Pat nodded. Bruce was tall, and his hair did go like that; and why should it make her catch her breath just to think of him?
Matthew sat down at his desk and looked at Pat. “We’ll get it back,” he said. “As you’ve just said, it still belongs to us, doesn’t it?”
“That’s what my neighbour pointed out,” said Pat. “I hope she’s right.”
“I’m sure she’s right,” said Matthew. “So all we need to do is to find out who these people are – the people who won it – and ask them to give it back.”
Pat waited for Matthew to say something more, to censure her, perhaps, but he did not. Instead he spoke about some paintings which somebody had brought in for sale the previous day and which they were planning to take a look at that morning. Neither of them thought that there would be anything worth very much, but they were looking forward to spending a few hours searching for the names of artists in the books and relating them, if possible, to the paintings before them. Some names, of course, would simply not occur; would have faded into complete obscurity.
“Why do people insist on painting?” asked Matthew as they stared at a late nineteenth-century study of an Arab dhow.
“It’s their response to the world,” muttered Pat, peering at the signature below the dhow. “People try to capture something of what they see. It’s like taking a photograph. Why do people take photographs?”
Matthew had an immediate answer. “Because they can’t look at what’s before them and think about it for more than two seconds. It’s a sign of distraction. They see, photograph, and move on. They don’t really look.”
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Pat looked at him, and noticed the way that the hairs lay flat against the skin of his wrist, and the way that one of his eyebrows was slightly shorter than the other, as if it had been shaved off.
And she noticed, too, his eyes, which she had never really looked at before, and the way the irises were flecked with gray. And Matthew, for his part, suddenly noticed that Pat had small ears, and that one of them had two piercings. For a few moments neither spoke, as each felt sympathy for the other, as the same conclusion – quite remarkably – occurred to each: here is a person, another, who is so important to himself, to herself, and so weak, and ordinary, and human as we all are.
They worked quietly together, looking carefully at the paintings, before Matthew stood up, stretched, and announced:
“Nothing here. Nothing.”
And Pat had to agree. “I can’t imagine that we could sell any of these for more than . . . forty, fifty pounds.”
“Exactly,” said Matthew. “Let’s say thank you, but no.” He glanced at his watch. It was early for coffee, but he felt that he wanted to get out of the gallery, which suddenly seemed oppressive to him. That feeling would pass if he could get out and see his friends in Big Lou’s coffee bar.
With Matthew across the road at Big Lou’s, Pat picked up the telephone and dialled the office number that Bruce had given her when he had reluctantly agreed to find out how to contact the Ramsey Dunbartons. She listened anxiously as the telephone rang at the other end and when Bruce answered, with a gruff
“Anderson”, she almost put down the receiver. But she mastered her feelings, and asked him whether he had obtained the necessary information from Todd.
“I have,” said Bruce. “And here’s the number.” He paused. “I don’t know whether they’ll be terribly pleased.”
“Why not?” asked Pat. “Surely they’ll understand that there’s been a mistake.”
“Yes,” said Bruce quickly. “Your mistake.”
Pat ignored this. “We’ll see,” she said.
Bruce laughed. “Right, we’ll see. Now, is there anything else you wanted to say?”
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Pat was on the verge of saying that there was not, but then, for reasons which she could not understand, and before she could stop herself, she said: “That girl – that girl, Sally – do you like her?”
There was a silence at the other end of the line, and Pat felt herself tense with embarrassment. It was a ridiculous question, which she had no right to ask, and Bruce would have been quite entitled to tell her to mind her own business. But he did not, and replied quite brightly: “What do you think?”
“Do you mean what do I think of her?” It was a question that she could have answered with a remark about how she wore his dressing gown and the flaunting that this entailed, but she said instead: “Or what do I think you feel?”
“Yes,” said Bruce. “What do you think I feel?”
“You hate her,” said Pat. “You can’t stand her.”
Bruce whistled down the line. “Very wrong, Patsy girl. Very wrong. I want to marry her.”
Neither Ronnie nor Pete had arrived at Big Lou’s when Matthew came in that morning. As Matthew approached the counter, Big Lou, who had been tidying the fridge, looked up and greeted him warmly. There was nobody else in the coffee bar – indeed Matthew was the first customer that morning – and she was pleased to have somebody to talk to.
She prepared Matthew’s coffee and brought it over, sitting down next to him in the booth.
“Those other two are late,” she said. “Not that I mind. They never have anything interesting to say – unlike
