A Conspiracy of Friends

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “But you told me you came last.”

  “I’m not ashamed of that, Berthy. Never be ashamed of being last. Last can be first, and first can be last.”

  After their martinis, which, as usual, Terence made far too strong, they walked the half mile to the house of Rufus and Frances Jarvis. Rufus was not an enthusiastic party-giver, but Frances was, and she had decided to throw this party when both Caroline and Ronald came home for the weekend.

  “It’s no coincidence,” she had said to Rufus. “Caroline rings up and announces that she’s coming home this weekend. Then, within hours, Ronald phones Peggy Warden and says he’s also coming home. That can mean only one thing, in my view.”

  Rufus looked bored. He was used to his wife’s scheming; this was nothing new. “Which is?”

  “Which is that they are getting on well. I knew they would. I knew it.”

  “Oh, well. If they’re sharing that flat, then I assume they’re getting on well enough. But you can’t read much else into it, I would have thought.”

  “Can’t you? Well, I assure you that I can, Rufus. At long last, she’s going for the right sort of boy. I’m very pleased, Rufus—very pleased indeed.”

  CAROLINE ARRIVED ONLY a couple of hours before the guests were due. She helped her mother in the kitchen, where she was preparing plates of canapés, small pieces of brown bread topped with smoked salmon and a large tray of boiled quails’ eggs.

  “So, here we are, darling,” said Frances as she cut a lemon into thin slices. “How nice that Ronald has been able to come down this weekend too. We’re so pleased about that.”

  Caroline said nothing.

  “He’s such a nice boy,” Frances went on.

  Caroline, tight-lipped, nodded.

  “Not that we’re at all interested in interfering, darling. You know that, don’t you?”

  Caroline tasted a piece of salmon. “Interfering in what?”

  “In your private life, dear. You know what I mean.”

  “Good.”

  “But at the same time,” Frances went on, “I must say that Ronald is exactly the sort of boy we would like to see you with. Just as long as you know. And I think that Peggy feels the same.”

  Caroline drew in her breath. “You’ve talked to her about it?”

  “Not exactly talked about it. Not exactly.”

  “Then how have you communicated? Semaphore?”

  “No need to be rude, darling.”

  The guests arrived, the Wardens first, bringing Ronald with them. Caroline led him into the kitchen and poured him a drink. When he took it from her, their fingers touched. He smiled at her.

  “My mother,” whispered Caroline. “She’s driving me up the wall.”

  “Mine too,” said Ronald.

  Caroline hesitated. “Do you think we’ve been set up, Ronald?”

  He took a sip of his drink. “I was wondering about that too.”

  Caroline seethed. “What do they want for us—this …?” She turned in the direction of the drawing room, where further guests, including Terence and Berthea, were milling about. “Do they want us to live like this? To be like these people?”

  Ronald shrugged. “I suppose all parents want that for their children. They want them to be clones of themselves. Think the same thoughts, like the same things—the whole deal.”

  Caroline sighed. “It makes me want to run away. Just to get away altogether.”

  “But we’ve already got out of it,” said Ronald. “We’ve got as far as London.”

  “Let’s run away together,” said Caroline suddenly.

  He laughed. “I’ve got a job. You’ve got … Well, you had a job. And where would we go?”

  “Australia? I know some people in Melbourne. We could get one of those short working visas and … well, we could just see what happened.”

  “It’s mad.”

  The idea, which had been so spontaneous and ill thought out, now seemed to her entirely reasonable. “Why not? Anyway, I suppose we’d better go back in there and be sociable. Have you ever met Mr. Moongrove, by the way? You should meet him. He’s a scream. And he’s got that sister of his with him. She lives just round the corner from Corduroy Mansions—I bumped into her once in London. I didn’t know she was Mr. Moongrove’s sister then.”

  They went into the drawing room, where they became involved in conversation with the guests. Rufus was liberal with his wine, and the party was soon in full swing, the hubbub of conversation growing steadily louder. Caroline, separated from Ronald, who was on the other side of the room engaged in conversation with Rufus, found herself sitting on a sofa next to Berthea.

