A Conspiracy of Friends

by Alexander McCall Smith

  She listened. “And now?”

  He smiled at her. “What is this? The cricket-support test? Whom do I cheer when I watch England versus Australia?”

  “No, not that. It’s just … well, I’ve had a bit of a shock this morning. I’ve discovered something about myself.”

  The proprietor brought their coffee to the table. George lifted his spoon and dipped it into the top layer of foamed milk. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “We publishers have a don’t ask, don’t tell policy.” He grinned.

  “Nothing to do with that.”

  He lifted his cup to his lips. “So you’ve discovered you’re Australian? Is that it?”

  She hesitated. It was the first time she was mentioning her new knowledge to anybody, and she might have chosen somebody other than George—Hugh, ideally—but George was in this place at this time and she had to speak about it.

  “What do you think about gypsies?” she asked.

  He lowered his cup. “Have you been drinking, Barbara?”

  “What?”

  “It’s just that you’ve made very little sense since you came in here. Asking me whether I always knew I was Australian. Then you mention a personal discovery of some sort. Then suddenly you ask me my view of gypsies, of all people.”

  Barbara had to admit that it sounded strange. But it all made sense, she explained, because … “Well, you see, I’ve just discovered that I’m at least one quarter gypsy. Just this morning. An hour or so ago.”

  George shrugged. “So are lots of people, I imagine.”

  “But it’s important …”

  He shrugged again. “Not really. Gypsies look pretty much like anybody else to me. Two arms, two legs, a nose.” He paused, looking at her in a way which made it seem as if he were assessing her. “Of course, people are pretty hung up on these things in this country, aren’t they? In Australia it makes not the slightest bit of difference. Half the population can trace their roots back to some poor cattle thief, and so we don’t put much store by such things. And what’s wrong with being a gypsy, anyway? Rather colourful life, I would have thought. Free as air. No taxes. They don’t pay income tax, do they?”

  Barbara said that she was not sure whether they paid taxes. “I wasn’t saying there’s anything wrong. It’s just that it makes me feel different, somehow. It gives me a sense of being, well, a bit of an outsider.”

  George laughed. “Imagination. You’re no different from what you were when you got up this morning. Don’t fantasise about gypsies or circuses or whatever. If you want that sort of stuff, go and read Enid Blyton.” He looked at her severely. “And now we have to get down to business, Barbara, as we can’t sit here indefinitely talking about you. That manuscript you sent me, the Errol Greatorex one. We want him to finish it as soon as possible, and we’re going to do something big with it. But first we need to know: Is it fiction or non-fiction? By which I mean, is there really a yeti and did he really dictate his memoirs to this Greatorex character?”

  Barbara took a sip of her coffee. “George, I’ll be absolutely straight with you. It’s non-fiction. And yes, the yeti exists.” She put down her cup, and added, “He really does. Would you like to meet him?”

  “Of course.” He looked at her and smiled. “You know something, Barbara? I really don’t believe I’m having this conversation. How strange is that?”

  “Very,” she said.

  “And I’ve got a feeling you’re going to offer to tell my fortune. Or sell me a bunch of lucky heather.”

  Barbara wagged a finger at him. “Don’t think in stereotypes,” she said. “But I may ask you for the price of a cup of coffee.”

  23. A Walk in the Country

  THE EVENING SUN was warm on the pink-washed walls of the Suffolk farmhouse in which William stood chatting with Maggie, his hostess and the wife of his childhood friend, Geoffrey.

  “Where’s Geoff?” he asked as Maggie washed her hands in the large Belfast sink.

  “Looking at the pigs, I think,” she said. “He usually checks up on them at this time of the evening. Our pig-keeper, Wally, goes off for his tea round about now, so Geoff takes the opportunity to spend a bit of quality time with the pigs.” She reached for a towel and dried her hands energetically. “Geoff’s trying some Gloucester Old Spot and Tamworth crosses at the moment. Nice-looking pigs. He’ll be back soon.”

  “Geoff’s a happy man, isn’t he? He’s got his pigs, this place, his stamp collection …”

  Maggie, who had removed her glasses in the final stage of preparing her pie, now replaced them. “Yes, I think he’s happy. Although sometimes he wonders whether he isn’t getting in a rut with the farming thing and shouldn’t do something different with his life while he’s still got the energy for new projects.”

  “The worst question to ask oneself,” said William. “Therein lies regret after regret.”

  Maggie nodded. “Yes. The only point in asking that question is to sharpen up how one approaches the rest of one’s time. Having the odd regret might warn us against wasting our chances.” She paused, moving across the kitchen to gaze out of the window. The sun was on her face now, creating a halo effect through her slightly disordered hair. “I’ve often thought that the worst regret must be to think that one’s spent one’s life with the wrong person. It must be terrible, truly terrible.”

  William agreed. “And yet many people must feel that, mustn’t they?”

  “Yes. They must. Though these days, most of them can get out of their relationship—and do.”

