{"product_id":"a-distant-view-of-everything-isbn-9780804169929","title":"A Distant View of Everything","description":"In this installment of the beloved Isabel Dalhousie series, Isabel is called upon to navigate complex social situations both at home and in her community.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA new baby brings an abundance of joy to Isabel and her husband, Jamie—but almost-four-year-old Charlie refuses to acknowledge Magnus, and Isabel struggles to impress upon her older son the patience and understanding that have guided her throughout her own life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e These are the very qualities that bring Bea Shandon, an old acquaintance, to seek Isabel’s help. Something of a matchmaker, Bea has introduced a wealthy female friend to a cosmetic surgeon, but soon uncovers information leading her to doubt his motives. Isabel agrees to find out more, but as her enquiries take an unexpected turn, she starts to wonder whom exactly she should be investigating. As ever, Isabel’s intelligence, wit, and empathy come to her aid as she grapples with issues like friendship and its duties, the obligation of truthfulness, and the importance of perspective.Praise for Alexander McCall Smith’s Isabel Dalhousie series\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Isabel’s search for truth follows a route that offers tantalizing glimpses of Edinburgh’s complex character and a nice, long look into the beautiful mind of a thinking woman.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Delicious mental comfort food.” —\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[Isabel] is by turns fearless, vulnerable, headstrong, and insecure, but always delightful.” —\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Philosophical inquiries are spontaneous and ongoing, stitched into everyday life and conversation. . . . Genial [and] wise. . . . Glows like a rare jewel.” —\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A world where humor is gentle, suffering is acknowledged but not foregrounded, and efforts to do good are usually rewarded. It’s a wonderful place to visit, even if we don’t get to live there.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[Isabel] is such good company, it’s hard to believe she’s fictional.” —\u003ci\u003eNewsweek\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eALEXANDER McCALL SMITH\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency novels and of a number of other series and stand-alone books. His works have been translated into more than forty languages and have been best sellers throughout the world. He lives in Scotland.\u003ci\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Adlestrop,” said Isabel Dalhousie.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJamie thought for a moment. They were sitting in their kitchen, on one of those indecisive days that was summer, but not quite yet; a day when the heating might as well be off as on, but when prudence—and superstition—required it still to be kept going. If you lived in Scotland and you turned off your heating too early, then the weather gods—stern, Nordic and unforgiving—could send a body of cold air down from the Arc­tic and remind you that they, not you, were in control.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJamie at least had taken off his sweater—as an act of faith, thought Isabel—while she had kept hers on. One of the news­papers, glimpsed in the local newsagent’s shop, had featured the headline \u003ci\u003eWeathermen say summer will be scorching! \u003c\/i\u003ebut Isabel remembered that this particular newspaper said much the same thing every year, out of concern for its readers, she decided, who otherwise were deprived of good news, and who were desperate for any meteorological crumb of comfort.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Yes, I remember it,” said Jamie, looking at her from over the table. “Although I’ve never been there, of course. It all depends on what one means by \u003ci\u003eremember.\u003c\/i\u003e” He paused. “Not that I want to sound too much like you, Isabel.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe smiled; the allusion had not been lost on her. They were playing Free Association, a game they sometimes resorted to when conversation failed, when there was no newspaper or magazine to browse, or when there was simply nothing else to think about. Each would come up with a name of a person or a place, and then the other would describe the thoughts that the word triggered. They had not invented it, of course: Isabel was careful to credit Freud for that, even if there were plenty of other practitioners, including Proust, who, she felt, only had to glance at something before he would be off into several pages of triggered memories.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHer reference was to the railway station at which Edward Thomas’s train had stopped one day in 1914. Adlestrop—seeing the name on the platform sign had prompted the famous poem: the steam hissed; somebody cleared his throat; no one came or left on the bare platform. \u003ci\u003eYes. I remember Adlestrop \u003c\/i\u003ewas the first line, and this had been what triggered Jamie’s response. She was proud of him: few people bothered to remember poetry any more, but Jamie did and could reel off screeds of it. “It some­how sticks in my mind,” he once said. “I just remember it. All sorts of poetry.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Things you learned at school?