Antonia to have moved into the next-door flat without consulting her.
She had wondered whether she was being excessively sensitive about this, as strictly speaking it was none of her business which flat Antonia should choose to buy. There was an open market in housing, and Scotland Street was part of that market. But then she thought that Antonia’s purchase of the neighbouring flat meant that she who had come as a guest to the larger address – 44 Scotland Street – would not be leaving, but remaining. And that, Domenica decided, constituted a unilateral extension of a relationship that had been entered into on the understanding that it would be temporary. Or that 176
As she stood there, peering at Antonia’s half-open door, there crossed Domenica’s mind the idea that one way of signalling displeasure to another would be to write an academic paper expressing this displeasure, but couched in general terms and, of course, without mentioning the specific
That would set the scene, and there would then follow a discussion of how important it is for social harmony that the party accepting the gift should understand that he or she should not presume to transform the host/guest relationship into something quite different, namely, a neighbour/neighbour relationship.
Antonia was a perceptive person, thought Domenica, and she would get the point of that. But there was a further challenge, and that was more difficult: how would one incorporate into such a paper some mention of a blue Spode teacup? After all, one did not want to be too obvious.
must expect some consequences. The hall light was on, and a portable workbench had been set up, with pieces of timber stacked against it; there was sawdust on the floor and the smell of cut wood. A large metal box lay open beside the bench, with various tools displayed – a power saw, a jumble of cable, clamps.
Domenica cleared her throat. “Antonia?”
She waited a few seconds for a reply and then called out again. It now occurred to her that Antonia was out and that the door had been left open by the workmen. More than that, the workmen appeared to have left the flat unattended for some reason, as there was no response from them. She realised now that she had jumped to conclusions: the damage to the plant would not have been Antonia’s doing, but must have been caused by the builders. Manipulating a piece of timber around a small landing would not be easy, and any philodendron that should find itself in the way was bound to be damaged. She sighed. It would have been easy for somebody to have spoken to her about this in advance and to have suggested that the plant be stored in her flat until the work was over. That would have been so simple and straightforward, but nobody had thought of that –
including herself, she concluded, which gave a different complexion to the whole matter. It was an accident, she decided; Antonia, I forgive you.
She moved further into the hall. A light was coming from the bathroom, and she looked into that. The floorboards were up, revealing the joists and copper piping below. The sides of the bath enclosure had been removed too, and everything was covered with a layer of dust. She moved away. Dust, or at least dust in such quantities as that, made Domenica’s eyes water –
an allergy with which she had struggled when she had lived in India, where the dust had settled every day, no matter how assid-uously the house servants had swept and polished.
“Domenica?”
She spun round. Antonia had emerged from a door on the other side of the hall and was standing there, her hair slightly ruffled.
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“Oh.” It was all that Domenica could manage initially, but then, after a few seconds of hesitation, she added, “I knocked.”
She had not intended to say that, because she had not knocked, but it came out nonetheless.
“I didn’t hear you,” said Antonia. “I was . . . I was busy.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in like this.” She paused. It did not seem to her that Antonia was angry over the intrusion; in fact, it seemed to her that her neighbour looked defensive, as if it was she who had been discovered in the other’s flat.
Domenica continued. “It’s just that I noticed that the plant outside,” she gestured in the direction of the landing. “The plant was damaged. It must have been the workmen. Easily done, of course, with all this stuff being brought in.”
She stopped. A man had appeared in the doorway behind Antonia, a tall man wearing jeans and a checked shirt. He glanced at Domenica, and then looked at Antonia, as if expecting an explanation.
“This is Markus,” said Antonia. “Markus. Domenica.”
The man took a few steps across the hall and shook hands with Domenica. She felt his hand, which was warm, and rough-ened by work.
“Markus is Polish,” said Antonia, straightening her hair with her right hand. “He’s my builder, as you see. We’ve been looking at the plans. That’s why I didn’t hear you.”
Domenica knew immediately that this was a lie, and she knew immediately what had been happening. She was amused. That was why Antonia had been almost defensive at the beginning; she had been caught in the arms of her builder. Of course, there was nothing wrong with that, she thought. One might fall in love with a Polish builder as readily as one might fall in love with anybody else, but it all seemed a bit sudden. Building work had only started a day or two ago; one would have thought that one might wait
. . . what, a week? . . . before one fell in love with the builder.
