A Conspiracy of Friends: A Corduroy Mansions Novel

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Eddie smiled. “You certainly fooled me.”

  “There you have it,” said Cosmo. “The pretence works.”

  Eddie smiled. “So what now?”

  “I drop it with you,” said Cosmo. “I finish the job here and go back to London. And start to camp it up again.”

  “Not easy,” said Eddie.

  “No, you’re wrong. Very easy.” Cosmo sighed. “You know something else, Ed?”

  “Yes?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. Then Cosmo said, “Do you think we could go fishing?”

  Eddie stood up and looked out of the window. The evening sun was on the water—a shimmer of red. “I’d love to. There’s Captain Banks—he does stuff for us in the marina. He’s got a boat. He’ll take us out tomorrow, if you like. He says that there are marlin running …”

  “Great,” said Cosmo. “I love fishing.”

  Eddie looked out at the sea again. He loved fishing too, but he was thinking of something else. He realised that he had rather enjoyed the past few days of interior decorating.

  54. Out of Left Field

  FOR A SHORT while after reading the letter Maggie had slipped into his weekend bag, William paced about his flat like a caged lion. His feelings were in turmoil but the predominant emotion brought about by her letter was one of panic. It seemed to him that he had very little room for manoeuvre: Maggie had not suggested a visit to London; she had announced it. There had been no enquiry as to whether he thought it a good idea, or whether it suited him; she simply said that she was coming to see him and that he was to keep Friday evening free.

  And she had gone further. She had repeated—in quite unequivocal terms—her declaration of love for him. Such a declaration can be emotionally taxing at the best of times, even when it comes from one in whose breast one hopes such sentiments might be harboured; but when it comes from out of left field, as he thought of it, it can be completely destabilising.

  The metaphor that crossed his mind—from out of left field—was unexpected, and for a few moments he was distracted from thoughts of Maggie and her impending visit. Coming out of left field was, he assumed, a baseball expression. William had very little notion of the rules of baseball; it seemed to him that it was rather like the game of rounders, which he had played as a child, and that left field must be the section of the field on the batter’s left. Or was it batsman? That was cricket—another obscure game, but at least one which made perfect sense to him, and to all rational, unexcitable people.

  But speculation on metaphors provides at best temporary relief from dread of the sort William was now experiencing. He felt trapped. If he did nothing, Maggie would arrive, and he would be faced with the embarrassment of spelling out to her that they had to avoid seeing one another. In other words, he would have to tell her that their friendship, which went back many years, was over. It would not be an easy task. And if he sought to forestall or prevent her visit, either he would have to come up with some excuse as to why he was not able to see her, or he would have to give her the same brush-off by telephone—which would be excruciatingly difficult—or by letter, which would be heartless. And yet, she had chosen to declare herself in writing, and so he was surely within his rights to reply in the same coin. But was it a matter of rights …?

  He sighed. There were occasions in life when the only course of action open to one was to disappear. That was how the late Lord Lucan must have felt, he thought, when he realised that he had made a terrible mistake and that his options were somewhat restricted. Or those other people he had read about who left their clothes on the beach and departed, under false identities, for South America. It was strange how South America was the preferred destination for people in flight. Was it because there were few questions asked in South American countries, or was their attitude towards fugitives particularly welcoming? If it was the latter, perhaps the immigration forms at their airports had a special box you could tick: where it asked for the reason for travel, alongside business and tourism there would be a box which said flight.

  He stopped pacing. His situation was not as bad as Lord Lucan’s. He had done nothing wrong. He had broken no laws, and had not even encouraged Maggie in any way. He had behaved with complete propriety throughout and had nothing to reproach himself for. So what he should do, he decided, was to take a deep breath and do what the British always do in the face of crisis: put the kettle on for tea. That was what they did when they heard the Spanish Armada was heading their way: they had tea. That was what they did when they realised that the Luftwaffe was droning towards them; those pictures of the pilots sitting on the grass in front of their Spitfires—what were they doing? They were drinking tea.

