58. Moving In, Moving Out
“Here we are,” said Matthew, as he fumbled for the key of his flat. “Home.” Pat said nothing. It was evidently home for Matthew, but was it home for her? She had accepted his offer of a room, of course, but this had been only because of his persistence and the suddenness of her need to leave Spottiswoode Street. Home for her was her parents’ house in the Grange, where her room was kept exactly as she had left it, as parents often will keep their child’s room, as a museum. Home was not here in India Street; Matthew, she felt, should not make unwarranted assumptions.
She had never been in Matthew’s flat before and she had not expected the spaciousness and grandeur which greeted her. The front door gave onto a large hall, perfectly square, topped by a sizeable cupola. There were flagstones on the floor and these were covered, in part, by dark oriental rugs. There were several paintings on the walls of this hall, one of which Pat recognised from the gallery–a gilt-framed but otherwise dreary view of the Falls of Clyde by a Victorian painter whom they had been unable to identify.
Matthew showed her to her room, which was at the back of the flat, next to the kitchen. It was considerably larger than the room she had occupied in Spottiswoode Street, and better provided with cupboards and drawers.
“I’ve always used this as a guest room,” said Matthew. “Or, rather, I would have used it as a guest room if I’d had any guests.” He looked out of the window, as if searching for guests who had never arrived.
Pat glanced at him. There was something inexplicably sad about Matthew; a sense of life having passed him by. There were some people who had that aura of sadness, often inexplicably so, she thought, and Matthew was one of them. Or was it loneliness rather than sadness? If it was, then it could be relieved by company. There was no reason why Matthew could not find somebody. He was presentable enough, quite good-looking in fact when viewed from a certain angle, and even if he required some gingering up there were plenty of girls in Edinburgh who would be prepared to see Matthew as a project.
Matthew dragged Pat’s suitcase into her room and then left her to unpack. He would make coffee, he said, in half an hour, after she had sorted things out. He would then show her the kitchen and where things were.
“You can use everything,” he said. “There’s never much food in there, but you can help yourself to what there is. Feel free.”
Pat thanked him, but thought that she would buy her own supplies. His insistence that she stay rent-free was difficult enough; to be fed by him too would have made her position impossible. I would be a kept woman, she thought; and smiled at the thought. It was a wonderful expression, she reflected; so exotic, so out-of-date, rather like the expression “a fallen woman”. She knew somebody who lived in a house in Edinburgh that used to be a home for fallen women; after their fall, the women went there to have their babies before the babies were then given up for adoption. One of the rooms in the house had been a lecture room, where the women were lectured on the avoidance of further falls, perhaps.
After she had unpacked, she went through to the kitchen, where she found Matthew seated at the scrubbed-pine table, a coffee pot and two mugs in front of him.
“Don’t you love the smell of freshly-brewed coffee?” he said brightly. “And the smell of the grounds before you make the coffee. That’s even better.” He sniffed at the air. “Lovely.”
Pat sat down. She had resolved to talk to Matthew and decided that it would be best to do so now, right at the beginning. It would be easier that way.
“Matthew,” she began. “I’m really grateful to you for letting me stay here. You know that, don’t you?” He made a gesture with his hand, as if brushing aside, in embarrassment, an unwanted compliment. “I’m happy to be able to help,” he said. “And I really don’t mind. That room is never used.”
The guests who never came, thought Pat; he was lonely–it was so obvious. She almost stopped herself there, but continued. She had to.
“Well, it’s kind of you,” said Pat.
“Don’t think about it,” said Matthew. “You’d do the same for me. I know you would.”
Pat was silent. Would she? Perhaps.
“And it’s not going to be for long,” she went on. “No more than a couple of weeks. Until I find somewhere else.”
Matthew was staring at the coffee pot. He reached out and picked it up, as if to start pouring, but then put it down. He reached for one of the mugs and peered inside it.
“Only a few weeks?”