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe nodded. “Especially those. We were encouraged to commit poems to memory. Shakespeare’s sonnets, Wordsworth, Byron. The lot. Remember \u003ci\u003eHiawatha\u003c\/i\u003e? Longfellow’s still there.” He smiled at her. “Or some of it. \u003ci\u003eOn the shores of Gitche Gumee, \/ Of the shining Big-Sea-Water, \/ Stood . \u003c\/i\u003e. .”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Nokomis,” supplied Isabel. “My mother loved that poem and read it all to me—all how many stanzas? It goes on forever, doesn’t it? Still, Nokomis . . . Now then . . . \u003ci\u003eStood Nokomis, the old woman, \/ Pointing with her finger westward . \u003c\/i\u003e. .” She paused as the words, with their insistent, repetitive rhythm, came back to her. She had not thought about Nokomis for a long time. Then she continued, “Nokomis sent him off to avenge her father, didn’t she?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“She did,” said Jamie. “It was somewhat vindictive of her, don’t you feel?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Oh, I think you’re being a bit unfair. Nokomis was right to encourage him to deal with Megissogwon who was, after all, \u003ci\u003eTall of stature, broad of shoulder, \/ Dark and terrible in aspect, \/ Clad from head to foot in wampum . . . \u003c\/i\u003eMy goodness, why did I remember that?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJamie laughed. “What exactly is wampum? I was never quite sure what the word meant.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Shell beads,” said Isabel. “They were used as money, as well as being worn. You might describe Wall Street brokers as clad in wampum. I suspect they probably are.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut now it was his turn. Leaning back, looking up at the ceiling, he said, “Glyndebourne.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIsabel’s reply was immediate. It was a rule of Free Association that if you did not reply within ten seconds you lost your turn and the other player had another go. It was a further rule—invented by Jamie—that if you hesitated twice in a row you had to get up and make tea.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Wagner,” she replied.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe looked at her. “Glyndebourne doesn’t make me think of Wagner,” he said. “It makes me think of Britten.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe shook her head. “That’s not the point of this game, Jamie. You say the first thing that comes into \u003ci\u003eyour \u003c\/i\u003ehead, not into somebody else’s. And another rule is that you can’t argue with the other player’s association. If I say ‘Wagner,’ it’s because I thought of Wagner, and your saying ‘Britten’ counts as a hesita­tion. If you do that again, you have to make us both tea.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe pretended to sulk. “Your go, then.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Tea,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Mist,” came the reply.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe looked at him enquiringly. “Why mist?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Now \u003ci\u003eyou’re \u003c\/i\u003earguing.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe defended herself. “No, I’m not. I’m just interested in why you said ‘mist.’ I’m not saying you \u003ci\u003ecan’t \u003c\/i\u003ethink of mist, I was just wondering why.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Because that’s what I see. I thought of a tea estate some­where up in the hills, in Assam, maybe. And I saw women in saris picking tea leaves.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Fair enough.” But she was back in Glyndebourne. “I thought of Wagner,” she said, “but not any old Wagner. I thought of \u003ci\u003eDie Meistersinger von Nürnberg.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Ah.” He looked at her cautiously. He had almost taken a job at Glyndebourne—a long time ago, before they married. That road not taken could have been the end of their relation­ship, and they both skirted around the subject.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Don’t worry,” she said. “It was not an unhappy memory.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAnd then, years later, they had eventually made it to Glyndebourne together, leaving Charlie in the care of the housekeeper, Grace, who had moved into the house for the weekend. Charlie loved Grace, and she loved him in return, although something in her background—something that Isabel could not fathom—made her adopt a brisk, and slightly distant, manner with chil­dren. “You have to be firm,” she said. “If you aren’t, then they’ll take advantage. They watch us, you know. They look for the slightest excuse to avoid bedtime.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThey had flown down to Gatwick and then gone to a pub in the Sussex Downs that had rooms at the back for opera-goers and enthusiasts of real ale. The two groups, sitting in the pub, could not have more easily identifiable had they sported large labels. The beer enthusiasts were bearded and loud; the opera-goers, elegantly dressed and feeling out of place, spoke more quietly than they would do later amongst their own in the opera house bar.