Corduroy Mansions cm-1

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Marcia smiled, tolerantly, with the air of one who has an insight that others lack. Men often had no idea how lonely they were, how much they needed women; she was convinced of it. Masculine independence? Nonsense. That was an oxymoron.

  ‘What do they say about big cities, William? That they’re the loneliest places on earth. Full of people, millions of people, but how many of those are by themselves, really lonely? How many do you think?’

  William shrugged. ‘Four hundred and seventy-five thousand,’ he said.

  She frowned. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. And it’s not a joke.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘How many people in London are lonely?’ She did not give him the chance of another flippant answer. ‘I’ll tell you. Lots and lots. Including you.’

  He decided not to argue. ‘All right. I’m lonely.’

  ‘There!’ exclaimed Marcia. ‘I knew you were.’

  ‘But I don’t really see what I could do about it anyway. Ever since Mary died I’ve been by myself - lonely, if you insist. That’s the lot of widows and widowers. They’re lonely.’

  Marcia shook her head. ‘Widows may be,’ she said. ‘But not widowers. Men can do something about it. It’s easy for them to . . . remarry.’

  ‘I don’t see why it should be any different,’ said William. ‘Men and women these days - either can make the first move.’

  Marcia was silent, and William knew immediately, almost as soon as he had finished speaking, that he had said something very dangerous. Like a diplomat who makes an inadvertent confession of state perfidy or a negotiator who gives away a strategy in a careless phrase, he sought to repair the damage. ‘That is,’ he said, ‘where both want the move to be made. Where it’s right for something to happen.’

  Marcia was thinking. ‘So a woman can—?’

  And at that point, almost on cue, Freddie de la Hay, who had been sleeping in the kitchen, chose to enter the room. The dog looked about him, and then, seeing William, bounded across the room to hurl himself onto the sofa between William and Marcia.

  William greeted him with undisguised affection - and relief. Marcia, however, was cooler. Freddie had been her idea, but she had not anticipated this.

  ‘Can Freddie not go back to the kitchen?’ she asked pointedly.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said William. ‘I think he wants to go out. I’ll take him. Why don’t you start cooking dinner? I’ll take Freddie outside for a few minutes. Freddie,’ he said, once they were out on the landing. ‘Good boy!’

  Freddie looked up. It was as if he understood.

  50. The Dignity of Distance

  William took Freddie downstairs, relieved that the corner into which he had inadvertently painted himself had proved to have this escape route. He liked Marcia and, if he was honest with himself, he was very slightly dependent on her - if one can be slightly dependent on anything, he thought. Dependence was surely something that was there or was not: a boat was either tied to the jetty or it was not. Would it matter to him if Marcia were to take it into her head to leave London? Would it make any real difference to his life? No, it would not. But then people are extremely resilient; most of us could lose somebody from our lives and not feel that the resulting gap could never be filled. Of course it could. Most of us know how to bounce back.

  He looked down at Freddie de la Hay as they went out into the street. Dogs were an example to us all: they made the most of their current circumstances, whatever hand of cards they were dealt. Of course dogs, unlike humans, did not look back; what interested them was what lay ahead. So Freddie, he imagined, did not think back to his former career as a sniffer dog, but was instead more interested in the possibilities of Corduroy Mansions, such as they were.

  ‘I’ll do my best by you, Freddie,’ he said. ‘Starting with a change in diet. Would you like that? Meat?’

  Freddie, aware of the fact that he was being addressed, looked up and wagged his tail. He liked William, indeed he loved him. He would have died for William, even after only two days, because that was his job, his calling as a dog. That was what dogs did.

  William turned the corner. Freddie de la Hay had business with lamp posts but was quick and considerate, and did not linger. Their walk round the block completed, William found himself approaching Corduroy Mansions just as one of the young women from the flat below was returning from the shops, laden with bags of groceries.

  ‘I’ll open the door for you,’ he called out.