  He went through to the kitchen and filled the kettle. A few minutes later, he was sitting in a chair, a cup of tea in his hand, and feeling much calmer. It was then that Marcia arrived.

  William was not expecting his friend, but when the door buzzer sounded and he heard her familiar voice through the intercom, he felt a sudden surge of relief. Marcia was safe. She was just the person he needed to talk to; indeed she was just the person to take the whole matter off his hands. He would confide in her, ask her advice and then simply get her to sort out the situation for him. How fortunate he was to have such a friend.

  Marcia arrived with a tray of sardine canapés.

  “The Portuguese embassy again,” she explained airily. “They were having a small reception for a terribly dull professor who’s here to lecture on some poet or other. Nobody came. Almost as bad as the party at the Icelandic embassy for that person who wrote sagas, or read them or whatever.”

  Marcia, whose business Marcia’s Table specialised in catering for diplomatic receptions, often brought William leftovers from these occasions. He had had sardine canapés from the Portuguese embassy before, and rather enjoyed them.

  “You’re a real honey,” he said, taking the tray from her and putting it down on the table. He kissed her lightly on each cheek before picking up a canapé; in general it is better to kiss people before you eat sardines, he thought, rather than afterwards.

  She was slightly surprised by the warmth of his greeting; she often found William distracted, as if thinking of something else altogether.

  “Where’s Freddie de la Hay?” she asked, looking around the room. “He usually greets me.”

  In his distress over Maggie’s letter, William had momentarily forgotten about Freddie’s disappearance, and Marcia’s question brought it back to him.

  “Oh Marcia, I’ve had an absolutely terrible weekend. Really awful!”

  She reached out to touch him gently on the forearm. “Terrible? What’s happened?”

  He told her about Freddie de la Hay, and she gripped his arm in sympathy. “William, darling, how …”

  “Yes, it’s awful, just awful. Freddie’s dead—I’m sure of it. But it gets worse. I’ve …”

  She put her arms about him. “Darling, you just tell me. Then I’ll sort it out. Meantime, have another canapé.”

  55. Marcia’s Idea

  AMONG MARCIA’S MANY good points was an ability to listen sympathetically. As William helped himself to a surplus Portuguese sardine canapé, he told her of his fears for the safety of Freddie de la Hay. Marcia agreed that the situation was not encouraging but urged him not to give up on Freddie just yet.

  “Nil desperandum, William,” she said soothingly. “It’s the only Latin I know, I’m afraid, but it’s definitely true.”

  “Latin makes things sound weightier than they really are,” said William. “But when you come to look at the situation, putting aside Latin expressions, it’s not very good.”

  “But dogs are always wandering off,” said Marcia. “Cats too. My sister Holly’s Burmese cat went off for ten days last year and then suddenly turned up as if nothing had happened. There’s every chance that Freddie will come back.”

  “Where?” asked William. “Here? London?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. I meant back to yo
ur friends’ place.”

  William was silent. When he was a young boy, he had read a book called Ginger’s Adventures about a dog that had fled his pampered life in London to return to a satisfactory existence in the country. William had been greatly influenced by this story, particularly Ginger’s triumphant and adventurous journey through an idyllic English countryside of steam trains and duck ponds. He imagined Freddie attempting the journey now through a landscape of motorways and urban sprawl. As for the chances of his returning to Geoffrey and Maggie’s house, it would have been more likely had Freddie spent any significant time there—which he had not. No, Freddie was lost, and William might as well accept the fact.

  He stared bleakly at Marcia, who stroked his arm soothingly. “I know,” she said. “I know how hard it must be.”

  William sighed. “But it’s not just that. It’s …” He hesitated, but knew that now was the moment to unburden himself.

  “Yes?” said Marcia, pressing him to take another sardine canapé.

  William swallowed. “My friends, Geoffrey and Maggie—I’ve spoken to you about them, haven’t I?”