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt was Isabel’s first visit to Glyndebourne. She had been invited before, once when she was living in Cambridge and again after she had returned to Edinburgh, but had been unable to make it on either occasion. The second of these invitations had come from her niece, Cat, who had been given two tickets by one of her customers, and had offered to take Isabel with her. When Isabel had been unable to go, Cat had gone with a friend, and had complained about the opera, Tippett’s \u003ci\u003eThe Knot Garden, \u003c\/i\u003ewhich she had not enjoyed.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eEven Cat, who was musically hard to please, would have luxuriated in \u003ci\u003eThe Meistersinger, \u003c\/i\u003ea rich and spectacular produc­tion. Isabel sat transfixed and had to be prodded by Jamie to return to reality at the interval, when they went off to have din­ner in one of the opera house’s restaurants. And at the end, when they went out into the summer night, the sky still light enough for them to read the programme notes, Isabel did not want the evening to end. But Glyndebourne’s spell was slow to fade, and it was still upon them when they returned to the room they had booked in the pub, and closed the door and lay together on the lumpy double bed, still in their evening clothes, holding hands like two students newly in love, staring up at the ceiling with its uneven ancient beams of darkened oak. And she thought: \u003ci\u003eHow extraordinarily fortunate I am to be here, with him, when my life might have been so different if he had not come into it\u003c\/i\u003e. She looked at him, and loosened his black bow-tie—a gesture that struck her, even as she performed it, as one of ownership. It was a curious feeling—one of . . . what? she wondered. Sexual anticipation? The feeling that you have when you realise that you will be sleeping that evening with the person you most want to sleep with in this world.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe game of Free Association might have continued had it not been for the sudden eruption of sound from a small monitor perched on the kitchen dresser.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Magnus,” said Jamie.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Bottles,” said Isabel. “Endless nappies. Sleepless nights.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJamie laughed. “I had stopped playing Free Association,” he said, pointing to the monitor.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“I know,” said Isabel, smiling. “But I couldn’t resist the associations.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMagnus was their second child, who had arrived three months earlier, and who had just signalled that he had woken and was in need of attention. His nap had overlapped with Charlie’s; Charlie, although still sleeping, would shortly wake up too and make his presence felt.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Do you remember what it was like?” said Jamie, as he rose to his feet.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“What what was like?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“When we only had Charlie.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIsabel rolled her eyes. “Life was so absurdly simple then.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Not that I’d change anything,” said Jamie hurriedly. “I love them both to bits.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe knew that he did. He loved his two boys to bits, and she loved them that way too. She also loved Jamie to bits, and he had assured her that he loved her to bits. And if an inventory of affection were being made, she thought of so many things she could add to it: their house in Edinburgh, with its shady gar­den and elusive resident, Brother Fox; their city, with its fragile, spiky beauty, its mists and its skies and its romantic history; and her country too, Scotland, with all its curious quirks and its capacity to break the heart again and again.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“I’ll go and get him up,” said Jamie. “I’ll change him if he needs it.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“I’ll entertain Charlie when he wakes,” said Isabel.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“How do people who have four or five children cope?” asked Jamie.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Or six?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Six!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The older ones look after their younger siblings,” said Isa­bel. “Look at old photographs. Fifty, sixty years ago. Look at pictures showing children in the street—the young ones are holding hands with their older brothers and sisters who are clearly baby-sitting. An eight-year-old would look after a one-year-old, and a six-year-old would look after a four-year-old.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Everybody looked after everybody else, I suppose.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They did,” agreed Isabel. “And did so without complaint.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe monitor gave a further squawk. “Yet they didn’t even have monitors,” said Jamie.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e###\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMagnus’s arrival on the stage had been two weeks early, brought about, Jamie half seriously suggested, by Isabel having listened to a foot-tapping piece of music from the Penguin Cafe Orchestra. She had closed her eyes as she listened and then opened them suddenly, wide-eyed at the stab of pain.