  The young woman turned round and William saw that it was Jenny. He liked her, although he had on occasion found himself slightly intimidated by her conversation and her tendency to litter her remarks with references to the works of obscure writers. And even when she referred to somebody of whom he had heard, he felt that he had little to add.

  ‘Don’t you think that modern transport rather diminishes the world?’ she had once observed to him when they had found themselves standing at the same bus stop.

  He had thought quickly. How is the world diminished by modern transport? In one sense, surely, it opens up the world, makes it available. Could that be construed as a diminution in that it shows the world not to be the grand place we fondly thought it to be? Or did she mean that it shrinks the world? That made more sense, perhaps.

  He did not have time to answer because Jenny, peering down the road for the arrival of the bus, expanded upon the theme. ‘As you’ll probably know,’ she went on, ‘Proust said that steamships insult the dignity of distance. I think he was right. But just imagine what he’d say about the Airbus 380.’

  William laughed. ‘Of course. Just imagine!’ And then he added, just to be on the safe side, ‘Proust.’

  Jenny looked at him expectantly. She seemed pleased to have discovered a neighbour who could discuss Proust; so few neighbours could.

  William looked down the road. There was no sign of the bus.

  ‘Proust wasn’t a great one for buses,’ he said. It was a wild remark: he had no idea whether Proust had views on buses, or even whether there were buses in Proust’s time. When had Proust lived? Eighteen something? In which case a reference to buses was inappropriate. ‘Not that he saw many buses,’ he added quickly, and laughed. That would cover the possible non-invention of buses in Proust’s time.

  Jenny smiled. ‘Proust would not have liked all the germs you find on buses,’ she said. ‘He was a frightful hypochondriac. Most of his time he spent in bed - and when he did go out, he worried about draughts.’

  ‘Of course,’ said William. ‘He was always going on about that sort of thing, wasn’t he?’

  ‘And remember when they held that wonderful dinner party?’ Jenny said. ‘It was the biggest event of the nineteen- twenties.’

  So there were buses, thought William. ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘And Proust came along and met Joyce and Diaghilev. He had had his maid call up ten times in advance to ensure that there would be tea for him on arrival. And he enquired about draughts.’

  ‘Hah! His famous draughts!’

  The bus had lumbered into view and the conversation had stopped at that point, but William had remembered it and had been slightly wary of Jenny since then. But now, burdened with shopping bags, she could hardly start talking about Proust.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I’ve got my key. And then I’ll give you a hand with the bags once we’re in.’

  She nodded gratefully, and he opened the door. Once inside, he released Freddie de la Hay from his leash and reached out to relieve Jenny of one of her bags. And it was then that he noticed that she was crying.

  ‘My dear . . .’ He was about to place his hand on her shoulder but stopped himself. He would have done so a few years ago, would have put his arms about her to comfort her, but he realised now that the times discouraged such gestures. We did not touch one another any more.

  ‘My dear . . . what is it?’

  She looked away. ‘It’s nothing. I’m all right.’
>
  ‘But you’re not! You’re not.’

  He waited, and then she turned to look at him. She was wearing mascara, which had smudged. There was a black streak down her cheek. He felt in his pocket for his handkerchief, which he used to dab at the smudge. One could surely do that these days: one could unsmudge somebody.

  She looked into his eyes. ‘I’ve been . . . been fired,’ she said. ‘I’ve lost my job.’

  William frowned. ‘Your job with that MP? What’s his name? Snarp?’

  She shivered as she uttered the name. ‘Snark.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m very sorry.’

  ‘He did it by text message,’ she said. ‘He fired me by text.’

  51. A Very Good Risotto

  By the time William eventually got back to his flat, Marcia had prepared the risotto and was becoming anxious.

  ‘You took your time,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘That was a long walk. Did Freddie de la Hay run off or something?’

  William shook his head. ‘No. Freddie de la Hay was a model dog - as always. No, our walk was not all that long. It was that young woman.’

