“It was Mr Dalyell after all,” said Bertie. “And he told me the answer.”
“And?” said Irene.
Bertie looked at his mother. She was always forcing him to do things. She made him learn Italian. She made him play the saxophone. Now she was forcing him to give her the answer to the West Lothian Question. He would have to punish her again.
“I’m not going to tell you,” he said simply. “Mind your own business.”
Pat returned to the flat that evening slightly later than usual. The gallery had been unusually busy and she and Matthew had been obliged to deal with a series of demanding customers.
When they had eventually closed the gallery, Matthew had suggested that they go for a drink in the Cumberland Bar. Pat had hesitated; she was beginning to like Matthew, but she thought that on balance she would keep her relationship with him on a strictly business level; there was nothing else there, and she would not want to give him any encouragement. If she went for a drink with him, he might misread the situation and it would then become embarrassing to extricate herself. But had Matthew given any sign
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of interest in her? She thought perhaps he had, although it was difficult to put one’s finger on precisely why she should think this.
But what was more significant was her desire to get back to the flat. She had found that as the afternoon drew on, she had thought increasingly frequently of the prospect of returning that evening and seeing Bruce. A few days ago, this would have brought on a sense of irritation; now it was something different.
She wanted to see him. She was looking forward to going back to Scotland Street and finding him there. Even the smell of cloves, the scent of his hair gel which signalled his presence, was attractive to her.
She did not reflect on this to any extent; indeed she hardly dared admit it to herself. I do not like him, she told herself; I cannot like him. I have disliked him right from the beginning.
He’s self-satisfied; he thinks that every woman fancies him; in reality he’s just . . . What was he, now that she came to search for an adjective that would sum Bruce up? And why, in the midst of this deprecation should the word gorgeous come to mind?
Matthew did not seem to be too disappointed when she declined his invitation. “I’m going to the Cumberland anyway,”
he said. “Walk that far with me. It’s on your way.”
They made their way down Dundas Street in companionable silence. A few of the shops were still open; others were closed and shuttered. The fact that Matthew said nothing did not make Pat feel awkward. He was easy company, and it did not seem necessary to say anything. It would have been different with Bruce, she thought; she could not imagine being silent with him.
And that surely was a bad sign. There is no point in cultivating the friendship of those with whom we feel we have to talk. And yet, and yet . . . friendship was one thing; was she thinking of something altogether different? I am playing with electricity, she thought. And what happens to those who play with electricity?
Zap!
When they reached the end of Cumberland Street, Matthew said goodnight and disappeared into the bar. Pat continued her way through Drummond Place and turned down into Scotland Street. She glanced up at their windows, hoping to see a 184
light, but the flat was in darkness. Bruce was not back yet. This knowledge brought with it a pang of disappointment.
She walked up the stairs, past Irene and Stuart’s door, with its anti-nuclear sticker. From within the flat there drifted the sound of a saxophone, and she stood for a moment and listened. She had not heard Bertie for the last few days, but now he had resumed, even if the playing seemed quieter and more subdued.
She strained to hear the tune: it was not
Pat smiled. She remembered how she herself had resisted piano lessons as a child and had been forced to practise for half an hour a day. That had paid off, as her parents knew it would, and she had become a competent pianist. But she had often wished to cry No! No! in protest against the playing of scales and arpeggios. In Bertie’s case it must be so much worse. She had heard from Domenica just how pushy his mother was, and she felt a pang of sympathy for the small boy, burdened with that heavy tenor saxophone that must have been almost the same size as himself.
She continued up the stairs and let herself into the flat; as she had expected, there was no sign of Bruce. She turned on a light in the hall. A few letters lay on the floor. She picked these up and glanced at them. One was for her – a letter from a friend who had gone to live in London and who was always having boyfriend trouble. The others were for Bruce, and she put these down on the hall table.
Bruce’s door was open. This was not unusual; he usually left the flat before her, in a rush, as he tended to get out of bed late and lingered in the bathroom – in front of the mirror, she had always assumed. So he often did leave his door open in his rush to get out of the flat, and Pat, who had never gone into his room, had been given glimpses of what it contained. Now she decided she would have a closer look.
It was a strange feeling going into Bruce’s room uninvited.
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She paused at the door and almost turned back, but she now felt a delicious feeling of daring, of sweet risk,
