up after her bath. And she thought of her father, and a remark he had made about accidents and how they reveal our repressed wishes. W e destroy that which we love , he had said. Had she intended to destroy Bruce’s hair gel, because she was falling in love with him? Impossible. She could not fall in love with Bruce. She simply could not.
15. 560 SEC
Pat left the flat the next morning at precisely the time that Domenica Macdonald opened her door onto their mutual landing. Domenica, wearing a green overcoat and carrying a scuffed leather bag, greeted her warmly and enquired about her settling in.
“I’m very happy,” said Pat, but thought immediately of the fact that she had not told Bruce about the dropping of the gel. “It’s all going well, or …” Quite well was what she meant to say.
“I know,” said Domenica, lowering her voice. “Bruce might be a little bit, how should we put it? Difficult? Is that the right word, difficult?”
“Different,” suggested Pat.
Domenica smiled, and took Pat’s arm as they went downstairs. “Men are different, aren’t they? I remember when I first lived with a man – my husband, in fact, things being somewhat more respectable in those days, I found it very strange indeed. Men are so … so… well, I must say I don’t quite know the word for men, do you?”
“Masculine?” suggested Pat.
Domenica laughed. “Exactly. That says everything, doesn’t it? Bruce is masculine. In a way.” She looked at Pat in a shared moment of feminine understanding. “They’re little boys, aren’t they? That’s what I think they are.”
They were now on the landing of the floor below, and Domenica gestured at the door of the flat on the right. “Speaking of little boys, that’s where young Bertie lives. You will have heard him playing the saxophone last night, I assume.”
Pat glanced at the door, which was painted light blue and bore a sticker indicating that no nuclear power was produced, nor used, within.
“Yes,” she said. “I heard him.”
Domenica sighed. “I don’t object to the noise. He plays remarkably well, actually. What I object to is his age.”
Pat was uncertain what this meant, and looked at Domenica quizzically. It was difficult to imagine how one might object to the age of another person: age was something beyond one’s control, surely.
Domenica sensed her confusion. “Bertie, you see, is very young. He’s about five, I believe. And that’s too young to play the saxophone.”
“Five!”
“Yes,” said Domenica, looking disapprovingly at the landing behind them and at the light blue door. “Very pushy parents! Very pushy, particularly her. They’re trying to raise him as some sort of infant prodigy. He’s being taught music and Italian by his mother. Heaven knows why they decided on the saxophone, but there we are. Poor child!”
Pat found it difficult to imagine a five-year-old boy playing As Time Goes By on the saxophone. If it was a tenor instrument, then it would be difficult to see how his fingers would span the keys. And a saxophone would be almost as tall as the boy himself. Did he stand, then, on a chair to play it?
“The whole point about childhood,” Domenica went on, “is that it affords us a brief moment of innocence and protection from the pressures of the world. Parents who push their children too hard intrude on that little bit of space. And of course they make their children massively anxious. You weren’t pushed by your parents, were you?”
Pat shook her head. “Not at all. I was encouraged, but not pushed.”
“There’s a big difference,” said Domenica. “And I could tell that you weren’t pushed. You’re too calm and sensible. You seem to be a very balanced person to me. Not that I know you terribly well. In fact, I don’t know you at all. But one gets that feeling about you.”
Pat felt vaguely embarrassed by this conversation, and was about to change the subject, but they had by
15. 560 SEC
Pat left the flat the next morning at precisely the time that Domenica Macdonald opened her door onto their mutual landing. Domenica, wearing a green overcoat and carrying a scuffed leather bag, greeted her warmly and enquired about her settling in.
“I’m very happy,” said Pat, but thought immediately of the fact that she had not told Bruce about the dropping of the gel. “It’s all going well, or …” Quite well was what she meant to say.
“I know,” said Domenica, lowering her voice. “Bruce might be a little bit, how should we put it? Difficult? Is that the right word, difficult?”
“Different,” suggested Pat.
Domenica smiled, and took Pat’s arm as they went downstairs. “Men are different, aren’t they? I remember when I first lived with a man – my husband, in fact, things being somewhat more respectable in those days, I found it very strange indeed. Men are so … so… well, I must say I don’t quite know the word for men, do you?”
“Masculine?” suggested Pat.
Domenica laughed. “Exactly. That says everything, doesn’t it? Bruce is masculine. In a way.” She looked at Pat in a shared moment of feminine understanding. “They’re little boys, aren’t they? That’s what I think they are.”
They were now on the landing of the floor below, and Domenica gestured at the door of the flat on the right. “Speaking of little boys, that’s where young Bertie lives. You will have heard him playing the saxophone last night, I assume.”
Pat glanced at the door, which was painted light blue and bore a sticker indicating that no nuclear power was produced, nor used, within.
“Yes,” she said. “I heard him.”
Domenica sighed. “I don’t object to the noise. He plays remarkably well, actually. What I object to is his age.”
Pat was uncertain what this meant, and looked at Domenica quizzically. It was difficult to imagine how one might object to the age of another person: age was something beyond one’s control, surely.
Domenica sensed her confusion. “Bertie, you see, is very young. He’s about five, I believe. And that’s too young to play the saxophone.”
“Five!”
“Yes,” said Domenica, looking disapprovingly at the landing behind them and at the light blue door. “Very pushy parents! Very pushy, particularly her. They’re trying to raise him as some sort of infant prodigy. He’s being taught music and Italian by his mother. Heaven knows why they decided on the saxophone, but there we are. Poor child!”
Pat found it difficult to imagine a five-year-old boy playing As Time Goes By on the saxophone. If it was a tenor instrument, then it would be difficult to see how his fingers would span the keys. And a saxophone would be almost as tall as the boy himself. Did he stand, then, on a chair to play it?
“The whole point about childhood,” Domenica went on, “is that it affords us a brief moment of innocence and protection from the pressures of the world. Parents who push their children too hard intrude on that little bit of space. And of course they make their children massively anxious. You weren’t pushed by your parents, were you?”
Pat shook her head. “Not at all. I was encouraged, but not pushed.”
“There’s a big difference,” said Domenica. “And I could tell that you weren’t pushed. You’re too calm and sensible. You seem to be a very balanced person to me. Not that I know you terribly well. In fact, I don’t know you at all. But one gets that feeling about you.”
Pat felt vaguely embarrassed by this conversation, and was about to change the subject, but they had by
Similar Books
