The Unbearable Lightness of Scones (19 page)

When Antonia had moved in, Domenica had imagined that they would see a great deal of one another, but it had not worked out. Antonia had changed since the days when they were close; she seemed preoccupied with her novel about the early Scottish saints and her conversation often turned on the subject of men, the very topic where Domenica felt Antonia’s judgment was weakest.

But what had caused the biggest rift in the relationship, at least from Domenica’s point of view, was the matter of the blue Spode teacup that Antonia had stolen – there was no other word to describe it – from Domenica when she had flat-sat for her and that was now somewhere in Antonia’s kitchen, along with heaven knew how much other stolen crockery. After all, one who stole a teacup from a neighbour would surely not be above stealing crockery from all sorts of places – including Jenners tea room and the North British Hotel (currently demotically known as the Balmoral Hotel).

Now, however, a heaven-sent opportunity had arisen to set right this gross wrong. It had arisen because Antonia had asked Domenica if she would be in to receive a delivery that she was expecting the following morning.

“These people are hopeless,” said Antonia. She used the expression “these people” to refer to anybody of whom she disapproved. “These people are bad losers,” she had said of some politicians after they had been defeated in the Scottish parliamentary elections. And then she had said, “These people certainly like their whisky,” pointing to a picture of a political party conference in Aviemore. It was a useful expression, which she was now using in relation to a firm of deliverers who refused to disclose when they would deliver a new armchair that she had ordered from a furniture catalogue.

“I shall be out all morning,” Antonia said to Domenica. “And so I wondered if I could leave a note on my door asking them to deliver to you if they arrive in the morning. That is if you’re going to be in.”

“I shall be in,” said Domenica helpfully.

Antonia smiled, and handed her the key to the flat. “I thought as much.”

Domenica wondered how she should take that. Did Antonia mean to suggest that she, Domenica, was bound to be in because she never received any invitations to go out? Or had nowhere to go, even uninvited? How often did Antonia herself go out?

“I’m out quite a lot, of course,” Domenica found herself saying. “You know how it is. But, as it happens, I shall be in tomorrow morning. Until about twelve. Then I shall be going out for lunch with friends.”

There was no such meeting yet arranged, and Domenica felt a bit petty inventing it on the spot. But she would be going out, she decided; she would telephone her friend Dilly Emslie and meet her for lunch in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. So she had not exactly told a lie. And anyway, it was Antonia’s fault, with that silly implication that Domenica had a thin time of it socially. If you make that sort of comment, then people will feel it necessary to retaliate.

“Thank you,” said Antonia, adding, “I know how busy you are.”

Domenica pursed her lips. “Yes.”

“So if you wouldn’t mind getting them to put it in the sitting room, next to that green chair of mine. I’ve put four of those round casters out on the floor – ask them to rest the legs on those – you know how these people are. They don’t care a jot about your floors.”

Domenica took the keys and nodded. “I’ll do my best,” she said. Then she paused. “Going anywhere interesting?”

Antonia looked away. “National Library,” she said. “It’s my novel. I’m on to something.”

Domenica waited for more, but nothing came. The Scottish
saints, in Antonia’s hands, were a strange and secretive quantity, quite unlike other saints, with their bland and worthy lives. The early Scottish saints were, Antonia had hinted, ever so slightly bitchy, but in the nicest possible way, of course. Had anything changed?

Temptation comes in many forms: the bottle, the beguiling face, the tray of chocolates – these can all lure any of us off the path of rectitude which often seems, if not steep, then at least rather dull. For Domenica, on whom any of the above forms of temptation would have little effect – even if the bottle, in the shape of a slightly larger helping of Crabbie’s Green Ginger Wine, would occasionally beckon – temptation now presented itself in the shape of the key to Antonia’s flat. Antonia had pressed this into her hand with the request to supervise the delivery of a new green armchair, and Domenica, quite naturally, had agreed. But when, as she sat drinking her morning coffee, she saw the key lying innocently on the kitchen table, it occurred to her that she now had unfettered access to Antonia’s flat, at least for that morning, and that this meant she could retrieve the blue Spode teacup that Antonia had stolen from her and which she knew was in use next door.

That was her initial thought and, at first blush, it seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do. The teacup remained her property and surely an owner of property was fully entitled to vindicate her right to it wherever and whenever the opportunity to do so arose. To enter the flat, then, with the sole purpose of claiming what was hers, was not house-breaking or anything remotely similar – it was merely recovering unlawfully purloined property. The act of going into the flat was akin, she thought, to the technical violation of national sovereignty which occurs when one country crosses the border of another in order to
deal with a previous unlawful incursion. That was clear. And if the United Nations and the whole corpus of international law allowed that, then surely she would be entitled to go in pursuit of her tea cup. And yet, and yet …

The problem with entering the flat for the purposes of retrieving the cup was that it would be a breach of trust. Antonia had given her the key for the express and limited purpose of helping with the delivery of an armchair. If she were to use the key for any other purpose – even for that of retrieving what was hers – then that would amount to an abuse of the original trust. So she simply could not do it.

That is what she had decided when Angus Lordie knocked on her door. He occasionally called unannounced – usually when he felt like a cup of coffee and some conversation – and Domenica normally welcomed these visits.

“I smelled the coffee,” Angus said from the doorstep. “Or rather, Cyril did. He has a particular nose for Jamaica Blue Mountain blend, which I take it is what is producing that singularly agreeable odour wafting about.”

“Blue Mountain it is,” said Domenica. “And a rather expensive brand, if you don’t mind my pointing out, Angus. But do come in. Perhaps dear Cyril would find it more comfortable out on the landing. How are his puppies, by the way?”

