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‘It was in Moray Place,’ went on Matthew.

‘Good class of fire over there,’ said Lou. ‘None of your chip-pan fires in Moray Place. Flambé out of control maybe.’

‘She was combing her hair,’ said Matthew. And then, out of wickedness, he added: ‘And putting on lipstick. On the way to the fire. Putting on lipstick.’

Big Lou frowned. For a few moments she said nothing, then: ‘Well, it was Moray Place, wasn’t it? A girl has to look her best . . .’ She paused. ‘Not that I believe you, Matthew, anyway. She might have been combing her hair – you don’t want your hair to get in the way when you’re working, do you? But she would not have been putting on lipstick.’

Mathew was silent.

‘Well, Matthew? I’m waiting.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Lou,’ said Matthew at last. ‘Maybe I’m just old-fashioned.’

‘Maybe you need to think before you speak,’ muttered Big Lou. She looked at him reproachfully. They liked each other, and she did not wish to make him uncomfortable. So she moved back to Mags. ‘You asked me why Mags does what she does. The answer, I think, is that she suffers from claustrophobia. She told me about it. If she’s inside, she feels that she wants to get outside. So she needed work that took her outside all the time.’

‘And her steamroller would be open,’ mused Matthew. ‘No windows. No door.’

‘Exactly,’ said Big Lou. ‘That’s Mags – an open-air girl.’

‘It’s a perfectly good job,’ said Matthew. He paused. ‘But the men who work on the roads can be a little bit . . . how does one put it? A little bit . . .’

‘Coarse?’ asked Big Lou. ‘Is that what you were trying to say?’

Matthew nodded.

‘Then you should say it,’ said Big Lou. ‘Nae use beating aboot the bush. Say what you think. But always think first. Aye, they’re coarse all right. They’re always whistling at women and making crude remarks. That’s what Mags says.’

‘Very crude,’ said Matthew. One did not find that sort of behaviour in art galleries, he reflected. Imagine if one did! A woman might go into a gallery and the art-dealer would wolf-whistle. No, it would not happen.

‘What are you smiling at?’ asked Big Lou.

‘Oh, nothing much,’ said Matthew airily. ‘Just thinking about how different sorts of people go for different sorts of jobs.’

Big Lou shrugged. ‘No surprise there. Anyway, Mags worked on the crew for eight years and everyone treated her like one of the boys. They just accepted her and took no special notice of her. Then, one day, she ran her steamroller over a piece of jewellery that somebody had dropped in the street. One of the men found it flattened and held it up for everybody to laugh at. But Mags cried instead. She thought that it might have been of great sentimental value to somebody, and there it was completely destroyed. She cried.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Matthew.

‘Well, that made all the difference for Neil,’ said Big Lou. ‘He operated a pneumatic drill and had been like the rest of them and had treated Mags as one of the boys. Now he started to look at her. A day or two later, he asked her out. That’s how they came to be together. They’re very happy, Mags says.’

Matthew said nothing. He lifted his coffee to his lips and looked down into the detritus of the cup, the scraps of milk-foam. In the interstices of the big things of this world, he thought, were the hidden, small things; the small moments of happiness and fulfilment. People fell in love in all sorts of places; anywhere would do – amidst the noise and fumes of the daily world, in grim factories, in the most unpromising of offices, even, it would seem, amongst the din and dirt of roadworks. It could happen to anybody, at any time; even to me, he reflected, who am not really loved by Pat, not really. And who does not love her back, not really.

11. Bruce Goes Flat-Hunting

Bruce had cut out the advertisement from the newspaper and tucked it in the pocket of his jeans. He was house-hunting, and the earlier part of the morning had been frustrating. He had looked at