She could tell that he was making an effort to keep his voice level, to hide his disappointment. But she had to go through with this; it would be far more difficult to say anything later on, when misunderstandings had already occurred.
“You see,” she said, “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to share just with one person, particularly with a…” she hesitated for a moment before continuing, “with a man.”
Matthew continued to stare into the mug. Then he looked up. “I hoped that you’d stay a bit longer than that,” he said. “It gets very…very quiet around here. I just hoped…” He bit at his lip. “I would never make it awkward for you. Why would you think that? Why would you think I’d make it awkward for you?”
Pat reached out and took his hand. “Because it would be awkward,” she said. “Because you’re a man and I’m a girl, and…you know.”
Matthew sighed. “But you don’t fancy me. I know that. Nothing could ever happen, because you don’t fancy me. Nobody does.”
There was no self pity in his voice; he merely spoke with the air of one stating a fact.
“That isn’t true,” said Pat vehemently. “A lot of people fancy you.”
“Name one,” said Matthew flatly. “Name just one.”
Pat did not have the time to answer the question, which she could not have answered anyway. But at that moment, with the question still hanging in the air, the doorbell rang and the conversation came to an end.
59. A Person from Porlock
The arrival of an unexpected visitor has ruined many an important conversation and at least one great poem. When Coleridge started to describe his vision of Kubla Khan’s Xanadu, he had, we are told, the words in mind to describe what he saw. But then came the person from Porlock, who by chance knocked at the door at precisely the moment that the poet was committing his vision to paper, and it was lost. Thus began Porlock’s long career as a symbol of that which interrupts the flow.
Pat might have been able to reassure Matthew that he was appreciated, had she had the chance to do so. But she was not to have that chance. As Matthew rose to his feet to answer the door, he gave her a look which said, very clearly, that what he said was irrefutable, and that she should not even bother to dispute it. Pat made a gesture of hopelessness, the meaning of which was similarly clear: if that’s your view of yourself, then nothing will persuade you otherwise, will it?
While Matthew was answering the door, Pat poured herself a cup of coffee. She felt unhappy about the disappointment that she had caused Matthew; she liked him–she liked him a great deal, in fact, as he had always been kind to her. But there was no mistaking the difference between the affection she felt for Matthew–a rather sister-like affection–and the feelings which Wolf had aroused in her. She could hardly bear to think about Wolf now, but she had to admit that what she had previously felt for him was far from sisterly. The thought of that disturbed her, and she found herself wondering whether she was the sort of woman who was invariably attracted to the wrong sort of man. She had seen that behaviour in others, the stubborn refusal to acknowledge the worthlessness of some man. And it was always the same men who benefited from that; handsome, charming men who knew how to exploit women; men like…like Bruce and Wolf.
The solution to that problem was obvious: pick a man who was not handsome and not, on the face of it, charming; somebody like Matthew, somebody quiet and decent. But could she ever be attracted to somebody quiet and decent? And what, she wondered, had quiet and decent men
to offer? They made good husbands, perhaps; they would wash the car and help with the children, but that was hardly what Pat, at her age, was interested in. She wanted romance, excitement, the sense of being swept away by something, and Matthew, for all his merits, would never be able to give her that. Matthew would never be able to sweep anybody away; it was impossible.
There was the sound of voices in the hall–Matthew was speaking to somebody, and now he walked into the kitchen with a young woman behind him.
“This is Leonie,” said Matthew. “Leonie, this is Pat.”
There was a moment of silence as the two young women looked at one another. Pat noticed Leonie’s hair first of all, which was cut short, in an almost masculine style, and her black jeans, low on the hips. She’s the type to have a tattoo, she thought, somewhere; somewhere hidden. And what is she to Matthew? Is she…?
For her part, Leonie merely thought: interesting.
“Leonie’s an architect,” said Matthew as he pulled out a chair for the guest. “We met…”
“In the Cumberland Bar,” supplied Leonie. “A few weeks ago, wasn’t it, Matthew?”