Angus waved a hand in the air. “Perfectly all right,” he said. And they were – as far as he knew. That agreeable stranger he had met in Drummond Place had seemed most solicitous as to the puppies’ welfare; of course they would be all right.

They went through to the kitchen, where Domenica poured Angus a cup of coffee and invited him to sit down at the table. The newspaper, open on the table in front of her, had much that she wished to discuss with him. Duncan MacMillan had written another witty denunciation of the Turner Prize for modern art, which had just been awarded to a loop of washing line draped around an old suitcase. This installation had been very well-received in London, but not in Edinburgh, where such pretentious posturing was fortunately seen for what it was. Duncan Macmillan pointed this out in no uncertain terms and Domenica was keen to see if Angus agreed. He did.

“I agree with everything he writes,” he said. “Everything.”

So that settled that. Then, just when Domenica was about to proceed to the next item on her agenda, they were disturbed by barking from the landing outside.

“Strange footfall,” said Angus. “How fortunate that Cyril is there to warn us.”

Domenica rose to her feet. “That will be Antonia’s delivery,” she said. “She has entrusted me with her key to let the delivery men in. Will you please come and move Cerberus from his position at the edge of Lethe.”

“Leith.”

“That’s what I said.”

They went out onto the landing. Down below, muttered voices told them of the approach of two delivery men who were manhandling a substantial armchair up the stairs. Angus silenced Cyril and led him back into the flat while Domenica opened Antonia’s front door. Angus then returned to the landing and waited with Domenica.

The burly delivery men, puffing and panting from their exertion on the stairs, carried the armchair into Antonia’s hall, followed by Domenica and Angus.

“I shall show you exactly where she wants it,” said Domenica, gesturing to the sitting room. “And if you wouldn’t mind, please put it on those casters. Yes, that’s right. Thank you.”

The two men manoeuvred the chair into position; one made a remark about the weather; and then they left.

Domenica and Angus stood next to the armchair. Neither said anything at first, but glances were exchanged. “Ghastly shade of green,” said Domenica.

“But
chacun à son fauteuil
,” added Angus.

A further short silence followed. Then Domenica spoke again. “Do you remember that blue Spode teacup of mine?” she asked. “The one I was particularly fond of? You had numerous unreciprocated cups of coffee out of it. Numerous.”

“How could I forget it?” replied Angus. “The one you said she stole?”

Domenica nodded. “The very one.”

“And to think that it is in this flat, even as we speak,” said Angus. “Probably sitting through there in the kitchen. Ready for illegal use.” He paused. “Should we take a look?”

For a few moments Domenica wrestled with her conscience. The situation would be quite different, she thought, were Angus to go into the kitchen and find the cup. Antonia had burdened him with no obligation of trust and so if he went in and found the cup it would be nothing to do with her.

She chose her words carefully. “As you wish.” So had Pontius Pilate spoken all those years ago. It would be up to others.

“Right you are,” said Angus. “I’ll go and have a shufty.”

A shufty. What an appropriate word for a shifty action. Perfect.

Because he was still damp, with that particular, uncomfortable dampness that comes from immersion in salt water, Matthew found that he was sticking to the seat of the police car into
which he had been bundled. It was a double discomfort: that of being arrested, or at least detained, coupled with that of being soaking and sticky.

“I wonder if you would mind taking me back to my hotel,” Matthew said politely. “It’s not far from here.”

There were two policemen in the front – one at the wheel and one in the passenger’s seat. The one in the passenger’s seat turned round and glanced at Matthew through the grille that separated back from front.

“Your hotel?” he said, not unkindly. “You think you’ve got a hotel?”

“Yes,” said Matthew. “It’s somewhere over there. You see, I was washed out to sea and my wife will be wondering where I am. It was a dolphin, you see …”

The policemen glanced at one another. “There, there,” said the one behind the steering wheel. “You’ll be all right, mate. Don’t get too excited. No worries.”

“But I am worried,” protested Matthew. “My wife will be frantic with worry too.”

One of the policemen smiled. “Yes, well, you may be right there, mate. It might be a bit worrying being married to you. Know what I mean?”

Matthew leaned forward. As he did so, there was an uncomfortable sucking noise as his clothes detached themselves from the seat. “May I ask where you’re taking me?”

“You can ask, mate,” said one of the policemen. “No harm in asking.”

“Well, where are we going? I’ve done nothing illegal. You can’t just …”

“Oh we can,” said the other policemen. “We can pick up people who are a danger to themselves or others. Not that it’s your fault, mate. We know that.” He paused, and looked at Matthew through the grille. “Were you in hospital before … before you met the dolphin?”

Matthew stared at the policeman in astonishment. He now realised what they were assuming: they thought that he was
mad. They did not believe his story about the dolphin – and who could blame them?

He knew what he would have to do. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. I think that there’s been a misunderstanding. There was no dolphin.”

The policeman nodded. “No dolphin now? Well, you did tell us. And of course we believed you. Why would we not believe that you met a dolphin? So what was it? A whale, maybe?”

Matthew laughed. “Certainly not! Listen, I know that you think that I’m round the bend. I know you think that I am one of these people who imagine all sorts of things. Well, I’m not. There really wasn’t a dolphin and I was just making it up. Just to … Just to amuse myself. So, if you wouldn’t mind, just let me get out and get back to my hotel.”

The policemen stared fixedly ahead.

“Did you hear me?” asked Matthew after a while.

“Oh we heard you all right, mate,” said one of the policemen. “But you just sit back and keep calm. We don’t want to have to use handcuffs, do we? Everything is going to be all right. They’ll fix you up nicely at the hospital.”