  Marcia frowned. “I think so. They’re the ones who had the garden centre?”

  “Yes. And various other businesses. Now they have a pig farm.”

  “I love pigs,” mused Marcia. “British Saddleback pigs in particular. They look so contented in their stripyness. Does Geoffrey have any Saddlebacks, do you know?”

  William brushed aside her question. It was no time to be talking about rare-breed pigs. “I don’t know, Marcia,” he said peevishly. “And I really don’t think it’s important.”

  She could tell that he was upset, so said nothing and waited for him to continue.

  “As you know, Geoffrey and I have been friends for ages,” said William. “I suppose you could call him my oldest friend.”

  “No substitute for old friends,” said Marcia, not knowing that this, indeed, was part of William’s problem. “Do you know, I read in the paper recently that one quarter of the people in this country remain in touch with their best friend from primary school. One quarter! Can you imagine that? Do you still keep up with anybody from primary school?”

  Again, the question was inadvertently tactless. “Yes,” said William. “Geoffrey. We were in an organisation called the Woodcraft Folk. I was made to join it by my father.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” said Marcia. “Didn’t you dance around in the forests? Wear green and so on?”

  “That’s not the point, Marcia,” said William. “And I do wish you’d stop interrupting me.”

  She bit her lip. “You can be rather abrupt at times, William,” she said. “I’m just trying to help, you know.”

  He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’m under stress.”

  “I know.”

  “You see, Maggie is also an old friend. Both of them are.”

  Marcia nodded. “Yes, I know that.”

  “But now Maggie’s suddenly come out and told me that she’s in love with me,” William blurted out. “Just like that. We were on a walk together, and she suddenly told me that she’s been in love with me for years. You can imagine how I felt.”

  Marcia was silenced by this disclosure, and for a few minutes neither spoke. Then Marcia said, “And?”

  “And I didn’t do anything to bring it on,” said William miserably. “Nothing at all. She’s the wife of my oldest friend, for heaven’s sake.”

  Marcia shook her head gravely, like a tradesman surveying a do-it-yourself disaster. “Oh dear,” she said. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

  “Indeed,” said William. “Now what do I do? She’s written to me and announced—announced, mind you, not asked—that she’s coming to see me on Friday so that we can go out for dinner. What on earth can I do—tell her not to come? Not open the door to her?”

  “No, you can hardly do that,” said Marcia. “Just picture this … this harridan pounding on the front door of Corduroy Mansions. Think of the gossip.”

  “She’s no harridan,” said William. “She’s an extremely attractive woman. She’s not a harridan at all.”

  “Trollop, then,” said Marcia.

  William looked incensed. “And she’s not that either!”

  “Well,” countered Marcia, “here she is, a married woman, trying to start an affair. How do you know that she hasn’t tried it with any number of men?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped William. “She’s an expert on Iris Murdoch.”

  Marcia made a placatory gesture. “All right. But anyhow, you couldn’t just refuse to let her in.”

  “No, maybe not,” said William.

  “So we must do something a little more subtle.”

  Marcia’s use of we sometimes irritated William, especially when she claimed to be speaking for both of them. But now he welcomed it, as it suggested that she either already had or would shortly invent a plan.

  “I take it that you told her it’s not on?” Marcia asked.

  “Not quite,” said William, adding quickly: “But I didn’t encourage her in any way.”

  “And do you think she’ll take no for an answer?”

  William thought for a moment before replying. “No,” he said. “I don’t think she will. Once she gets an idea, Maggie can be quite difficult to deflect. She’s a bit like an ocean liner that takes some time to change course.”

  “Then we need to show her it’s hopeless,” said Marcia.

  “And how do I do that?”

  Marcia pointed to the third finger on her left hand. “You get me a ring,” she said. “No, don’t worry—just for a limited time. An engagement ring.” She paused. “And you leave the rest to me.”