Matthew nodded, and busied himself with pouring coffee.
“An architect,” said Pat.
“Yes,” said Leonie. She turned to Matthew. “I’ve done a few sketches for you, Matthew. Remember? You said that you might do something with this place?”
Matthew frowned. “Yes, well, I hadn’t really decided. Not definitely.”
“They’re just sketches,” said Leonie. “And I’ve made a card model. It gives you an idea of how things might feel.”
Matthew looked at Pat. It was, she thought, a mute plea for help. “Is there anything wrong with this flat?” she said. “It seems pretty nice to me.”
Leonie, who had addressed her remarks to Matthew, now turned to Pat. “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it,” she said. “But we can make much more of things, you know. Just about anywhere can be improved if you take a hard look at it. Made more user-friendly, if you see what I mean.”
“But this isn’t meant to be user-friendly,” said Pat, gesturing towards the hall. “This is Georgian. This is what it’s meant to be like.”
Leonie smiled. “We don’t have to live in museums,” she said. “That’s the trouble with this town. It’s a museum.”
“Maybe you could show me the sketches,” Matthew interrupted. “Then we could see.”
Leonie reached into the large black folder that she had brought with her. “Right,” she said. “Here we are.” She took out a large piece of paper and unfolded it. “Here’s something.”
They stared at the neatly-traced sketch, drawn on draughtsman’s paper.
“Here’s the hall,” said Leonie, pointing to the sketch. “That’s the welcoming space. At the moment, you come in and what do you see? Nothing. The hall leads nowhere.”
“But is a hall meant to lead somewhere?” asked Matthew.
“Well, what else should it do?” asked Leonie. “You don’t live in it, do you? Unused space.” She tapped the paper. “You’ll see that I suggest that we take down this wall here, which allows the hall to flow into this room here, to absorb it. You get a much better sense of being drawn into the living space, you see. The spaces will talk to one another.”
Pat stared at the sketch. It was a short while before she established the orientation of the plan, but once she had done that she realised that the room which was being absorbed into the hall was her own. “My room,” she said quietly.
“What was that?” asked Leonie.
“I said, my room,” Pat replied.
Leonie looked to Matthew for an explanation.
“Pat’s staying with me,” he explained. “For the time being.”
Leonie took her hands away from the plans. “I see.” She looked at Pat in a curious way. There was something about her look which made the younger girl feel unsettled. It was not an unfriendly look, but it was not uncomplicated. The best word to describe it, she thought, was bemused.
“These are just ideas,” said Leonie after a few moments.
60. An Invitation to Dinner
Feeling uncomfortable sitting in the kitchen with Matthew and Leonie, Pat retreated to her room with the excuse that she had more unpacking to do. Leonie smiled at her as she left, but it was a puzzling smile, and she found it hard to interpret.
“So,” said Leonie after Pat had left. “So, Matthew, who’s our young friend?”
Matthew blushed. “She works for me,” he muttered. “In the gallery.”
Leonie raised an eyebrow. “And the room goes with the job?”
Matthew did not reply immediately. He had not expected Leonie’s visit and now he found himself resenting her arriving without warning. He had met her only once before, on that occasion when he had invited her back to India Street for a pizza. They had got on reasonably well on that occasion and had made a vague agreement to meet again. Telephone numbers had been exchanged, but he had not called her, and she had not called him. He had toyed with the idea of doing so once or twice, but had decided against it. He was just not sure that he liked her. Perhaps he did; perhaps not.
They had talked on that occasion about possible renovations to his flat, but he had not encouraged her in any way. And now here she was, with a set of unasked-for drawings, expounding about rooms talking to one another and fluid spaces. What business was it of hers who stayed in his flat? What precisely was she suggesting anyway? That he was taking advantage of a vulnerable young employee? It was all a bit too much.
“She had a bit of trouble in her last flat,” he said evenly. “I’m helping her out.”
