They were well-trodden steps, and the stone had been worn away in the middle so that the treads were uneven. This did not matter, of course, because these steps, although irregular, were still beautiful. And why were they beautiful? Because they had character. Steps with soul. Barbara Pym again. She would have to be careful.
On her way up the stairs, Domenica found herself directly outside Stuart and Irene’s flat when the door was opened by Irene, who was on the point of leaving the flat with Bertie. Both women were taken aback, although there was no real reason for surprise.
Doors opened onto the stair, which people used regularly, and it was inevitable that these doors should sometimes be opened at precisely the time that others were passing by. But for some reason it seemed to happen rather rarely, and Domenica was now offered a glimpse into a flat which she had never before seen.
Irene had never invited her in because she disliked her, and she had similarly omitted to include Irene and her husband in any
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of her sherry parties. What contact there had been between them had been in the street outside, or sometimes at the bottom of the stair – brief, civil exchanges, but concealing only-guessed-at depths of mutual antipathy.
For a moment both women stood there in silence, mouths slightly open, Irene just inside the flat, with Bertie at her side, and Domenica directly outside, one foot on the coir doormat which resided just outside the door.
Domenica broke the silence. “Well,” she said, “it’s certainly a good morning to be going out. I’ve just been round Holyrood Park and the city looked gorgeous.” As she spoke she took the opportunity to glance beyond Irene and Bertie into the flat. She noticed a bowl of papyrus grass on a hall table – curious, she thought – and a large framed poster of a Leger painting on the wall behind. Even more curious. Why Leger?
Her composure recovered, Irene noticed Domenica’s glance and shifted slightly to obscure her view. What a cheek, she thought. It was typical of this woman’s arrogance, that she should imagine that she had the right to stare into her hallway. And what would she be doing? Making a socio-economic judgment, probably, which is what these Edinburgh-types simply couldn’t resist doing. And how dare she go on about her car, her gross, flashy, fuel- guzzling, piece of German machinery!
“I take it you walked,” said Irene quickly. “One wouldn’t
This was an opening salvo, but from such opening shots might spring a full-scale war. “Oh no,” Domenica said airily. “I drove.
In my Mercedes. It was lovely. You’ve seen my nice big car, Bertie?
The custard-coloured one? Would you like a ride in it one day?”
Bertie’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes please, Mrs Macdonald,” he said.
This brought a sharp intake of breath from Irene. “I’m sorry Bertie,” she said. “We can’t go for a ride in any and every car.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper, but one still quite audible to Domenica. “And, anyway, she’s not Mrs Macdonald. She’s
Domenica smiled, even if somewhat icily. “Actually, it’s perfectly all right for Bertie to call me Mrs Macdonald. I don’t mind in the 222
slightest. I was married you know, some time ago. Strictly speaking, though, I should be called Mrs Varghese. I went back to my maiden name, although I am not, if I may make this clear, a maiden.”
Irene affected polite interest. “Mrs Varghese? What an exotic name!”
“Yes,” said Domenica. “Perhaps I should use it again. You won’t know India, of course, but it comes from the South, from Kerala.” She turned to Bertie. “And why aren’t we in nursery school today, Bertie? Is it a holiday?”
“I’m suspended,” said Bertie. “I’m not allowed to go back.”
Domenica raised an eyebrow. She looked at Irene, who was frowning down on Bertie and about to say something.
“Suspended?” said Domenica quickly, before Irene had the time to speak. This was delicious. Dear little Mozartino suspended!
“For doing something naughty?”
“Yes,” said Bertie. “I wrote on the walls.”
“Oh dear,” said Domenica. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m sure that you’re sorry for what you did.”
Irene, who now looked agitated, was again about to say something, but Bertie spoke before she had the chance to start.
“And now I’m going to psychotherapy. That’s where we’re going right now. We’re going to see Dr Fairbairn again. He makes me talk about my dreams. He asks me all sorts of questions.”
“Therapy!” exclaimed Domenica.
“That’s enough, Bertie,” snapped Irene. Then, turning to Domenica, she said: “It’s nothing really. There was a bit of difficulty with a rather limited teacher at the nursery school.
Unimaginative really. And now we’re giving Bertie a bit of self-enhancement time.”
“Psychotherapy,” said Bertie, gazing down at the floor. “I set fire to Daddy’s
“