  “That young man,” said Berthea, “he’s with you?”

  Caroline nodded. “We share a flat. And yes, he’s my boyfriend. A very new one, but a boyfriend.”

  Berthea smiled. “How lucky you are. Just to have somebody. And I suppose to have your life ahead of you.”

  “Do people who have their life ahead of them necessarily feel good about it?” Caroline asked.

  Berthea looked at her thoughtfully. “If they think about it—which I suppose many don’t. Do you think about it?”

  Caroline reflected on her conversation in the kitchen with Ronald. “I’ve just been talking to Ronald about …” She suddenly wanted to confide in Berthea. “We were talking about dropping everything and going to Australia.”

  Berthea considered this for a moment. Then she said, “Follow your heart. It’s the only thing to do.” She took a sip of wine. “Do you know, Caroline—I’ve spent years and years in psychotherapeutic practice. I’ve helped people endlessly with problems of every complexion. But the only advice that I think should be taken seriously—taken as unconditionally true—is this: follow your heart. I know it sounds trite, but it’s the only thing to do. Because at the end of the day your heart will stop beating, and it will be too late to regret that you didn’t go where it prompted you to go.”

  Caroline glanced across the room to where Ronald was standing. He caught her eye, and smiled. She knew then what she had to do. She knew.

  69. The Yeti on the Line

  “LA RAGG IS going to regret her perfidy,” said Rupert Porter to his wife, Gloria. “I would not like to be her—I really wouldn’t.”

  “To think that we trusted her,” said Gloria. “I had a sneaking feeling that things were not going to work out, you know. It seemed to be too good to be true that she should suddenly see the justice of your claim on her flat.”

  Rupert shook his head, as if to show disbelief that anybody could have acted so badly. “I really have no alternative but to force her out of the firm,” he said. “But the other directors are so wishy-washy when it comes to these things.”

  “Spineless,” said Gloria.

  “Well, they may be that, but they know how many pence make sixpence. If they see Barbara losing clients and her contribution to the overall income of the firm going down, they’ll be happier about my suggestion to vote her off the board and out the door.”

  It was in pursuance of this plan that Rupert had contacted Errol Greatorex, the famed American travel writer and author—in the sense of being an amanuensis—of The Autobiography of a Yeti. Rupert had told him that Barbara was having a nervous breakdown and he was taking on a number of her clients.

  “She’s become quite paranoid, by the way,” he explained. “So don’t, whatever you do, discuss this with her. Don’t tell her what I said—it could drive her over the brink, I’m afraid. And anyway, she’s in massive denial—she won’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “This is very sad,” said Errol Greatorex. “The yeti will be disappointed. He’s very loyal, you know, and likes to work with the same people as much as possible.”

  “Naturally,” said Rupert. “I can well understand. It must be difficult when you’re … when you’re a yeti.”

  “It sure is,” said Errol. “But fortunately I have his trust.”

  “I do hope that I can meet him some day,
” said Rupert. “Perhaps we could have lunch?”

  “Yetis don’t do lunch,” said Errol.

  “Ah.”

  “It’s not that he’s antisocial,” Errol went on. “He’s shy—and that’s different from being antisocial. And he does go out for meals occasionally. He doesn’t like it, though, when people stare at him. The other day we were in the Savoy Grill and a couple of people started to stare. The yeti became quite anxious. He’s sensitive, you see; yetis are very sensitive.”

  “I see,” said Rupert. “May I ask you: Does he speak good English?”

  Errol became animated. “Good English? He certainly does. He learned it at that mission school he went to. Correct English—which they still speak in that part of the world, unlike the version that the BBC is pushing these days.”

  “I suppose that his own language has one hundred and twelve words for the different types of snow?”

  “No,” said Errol, unimaginatively. “There’s only one word—poradh’bisney. It covers all sorts of snow.”