  Marcia arched an eyebrow. ‘You met a young woman?’ It was her constant fear: William would meet somebody and go off with her. It was her nightmare.

  ‘One of the downstairs girls. You know, the tall, good-looking one.’

  Marcia did not like to hear William use the term ‘good-looking’, especially in relation to young women. She remained silent.

  ‘Yes,’ William went on. ‘Jenny. She worked for that oleaginous MP, Snark. Apparently he sacked her today. Sent her a text telling her. Can you believe it?’

  Marcia relaxed. ‘Oh, I can believe anything of politicians,’ she said. ‘I cater for them from time to time. You should see them! Quite a few of them exist entirely on free food, you know. They go to meetings and presentations and the like where there’s free food and they stuff themselves with whatever’s available. They’re real shockers.’

  ‘I can well believe it,’ said William. ‘And free drink too. I provide the wine for a lobbyist. Gets through gallons.’

  ‘So he sacked her? Just like that? Can you do that these days?’

  ‘If you have grounds,’ said William. ‘Or if somebody’s not worked long enough for the legislation to apply. Your people - those students you take on - have no protection. They’re casuals.’

  ‘I wouldn’t sack even one of them by text,’ said Marcia. ‘It’s really unkind.’

  William nodded. ‘Of course you wouldn’t. No decent person would. This chap Snark must be a real shocker. She was in floods of tears, poor girl. Her mascara had run all the way down her cheek. She looked so . . . so vulnerable.’

  Marcia stiffened. ‘I’m sure she did.’

  ‘I did my best to comfort her,’ William continued.

  Marcia’s eyes narrowed. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘That was kind of you.’

  ‘Well, I could hardly do anything but,’ said William. ‘And Freddie de la Hay was marvellous. I swear he knew that she was upset. He went up on his back legs to try to lick her face. And he nuzzled her as if he was trying to make it better for her.’

  ‘Dogs can tell,’ said Marcia. ‘They can always tell. And so . . . what happened?’

  ‘Well, I spent about fifteen minutes with her in the flat. I saw her in - we saw her in, Freddie and I. Her flatmates were out, but I managed to see that she was all right. And then . . . well, then I had a brilliant idea.’

  Maria looked puzzled. ‘A way of getting her job back?’

  William said no. That would not have been a good idea at all, he explained. ‘She said that she had no desire to go back to Snark. She seemed determined, in fact, to get her own back in some way. But I didn’t go into that. No, it suddenly occurred to me that she would be the ideal stop-gap for Paul. She’s just lost her job and I’ve just lost my assistant. Perfect match.’

  Marcia was not at all sure that she welcomed this. A male assistant would have been better, she thought, but she felt she could hardly make that point.

  ‘Has she got any experience?’

  William shrugged. ‘I doubt it. Or at least no experience of working in a wine shop. But it’s hardly rocket science, Marcia. She won’t have to advise anybody - she can refer them to me for that. She’ll just have to open up the shop and do the till and so on.’

  ‘And did she accept?’

  William told her how Jenny had been doubtful at first, but had thought about it and accepted - for a month or two. ‘I don’t see myself doing this for ever,’ she had said, adding apologetically, ‘not that there’s anything wrong with the wine trade.’

  He had not taken offence. She knew about Proust and Wittgenstein and the like; she could not be expected to operate a till for too long.

  ‘So,’ he said to Marcia, ‘that’s all fixed up. And what started as a terrible day has turned into something much better. Much better.’

  Marcia smiled. She was pleased that his mood had changed, because she had decided that she would simply have to act. She had placed a bottle of champagne in the fridge and it would be nicely chilled by now. She would serve the risotto, which she was confident would also help matters. It was a magnificent risotto, reverse-engineered from a dish she had eaten in her favourite restaurant, Semplice: Milanese risotto with small pieces of grouse worked into the rice. William would not be able to resist, especially after a glass or two of champagne.

  ‘Bibbly,’ she said, using her idiosyncratic pronunciation. ‘This calls for bibbly, which I have fortunately put on ice.’