Leonie took a sip of her coffee. Matthew noticed that she was looking at him over the rim of her mug. Her expression, he thought, was one of scepticism.
She lowered her mug. “Nice for you,” she said. “Very nice.”
Matthew looked away with mounting irritation. “Look,” he said. “I’m not sure that I’m all that keen on doing any structural alterations to this place. I didn’t think that you were serious back then.”
Leonie sighed. “They’re just some ideas I had,” she said. “Nothing more than that. I wouldn’t want to force you to do anything.”
“No,” said Matthew. “Well, thanks anyway. Thanks for going to the trouble.”
Leonie folded up the plan and slipped it into her case. Her manner was cool. “That’s fine,” she said. “I enjoyed doing it. You get a bit bored designing extensions for boring little houses in the suburbs. It’s nice to imagine doing something more challenging.”
She had abandoned her plan so readily that Matthew felt slightly sorry for her. Australians were direct speakers, and perhaps she had not meant to sound snide when she referred to Pat’s presence. Perhaps there would be the possibility of a friendship here–nothing more than that, of course, at this stage.
“Have you been back to the Cumberland Bar?” he asked politely.
Leonie shook her head. “No. I had a long weekend in London and then a friend from Melbourne dropped by. She stayed for a week. You know how it is when you have friends staying. Busy.”
“Yes, of course.” Matthew hesitated. Leonie’s visit had made him forget his disappointment over Pat’s rebuff–for that is how he thought of it–and now the thought of asking Leonie out to dinner seemed attractive. It would make up, too, for any disappointment she might feel over the rejection of her drawings.
“I’m sorry about the plans,” he said. “You must have spent a lot of time doing those. And then I…”
“Don’t think about it,” said Leonie reassuringly. “If you knew how many times drawings of mine have been torn up, you wouldn’t think about it for a moment. It happens. Architects are used to it.”
“Well, at least let me take you out to dinner,” said Matthew. “As a thank-you.”
Leonie laughed. “I thought you were never going to ask,” she said. “Yes. Dinner would be nice.”
Matthew rubbed his hands together. “I??
?ll book a table for two somewhere,” he said.
“Make it three,” said Leonie. “Would you mind very much?”
“Three?” Matthew wondered whether she thought that Pat would be included, but why should she imagine that? Surely he had made it clear enough that although he and Pat were living together, that was all they were doing together.
“My friend,” said Leonie quietly. “My friend, Babs.”
Matthew was perplexed. “Your friend from Melbourne? Is she still staying with you?”
Leonie laughed. “No, not her. She’s gone off to Denmark. Babs is my friend here. You know. My friend.”
Matthew saw her bemused expression and realised that he had not been very perceptive. Mind you, how was one to tell? After all, she had accepted his invitation when they had met in the Cumberland Bar; she should have told him, or given him some indication, rather than relying on him to pick up the signals which were, anyway, non-existent as far as he could make out.
He made a quick recovery. That, at least, sorted that out. It would indeed remain a simple friendship. “Of course. That’s fine. The three of us. Now where shall we go? What sort of place do you like?”
“I’m easy,” said Leonie. “But Babs is wild about Italian. Do you think we could…?”
“Of course. Italian.”
Leonie seemed pleased. “Babs lived in Italy for a year, you see. She worked in Milan. She’s a designer. Milan’s the place for designers.”
Matthew nodded. He had not thought that anyone called Babs would be artistic. Babs was a name full of old-fashioned briskness. What would somebody called Babs do? Perhaps work with horses.
Leonie looked thoughtful. “How about…Well, why don’t you invite that girl through there? What’s her name again?”
“You mean Pat?”
“Yes. Pat. Let’s invite her too. You said that she had had a bit of trouble. An Italian restaurant would cheer her up.”
Matthew looked out of the kitchen towards Pat’s room. Her door was closed. “I’m not sure,” he began. “She may not…”
“Just ask her,” Leonie interrupted. “She may be keen to come.”