44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [5]
“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. A Room with a Smell
7
Bruce laughed. “You’re right. She was a real slut, that girl. We were all pleased when she decided to go over to Glasgow. I encouraged her. I said that the job she had been offered sounded just fine. A real opportunity.”
“And was it?”
Bruce shrugged. “She fancied herself getting into television journalism. She had been offered a job making tea for some producer over there. Great job. Great tea possibilities.”
Pat moved towards the desk. One of the drawers was half-open and she could see papers inside.
“It almost looks as if she’s planning to come back,” she said.
“Maybe she hasn’t moved out altogether.”
Bruce glanced at the drawer. He would throw all this out as soon as Pat went. And he would stop forwarding her mail too.
“If there’s any danger of her coming back,” he said, smiling,
“we’ll change the locks.”
Later, when Pat had left, he went back to the room and opened the window. Then he crossed the room to the wardrobe and looked inside. The right-hand side was empty, but on the left, in the hanging section, there was a large plastic bag, stuffed full of clothes. This was the source of the musty odour, and, handling it gingerly, he took it out. Underneath the bag was a pair of abandoned shoes, the soles curling off. He picked these up, looked at them with disgust, and dropped them into the open mouth of the plastic bag.
He moved over to the desk. The top drawer looked as if it had been cleared out, apart from a few paper clips and a chipped plastic ruler. The drawer beneath that, half-open, had papers in it. He picked up the paper on the top and looked at it. It was a letter from a political party asking for a donation to a fighting fund. A smiling politician beamed out from a photograph. I know you care, said the politician, in bold type, I know you care enough to help me care for our common future. Bruce grimaced, crumpled up the letter, and tossed it into the black plastic bag. He picked up the next piece of paper and began to read it. It was handwritten, the second or subsequent page of a letter as it began halfway through a sentence: which was not very clever of me! Still, 8
A Room with a Smell
I wasn’t going to see them again and so I suppose it made no differ- ence. And what about you? I don’t know how you put up with those people you live with. Come through to Glasgow. I know somebody who’s got a spare room in her flat and who’s looking for somebody. That guy Bruce sounds a creep. I couldn’t believe it when you said that you thought he read your letters. You reading this one, Bruce?
It was settled. Pat had agreed to move in, and would pay rent from the following Monday. The room was not cheap, in spite of the musty smell (which Bruce pointed out was temporary) and the general dinginess of the décor (which Bruce had ignored). After all, as he pointed out to Pat, she was staying in the New Town, and the New Town was expensive whether you lived in a basement in East Claremont Street (barely New Town, Bruce