Street into an urban motorway and the conversion of the Princes Street Gardens into a car park.
One might not be surprised when some of these things were done by those with neither artistic sense nor training, but both the St James Centre and the plan to slice the city in two with a motorway had been the work of architects and planners. At a domestic level, these were the very same people who put in glass doors and took out old fireplaces.
“Yes,” said Antonia. “I will have to do something about all this.”
Domenica pretended surprise for a moment, but Antonia had intercepted her glances and knew what she was thinking.
“Don’t imagine for a moment that this is my taste,” Antonia warned. “I’m every bit as Georgian as you are.”
It was an amusing way of putting it, and they both laughed.
Not everyone in the New Town lived a Georgian lifestyle, but some did. And of course Antonia and Domenica would find such people amusing with their insistence on period authenticity in their houses, although they themselves were equally inclined to much the same aesthetic.
Domenica waved a hand about her. “What are you going to do?”
“Just about everything,” said Antonia. “Those doors over there.
The plywood will come off. Panels back. I’ll free the shutters.
Free the shutters – that’s a rallying call in these parts, you know.”
Domenica looked at her friend. But her own shutters had indeed been freed, she had to admit.
“And then I’m going to take all the light fittings out,” Antonia went on. “All this . . . this stuff.” She pointed up at the spiky, angular light that was hanging from the ceiling. “And the fireplaces, of course. I shall go to the architectural salvage yard and see what they have.”
“You’ll need a builder,” said Domenica, adding, with a smile,
“We are mere women, you know.”
“Oh, I’m ready for that. You know, people are so worried about builders. They seem to have such bad experiences with them.”
“Perhaps it’s that problem that builders have with their trousers,” Domenica mused. “You know that issue of . . .”
56
Although it is interesting – isn’t it? – how trousers are getting lower each year. Or is it our age?”
Domenica thought for a moment. “You mean on young men?
Young men’s trousers?”
“Yes,” said Antonia. “It’s now mandatory for them to show the top of their underpants above the trouser waist. And the trousers get lower and lower.”
As an anthropologist, there was little for Domenica to puzzle about in this. Male adornment occurred in all societies, although it took different forms. It was perfectly natural, she thought, for young men to display; the only question of interest was what limits society would put on it. And could one talk about society anymore when it came to clothing? T-shirts proclaimed the most intimate messages and nobody batted an eyelid. There were, she reflected, simply no arbiters.
Domenica decided that the issue of trousers had been explored enough. “And these builders,” she said. “Where will you get them?”
“My friend Clifford Reed is a builder,” Antonia said. “And a very good one, too. He’ll help me out. He said he will. He has a Pole he’s going to send over to take a look at what needs to be done, and then to do it. There are lots of Poles in Edinburgh now. All these builders and hotel porters and the like. All very hardworking. Staunch Catholics. Very reliable people.”
Domenica thought for a moment. “You’ll have to get a large mug to serve your Pole his tea in,” she said. “None of this Spode for him. He’ll want something more substantial.”
She watched Antonia as she spoke. It was a somewhat obvious thing for her to say, she thought, a bit unsubtle, in fact. But she watched to see its effect on Antonia. Of course the true psychopath would be unmoved; such people were quite capable of telling the coldest of lies, of remaining cool in the face of
*Lit: nothing about humanity is alien to me; a common Edinburgh way of saying: I’ve seen it all.
the most damning accusations. That was why they were psychopaths – they simply did not care; they were untouched.
“Of course not,” said Antonia flatly. “I keep my Spode for special occasions.”
Domenica was completely taken aback by this remark and was not sure how to take it. I keep my Spode for special occasions. This could mean that she kept her Spode (as opposed to stolen Spode) for such occasions, or that her own visit was such an occasion and merited the bringing out of the Spode. It must be the latter, she told herself. It must be.
Their conversation continued in a desultory fashion for a further half hour. There was some talk of the early Scottish saints – Antonia’s novel on the subject was not progressing well, Domenica was told – and there was a brief exchange of views about the latest special exhibition at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. Then Domenica looked at her watch and excused herself.
