No, he thought, it is not.
Her name is Harmony, and there’s no reason why she should not have a window box with nasturtiums, none at all.
“Elspeth Harmony.”
The voice was quiet, the tones those of one who had been thinking of something else when the telephone had rung.
“It’s Matthew here. I got your message. Are you all right?”
There was a momentary pause. Then: “Yes, I’m all right. But I’m sorry about tonight. I just couldn’t face it.”
Matthew’s heart sank. Perhaps it had just been a lame excuse after all. “Oh,” he said. “But . . .”
282
He imagined her sitting in a chair in the kitchen, looking out at the nasturtiums.
“Has something happened?”
“Yes,” she said. And then, after a momentary hesitation, “I’ve lost my job. Or rather, I’m about to lose my job.”
Matthew gasped.
“Yes,” Elspeth went on. “There was an incident at the school yesterday and . . . and, well, I’m afraid that I’ve been suspended, pending an inquiry. But they think that it might be best for me to go before then. I’m rather upset by this. Teaching, you see, has been my life . . .”
She broke off, and Matthew for a moment thought that she had begun to cry.
“I’d like to come and see you,” he said firmly. “If I get a taxi now, I’ll be at your place in ten, fifteen minutes.”
She sounded tearful. “I don’t know. I really don’t . . .”
“No, I’ll be there,” said Matthew. “Ten minutes. Just wait for me.”
He put down the receiver and went into his bedroom to change into a new ultramarine shirt. But then he stopped. He looked at the shirt that he had laid on the bed. No, that shirt was not him, that was Pat’s idea of what she thought he should be. The real Matthew, the one that wanted to go and help Elspeth Harmony in whatever distress she was suffering, was not the Matthew of ultramarine shirts and charcoal trousers; it was the Matthew of distressed-oatmeal sweaters and crushed-strawberry trousers; that was who he was, and that was the person whom he wished Elspeth Harmony to know.
The taxi arrived promptly, and Matthew gave the driver instructions. They travelled in silence and, in the light traffic, they were there in little more than ten minutes.
“Number eighteen?” asked the driver, as they entered the small cul-de-sac. “I had an aunt who lived at number eight.
Dead now, of course, but she used to make terrific scones. We
used to go there for tea as children. There were always scones.
And she made us kids eat up. Come on now, plenty more scones.
Come on!”
Matthew smiled. There used to always be scones. The taxi driver was much older, but even Matthew’s Scotland had changed since his own childhood, not all that many years ago. Things like that were less common – aunts who made scones. There were career aunts now, who had no time to bake scones.
They stopped outside number 18 and he looked up towards the third floor, where Elspeth Harmony lived. There were window boxes at two of the windows and a small splash of red.
Nasturtiums. He smiled.
She let him in, and he could tell that she had been crying.
He moved forward and put an arm around her shoulder.
“You mustn’t cry,” he said. “You mustn’t.”
“I feel so stupid,” she said. “I feel that I’ve let everyone down.”
“Tell me exactly what happened,” said Matthew.
She told him, and he listened carefully. When she had finished, he shook his head in astonishment. “So all you did was give her a little pinch on the ear?”
Elspeth nodded. “There was really no excuse,” she said. “But there are one or two of the children who are seriously provocative. There’s a boy called Tofu, who really tries my patience.
And then there’s Olive, whose ear . . . whose ear I pinched.”
“It’s entirely understandable,” said Matthew. “Teaching is so demanding, and you get so little support. That pinch will have done Olive no harm – probably a lot of good.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes,” said Matthew. But then he went on, rather sadly, “But I suppose that’s not the world we live in, with all these regula-tions and busybodies about.” He paused. “I think you’ve struck a blow for sanity. Or rather, pinched one.”