  Once the yeti’s affairs had been transferred out of Barbara’s care, Rupert set about arranging for other clients of Barbara’s to move to him. In each case he told the same story: Barbara was seriously depressed—and they should not talk to her about the matter in any circumstances—and the simplest thing was to switch to his stable of authors. “Poor Barbara,” he said to the authors. “She’s simply worked too hard on your behalf, and now she’s experiencing the consequences for her health. So sad. But please, whatever you do, don’t discuss this with her. It could drive her over the edge, and then think how you’d feel.”

  For Barbara’s part, she was at a loss to understand why Errol Greatorex should have suddenly gone off her. She had always worked very hard on his behalf, she felt, and had been responsible for his getting a number of lucrative contracts. Why should he suddenly take against her like this? It was all very puzzling.

  She decided to telephone Errol and have it out with him. She made the call on Saturday, at nine-fifteen in the morning, when, in her experience, most people tended to be at home.

  The phone rang for some time. Out shopping with the yeti, she thought. Perhaps yetis were early risers, the sun generally hitting the mountain peaks before it arrived in the valleys. But then the phone was picked up.

  “Errol?”

  Silence.

  “It’s Barbara Ragg.”

  She waited for something to be said. Nothing came.

  “Errol?”

  And then the thought occurred to her: It was the yeti.

  “Is that you, yeti?” she asked. “Is it you?”

  There was a strange sound at the other end—a sound not unlike a sack of loose coal being dragged across corrugated steel. Then a deep voice came down the line.

  “Yeti.” It was just one word, but it was uttered clearly and unambiguously. The yeti had answered the telephone!

  Suddenly Barbara had an idea. “Barbara Ragg here,” she said. “I was your agent. There’s no need to be afraid of me.”

  “Yeti not frightened,” came the deep voice. “Yeti very brave.”

  Barbara thought that his English did not sound as impressive as Errol had implied. The yeti might have verbs, of course, but might be leaving them out in order to appear cool. It was certainly fashionable to leave out verbs, along with adjectives, adverbs and all references to literature, art, history or the classics. Perhaps the yeti was just being fashionable.

  “Poor yeti,” said Barbara. “Many dangers for yeti here in London. Many bad people in London. Eat yetis. Bad people make big stew of poor yeti. Bad, bad.”

  The yeti gasped. “London not good place. Buses too red. People too fat—maybe from eating poor yetis. Very bad.”

  “All of that true,” said Barbara. “Rupert Porter very bad man. Father of Rupert very greedy—called Fatty Porter for that reason. No coincidence. Very bad men. Grandfather of Rupert went to Nepal many moons ago. Shot a yeti. No reason. Very bad. Rupert same bad as daddy and daddy-daddy.”

  “Oo! Rupert no say he not like poor yeti. Yeti eat Rupert maybe sometime. Good restaurant in Notting Hill cook Rupert—put on menu for yetis. Yetis very happy.”

  “Good idea,” said Barbara. “Meantime yeti go to dinner with Barbara Ragg. Sign new contract. All settled.”

  “Dinner with agent very good,” said the yeti. “Eat contract if not good, but not eat agent. Not fault of agent—except Rupert. Rupert fault.”

  “Where yeti want to go for dinner?” asked Barbara.

  “Yeti like Italian food,” said the yeti.

  Barbara mentioned a well-known Italian restaurant not far from her flat. “Yeti come for dinner tonight. Music in restaurant and maybe dancing afterwards. Never know.”

  “Yeti very pleased,” said the yeti.

  He thought: It’s quite a strain leaving out auxiliary verbs, but that’s apparently what she wants; strange people, the English. Very strange.

  70. Shadows in the Cave

  “IT WAS REMARKABLY easy,” said Marcia. “Almost too easy, in fact. The poor woman—I felt rather sorry for her. She opened her mouth to say something and then she just burst into tears. I ended up comforting her. Personally, I blame Iris Murdoch.”

  She was sitting with William in his flat in Corduroy Mansions telling him about her encounter with Maggie, who, having confessed her love for William, had then peremptorily announced that she was coming down to London to see him—and presumably to take him away with her. Fortunately, Marcia had stepped in.

  “Iris Murdoch?” said William. “Why blame her?”