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHer breath had been taken away from her, and it was a few moments before she could speak. “She’s coming,” she said. They had been calling the baby “she” although they had asked not to be told what sex it was. Yet they were convinced; it would be a daughter this time. They knew they should not make any assumptions, but somehow they felt certain.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJamie had looked puzzled. “But it’s two weeks . . .”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe did not let him finish. “I need to phone the midwife. I need to let them know.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe realised that she was serious. “I’ll take you to the Infir­mary,” he said hurriedly. “Grace can look after Charlie. I’ll phone her right now.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIsabel held up a hand. “Hold on,” she said. “They’ll tell me to wait. We’ll have hours.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut she did not have much time. Things happened quickly, and she was in the labour ward within three hours, Magnus appearing twenty minutes later.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A boy,” said the obstetrician, passing the glistening infant to a waiting nurse.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJamie gasped. They had been so sure.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A little boy,” muttered Isabel.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe nursing staff fussed around the baby before handing him to Isabel, loosely wrapped in an off-white cotton blanket. Swaddling clothes, thought Isabel. But this is loose, and is not proper swaddling.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJamie cried, wiping at his tears with the back of his hand. They were tears that came with the cathartic welling up of more than one emotion: relief, sheer joy, love. These had all been his companions at the bedside, where he had sat through Isabel’s short labour; now they found release. A young nurse in train­ing, attending her first birth, was similarly afflicted, struggling to force back her own tears but finding the battle too much. A senior nurse, standing at her side, whispered something in her ear and touched her briefly on the shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Are you sure he’s a boy?” asked Isabel.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe obstetrician peeled off his gloves. “I’ve never been wrong on that one,” he said.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe trainee nurse giggled.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“You need to get some sleep,” said the senior nurse. She looked at Jamie. “Father too.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“We thought it was going to be a girl,” said Jamie.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Well, there you are,” said the nurse. “You were going to get one or the other, weren’t you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIsabel held the baby, her cheek pressed lightly against his tiny forehead. She saw that the baby’s blanket had letters printed on it, and they suddenly registered. \u003ci\u003eRIP: \u003c\/i\u003ewhat a tactless thing to put on a swaddling blanket, but then she noticed that the letters actually said \u003ci\u003eRIE. \u003c\/i\u003eThe Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh\u003ci\u003e. \u003c\/i\u003eThat was considerably better. The eye could so easily deceive—as when, a few months ago, she had misread a newspaper headline \u003ci\u003ePope hopes \u003c\/i\u003eas \u003ci\u003ePope elopes, \u003c\/i\u003eand had, for a moment, been both shocked and surprised. Of course now that a pope had broken with long historical practice and retired, it was always possible that a radi­cal successor might feel that the time was ripe to elope. \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThrough the euphoria of the morphine they had given her right at the end, she felt a small niggle of disappointment. She had so wanted a girl, but she knew that she must not allow her­self to think about it. She had a healthy, breathing baby, and that was all that mattered. Perhaps it had been a mistake to remain ignorant of the baby’s sex; the sonographers had found out when they performed the ultrasound scans but at her request had delib­erately not shown her the screen. Perhaps she and Jamie should have asked, because that would have prevented their building up hopes. She had wanted a girl because there were things a mother could do with a girl. They would be friends, as mothers and daughters so often are, and would share their world with each other. This was a boy, and it would be like Charlie all over again; not that she regretted anything about him, but the demands of a boy were different.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eJamie held her hand. “Well done,” he whispered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe squeezed his hand. “Twice as many things for you to do now that he’s a boy,” she said drowsily, not knowing exactly what she meant, or why she said it.","brand":"Anchor","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305394000101,"sku":"NP9780804169929","price":15.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780804169929.jpg?v=1767720433","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/a-distant-view-of-everything-isbn-9780804169929","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}