The World According to Bertie - Alexander Hanchett Smith [80]
Antonia was a perceptive person, thought Domenica, and she would get the point of that. But there was a further challenge, and that was more difficult: how would one incorporate into such a paper some mention of a blue Spode teacup? After all, one did not want to be too obvious.
53. Brick talk
Domenica peered round Antonia’s door into the hall. She would normally have knocked, but her sense of grievance over the ruined philodendron made her feel disinclined to extend to Antonia that courtesy; wanton destroyers of philodendra must expect some consequences. The hall light was on, and a portable workbench had been set up, with pieces of timber stacked against it; there was sawdust on the floor and the smell of cut wood. A large metal box lay open beside the bench, with various tools displayed – a power saw, a jumble of cable, clamps.
Domenica cleared her throat. ‘Antonia?’
She waited a few seconds for a reply, and then called out again. It now occurred to her that Antonia was out, and that the door had been left open by the workmen. More than that, the workmen appeared to have left the flat unattended for some reason, as there was no response from them. She realised now that she had jumped to conclusions: the damage to the plant would not have been Antonia’s doing, but must have been caused by the builders. Manipulating a piece of timber around a small landing would not be easy, and any philodendron that should find itself in the way was bound to be damaged. She sighed. It would have been easy for somebody to have spoken to her about this in advance and to have suggested that the plant be stored in her flat until the work was over. That would have been so simple and straightforward, but nobody had thought of that – including herself, she concluded; which gave a different complexion to the whole matter. It was an accident, she decided; Antonia, I forgive you.
She moved further into the hall. A light was coming from the bathroom, and she looked into that. The floorboards were up, revealing the joists and copper piping below. The sides of the bath enclosure had been removed too, and everything was covered with a layer of dust. She moved away. Dust, or at least dust in such quantities as that, made Domenica’s eyes water – an allergy with which she had struggled when she had lived in India, where the dust had settled every day, no matter how assiduously the house servants had swept and polished.
‘Domenica?’
She spun round. Antonia had emerged from a door on the other side of the hall and was standing there, her hair slightly ruffled.
‘Oh.’ It was all that Domenica could manage initially, but then, after a few seconds of hesitation, she added: ‘I knocked.’
She had not intended to say that, because she had not knocked; but it came out nonetheless.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ said Antonia. ‘I was . . . I was busy.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in like this.’ She paused. It did not seem to her that Antonia was angry over the intrusion; in fact, it seemed to her that her neighbour looked defensive, as if it was she who had been discovered in the other’s flat.
Domenica continued. ‘It’s just that I noticed that the plant outside,’ she gestured in the direction of the landing. ‘The