  “Well, you told me Maggie was doing a doctoral thesis on Iris Murdoch, didn’t you? That means she must be up to here in the goings-on in those novels of hers. And I’ve read one or two of them, William. I know you think you’re my intellectual superior, but I’ve read more than you might imagine.”

  William protested. “Of course I don’t think I’m your intellectual superior. You’re making me sound like some sort of intellectual snob. I’m not, you know.”

  She looked at him fondly. He was not a snob—of any sort; he was a good and kind man. “I’m sorry, William. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that sometimes you dismiss the things I say rather too readily. I think that you don’t give me credit for … well, for knowing a thing or two.”

  Suddenly he felt intensely warm towards her. She was right: she did know a thing or two—she knew much more than he did, he suspected.

  “And I have read my Iris Murdoch,” Marcia continued. “I’ve read Under the Net and The Red and the Green and The Philosopher’s Pupil. So I do know.”

  “All right,” said William. “I can’t remember her novels—they all merge into one for me—one big circle of rather clever people dealing with personal torment, that’s what the books are to me.”

  “Well, that’s why I think they’ve rather turned her head. There are so many affairs in Murdoch’s novels, and I think Maggie failed to make a sharp distinction between the real world and the world of those characters. So you became one of the characters in her mind and she fell in love with you and then wondered what would a woman in an Iris Murdoch novel do in such circumstances. Answer—go to London, which is what she did.”

  “And you waylaid her as she was coming here?”

  “Yes. I waited outside in my little van, and when I saw a woman going up to the downstairs door, I leaped out and said, ‘You must be Maggie.’ She was a bit surprised, but I managed to persuade her to join me for a cup of tea at Daylesford’s, and that’s where I told her.”

  William looked out of the window. He was not enjoying this.

  “I told her that I understood how she might feel about you, but it’s simply too late. And then I showed her my left hand and made a very obvious gesture. She saw the ring, and that’s when she put two and two together and started to cry.”

  “I hate hearing this,” said William. “I hate to think of people crying.”

  “I know you do,” said Marcia.
“But it worked out in the end. She pulled herself together and seemed just to go on to the next thing. She muttered something about having to go to the London Library, and then wiped the mascara off her cheeks and went away.”

  William sighed. “I wish she hadn’t gone and fallen in love with me. I really wish that.”

  Marcia said, “I understand.”

  He thought: Understand what? Did she understand how people in general might fall in love, or how Maggie in particular might have fallen in love with him? He was about to ask her when the bell rang. He rose and went to answer the door.

  A hurricane of energy entered the room. Freddie de la Hay, released from his leash by Basil Wickramsinghe, leaped across the threshold and threw himself at William. William gave a shout and went down on his knees, hugging Freddie de la Hay to him, receiving ample licks to brow, wrists, hands, chin.

  Basil Wickramsinghe hung his head modestly as thanks were heaped upon him. “If it hadn’t been for Basil,” William said to Marcia, “I would never have got Freddie back.”

  “Oh, surely not,” said Basil. “It would have worked out, I think.”

  Marcia smiled. “I think we should have a celebratory dinner,” she said. “What have you got in the house?”

  William spoke between Freddie’s excited howls, “Some pasta. I believe there’s a bit of chicken. Mushrooms.”

  “Ideal,” she said.

  “Five loaves and five fishes would be enough,” said Basil.

  William and Basil stayed in the sitting room while Marcia began to cook the dinner. “She won’t let me in the kitchen when she’s working,” explained William. “She’s a professional cook, you see, and they don’t like amateurs cluttering the place up.”

  “She’s a very fine woman,” said Basil, who knew Marcia slightly and had always rather admired her. “And I couldn’t help but notice that she’s wearing a ring.” He indicated his third finger discreetly.

  Marcia, in the kitchen, heard what was being said, such were the acoustic properties of the flat. She paused in her labours, standing quite still. In the glass of the oven door she could make out the reflections of the two men sitting in the living room, across the corridor. She watched, as the prisoners in Plato’s cave fixed their eyes on the moving shadows of the real world outside.