remark, and laughed.

Isabel glanced apologetically at the assistant. “I’m sorry,” she said. “He’s at that stage.”

The assistant smiled tolerantly. “Shall I write down sausages?”

Isabel nodded. “We love sausages, don’t we, Magnus?”

And then she handed him over before a further debate could keep the subject open.

The next gate along was the entrance to Primary One block. Small figures, abandoned at the door by their parents, thronged in the corridor that led to the classrooms. High-pitched voices, raised to produce that constant, cicada-like shriek that accompanies any gathering of young children, provided a backdrop of noise. A couple of teachers, conferring before the start of the school day, lingered near the door. One of these noticed Isabel consigning Charlie to the melee, and gestured for her to stay.

Miss Young was Charlie’s teacher. Isabel had been told her first name—was it Jean, or perhaps Jeanie?—but had never progressed beyond the formal description by which parents refer to their offspring’s teachers.

“A word with you, Ms. Dalhousie, if you don’t mind.”

Isabel waited as Miss Young detached herself from her colleague and approached her. She wondered whether she had forgotten to do something she was meant to do. The school was always sending back circulars that asked parents to do this, that, or the next thing. Please remember to give your child a water bottle. Do not—repeat not—send disposable plastic bottles. Please remember the oceans. That had annoyed her. As if she would forget the oceans. Or, a note that was occasionally tucked into Charlie’s school bag addressed simply to Parent, its content free of any conservation message but powerful nonetheless.

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