Corduroy Mansions

by Alexander McCall Smith

  They drove on in silence as Berthea digested this information. I must not let this distress me, she told herself. The fact that my brother thinks about the world very differently from me is no reflection on my own Weltanschauung. It simply is not. But that, of course, is a difficult thing to accept, and I must remain calm.

  They turned off the main road and onto a smaller road that meandered gently downhill, and it was here that the engine of the old Morris, which had been running quietly enough until then, gave a loud cough, expressed in the form of a backfire, and then became silent. Slowly the car came to a halt at the side of the road.

  For a short time, Terence sat glumly behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Then he turned to his sister.

  “The car has stopped,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry about this. It really has stopped.”

  Berthea looked at her brother. “So it appears.”

  There was another silence. From the engine there came a slight ticking sound, and Berthea briefly thought that this might be a sign of life, but it was merely the sound of cooling metal. Above them, sitting on the branch of a tree, a large blackbird looked down and uttered a few notes of song.

  “That’s so beautiful,” said Terence, looking up. “Birdsong is so pure.”

  “It is,” said Berthea. “Very pure.”

  Terence drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I should perhaps get out and take a look at the engine,” he said.

  Berthea took a deep breath. “Is there much point?”

  But Terence had already opened his door and walked round to stand in front of the bonnet. Berthea joined him.

  “It’s extraordinary,” said Terence, gazing at the bull nose of the vehicle. “It’s extraordinary how an engine can be humming along in a spirit of perfect contentment one moment and then the next it is silent. As if the energy fields have all suddenly dissipated. Cars, you see, have chakras, just as people do.”

  Berthea spoke quietly. “How about calling the AA?”

  Terence shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve called them rather a lot, you see. They know my car. They are quite pure beings, but I don’t know if I should bother them again.”

  “When did you call them last?” asked Berthea.

  Terence hesitated. “Not all that long ago, I’m afraid.” He sighed. “Well, to be precise, I called them on the way to the station. We had a little episode just a little bit further down the road. Not far from here, in fact.”

  “Not far from here?” repeated Berthea.

  Terence nodded.

  “Do you think,” Berthea began, “that it may be something to do with the energy fields round here? Perhaps we’re on a ley line.”

  Terence looked at her with sudden interest. “Do you really think so? They said something about petrol, you know, but I wonder …”

  29. Berthea’s Project

  BY THE TIME her brother’s leek pie was ready, Berthea had largely recovered from the irritation she had felt during the longish walk from the collapsed Morris 1000 Traveller to Terence’s Queen Anne house just outside the bounds of the town. He had helped her with her luggage—a small overnight case—but she had been obliged to carry her own briefcase, which was stuffed with papers and books for weekend perusal. Terence’s library, although extensive, was full of books that she found vague and unsatisfactory, gaseous indeed—there would be no intellectual meat for her there.

  “And what are you going to do about your car?” Berthea asked as they began their walk. “Are you proposing to get a new one?”

  Terence, who was oblivious of irony, replied, “Oh no, certainly not. That car is not all that old. Thirty-nine years, or thereabouts, I think. There’s still a lot of energy left in it. It’s amazing. It’s as if the energy fields of the men who made it are lodged in its soul.”

  “I assume that it will start again when you put some petrol in,” observed Berthea.

  Terence nodded. “Quite possibly. Indeed, I might go so far as to say that’s probable.”

  “Because cars do require petrol,” Berthea continued. “They need it for … for their energy fields.”

  “Yes,” said Terence, simply. “That’s largely true.”

  “No, Terence,” hissed Berthea. “It’s not just largely true, it’s absolutely and completely true. It’s a truth which is verifiable in the physical world. It is the actual case.”

