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She stopped. A man had appeared in the doorway behind Antonia, a tall man wearing jeans and a checked shirt. He glanced at Domenica, and then looked at Antonia, as if expecting an explanation.

‘This is Markus,’ said Antonia. ‘Markus. Domenica.’

The man took a few steps across the hall and shook hands with Domenica. She felt his hand, which was warm, and roughened by work.

‘Markus is Polish,’ said Antonia, straightening her hair with her right hand. ‘He’s my builder, as you see. We’ve been looking at the plans. That’s why I didn’t hear you.’

Domenica knew immediately that this was a lie, and she knew immediately what had been happening. She was amused. That was why Antonia had been almost defensive at the beginning; she had been caught in the arms of her builder. Of course, there was nothing wrong with that, she thought. One might fall in love with a Polish builder as readily as one might fall in love with anybody else, but it all seemed a bit sudden. Building work had only started a day or two ago; one would have thought that one might wait . . . what, a week? . . . before one fell in love with the builder.

She turned to Markus. ‘So, Markus,’ she said brightly. ‘Are you enjoying living in Scotland?’

Markus looked at her gravely. ‘Brick,’ he replied.

‘Markus doesn’t have much English yet,’ said Antonia. ‘I’m sure that he’ll be learning it, but at the moment . . .’

Domenica nodded. She turned back towards Markus and, speaking very slowly and articulating each word with great care, she said: ‘Where are you from in Poland, Markus?’

The builder looked at her again, and Domenica noticed his eyes. She could understand why Antonia had fallen; it was the eyes.

‘Brick.’

Domenica turned to Antonia. ‘Markus says brick a lot, doesn’t he?’

Antonia waved a hand in the air. ‘It’s all he says,’ she answered. ‘But then, how many words of Polish do we know? Could we even say brick in Polish?’

Markus now bowed slightly to Domenica. ‘Poland,’ he said.

‘Ah yes,’ said Domenica. ‘Poland.’

There followed a silence. Then Markus bowed his head again slightly in Domenica’s direction and walked over to the toolbox, from which he extracted an electric drill.

‘Well,’ said Antonia breezily, ‘work must get on. How about a cup of tea, Domenica?’ She paused, and then added: ‘Since you’re here.’

Domenica had not intended to stay, but she felt that in the circumstances she could not very well leave, and so she accepted. They moved through to the kitchen.

‘A nice man,’ said Domenica.

‘Very.’

Domenica waited for Antonia to say something else, but she did not. The electric kettle, switched on without an adequate amount of water inside it, began to hiss in protest. ‘Will you teach him English, do you think?’ she asked.

‘Perhaps,’ said Antonia. ‘I suspect that he will prove a quick learner.’

‘Well, he’s already learned brick,’ said Domenica. ‘That’s a start.’

‘Yes.’

‘And the novel?’ asked Domenica. ‘Are you managing to write with all this building going on? Surely it’s a bit difficult to get your-self back into the minds of those Scottish saints of yours while there are electric drills whining away in the background.’

Antonia looked out of the window.

‘Their own times were noisy enough,’ she said. ‘I imagine that they had to contend with all the noises that humanity makes when it’s in close proximity with itself. Crying babies. People groaning because they were in pain. That sort of thing. Remember that people didn’t have much domestic room in those days. Our flats would have been considered palaces. They lived in hovels, really.’

She turned and fixed Domenica with a stare – as if in reproach.

54. Headhunters, Place Names, etc.

Domenica felt unsettled when she went out into Scotland Street. The encounter with Antonia had been unsatisfactory from her point of view: she had entered the flat in a spirit of righteous indignation over the damage to the philodendron. She had expected that Antonia would at least make some