“What on earth . . . ?” he began to whisper, but Pat, still holding Sir Ernst Gombrich’s The Story of Art under her arm, did not reply. Creeping forward, she inclined an ear to the door.
Matthew, embarrassed by such obvious eavesdropping, but curious nonetheless, quickly moved forward to join her at the door.
The howls which they had heard – if they were indeed howls, and it sounded like that to them – had now stopped, to be 156 Bad Behaviour
replaced by a peal of laughter. Then there was a voice, not raised at all, but still audible from outside.
“I wish you wouldn’t howl quite so much.” It was Tessie.
“Why not? If it makes me happy.” There was a pause, and then: “And I know what makes you happy.” That was Wolf.
Matthew glanced at Pat. There was something indecent in standing outside somebody’s bedroom door and listening to what went on within. He was about to gesture to Pat that they should leave, but then Wolf could be heard again.
“And, as you know, I like to make girls happy. It’s my role in life. We all need a hobby.”
Tessie snorted. “You’re lucky I’m not the jealous type. Most people wouldn’t hack it, you know. You’re lucky that I don’t mind.”
“That’s because you know I don’t mean it,” said Wolf. “You know that you’re the one. You know that.”
“Yes,” answered Tessie. “But how are you getting on with her over there? Pat. God, what a name! I’m fed up with acting jealous, by the way. All to keep you amused.”
“I need another week. She’s in lurve with me. Big time. But it’ll be another week or so before . . .” There was laughter.
It was as if Pat had been given an electric shock. She moved back quickly from the door, reeling, nearly dropping Sir Ernst Gombrich from under her arm. Matthew, visibly appalled, made to support her, but she drew back, humiliated, ashamed.
“Quick,” whispered Matthew, picking up the suitcases.
“Quick. Open the door.”
Out on the landing, the flat door closed firmly behind them, Matthew rested the suitcases on the floor and reached out for Pat’s arm.
“Listen,” he said. “Listen. I know how you must feel. But there’s no reason for you to feel bad. It’s not your . . .” He looked at her. She had turned her face away from him and he could see that she had begun to cry. He put down the suitcases and reached out to her.
“No,” she mumbled, starting down the stairs. “I just want to go.”
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There were a few awkward moments at the front door, as they waited for the arrival of the taxi which Matthew had ordered.
Matthew wanted to talk – he wanted to reassure Pat – but she told him that she did not want to discuss what they had heard.
“All right,” he said. “We won’t talk about it. Just forget him.
Put him out of your mind.”
They stood in silence. Matthew, looking up at the wispy clouds scudding across the sky, thought of something he had read in a magazine somewhere, or was it a newspaper? – he was unsure
– of how Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir had entertained themselves with stories of their conquests. He had been appalled by the story, and it had confirmed his prejudice against a certain sort of French intellectual, who deconstructed other people; who played games with people. One might expect bad behaviour from existentialists – indeed, that was what existentialism was all about, was it not? – but to find this happening on one’s own doorstep was a shock.
Matthew looked down the street, which was quiet and taxi-less. A black and white cat was sauntering towards them and had now stopped a few yards away, staring at Matthew. An elderly woman, laden with shopping bags, was catching her breath a little distance away, holding onto a railing for support. It was a very ordinary street scene in that part of Edinburgh, and yet it seemed to Matthew that the moment was somehow special and that what it spoke to, this moment, was agape, the selfless love of the other.
Such moments can come at any time, and in unexpected circumstances, too. Those who travel to a place of pilgrimage, to a holy place, may hope to experience an epiphany of some sort, but may find only that the Ganges is dirty or that Iona is wet.
And yet, on their journey, or on their return, disappointed, they may suddenly see something which vouchsafes them the insight they had wished to find; something glimpsed, not in a holy place, but in very ordinary surroundings; as Auden discovered when he sat with three colleagues on the lawn, out under the stars, on a balmy evening, and suddenly felt for the first time what it 158 Sun-Dried Tomatoes
was like to love one’s neighbour as oneself. The experience lasted in its intensity, he later wrote, for all of two hours, and then gradually faded.
Matthew felt this now, and it suppressed any urge he might have had to speak. He felt this for Pat – a gentleness, a cherishing – and for the cat and for the elderly woman under her burden. And he felt it, he thought, because he had just witnessed cruelty. He would not be cruel. He could not be cruel now. All that he wanted was to protect and comfort this girl beside him.
He looked at Pat. She had stopped crying and she no longer avoided his gaze.
“Thank you, Matthew,” she said.
He smiled at her. “You’ll be much happier in India Street.
You really will.”
“You must tell me how much rent I need to pay,” said Pat.
Matthew raised his hands in protest. “None,” he said. “Not a penny. You can live rent free.”
Pat frowned. “But I have to pay something,” she said. “I can’t . . .”
“No,” said Matthew. “No. No.”
Pat was silent.
51. Sun-Dried Tomatoes
Cyril was not accustomed to travelling in a bus – nor indeed in any vehicle. Angus Lordie had no car, and so Cyril’s experience of motor transport was limited to a few runs he had enjoyed in Domenica’s custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz. From time to time, she invited Angus to accompany her on a drive into the country, to Peebles perhaps, or Gullane for lunch at the Golf Inn. Cyril was allowed to come on these outings, provided that he remained on a rug in the back, and he would stick his nose out of the window and revel in the bewildering range of scents borne in on the rushing air: sheep, hayfields, burning stubble, a startled pheasant in flight; so many things for a dog to think about.
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But now he was on a bus, bundled under a seat amid unfamiliar ankles and shoes. He did not like the experience at all; he did not like the smell of the air, which was stale and acrid; he did not like the vibrations in the floor and the rumble of the diesel engine; he did not like the young man who had dragged him away from his tethering place. He looked up. The young man was holding the end of his leash lightly in his hand, twisting and untwisting it around his fingers. Cyril began to whimper, softly at first, but more loudly as he saw that the young man was not paying any attention to him.
As the whimpering increased in volume, the young man looked down at Cyril. For a few moments, dog and man looked at one another, and then, without any warning, the young man aimed a kick at the underside of Cyril’s jaw. It was not a powerful kick, but it was enough to force Cyril’s lower jaw up against the upper, causing him to bite his tongue.
“Haud yer wheesht,” the young man muttered, adding:
“Stupid dug.”
Humiliated, Cyril shrank back under the seat. He knew that he did not deserve the kick, but it did not occur to him to 160 Sun-Dried Tomatoes
retaliate. So he simply stared up at this person who now had control of him and tried to understand, but could not. After a few minutes, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. It was at least warm in these strange surroundings and he was now becoming used to the throb of the engine. Perhaps things would be different when he woke up; perhaps Angus would be there to meet him wherever it was that they were going, and they would make their way back to Drummond Place by way of the Cumberland Bar.