“Antonia, my dear . . .” He half expected her to close the door in his face, but she did not. In fact, she seemed neither surprised nor outraged to see him.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s you. I have been waiting for a parcel and I wondered if you were it.”
Angus shook his head. “I am empty-handed, as you see. Except for the apology that I bring with me.” He was rather pleased with the speed with which he had managed to bring up the subject, and he smiled broadly, largely with relief.
318
“Apology?” asked Antonia. “Why? What do you need to apologise for?”
Angus was taken aback. “The other evening,” he stuttered.
“My . . . er . . . my . . .”
Antonia cut him short. “Oh that! Heavens, you don’t have to apologise for that! In fact, I found the whole thing rather amusing. Dental anaesthetics can do all sorts of things to people.
It’s hardly your fault.”
Angus had to think quickly. He had no recollection of attributing his condition that evening to the fact of having had a dental anaesthetic, but the excuse sounded like him. Now, should he say anything else; should he confess to her that he had been drunk, or should he leave it at that? It was a difficult decision to make, but he rather inclined to the line of least resistance, which was dental.
But then Antonia said: “But of course you had drunk an awful lot of wine,” she said. “So that made it worse, no doubt.”
Angus gave a nervous laugh. “Brunello di Montalcino,” he said. “Such excellent wine! When the Queen had dinner with the President of Italy, that’s what they had.”
“In moderation, no doubt,” said Antonia drily.
“Hah!” said Angus. This was not as easy as he had hoped.
“Oh well! I always remember that great man, Sir Thomas Broun Smith, saying that what a man said after midnight should never be held against him. Such a generous sentiment, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Antonia. “Except in your case it would have to be after six p.m.”
Angus, in his embarrassment, looked down at Cyril, who looked back up at him. Cyril was uncertain what to do, but he sensed that things were not going well. Antonia’s ankles were directly in front of him, and he wondered if it would help if he bit them. But then there was
“Anyway,” said Antonia briskly. “It’s very rude of me to keep you standing on the doorstep. Do come in and have a cup of tea or something . . .”
“Weaker?” joked Angus. “Well, thank you very much, I shall. I must say, it’s always very nice to be back in this flat.
Domenica and I used to have such wonderful conversations together.”
“She’ll be back sooner rather than later,” said Antonia. “And then I shall move in over the way. As it happens, the flat opposite is coming up for rent and I’ve taken it.”
“But that’s wonderful news,” said Angus. He was not sure, though, whether it really was.
Antonia was not one to harbour a grudge, and in spite of her acerbic comments about Angus Lordie’s unfortunate behaviour at the dinner to which he had invited her, she did not intend to raise the matter again. Domenica liked this rather peculiar man and Antonia felt that she should make an effort to do so too.
So, having invited Angus into the flat, she led him into the study and invited him to sit down while she fetched coffee and short-bread.
“How is your book . . . your novel going?” Angus inquired politely as he sipped at his coffee. “The one about the Scottish saints?”
Antonia sighed. “Not very well, I’m afraid. My saints, I regret to say, are misbehaving. I had hoped that they would show themselves to be, well, saintly, but they are not. They are distressingly full of human foibles. There’s a lot of jealousy and back-biting going on.”
Angus was puzzled. Antonia was talking of her characters as if they had independent lives of their own. But they were her creations, surely, and that meant that they should do their creator’s bidding. If she wanted saintly saints, she could have them. “But you’re the author,” he said. “You can dictate what the people in your book do, can you not?”
Antonia reached out for her cup of coffee. “Not at all,” she 320
said. “People misunderstand how writers work. They think that they sit down and plan what is going to happen and then simply write it up. But it doesn’t work that way.”
Angus looked at Antonia with interest. Some of his paintings had turned out very differently from what he had had in mind at the beginning. Light became dark. And dark became light.
Was this the same process? He had thought it was simply mood, but was it possible that the work acquired its own momentum, its own view of things?
“Oh yes,” Antonia went on. “The author is not in control. Or, rather, the conscious mind of the author is not in control. And the reason for that is that when we use our imagination we get in touch with that part of the mind which is asking the ‘what if’
questions. And that is not part of the conscious mind.”
“What if?”
