44 Scotland Street by Alexander McCall Smith Page B

looked out of the window. The street was quiet – a good sign, he thought, as it suggested that the mews houses on the other side of the road were still being used as houses rather than as offices. And they were attractive, he thought, with their white-painted fronts and their panelled doors. London was full of pleasant corners, he reflected, even if there were trackless wastes further out. One might even live in London, at a pinch, provided that one were not too tall and in danger of bumping one’s head at every turn on their ridiculously low ceilings, and provided one were not too readily shocked by what one saw in the street.
    As he thought about this, he noticed that a light had gone on in a room in the opposite house. It was a living room, not very large, he thought, although it was comfortably furnished with a few easy chairs and a sofa … Gordon stopped. There were two people on the sofa, a man and a woman, and …
    Well really! You would think that people would close the curtains if they proposed to engage in that sort of thing. Of course they must have thought that the building opposite was empty – that was reasonable enough – but how would they know that there might not be a surveyor in it, or a possible purchaser? And there they were, obviously on very close terms, completely unaware of the fact that anybody might be able to see them.
    He was about to turn away when he saw a small and expensive sports car draw up in front of the house in question and a man step out. The man reached into his pocket, took out a key, and opened the front door. Gordon caught his breath. The window at which he was standing afforded a good view not only of the living room, but of the hall outside it. Now, as he watched, he saw the man’s head appearing above the level of the stairs and then, a few moments later, he was standing in front of the door to the living room, his hand upon the doorknob.
    The man paused. Then, leaning forward slightly, he appeared to put his ear to the door. Gordon stood quite still. This was the husband, obviously, and he had arrived home unexpectedly, to find his wife in flagrante with a lover. It was a very trite scene, but seeing it enacted in front of him seemed quite extraordinary. Would he knock on the door, or would he creep away, shocked and disappointed?
    The man did neither. Slowly he tried the handle of the door, twisted it, and found it locked. He stood back, appeared to think for a few moments, and then moved towards the hall window – the window through which the unobserved observer was now watching him.
    Gordon looked on in amazement as the man opened the window – which was a large one – and began to climb out onto the small ironwork window box. Then, very slowly, the man inched himself towards the neighbouring window – the window of the room in which the woman and the man were still unaware of the danger of discovery.
    Gordon thought: so this is the sort of thing one sees in London! It’s obviously a hotbed of adultery and goings-on. And then the man on the ironwork window box slipped. Gordon saw him grab at the brickwork and, quite slowly at first, topple backwards. Gordon gave a cry, involuntarily, and closed his eyes. Then he leaned forward and saw the man lying on the top of the canvas roof of the small sports car, which had been parked directly beneath him. He was staring up at the sky, and for a moment their eyes met. Then, without moving the rest of his body, the man raised a hand and waved to Gordon, a wave that one might give to a friend one has just noticed in a café, or on the other side of the street.

 
     
     
     

     
     
    24. Unwelcome Thoughts
     
    That morning, when Pat had been given the unnecessary ride in the custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz belonging to Domenica Macdonald, an invitation to dinner had been extended, and accepted.
    “I’ll knock together a few bits and pieces,” said Domenica airily. “I’m not a very good cook, I’m afraid. But we can