  Terence looked at her in surprise. “No need to get shirty,” he said. “It’ll only take us half an hour or so to walk to the house, and I am carrying your bag for you.” He paused. “Do you remember A Town Like Alice? We saw it when we were small and we went to stay at Uncle Ted’s. He took us to the cinema and that’s what we saw.”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, I remember it very well. They had a long march after the Japanese captured them. Remember? All those British ladies had to march along the roads and jungle paths. It was frightfully hard work and the Japanese guards kept shouting at them if they slowed down. It must have been jolly hot too.”

  Berthea frowned. “And what has that got to do …?”

  “What I’m suggesting,” said Terence, “is that you treat this in the same spirit. Those ladies didn’t complain all that much—they just got on with it. Imagine that you’re in Malaysia and I’m a Japanese soldier and—”

  “No, thank you,” said Berthea grimly. “It might be better, you know, to walk in silence.”

  “Oh, surely not,” said Terence. “You should know that, as a psychologist.”

  “Psychoanalyst.”

  “Of course. You should know that there are little mood-changing tricks you can use if you want to make an unpleasant experience more bearable. You could try whistling. Remember that popular song, the one about whenever you feel afraid, whistling a happy tune? And then there’s Maria. Remember? Remember how she sang to the children when they all came and jumped on her bed, about her favourite things?”

  Berthea bit her lip. “I really don’t think that we need to do any of that, Terence. As you yourself observed, the walk should not take long. Perhaps we should just walk it in silence. That, I suspect, is what any Beings of Light in the immediate vicinity would really appreciate.”

  Terence had looked at her dubiously but said nothing and they completed the walk in silence. Once at the house, Berthea took a long bath; Terence’s bathroom was well stocked with bath crystals of various types, and she luxuriated for almost half an hour in a deep tub of lavender-scented water. After that she felt in a better humour, and joined her brother in the kitchen, where he was preparing a plate of snacks to precede the leek pie.

  It was then that Berthea chose to reveal her project.

  “I’m writing a book,” she said with a flourish. “I feel you should know.”

  “What a good idea,” said Terence. “Writing a book is a very good way of getting to know oneself.”

  “That is not the reason why I’m doing it,” said Berthea. “This book is not being written as some sort of self-analysis. This book is being written as a form of public service.”

  Terence snipped at a bunch of chives. “Do tell,” he said. “Terence is very interested.”

  He had an occasional habit of referring to himself in the third person—a habit which Berthea disliked intensely, but she said nothing about it now. Terence had to know about her book because he could be called upon to help.

  “I’m glad to hear that Terence takes that view,” she said. “Yes. I have decided to write a biography of my son, and indeed I have already embarked on the task.”

  Terence put down the chives and turned to his sister. “Oedipus?”

  “He is, I believe, the only son I have,” said Berthea drily. “Yes. The biography of Oedipus Snark, MP.”

  Terence exhaled, a long drawn-out sound that was halfway between a whistle and a sigh. “By his mother,” he said. And then added, “Sensational!”

  Berthea raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t overstate its impact,” she said. �
�I might not call it sensational myself, but I expect there will be a certain level of interest in it. After all, Oedipus is reasonably well known these days.”

  “I read about him in the paper recently,” said Terence. “He had been somewhere and made some speech or other. About something.”

  Berthea smiled. “That’s the sort of detail that I need,” she said.

  Terence showed no sign of having understood the barb. “I’m sure that you’ll do him justice,” he said.

  Berthea nodded. “It would be useful to have your perspective,” she said. “After all, you are his uncle, and he did spend a lot of time with you as a schoolboy when he was on his summer holidays. Remember? You were very good to him.”

  Terence sighed. “Berthea, dear, we’re both adults, aren’t we? Which means that I really should be able to speak to you frankly.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” said Berthea.

  “In that case, dear sister, I really must confess to you that I’ve always had problems with Oedipus. I’ve tried to like him, I really have—he has an immortal soul like the rest of us. But, I don’t know, my dear. The truth of the matter is … Well, to put it bluntly, I really can’t stand him.”

