Scottish Episcopal Church doesn’t go in for elephants very much, alas. I can see a bishop on an elephant, can’t you?”
Pat had noticed the prints on the wall, and the metal candlestick on the table, in the shape of a three-headed cobra. And on Domenica’s desk, in a small porcelain pot, a bundle of joss sticks.
“Yes,” said Domenica, who seemed to have an uncanny facility for guessing exactly what it was that Pat was going to ask. “Some mementoes from India. But actually I was born right here in Scotland Street.”
“Right here? In this building?”
Domenica nodded. “In those days people were born in places where people lived. Astonishing, but true. I came into this world, would you believe it, in this very room. It was my parents’ bedroom and their bed was over there, against that wall. I was born in that bed. Precisely sixty-one years ago next Friday afternoon. There was a war on, as you may recall, and I had been conceived when my father came back on home leave from convoy duty. He did not survive the North Atlantic, I’m afraid, and so I never knew him.” She pointed to a photograph above a small, corner fireplace. “That’s my father there.”
Pat got up and crossed the room to stand before the
photograph. A tall man was standing on what seemed to be a dune, the grass about his feet bending in the breeze. The face was an intelligent one, the mouth relaxed into a smile. His hair was ruffled, blown by the wind.
“I loved him very much,” said Domenica. “Although I never knew him, I loved him very much. Does that sound odd to you? To love somebody you never knew?”
Pat thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. People fall in love with all sorts of people. People write letters to one another and fall in love even if they never meet. That happens.”
Domenica nodded. “It’s a special sort of love that one has for such a person. It’s an idealised love, I suppose. You’re in love with a memory, with an idea of somebody. And I suppose that for some people that’s all they have.”
For a short while there was silence. Pat looked again at the picture of Domenica’s father and then returned to her seat. She had always imagined that the saddest fate for a child would be to have no parents. But perhaps it was sadder still to have parents who did not love you. At least, if you had no parents you could think that they would have loved you, if they had been there. But if you knew your parents did not love you, then you would be denied even that scrap of comfort.
She looked at Domenica. “I’m sure he would have loved you,” she said. “I’m sure that he would have loved you a great deal.”
“Yes. I think he would.”
They said nothing for a moment. Then Domenica looked at her watch. “We must go through to the kitchen,” she said. “And then while I’m getting dinner ready, we can talk a little more. I don’t want to bore you, though. Sixty-one can be very boring for twenty whatever it is you are.”
“Twenty. Just twenty.”
“A good age to be,” said Domenica. “As is every age, I imagine, except for the years between fourteen and seventeen and a half. An awful time for everybody. Were you a dreadful teenager? I was, I think. In fact, I was exactly the sort of person I would not have liked to be. Does that make sense? Let’s think about it.”
27. The Electricity Factory
Domenica chopped the onions with a large-bladed knife, while her guest sat at the scrubbed-pine table and watched her.
“When did you live in India?” Pat asked.
Domenica tipped the onions into a saucepan. “I shall explain,” she said. “It will be simpler if you get the whole story. Reduced, of course, to five minutes. Time marched on, and it continued to do so until I was eighteen, when my mother suddenly decided that she wanted to go off to India. She had been offered the job of principal at a school for girls in south India. It was run by a Scottish
Pat had noticed the prints on the wall, and the metal candlestick on the table, in the shape of a three-headed cobra. And on Domenica’s desk, in a small porcelain pot, a bundle of joss sticks.
“Yes,” said Domenica, who seemed to have an uncanny facility for guessing exactly what it was that Pat was going to ask. “Some mementoes from India. But actually I was born right here in Scotland Street.”
“Right here? In this building?”
Domenica nodded. “In those days people were born in places where people lived. Astonishing, but true. I came into this world, would you believe it, in this very room. It was my parents’ bedroom and their bed was over there, against that wall. I was born in that bed. Precisely sixty-one years ago next Friday afternoon. There was a war on, as you may recall, and I had been conceived when my father came back on home leave from convoy duty. He did not survive the North Atlantic, I’m afraid, and so I never knew him.” She pointed to a photograph above a small, corner fireplace. “That’s my father there.”
Pat got up and crossed the room to stand before the
photograph. A tall man was standing on what seemed to be a dune, the grass about his feet bending in the breeze. The face was an intelligent one, the mouth relaxed into a smile. His hair was ruffled, blown by the wind.
“I loved him very much,” said Domenica. “Although I never knew him, I loved him very much. Does that sound odd to you? To love somebody you never knew?”
Pat thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. People fall in love with all sorts of people. People write letters to one another and fall in love even if they never meet. That happens.”
Domenica nodded. “It’s a special sort of love that one has for such a person. It’s an idealised love, I suppose. You’re in love with a memory, with an idea of somebody. And I suppose that for some people that’s all they have.”
For a short while there was silence. Pat looked again at the picture of Domenica’s father and then returned to her seat. She had always imagined that the saddest fate for a child would be to have no parents. But perhaps it was sadder still to have parents who did not love you. At least, if you had no parents you could think that they would have loved you, if they had been there. But if you knew your parents did not love you, then you would be denied even that scrap of comfort.
She looked at Domenica. “I’m sure he would have loved you,” she said. “I’m sure that he would have loved you a great deal.”
“Yes. I think he would.”
They said nothing for a moment. Then Domenica looked at her watch. “We must go through to the kitchen,” she said. “And then while I’m getting dinner ready, we can talk a little more. I don’t want to bore you, though. Sixty-one can be very boring for twenty whatever it is you are.”
“Twenty. Just twenty.”
“A good age to be,” said Domenica. “As is every age, I imagine, except for the years between fourteen and seventeen and a half. An awful time for everybody. Were you a dreadful teenager? I was, I think. In fact, I was exactly the sort of person I would not have liked to be. Does that make sense? Let’s think about it.”
27. The Electricity Factory
Domenica chopped the onions with a large-bladed knife, while her guest sat at the scrubbed-pine table and watched her.
“When did you live in India?” Pat asked.
Domenica tipped the onions into a saucepan. “I shall explain,” she said. “It will be simpler if you get the whole story. Reduced, of course, to five minutes. Time marched on, and it continued to do so until I was eighteen, when my mother suddenly decided that she wanted to go off to India. She had been offered the job of principal at a school for girls in south India. It was run by a Scottish
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