  William rubbed his hands together. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Bibbly. Just perfect.’

  Marcia went into the kitchen and poured two glasses of champagne. When she came back into the drawing room, William was doing something with his shoes. What was it? Changing into . . .

  He stood up. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Do you like my new Belgian Shoes?’

  She looked down at the ostrich-skin slip-ons. ‘Oh, William!’ she said. ‘They’re beautiful! Absolutely beautiful! Belgian, you say! Who would have thought?’

  William accepted the glass of champagne that she held out to him. ‘You like them, Marcia? You really do?’

  ‘I love them,’ said Marcia. ‘And they look perfect on you.’

  They raised glasses to one another. It was going very well. And in front of the fireplace, Freddie de la Hay watched them somnolently. The world of humans was a strange one - quite unintelligible to a dog. But Freddie could tell that things were going well, and he liked the smell of risotto. Would they leave some for him? One never knew, but for Freddie de la Hay, even the smell of such a risotto was enough.

  52. Eddie’s Wardrobe

  By nine o’clock it was agreed. William would later reflect on the actual process of agreement and ask himself how it came about. At no point, he thought, did Marcia come right out and ask him whether she could move in, and yet there was no room for misunderstanding or ambivalence: she would pack up Eddie’s things for him and move them into the hall; then she would move her own possessions into his room and arrange for the lock on the flat door to be changed. It was a bold move, but, as she pointed out to William, Eddie had failed to take hints and had ignored a succession of direct requests. In the circumstances what else could they do?

  The delicate issue of Marcia’s taking up residence was glossed over. ‘I’ll take his room,’ she said. ‘It won’t be any trouble. And this place could do with a woman’s touch. Nothing dramatic, of course - just a bit of sprucing up.’

  Nothing was said about any of the other normal concomitants of moving in with somebody. Was she merely going to be a flatmate, sharing in the same way as the girls downstairs shared? Or was she planning to live with William, in the sense in which most men and women live with one another? Had it not been for the champagne, William would have resisted. He liked Marcia, but he had not yet decided whether they would be lovers. He knew that was what she wanted, but he was unsure whether she was quite right for him and
he realised that if he made a move in that direction, it would not be easy to extricate himself should he wish to do so. And now she was moving in . . .

  ‘Let’s go and take a look at his room,’ Marcia suggested as she cleared the plates from the table.

  William frowned. ‘Well, I don’t know . . . He could come back.’

  ‘We’ll hear him,’ she said. ‘And anyway it’s far too early for Eddie to come back. I thought he stayed out all night on Saturdays. You said so yourself.’

  ‘Did I? Well, maybe.’

  She took him by the arm. ‘So . . . let’s go and take a look. I need to see what’s what, if I’m going to be living in that room.’ She looked at him sideways as she made this last remark, but he did not take up the invitation to say that she would be in his room. It’s my life, he thought, my room. Nobody has the right to force their way into other people’s rooms. Bedrooms require an invitation - it was basic etiquette.

  Half propelled by Marcia, William led the way into Eddie’s bedroom. As they entered, he became aware that Freddie de la Hay was at their heels and was looking about the room, his nose twitching with interest. Did Eddie indulge? He thought not: Eddie had shown no interest in such matters and indeed had often expressed a hostile view of drugs. Stevie, he had once said, had taken something that made him see double for three days. ‘It’s stupid,’ Eddie said. ‘What’s the point?’ So if Freddie de la Hay was picking up a scent it was probably no more than the minute traces which might have stuck to Eddie’s clothing during his visits to those clubs of his. The air in those places must be laden with the sort of thing that pressed an olfactory button with Freddie de la Hay.

  ‘What a pit,’ Marcia said, poking with her foot at a pile of dirty washing on the floor. ‘He’s such a—’ She stopped herself. Eddie was William’s son after all and she should be careful.

  ‘I tried to bring him up to be tidy,’ William sighed. ‘But you know how it is.’