  “But, my dear,” whispered Berthea, “neither can I. And that’s why I’m writing his biography. I want the world to know what my son is like. This is an act of expiation on my part. In writing this book, I am atoning for Oedipus. Do you understand that?”

  “Perfectly,” said Terence. “And now let’s have some of this lovely leek pie. Smell it. Beautiful. Pure.”

  Berthea sat down at the kitchen table. “Fit for the Beings of Light themselves?”

  “They love it!” said Terence.

  30. Rye

  BERTHEA SNARK was not the only person to head out of London that weekend in search of the peace that the English countryside, and at least some of the towns that nestle in its folding hills, can bring. Oedipus Snark, MP, the son whose distinctly non-hagiographical biography Berthea had begun to pen, was also in the country, although at a different end of it—in his case, in Rye.

  The idea of going to Rye for the weekend had not been his, but had been suggested by his lover, Barbara Ragg, the literary agent and author of the moderately successful Ragg’s Guide to the Year’s Best Reads.

  “Rye,” she had said, a few weeks earlier. “If the weather holds, it could be gorgeous.”

  Oedipus Snark, who disliked being trapped with Barbara for a whole weekend, searched his mind quickly for an excuse. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got a constituency do, see? A long-term commitment, I’m afraid. You go by yourself. Send me a postcard.”

  Barbara was prepared for this. “But I checked with Jenny,” she said. “She confirmed that both Saturday and Sunday are completely clear. She looked in both of your diaries and there’s nothing. Friday night too. We could go down late on Friday afternoon.”

  He frowned. That girl. She had no business telling any person who asked whether or not he had anything on. She was getting above herself. Going on about the LSE and the books she had read. Glorified secretary. She would need taking down a peg or two. Maybe a written warning; one had to be so careful with employment tribunals now. Best to give a written warning or two before you show somebody the door.

  “She sometimes misses things,” he said. “She’s far from papal in her infallibility. Hah!”

  “Not this time,” said Barbara. “I asked her to double-check. She said that there had been something in the diary for Saturday—something to do with a development charity—but you had begged off. So, she said, it was quite free.”

  Oedipus Snark fiddled with his tie. It was, his mother had once pointed out, a displacement activity, an Übersprungbewegung, and it occurred when he felt cornered.

  “Why Rye?” he asked peevishly. “What’s so special about Rye?”

  “There’s a lovely old hotel there,” said Barbara. “The Mermaid Inn. On Mermaid Street, not surprisingly. I went there years ago and loved it. Low ceilings and four-poster beds, and tremendously ancient into the bargain.”

  “Well, we can’t sit in the hotel all day,” said Oedipus, “however ancient it may be.”

  “We won’t have to. There’s a lot to see. There’s Henry James’s house, which was also lived in by E. F. Benson—you know, the Mapp and Lucia man—and they’re having a concert in one of the churches. A young Canadian pianist. We could go to that.” She fixed Oedipus with a steely look. “There’s plenty to do.”

  Oedipus had been out-manoeuvred by the combined forces of Jenny and Barbara Ragg and had no choice but to agree. So it was that they checked in to the Mermaid Inn shortly before dinner on Friday evening, having driven down in Barbara’s open-topped MG in British Racing Green. The evening was warm, one of long shadows and no breeze to speak of. The air was heavy, and had that quality to it that comes at the end of the day—a comfortable, used quality.

  Oedipus, who had been grumpy at the beginning of the journey, was positively ebullient by the time they arrived at the Mermaid Inn and immediately ordered them large gin and tonics in the bar.

  “Not a bad choice,” he said, looking about appreciatively.

  He paid her so few compliments that for a few moments Barbara was quite taken aback. She wanted him to be happy. She wanted him to stop rushing around and looking anxious, and instead have some time for her, to talk about her day, her concerns—just now and then. She wanted to marry Oedipus Snark and make him happy, not just over the occasional weekend, but for years. That is what Barbara Ragg wanted.

