152 The Story of Art
“That is your house just over there,” said Ling. “You see that one? The one near that big tree? That is your place.”
Domenica looked in the direction in which he was pointing.
They were not far from the house, and she could make out the details clearly. It seemed to her that it was quite ideal. It was constructed of wooden planks, all painted off-white, and the windows were secured with green, slatted shutters. There was a veranda, too, with what looked like an old planter’s chair on it, and a lithe young man in a sarong standing near the front door.
“Who is that young man?” asked Domenica.
Ling turned to look at her. “That is the young man who will be looking after you. He will cook for you and carry things. I will tell you what to pay him.” He paused, and added: “He is utterly at your service. You will see.”
49. The Story of Art
“Now,” said Matthew firmly, as he opened the door of the taxi for Pat, “you’ve made your decision and you must stick to it!
You’re unhappy there. Of course you can’t continue to live with that ghastly girl.”
“You haven’t met her,” pointed out Pat, as she sat back against the cheerful Royal Stewart rug which the taxi driver had placed on the seat. It was a curious thing about Edinburgh taxis: insofar as they carried rugs, for some reason these were almost always Royal Stewart tartan.
She looked at Matthew, who was leaning forward to give instructions to the driver. It annoyed her that he seemed so ready to make judgments about people whom he had never met.
He had done that with Wolf, whom he had disliked instantly, and now he was doing it with Tessie, her flatmate.
Matthew fastened his seat belt. “But of course she’s ghastly,”
he said. “You yourself told me . . .”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Pat. “Let’s change the subject.”
The Story of Art 153
Matthew nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You have to look forward, Pat. Going to that awful flat was a mistake. A bad mistake. You should have stayed in Scotland Street.”
He’s doing it again, thought Pat. Matthew had never seen the flat in Spottiswoode Street, and yet he was calling it awful. There was actually nothing awful about it. It was a typical Marchmont student flat – rather nicer, in fact, than many, and she would miss it. But he was right about the need to move. Tessie was ghastly, whichever way one looked at her. She was aggressive.
She was suspicious. And she had as good as threatened Pat with physical violence over Wolf.
They travelled up the Mound and made their way along George IV Bridge. On their right, just before they branched off beyond the Museum, they passed the Elephant House, the café where she had first talked to Wolf and where she had subsequently had that intriguing conversation with Sister Connie.
“That place,” said Matthew, as they drove past. “I had lunch there once.”
It was the sort of inconsequential thing that Matthew sometimes said. When she had first gone to work for him, Pat had expected these remarks to lead somewhere, but they rarely did.
In another taxi, a long time ago, he had once said to her: “The Churchill Theatre” as they had driven past it, but had said nothing more. Now, as the taxi shot past the little bronze statue of Greyfriars Bobby, Matthew simply said “Dog”. Pat smiled to herself. There was something rather reassuring about Matthew.
Wolf, and Tessie, and people like that were fundamentally unsettling; Wolf, for his physical attractiveness, and Tessie for her aggression. Matthew, by contrast, was utterly comfortable, and she felt for him a sudden affection. He might not be anything special, but he was a good friend and he was predictable. She would feel safe living with Matthew in India Street, although . . . There were doubts, but this was not the time to have them, just as she was about to leave Spottiswoode Street.
They reached their destination. Matthew insisted on paying the taxi fare, although Pat offered. Then, with Matthew behind her, Pat went up the common stair to the door of her flat.
154 The Story of Art
“Is she likely to be in?” whispered Matthew, as Pat inserted the key.
She was unsure. Tessie kept strange hours; Pat had heard her going out in the early hours of the morning and had often found her in during the afternoons. And then, late at night, she had sometimes heard the sound of raised voices emanating from her room.
“She might be,” she answered. “But I hope we don’t see her.”
Matthew shuddered. “Me too. Horrible girl.” He paused.
“What about him? Monsieur Loup? Will he be here?”
Pat shrugged. She did not want to see either of them at the moment, she thought, although when it came to Wolf –
well . . .
They entered the hall. Tessie’s door was closed, but there were faint sounds of music coming from within. She pointed to the door and raised a finger to her lips.
“Hers?” whispered Matthew.
“Yes.”
Her own door was slightly ajar, which puzzled her. She always closed it when she left the flat and she thought that she must have done that morning. She hesitated. Could Tessie have done something to her room? The thought crossed her mind, but she tried to dismiss it immediately. That sort of thing did not happen in Edinburgh, in real life, in ordinary student flats in Marchmont, in broad daylight.
She pushed the door open cautiously. Everything inside seemed to be as she had left it. There was Sir Ernst Gombrich’s The Story of Art on the desk. There was her hairbrush and her sponge-bag. There was the picture of the family cat, Morris.
There were the trainers she had been about to throw out, their frayed laces in a tangle.
Matthew pointed at the two suitcases balanced on the top of the wardrobe.
“Those?” he said.
Pat nodded and he reached up to retrieve the suitcases. She had fitted everything in those two cases when she had moved in, and so there was no reason why they should not do the move Bad Behaviour 155
in a single trip. Matthew placed the suitcases on the bed and opened them. Then she began to bundle clothes from the drawers into the cases. She noticed that Matthew turned away and looked out of the window while she did so, and again she felt a rush of fondness for him. It was such a nice, old-fashioned thing to do, the sort of thing that a modern boy would not think of. Modern boys would stare.
Soon the suitcases were filled. It proved to be a tight fit, and the trainers, and one or two other items were ignominiously consigned to the wastepaper bin. Sir Ernst Gombrich would not fit in, but Matthew agreed that Pat should carry him under her arm; he would be able to manage both suitcases, he said, as they would balance one another out.
Pat looked about her. She was sorry to be leaving the room, which she liked, and in which she had been comfortable. But it was too late now to have second thoughts, as Matthew was manoeuvring the cases out of the door, as silently as he could, lest he attract the unwelcome attentions of Tessie. He need not have worried about being quiet, though, because there were now sounds coming from Tessie’s room, strange sounds, rather like howls.
50. Bad Behaviour
When they heard the noise coming from behind Tessie’s closed door, Pat and Matthew, on the point of leaving the flat, stopped.
Lowering the two heavy suitcases to the floor, Matthew looked at Pat in astonishment.