  56. Freddie de la Hay’s New Life

  FREDDIE DE LA HAY spent an untroubled night in his new home. When morning came, Jane took him out for a brief walk while Phillip prepared breakfast for the three of them: Freddie was to get a couple of lamb chops in gravy—a luxury, of course, but there was no dog food in the household. When Freddie came back in, his nose twitched with pleasure at the smell of the chops.

  “I’ll pick up some tins of dog food later this morning,” said Jane. “They have it in the village shop—big tins of it.”

  Phillip shook his head. “Darling, we’re not going to need dog food, are we? Freddie can’t stay—and he’ll be fed once he’s in the pound.”

  She looked down at the floor. “But, dearest, we can’t take him there—they’ll put him down. That’s what they do if a dog isn’t claimed after a certain amount of time.”

  “We can’t keep him, darling. He belongs to somebody.”

  She was ready with her retort. “To somebody who can’t be bothered to look after him properly, you mean. Look, Phil, we’re doing Freddie a favour here—and probably also the person who dumped him.”

  “How do you know he was dumped? What if Freddie was taking a walk with his owner, and just got carried away and got lost? How do you know that there isn’t a person somewhere who’s missing his companion, who’s weeping for the loss of his dog? What’s our duty to that person, whoever he is?”

  Jane glanced away sullenly. “They should have chipped him then.”

  Phillip looked down at Freddie, who wagged his tail encouragingly. “Where do you find the chip?” he asked.

  “Round about the neck, I think,” said Jane. “Or that’s where my aunt’s dog had his chip. It turned septic and he had to have an operation to have the wound drained.”

  Bending down, Phillip felt gently around Freddie’s neck. “There’s a lump,” he said. “Feel—just here, on the side.”

  Jane felt Freddie’s neck. Phillip was right, though she was loath to admit it. “Yes, there is something. Perhaps it’s just a scar. Or a wart maybe.”

  Phillip did not think so. “No, it feels square, or rectangular, perhaps. It’s a chip if you ask me, and that means we can take him to the vet and have it read. Vets all keep the scanner thingy that enables them to read the animal’s address.”<
br />
  Jane was downcast. “I suppose so,” she said. She did not feel enthusiastic.

  They discussed who would take Freddie to the vet, and it fell to Jane because Phillip had a deadline to meet on some artwork for an advertising agency. “Nice coincidence,” he said. “It’s a national ad for dog food. A very straightforward message in a very straightforward ad: ‘Happy Dogs Eat Beefies Dog Food.’ Not a sophisticated pitch, but it’s urgent apparently because the campaign launches in a couple of days.”

  “They don’t give you much notice,” said Jane. “They’re always expecting you to produce work the day before yesterday.”

  “Nature of the business,” said Phillip. “And as I said, it’s a very simple ad—just the message and a picture of a dog who—” He broke off; he was looking down at Freddie with renewed interest. “A picture of a dog. Hmm.”

  “Use Freddie,” suggested Jane. “I’ll take a nice shot of him and you can see what you might do with it.”

  “Why not?” said Phillip. “I was going to get an image from an image bank. But they can charge hundreds of pounds for a single licence. If we had our own photograph, it would be our copyright. No fees. Clients love that.”

  Jane fetched her camera and an old hairbrush. A good brushing, much enjoyed by Freddie, who liked the sensation of the bristles upon his skin, made him look much more presentable. After that, Jane dropped to her knees and started to take eye-level photographs of Freddie, clicking her fingers loudly to attract his attention at the appropriate time. Several of her shots were very good—one exceptionally so.

  “That’s the dog!” exclaimed Phillip, when she showed him the results. “All we need is one photo: here we’ve got three or four that would do perfectly. Well done!”

  He went out to his studio, Jane’s camera in his hand, and downloaded the photographs. Then, selecting one, he pasted it into his design for the advertisement and began the task of cropping and enhancing it. Freddie de la Hay, it transpired, took a very good photograph, and his image was soon neatly framed within the text of the proud claims of Beefies. “Beefies: invented by dogs for dogs,” the advertisement boasted.