Pat looked up at the cornice. “I’m on a gap year,” she said, and added, because truth required it after alclass="underline" “It’s my second gap year, actually.”
Bruce stared at her, and then burst out laughing. “Your second gap year?”
Pat nodded. She felt miserable. Everybody said that. Everybody said that because they had no idea of what had happened.
“My first one was a disaster,” she said. “So I started again.”
Bruce picked up a matchbox and rattled it absent-mindedly.
“What went wrong?” he asked.
“Do you mind if I don’t tell you? Or just not yet.”
He shrugged. “Stuff happens,” he said. “It really does.”
After her meeting with Bruce, Pat returned to her parents’ house on the south side of Edinburgh. She found her father in his study, a disorganised room stacked with back copies of the Journal of the Royal College of Psychiatrists. She told him of the meeting with Bruce.
“It didn’t last long,” she said. “I had expected a whole lot of them. But there was only him. The others were away somewhere or other.”
4
Stuff Happens
Her father raised an eyebrow. In his day, young people had shared flats with others of the same sex. There were some mixed flats, of course, but these were regarded as being a bit – how should one put it? – adventurous. He had shared a flat in Argyle Place, in the shadow of the Sick Kids’ Hospital, with three other male medical students. They had lived there for years, right up to the time of graduation, and even after that one of them had kept it on while he was doing his houseman’s year. Girlfriends had come for weekends now and then, but that had been the exception. Now, men and women lived together in total innocence (sometimes) as if in Eden.
“It’s not just him?” he asked. “There are others?”
“Yes,” she said. “Or at least I think so. There were four rooms.
Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worrying.”
“You are.”
He pursed his lips. “You could always stay at home, you know.
We wouldn’t interfere.”
She looked at him, and he shook his head. “No,” he went on.
“I understand. You have to lead your own life. We know that.
That’s what gap years are for.”
“Exactly,” said Pat. “A gap year is . . .”
She faltered. She was not at all sure what a gap year was really for, and this was her second. Was it a time in which to grow up?
Was it an expensive indulgence, a rite de passage for the offspring of wealthy parents? In many cases, she thought, it was an expensive holiday: a spell in South America imposing yourself on a puzzled community somewhere, teaching them English and painting the local school. There were all sorts of organisations that arranged these things. There might even be one called Paint Aid, for all she knew – an organisation which went out and painted places that looked in need of a coat of paint. She herself had painted half a school in Ecuador before somebody stole the remaining supplies of paint and they had been obliged to stop.
Her father waited for her to finish the sentence, but she did not. So he changed the subject and asked her when she was going to move in. He would transport everything, as he always did; the Stuff Happens
5
bundles of clothing, the bedside lamp, the suitcases, the kettle.
And he would not complain.
“And work?” he asked. “When do you start at the gallery?”
“Tuesday,” said Pat. “They’re closed on Mondays. Tuesday’s my first day.”
“You must be pleased about that,” said her father. “Working in a gallery. Isn’t that what most of you people want to do?”
“Not in particular,” said Pat, somewhat irritated. Her father used the expression you people indiscriminately to encompass Pat, her age group, and her circle of friends. Some people wanted to work in a gallery, and perhaps there were a lot of those, but it was hardly a universal desire. There were presumably some people who wanted to work in bars, to work with beer, so to speak; and there were people, plenty of people, who would find themselves quite uncomfortable in a gallery. Bruce, for instance, with his rugby shirt and his en brosse haircut. He was not gallery material.
That had been another interview altogether. She had seen the discreet, hand-written notice in the window of the gallery a few streets away. A bit of help wanted. Reception. Answering the phone
– that sort of thing. The wording had been diffident, as if it was almost indecent to suggest that anybody who read it might actually be looking for something to do. But when she had gone in and found the tall, slightly lost-looking young man sitting at his desk – the wording had seemed perfect.
“It’s not much of a job,” he had said. “You won’t have to sell any paintings, I expect. You’ll just be providing cover for me.
And you’ll have to do the occasional other thing. This and that.
You know.”
She did not know, but did not ask. It looked as if he might have found it tedious to give the details of the job. And he certainly asked her nothing about herself, not even her name, before he sat back in his chair, folded his arms, and said: “The job’s yours if you want it. Want it?”
2. A Room with a Smell
Bruce had shown Pat the vacant room in the flat and this had brought home to him what a complete slut Anna had been. He had asked her to clean the room before she left – he had asked her at least twice – and she had assured him, twice, that it would be done. But he should have known that she did not mean it, and now, looking at the room with a visitor’s eyes, he saw what she had done. The middle of the carpet had been vacuumed, and looked clean enough, but everywhere else looked dirty and neglected. The bed, pulled halfway away from the wall, had large balls of dust under it, as well as a collapsed stack of magazines.
A glass of water, with lipstick stains on the rim, had been left on the bedside table. She had moved out a week ago and he should have checked, but he had always hated going into the room while she was there and her presence somehow lingered. So he had left the door closed and tried to forget that she had ever lived there.
Pat stood still for a moment. There was a musty odour to the room; a smell of unwashed sheets and clothes.
“It’s got a great view,” said Bruce, striding across to draw the curtains, which had been left half-closed. “Look,” he said. “That’s the back of that street over there and that’s the green. Look at the pigeons.”
“It’s big enough,” said Pat, uncertainly.
“It’s not just big, it’s huge,” said Bruce. “Huge.”
Pat moved over towards the wardrobe, a rickety old oak wardrobe with half-hearted art nouveau designs carved up each side. She reached out to open it. Bruce drew his breath. That slut Anna, that slut, had probably left the cupboard full of her dirty washing. That was just the sort of thing she would do; like a child, really, leaving clothes on the floor for the adults to pick up.
“That’s a wardrobe,” he said, hoping that she would not try to open it. “I’ll clean it out for you. It might have some of her stuff still in it.”
Pat hesitated. Was the smell any stronger near the wardrobe?
She was unsure.
“She didn’t keep the place very clean, did she?” she said.