  She was realistic, of course. One did not get where she had got in a difficult and competitive field without being astute. And she knew full well that Oedipus had no intention of settling down—at least not for the time being. That meant that she could either try to trap him into matrimony, by getting him to believe, for example, that it would help his political career to get married, a conclusion that often strikes politicians when they are just on the verge of achieving high office. Or she could simply enjoy what she already had: a relationship of convenience (for him) where they spent some time together, but not very much, and where certain subjects of conversation (marriage, children, joint establishments and so on) were no-go areas, fenced about with electricity and warning bells.

  Her friends, hostile almost without exception to Oedipus and, in the case of one or two of them, even given to shuddering involuntarily when his name was mentioned, spoke with one voice on the subject, even if their exact words varied.

  “Give him up.”

  “Show him the door.”

  “Find a decent man, for heaven’s sake.”

  All of this was sage advice, intended to be helpful, and Barbara might have acted upon it if she felt that there was the slightest chance of getting somebody to replace her unsatisfactory political lover. But there was not. For some reason, possibly one connected with her manner, which was somewhat overpowering from the male point of view, men steered well clear of her. She was one of those women who inhibited men because of what some people described as her briskness. And she knew this. She knew it because she had once heard the nickname that some spiteful person had pinned on her and which had acquired wide currency. The Head Prefect.

  I am not like that, she said to herself. I am not.

  But in the eyes of others, she must have been. And when she attempted to be more feminine and to eschew any sign of highhandedness, it did not help at all. Then somebody made matters worse by coining a new nickname, again one which stuck, and travelled. Mrs. Thatcher.

  Who among us wants anything more than to be appreciated by some and loved, we hope, by a few? Why is the world so constructed that some find this modest goal easy to achieve and others find that it for ever eludes them? The essential unfairness of the world? Yes. Its heartlessness? Yes. Its unkindness to a certain sort of brisk and competent woman? Yes again.

  31. Dinner at the Mermaid

  AT DINNER at the Mermaid Inn, Oedipus Snark chose scallops as his firs
t course. The waiter who took his order, a young man with neatly barbered hair who had just completed a degree in English at the University of Sussex, asked, “Scallops, sir?” Oedipus nodded, and Barbara Ragg, looking up from her scrutiny of the menu, said, “Oh, scallops. Yes, I’ll have those too.”

  The waiter scribbled on his notepad. “And for your main course, sir?”

  “Lamb cutlets, please.”

  “Such a wise choice,” said the waiter, before turning to Barbara. “And your main course, madam?”

  “I’ll take lamb cutlets too,” replied Barbara Ragg. She looked up at the young man with ill-concealed irritation. She did not think there was any need for a waiter to compliment one on one’s choice of food, and yet so many of them did. They should be neutral, equally impassive in the face of good and bad choices, as impressed by Mr. Sprat’s opting for lean as by his wife’s preference for fat. But there was more: he had taken Oedipus’s order first, she noticed. Were waiters no longer trained to take the woman’s order first, or did they now feel they had to give the man precedence, purely to make the point that they had risen above the old sexist courtesies? For a few moments she mused on the implications of social change for the strict rules of etiquette. What, for example, was the position when dealing with same-sex couples? If two women in such a relationship were dining together, and if the waiter normally observed the rule of asking women first, should he then take the order of the more feminine partner before that of the more masculine one—if such a distinction were obvious? And would such a policy be welcome or would it provoke hostility? People could be touchy, and it might not be a good idea to do anything but leave it to chance. But if the waiter turned first to an overtly masculine-looking partner, he might be suspected of doing so solely in order to avoid being thought to attend to the feminine partner first. And that would reveal that he had secretly made a judgement of roles. So only one course of action remained—for the waiter to look at neither diner while he said, dispassionately staring into the air above their heads, “Now, which of you two is first?” That would perhaps be the most tactful way of addressing the matter. Perhaps.