The Unbearable Lightness of Scones by Alexander McCall Smith
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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about the clear outline of a doorway which could be made out on one of the walls adjacent to Domenica’s kitchen. It was only when Antonia had been invited into Domenica’s flat for drinks one evening shortly after her purchase of the flat that the subject had been brought up, and even then raised indirectly.
“You’re most fortunate,” Antonia had said, “to have an extra room. You really are.”
Domenica had affected surprise. “But I don’t have an extra room,” she said. “I have the number of rooms that I have – and always have had.”
Antonia had looked into the glass of wine that Domenica had poured her; the wine came barely half way up the side of the glass, but that, she thought, was another thing. “What I meant,” she said, “is that your flat, which one would have thought would be the mirror image of mine – being on the same landing – appears to have two more rooms than I do. That’s rather surprising, would you not agree?”
Domenica would not. She knew exactly what Antonia meant – she was suggesting that the owners of Domenica’s flat had at some point stolen a room from next door. What a ridiculous thought! “No,” she said. “Not really. Many flats in this part of town are of different sizes. Some flats were intended for people of greater means than other flats. Some flats had maids’ bedrooms, for example.”
Antonia looked out of the window. She, or her predecessors in title to the flat, had lost a room, and she was in no doubtabout where it had gone. It was, she thought, like one of those historic injustices that resonated down the centuries – a land grab of the sort that was imposed on the weak or the inattentive. This was exactly how Paraguay must feel about the loss of so much of its territory to its now larger neighbours. But, like Paraguay, there was not much she could do, and the conversation had turned to other matters.
Domenica remembered this conversation as she stood before Antonia’s door and prepared to press the bell. The two women had known one another for a long time, even before Antonia had moved to Edinburgh from Fife on the break-up of her marriage, but their relationship had not developed into the friendship which both had initially wished for. Now they had settled into a reasonably amicable, if slightly strained, modus vivendi in which each kept largely to herself but responded readily and in good grace to the duties of neighbourhood. Social invitations were extended and reciprocated, but they were carefully judged so as not to be too frequent as to lead to any form of imposition.
When Domenica had been on field work in the Malacca Straits, her flat had been looked after by Antonia. This had been a convenient arrangement for both of them, but on Domenica’s return she had made the shocking discovery that Antonia had removed a blue Spode teacup from her flat and was using it, quite openly, in her own. It was this teacup that now crossed her mind as she pressed Antonia’s bell.
When Antonia appeared at the door she did not seem to be at all surprised that it was Domenica who stood on her doorstep.
“Oh, it’s only you,” she said.
Domenica caught her breath. Only you … “You were expecting somebody more exciting?”
Antonia treated this as a joke. “Oh no! Well, maybe yes. But that’s not to imply that you’re not exciting … in your way.”
A short silence ensued. Declarations of war have come in more subtle forms than this, and Domenica would have beenquite within her rights to interpret this as such, but then Antonia smiled and gestured for her to come inside, and Domenica decided that she would forgive the other woman’s tactlessness. There was no point in being at odds with one’s neighbour, whatever the provocation: selfishness in all its forms was what neighbours manifested and one simply had to accept it – unless one wanted distrust and downright enmity.
“Who were you expecting?” she asked. “I don’t want to get in
“You’re most fortunate,” Antonia had said, “to have an extra room. You really are.”
Domenica had affected surprise. “But I don’t have an extra room,” she said. “I have the number of rooms that I have – and always have had.”
Antonia had looked into the glass of wine that Domenica had poured her; the wine came barely half way up the side of the glass, but that, she thought, was another thing. “What I meant,” she said, “is that your flat, which one would have thought would be the mirror image of mine – being on the same landing – appears to have two more rooms than I do. That’s rather surprising, would you not agree?”
Domenica would not. She knew exactly what Antonia meant – she was suggesting that the owners of Domenica’s flat had at some point stolen a room from next door. What a ridiculous thought! “No,” she said. “Not really. Many flats in this part of town are of different sizes. Some flats were intended for people of greater means than other flats. Some flats had maids’ bedrooms, for example.”
Antonia looked out of the window. She, or her predecessors in title to the flat, had lost a room, and she was in no doubtabout where it had gone. It was, she thought, like one of those historic injustices that resonated down the centuries – a land grab of the sort that was imposed on the weak or the inattentive. This was exactly how Paraguay must feel about the loss of so much of its territory to its now larger neighbours. But, like Paraguay, there was not much she could do, and the conversation had turned to other matters.
Domenica remembered this conversation as she stood before Antonia’s door and prepared to press the bell. The two women had known one another for a long time, even before Antonia had moved to Edinburgh from Fife on the break-up of her marriage, but their relationship had not developed into the friendship which both had initially wished for. Now they had settled into a reasonably amicable, if slightly strained, modus vivendi in which each kept largely to herself but responded readily and in good grace to the duties of neighbourhood. Social invitations were extended and reciprocated, but they were carefully judged so as not to be too frequent as to lead to any form of imposition.
When Domenica had been on field work in the Malacca Straits, her flat had been looked after by Antonia. This had been a convenient arrangement for both of them, but on Domenica’s return she had made the shocking discovery that Antonia had removed a blue Spode teacup from her flat and was using it, quite openly, in her own. It was this teacup that now crossed her mind as she pressed Antonia’s bell.
When Antonia appeared at the door she did not seem to be at all surprised that it was Domenica who stood on her doorstep.
“Oh, it’s only you,” she said.
Domenica caught her breath. Only you … “You were expecting somebody more exciting?”
Antonia treated this as a joke. “Oh no! Well, maybe yes. But that’s not to imply that you’re not exciting … in your way.”
A short silence ensued. Declarations of war have come in more subtle forms than this, and Domenica would have beenquite within her rights to interpret this as such, but then Antonia smiled and gestured for her to come inside, and Domenica decided that she would forgive the other woman’s tactlessness. There was no point in being at odds with one’s neighbour, whatever the provocation: selfishness in all its forms was what neighbours manifested and one simply had to accept it – unless one wanted distrust and downright enmity.
“Who were you expecting?” she asked. “I don’t want to get in
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