  William thought about this. He had friends who acknowledged that they were staying together for the sake of their children. He thought it noble. Maggie, though, seemed uncertain. “Noble? I suppose that any form of sacrifice has a certain nobility to it. And yet foolish may be an equally good way of describing it. Throwing away twenty years of your life, or however long, could be viewed as downright silly rather than noble.”

  “Except it’s not throwing away twenty years—it’s setting them aside for a higher cause.”

  No, she was even more unsure about that. “What did Horace say? Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. It’s sweet and fitting to die for one’s country. Is it really? Or is it just bad luck?”

  “I’m uncomfortable about that, Maggie. Really uncomfortable. Giving your life for something can be a magnificent thing to do, heroic …”

  She was silent for a moment. “Yes, you’re right,” she conceded. “That was going too far. It depends on the cause, though. What if your country’s fighting an unjust war, or even a useless one? What then?”

  “It may still be the right thing to do.”

  This brought a sideways look from Maggie. “Maybe … But look, shall we go for a walk? By the time we come back Geoff will have returned from the pigs, and the two of you can have a whisky together before our guests arrive. We’ve invited a few people over for supper. Freddie de la Hay would like a walk, wouldn’t he? Where is he by the way?”

  He had not seen Freddie since he came into the house. The dog had gone off to sniff about the garden, and William knew that he was unlikely to go far: Freddie de la Hay was no wanderer. “If he wants to come, he’ll turn up,” he said. “Otherwise he’ll be perfectly happy investigating your garden. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Maggie did not. She fetched an old Barbour jacket—“Such a cliché,” she said, “but so comfortable and practical. Please don’t judge.”

  “I have one myself,” said William. “And green wellingtons too.”

  “Good. Then we’ll both sink into our stereotypes.”

  They went outside. The summer solstice was six weeks in the past, as the slant of the evening sun revealed, but the air was still warm and heavy. Maggie had planted lavender in profusion and its scent was all about them, mingling with that of recently cut grass. William sniffed at it as he would at a good Médoc, savouring the fragrance. The olfactory treat made him think of Freddie, and he called the dog several times.

  “Nowhere t
o be seen?” asked Maggie.

  “He’ll turn up,” said William. “He always does.”

  They set off down a path that led past the barn and into one of the fields. As they walked, Maggie returned to the subject of her thesis.

  “You know what I feel when I sit down to write about Iris Murdoch? You know what goes through my mind?”

  William shrugged. “The ideas?” he suggested. “All those ideas you talked about?”

  “No,” said Maggie. “I feel sad. I think sad thoughts.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s no longer with us. Because such a wonderful intelligence is silent. But mostly because the intellectual elite that used to be at the centre of our national life here is changing and there’s no room for such figures. What we have instead are sound-bite merchants.”

  William was puzzled. “But there are plenty of people with opinions.”

  “Are there?” asked Maggie. “Or are those who come out with something slightly different shouted down? Don’t you think there’s a certain hegemony of opinion these days? An approved way of thinking? Don’t you think that it’s considered almost indecent now to voice an opinion that deviates from the consensus?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps it’s a bit like that.”

  Maggie said nothing for a moment. “Perhaps. But …” She hesitated, as if weighing whether or not to continue. “You know what you said back there about unhappiness. You talked about Geoff’s happiness. But you didn’t ask about me, did you?”

  He was slightly taken aback. “Didn’t I? Well, that’s very rude of me. I suppose it’s because I’ve always assumed that you’re perfectly happy. You have your …” What did Maggie have—her thesis on Iris Murdoch? Her Melton Mowbray pies? Her family?

  “My kitchen? Is that what you were going to say?”

  “No. Certainly not. You’ve got your thesis. But it’s not just a question of what you have—it’s a matter of attitude. And I think that your attitude, your disposition, is fundamentally happy.”

  Her voice was quiet. “Well, it’s not. I’m not happy, William. I’m not happy.”

  He stopped. The stick he was carrying, a bit of oak branch, fell to the ground. He did not bend to pick it up. “Why?” he asked. “Why do you say you’re unhappy?”

  She was looking at him directly, staring into his eyes. “Because of you,” she said softly. “Because I’m in love with you, William. I’ve loved you for years—for years—and I’ve never had the courage to confess it to anybody. Well, now I’m telling you.”

  24. Things That Didn’t Happen

  FOR WILLIAM, MAGGIE’S declaration was the cause of a mélange of feelings: in the space of a few seconds astonishment vied with embarrassment, which was quickly tempered by sentiments of pleasure, sympathy and affection. There were no words to describe this succession of reactions—no words other than “Oh” and something that sounded like “Ah” but could have been a simple exhalation of breath.

  “So there you have it,” said Maggie. Her tone was matter of fact—the tone of one who has simply pointed out some mundane and totally unremarkable fact, such as “It’s about to rain” or “It’s Tuesday today.”

  William cleared his throat. “I see,” he said. “Well, thank you for telling me.”

  It was a trite thing to say, and he felt immediately ashamed that he was not able to rise to a more momentous acknowledgement of her declaration. She was, after all, talking of years of denial, years of frustration, and all he could do was to thank her for telling him. Well, he thought, at least that’s better than saying, “Thank you for sharing that with me.” That expression was the ultimate anodyne.

