appetite for more? And what if Lard got wind of the fact that he had four million pounds in the bank? It hardly bore thinking about.
He looked at his watch. “It’s time to get back to the gallery,”
he announced. “Let’s go, Pat.”
They crossed the road, Matthew still deep in thought.
“You’re worried, aren’t you?” said Pat.
Matthew nodded. “It’s occurred to me that I’ve already broken the law,” he said miserably. “I incited this awful man to beat Eddie up. If Eddie goes to the police, then I’m implicated.”
“Eddie won’t go to the police,” said Pat. “They would want to know why Lard beat him up. He would have to tell them that he took Big Lou’s money.”
“But she gave it to him,” said Matthew. “Eddie’s done nothing illegal.”
“He won’t go,” said Pat. “Eddie probably has other things to hide from the police. There’s that club of his. And the girls and the rest. He won’t go.”
They opened the gallery in silence. Pat was aware of Matthew’s anxiety and was worried about what she had to do next, which was to tell him that she was moving out of the flat in India Street. There was a good reason for this, of course, and she could not put off telling him any longer. That afternoon, a friend was coming to help her move her things back to her parents’ house in the Grange, and she would have to let Matthew know about this before she made the move.
She waited. One or two people came into the gallery and one of them bought a painting. That seemed to cheer Matthew up, and Pat decided that the moment had come.
“Matthew,” she began. “There’s something I must tell you.”
338
“I’m going to have to move out of India Street,” Pat said.
“I’m going this afternoon.”
Matthew’s face crumpled. “This afternoon? Today?”
“Yes,” said Pat. “I’m sorry.”
Matthew nodded. Pat noticed that he was looking at the floor, tracing an invisible pattern on the carpet with the toe of his shoe.
“You see . . .” Pat began to say.
Matthew cut her short. “It’s all right,” he said flatly. “I understand.” And he thought: girls just don’t like me. Well, they may not actively dislike me – they tolerate me – but they don’t find me interesting, or exciting, or anything really. And there’s nothing I’ll ever be able to do about that. I really like this girl
– really like her – but she doesn’t like me. And who can blame her?
“I don’t think you do understand,” said Pat. “What I was going to say is that since you and I . . . well, since you and I are an item, then I don’t think that we should be flatmates too.
It complicates matters, doesn’t it? And I need my space, just as you do.”
Matthew stared at her. When people talked about needing space they usually meant that they wanted the maximum space between you and them. This was different. Was it still on?
“You mean that you’re not wanting to get rid of me?” he stuttered.
“Of course not,” said Pat, moving over to his side. “I don’t want that. Do you?’
“No,” said Matthew. He looked at her and thought: I have found myself in you. Bless you. And then he thought: what a strange, old-fashioned thing to think. Bless you. But what other way was there of saying that you wanted only good for somebody, that you wanted the world to be kind to her, to cherish her? Only old-fashioned words would do for that.
Now that Domenica had indicated that she was returning to Scotland within a few days, Antonia Collie took steps to conclude the lease on the flat across the landing – the flat once occupied by Bruce and Pat and which had been sold to a young property developer. This person had developed the property by painting it and by installing a new microwave and a new bath before deciding to offer it for rent. Antonia was indifferent to the fresh paint, the microwave and the bath, but keen on the view from the sitting room and the prospect of having Domenica as a neighbour. Negotiations for the lease had been swift and Antonia now had the keys to the flat and could move in at any time she wished.
Antonia, having gone out to purchase one or two things for the kitchen, returned to No 44 to discover a small boy sitting on the stone stairs, staring up into the air. She had seen this small boy once or twice before. On one occasion she had spotted him walking up the street with his very pregnant mother (he had been trying to avoid stepping on the lines and was being roundly encouraged by his mother to hurry up), and on another she had seen him in Valvona & Crolla, again with his mother, who was lecturing him on the qualities of a good olive oil. She knew that he belonged to No 44 and she thought she knew which flat it was, but apart from that she knew nothing about him, neither his name, nor how old he was, nor where he went to school.
“Well,” she said as she drew level with him on the stairs,
“here you are, sitting on the stairs. And if I knew your name –
which I don’t – I would be able to say hallo whoever you are.
But I don’t – unless you care to tell me.”
Bertie looked up at Antonia. This was the lady who lived upstairs, the woman whom his mother had described as “yet another frightful old blue stocking”. Bertie had been puzzled by this; now here was an opportunity for clarification.
