in a tunnel. I have heard every word you’ve whispered, and I feel that I must agree with Angus. Of course you can change the way you feel about something or somebody. But it requires an effort of the will – a conscious decision to recognise what you have missed.”
“Precisely,” said Angus. “And this is exactly what the Professor of Aesthetics at Harvard did. She decided that she found palm trees beautiful – before that she thought them an unattractive sort of tree. Then she discovered that she liked the way that their fronds made striped light. And after that, palm trees were beautiful.”
This conversation on aesthetic theory might have continued, and indeed Angus Lordie was mentally marshalling arguments in favour of his position – and that of the Professor of Aesthetics at New York – when Domenica suddenly drew to a halt.
“Are we reaching the end?’ asked Pat. It was difficult to see what lay ahead, as the beam of the torch was, as she had feared, becoming rather weaker. But it seemed as if there was a blockage of some sort there.
“I think we are,” said Domenica. “Look, it seems to go fairly sharply upwards.”
They moved forward cautiously, Domenica playing the beam of the torch up towards the ceiling of the tunnel. Suddenly, and without warning, she flicked the switch of the torch and the beam
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of light disappeared. They were not in total darkness, though –
weak rays of yellow light came from above them, emanating from what appeared to be cracks in the roof above them. There was not a great deal of light, but it was sufficient for them to see one another’s faces, and to see the few chunks of fallen masonry that littered the tunnel floor around them.
Pat saw Domenica beckon them to her, and she and Angus Lordie drew near.
“We’re under a room,” said Domenica, pointing upwards.
They had been stooping as they walked, and now, by standing straight, their heads almost touched the roof.
“There’s something happening up there,” whispered Domenica.
“Let’s take a look. But do keep your voices down and, Angus, whatever you do, don’t let that dog of yours bark.”
“But where are we?” whispered Pat. They had walked some distance – perhaps the equivalent of two blocks on Princes Street
– but it was difficult to calculate distance in the darkness. They may have done many more chains than that.
“By my calculation,” said Domenica,
Moving carefully, so as not to make any sound, Domenica, Angus Lordie and Pat took up positions directly under the cracks in the ceiling. It was not easy to see what was going on above, but by the careful placing of an eye to a crack – a manoeuvre which involved pushing the side of one’s face against the rough masonry, and suppressing the urge to sneeze that inevitably followed – they were able to see up into the room above.
It was not a perfect view. It is, in general, easier to look down rather than to look up (a proposition which may be applied to a range of human activities, including literature and journalism).
The view from Parnassus gives one a greater sense of power, 270
one might assume, than the view of Parnassus from the plains below. But even from their disadvantaged and uncomfortable position, the sight which greeted their eyes was one which amply repaid the effort.
The cracks in the ceiling were cracks in the floor of a large room. They were directly below an impressive table, which was probably why they had been undiscovered. And around this table were seated some twenty people – forty sets of legs, male and female – forty shoes with accompanying ankles. And that was about all they could see, such were the limitations of their vantage point.
Pat stared at the shoes. Most of them were men’s shoes, but there were women’s shoes here and there, including a pair that was very close to her eye. She stared at the shoes: they were made of expensive leather, and had fashionable, finely honed square-tip toes. As she stared, one of the feet lifted slightly and the shoe came down on the edge of the crack through which Pat was looking. Had she wished to do so, she could have poked the tip of her little finger through the crack and touched the shoe.
But she did not.
She looked at some of the other legs and saw that one set of ankles, placed up at the top of the table, was clad in a pair of extremely bright red socks. The shoes involved were fine ones
– black brogues with a high shine on the toe-caps, influential shoes – which made the colour of the socks seem all the more surprising. Pat lowered her head for a moment and tapped Domenica on the shoulder.
“Did you see those red socks?” she whispered. “Up at the end of the table.”
Domenica pressed her face to the crack and looked again.
Then she turned back to Pat. Her expression was excited; as if she had made a great discovery.
“I know who that is!” she whispered. “There’s only one person who wears socks like that.”
Pat thought that she had heard the name, or seen it in the papers, but was not sure.
“He was chairman of a whisky company, I think,” said
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