  Maggie indicated that they should continue with their walk. “It’s only a bit further,” she said. “We come to a pond where we’ve tried to keep ducks for the last few years, but the fox outwits us, I’m afraid.”

  They walked on. “Maggie …,” William began, but she reached out and touched him lightly on the forearm.

  “No,” she said. “Don’t say anything. The subject has been aired, and now it’s closed. Permanently. No need to say a thing.”

  He protested. “But I think that we—”

  “No,” she said, more firmly. “I suggest that we treat my words as never having been uttered. What happened back there simply never occurred. All right?”

  He did not respond. It was something he himself had done on more than one occasion—said to himself that he would pretend that something he found uncomfortable just had not happened. Willed amnesia, he believed it was called, and it could be invoked at an intimate level—as when we stop ourselves thinking of some situation of acute social embarrassment, or obliterate some act of unkindness or gross selfishness from our personal record; or it could be resorted to on a grander scale altogether—as when an entire nation denies some dire period in its history. It worked—human memory was tactful, and could be persuaded to be more sympathetic yet. And even if it was a dangerous recourse, as historians are quick to point out, there could be situations in which it was the best and most productive thing to do; getting through life could be difficult enough even without a burden of guilt and self-loathing to drag us down further than we already were.

  For the rest of the walk, conversation was sporadic, and shallow. Maggie pointed out a tree that found favour with wood pigeons; William observed that the hedgerows seemed in good health; Maggie said that she had read The Cloudspotter’s Guide and now knew what to look for in a cumulus build-up; and so on. In between these undemanding exchanges, William reflected on her revelation. He had had no idea of her feelings—not the slightest inkling. They were friends—close friends, indeed—and he enjoyed the relaxed intimacy of their relationship. They could talk about anything, more or less, and their conversation had always had the amiability and ease that marked out the conversation of old friends—people who had known one another for years, for so long they could not even remember how they met, and knew the preferences and prejudices of the other as well as or even better than they knew their own. An old friend, William thought, could vote in the place of his friend; could choose his breakfast; could write an entirely credible letter in his voice … could—and here the appalling, unwelcome thought intruded—could take his place in a marriage. No! No! It was not going to be like that.

  Geoffrey was William’s friend; Maggie was the wife of his friend, and he could never entertain any thought of having an affair with her. How could he? How could he sit in the same room as Geoffrey, talking to him as he had always talked to him, harbouring all the while that secret knowledge? It was impossible. He could not do it.

  And yet, he reflected, people did precisely that. People did it with astonishing regularity—they had affairs, which they concealed from others; they lied, not just occasionally, but for days, months, years on end. They maintained the façade, he supposed, by some sort of interior bifurcation, which meant that they could be one person one moment, and another the next. And they did not think of the disloyalty involved, the dirtying deception, or, if they did, they put it from their mind. More denial.

  He was not naive. He did not believe that he could do this personally, but he knew that the sheer power of love could quite easily drive one to such extremes. There was an adage that he had once seen inscribed on the label of a wine bottle: Amor brevis furor est. Love is a brief madness. It was true; it was. But even in the grip of madness, one could retain some sense of what was right and what was wrong; of who was one’s friend, whose trust one would never betray. One could retain that through all the tempests of love, couldn’t one? Couldn’t one?

  They reached the house. “Geoffrey’s back,” said Maggie. “You go and see him while I check on things in the kitchen.”

  He noticed how she spoke as if nothing had happened—I’ll check on things in the kitchen—when she had only a few minutes ago revealed that the whole structure of her life was undermined by a reckless, hopeless passion. Now, it was as if the revelation had never been made; as if those fee
lings were simply not there. Things were exactly as they seemed. She was happily married to an engaging and personable man. She had two children who loved both parents. They had an old friend, William, whom they both liked and who was almost a member of the family. Everything was as it had always been and as it should be.

  But it was not.

  25. Where Is Freddie de la Hay?

  MAGGIE LEFT WILLIAM in the hall. He stood still for a moment, like a man at an unfamiliar crossroads, uncertain as to whether or not he should follow her into the kitchen and insist on clearing the air. It was all very well for her to announce that the subject was closed, but she had broached it in the first place and therefore could not simply walk away from it. He felt a degree of irritation, wondering what could have possessed her to blurt out her confession if she intended to become silent only a few minutes later. Or—and this was a disturbing thought—had she imagined her words would have met with a rather different response from that which they had actually elicited? If William had responded more warmly, then perhaps she would have been prepared to discuss the matter; but he had not concealed his shock, and this reaction might have been what silenced her. And if that were true, then his insensitivity had made things much worse for Maggie; rather than helping her, he had returned her burden to her not lightened, as burdens should be, but only made all the heavier.

  He was still standing in the hall, seemingly paralysed by these questions, when his host appeared.

  Geoffrey broke into a smile. “William! Old friend …”

  Involuntarily, William winced. Old friend.

  Geoffrey looked concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course. Of course.”

  “It’s just that you looked as if … well, you looked as if you were in pain.”