Pat. “It comes right up into my room.”
“I suppose you must expect some saxophone music if you live in a flat,” he said. “Still, you could ask them to keep it down, couldn’t you? Didn’t Tommy Smith learn to play the sax with socks stuffed down it because of the neighbours? I think he did.”
“I don’t really mind,” said Pat. “It’s better than listening to Bruce.”
“Your flatmate?”
“Yes,” said Pat. “But I suppose he’s not too bad.”
There was a short silence at the other end of the line. “You don’t want to come home, do you?”
“No. I don’t.”
14. The Smell of Cloves
Pat switched off the mobile. The saxophone player had stopped, and only silence came through the walls.
She began to think of Bruce, and how she should deal with him. It was not that he had been rude or stand-offish; it was more a question of his having patronised her. That might have been something to do with the fact that he was a crucial few years older than she was, but somehow it seemed to be more than that. It would be better, she thought, when the other two flatmates, Ian and Sheila, arrived, as Bruce would perhaps be a little bit less overbearing. But where were these other two? Bruce had said that they were away travelling, but had not been specific. He thought that they were in Greece, but he was not sure. And he had not said what they were doing there.
Pat got up from her bed and closed the curtains. Her room still had a musty smell to it, and she had left the window slightly open to freshen the air. She had also bought a supply of joss sticks, and she lit one of these now, savouring the sharp sandalwood smell of the curling wisp of smoke.
Picking up her towel from where she had draped it over the back of her chair, she made her way through to the bathroom. It was a good opportunity to use it; Bruce tended to monopolise it when he was in, and the previous evening, when she had been trying to luxuriate in the bath, he had knocked on the door and asked her when she would be coming out. This was a small thing, perhaps, but it was irritating.
Pat closed the bathroom door behind her and began to run a bath. Putting her towel down on the bentwood bathroom chair, she slipped out of her shoes and was about to get undressed when her eye was caught by the mirrored cupboard above the hand-basin. This was a large cupboard, and she noticed that there were greasy fingerprints on the mirror near the handle where somebody, presumably Bruce, had touched the mirror as he opened the cupboard door.
A shared bathroom is not a place of secrets, and Pat felt quite entitled to open the cupboard. After all, she might store her things there too; Bruce did not have an exclusive claim to storage space, even if he was the senior resident.
There were three shelves in the cupboard, and all of them were virtually full of jars and tubes. Pat peered at the labels on the jars nearest the front: après rasage pour hommes actifs ; r estoring cream for the masculine face; gel pour l’homme sportif . Pat leaned forward and made a closer inspection. She knew that men used cosmetics, but this, surely, was an over-abundance. And did men actually use body butter? Bruce apparently did.
Pat reached forward and took out the jar of gel pour l’homme sportif . Opening it, she stuck a finger into the oleaginous substance and sniffed at it. It was not unpleasant; redolent of cloves perhaps. She took a further sniff at the gel, and then the jar slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor. It bounced once and shattered, leaving a circle of green gel on the floor, like a small inverted jelly, covered with fragments of glass.
She stared at the broken glass and the now useless gel. A spicy smell hung in the air. So might Zanzibar smell, on a hot night, or an Indonesian bar with its cloud of clove tobacco smoke in the air; or the bathroom of a flat in Scotland Street. She left
the mess where it was, intending to clear it
“I suppose you must expect some saxophone music if you live in a flat,” he said. “Still, you could ask them to keep it down, couldn’t you? Didn’t Tommy Smith learn to play the sax with socks stuffed down it because of the neighbours? I think he did.”
“I don’t really mind,” said Pat. “It’s better than listening to Bruce.”
“Your flatmate?”
“Yes,” said Pat. “But I suppose he’s not too bad.”
There was a short silence at the other end of the line. “You don’t want to come home, do you?”
“No. I don’t.”
14. The Smell of Cloves
Pat switched off the mobile. The saxophone player had stopped, and only silence came through the walls.
She began to think of Bruce, and how she should deal with him. It was not that he had been rude or stand-offish; it was more a question of his having patronised her. That might have been something to do with the fact that he was a crucial few years older than she was, but somehow it seemed to be more than that. It would be better, she thought, when the other two flatmates, Ian and Sheila, arrived, as Bruce would perhaps be a little bit less overbearing. But where were these other two? Bruce had said that they were away travelling, but had not been specific. He thought that they were in Greece, but he was not sure. And he had not said what they were doing there.
Pat got up from her bed and closed the curtains. Her room still had a musty smell to it, and she had left the window slightly open to freshen the air. She had also bought a supply of joss sticks, and she lit one of these now, savouring the sharp sandalwood smell of the curling wisp of smoke.
Picking up her towel from where she had draped it over the back of her chair, she made her way through to the bathroom. It was a good opportunity to use it; Bruce tended to monopolise it when he was in, and the previous evening, when she had been trying to luxuriate in the bath, he had knocked on the door and asked her when she would be coming out. This was a small thing, perhaps, but it was irritating.
Pat closed the bathroom door behind her and began to run a bath. Putting her towel down on the bentwood bathroom chair, she slipped out of her shoes and was about to get undressed when her eye was caught by the mirrored cupboard above the hand-basin. This was a large cupboard, and she noticed that there were greasy fingerprints on the mirror near the handle where somebody, presumably Bruce, had touched the mirror as he opened the cupboard door.
A shared bathroom is not a place of secrets, and Pat felt quite entitled to open the cupboard. After all, she might store her things there too; Bruce did not have an exclusive claim to storage space, even if he was the senior resident.
There were three shelves in the cupboard, and all of them were virtually full of jars and tubes. Pat peered at the labels on the jars nearest the front: après rasage pour hommes actifs ; r estoring cream for the masculine face; gel pour l’homme sportif . Pat leaned forward and made a closer inspection. She knew that men used cosmetics, but this, surely, was an over-abundance. And did men actually use body butter? Bruce apparently did.
Pat reached forward and took out the jar of gel pour l’homme sportif . Opening it, she stuck a finger into the oleaginous substance and sniffed at it. It was not unpleasant; redolent of cloves perhaps. She took a further sniff at the gel, and then the jar slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor. It bounced once and shattered, leaving a circle of green gel on the floor, like a small inverted jelly, covered with fragments of glass.
She stared at the broken glass and the now useless gel. A spicy smell hung in the air. So might Zanzibar smell, on a hot night, or an Indonesian bar with its cloud of clove tobacco smoke in the air; or the bathroom of a flat in Scotland Street. She left
the mess where it was, intending to clear it
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