Corduroy Mansions cm-1

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Berthea put down her knife. ‘Actually, Terence, I’m having second thoughts. Maybe it is just the car for you. It must be lovely and fast.’

  Terence responded immediately. ‘Oh it is, Berthy - it really is. Do you know, when I went for the test drive yesterday, Mr Marchbanks and I did over forty-five miles an hour! You just touch the accelerator and zoom! Before you know it you’re doing forty and above.’

  Berthea tried to appear impressed. ‘And I bet it’s got a radio and CD player,’ she said. ‘Surround-sound, I should think.’ Berthea actually did not know what surround-sound was, but she did know that it was highly sought after and was just the thing for a Porsche.

  Terence looked blank. ‘Is there a radio? I’m not sure. And as for a gramophone, I expect it has one but I haven’t found it yet. We’ll have plenty of time to read the manual and see how to work everything. Plenty of time.’

  His own mention of time made him look at his watch. He was due at sacred dance in twenty minutes and, even if he was driving there in his Porsche, he would have to leave in ten minutes or thereabouts.

  ‘Sacred dance calls,’ he said. ‘Are you going to come?’

  At first, Berthea’s response was to feel reluctant. She did not relish the thought of mixing with Terence’s peculiar friends - and they would be peculiar, because his friends had always been peculiar - but at the same time she felt that she owed it to her brother to go. She had pledged that she would. I must not be selfish, she told herself. I must be more supportive of poor Terence, Porsche and all.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ll come along. But what should I wear?’

  ‘Something loose,’ said Terence. ‘I wear a tracksuit. But if you don’t have that, choose clothes that you can dance in. Nothing too tight.’

  Berthea remembered something. ‘Last time I was staying with you,’ she said, ‘I left a tennis dress in the wardrobe. Do you think it will still be there?’

  ‘I’m sure that it will be,’ said Terence. ‘And it would be ideal. We encourage white. My anorak, as you will see, is entirely white. So your tennis dress will be perfect. And I can lend you some white socks - I have plenty of those.’

  They went off to their respective rooms to get changed, and a short time afterwards met in the hall.

  ‘There we are,’ said Terence. ‘Both of us quite white! The Beings of Light love white because that is the colour of their auras.’

  Berthea said that she was sure that they did. And would the Beings of Light be in attendance on this particular morning?

  ‘Of course they will,’ said Terence. ‘They are always there, even if they are on a different plane. We can reach their plane by opening ourselves mentally to their thought-realm. That can be done through sacred dance.’

  ‘I look forward to it,’ said Berthea.

  She wanted to ask how long it would take but felt it would be tactless. Terence’s functions always seemed to go on far too long, and she was sure that sacred dance would be no exception. She did not ask. She would be positive about this. Think positively, she whispered under her breath.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Terence. ‘Did you say something, Berthy?’

  ‘I said I’m positively looking forward to this, Terence.’

  He beamed. ‘I’m so happy, Berthy. And did I tell you? The BBC people are coming to make a programme about us. They’ll be there at the dance, filming. So just think - your friends might see you! What fun!’

  87. Sacred Dance

  The sacred dance meeting was held on the back lawn of a large Victorian house belonging to a member of the group.

  ‘It’s the best possible place,’ Terence explained to Berthea as they walked round the side of the house. ‘Minnie - she lives here - has been in the group since it started. She went to Bulgaria two years ago and danced on some of the sacred mountains there. They were not far from Peter Deunov’s birthplace at one point, and Minnie said that the presences were very strong. The energy fields that Peter Deunov left behind him - wherever he travelled - were just overwhelming, Berthy. You know, some people say that this happens with lots of spiritual leaders. Places are different after they’ve been there. They change them.’

  ‘Highly unlikely,’ said Berthea. ‘That last Pope, for instance - he travelled a lot. Were all those airports somehow different after he had been through them?’

  ‘Very possibly,’ said Terence. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it, but very possibly they were.’

  Berthea chose to say nothing. It was the best thing to do with Terence, she had decided. There was no point in trying to persuade him of anything; he was on another wavelength altogether and he simply did not take in what you said, no matter how hard you tried.

  They rounded the house and found themselves at the edge of a sweeping lawn, beautifully tended, surrounded on three sides by a tall yew hedge. In the middle of the lawn a group of about twelve people, all dressed in white, were standing in a semi-circle, hands joined. Beside them, conspicuous for their dark clothes, stood two men, one with a large video camera resting on his shoulder. The cameraman was engaged in conversation with one of the dancers, who was describing circular movements with his hands.

  Terence turned to Berthea. ‘Oh look, Berthy! The BBC!’

  Berthea had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘I don’t know if I want to dance with them looking on,’ she said. ‘They’ll . . . they’ll interfere with the flow. Spoil the karma.’

  Terence was not going to be put off by this. He turned to his sister and shook a finger. ‘Naughty, naughty! I see that the Devil can quote scripture for his own purposes! Naughty!’

  One of the dancers, a small woman somewhere in middle age, came over to join them. She looked inquisitively at Berthea and then turned her gaze to Terence.

  ‘I’ve brought my sister,’ said Terence. ‘Minnie, this is Berthea. And Berthea, this is Minnie.’

  ‘Peace be with you,’ said Minnie.

  Terence leaned over and whispered to Berthea. ‘You say: “Peace be upon your house, and in your steps.”’

  Berthea did as she was told. In what steps? she wondered. In the steps of the house? Or in the steps of the dance?

  Minnie acknowledged the greeting. ‘I thought perhaps you had brought a girlfriend, Terence,’ she said playfully.

  ‘I’m between girlfriends,’ said Terence.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Minnie. ‘Such a gay cavalier! There’ll always be another time. The Beings of Light are patient. They think in centuries.’

  ‘I would have thought that they don’t think at all,’ said Berthea. ‘Are they not above thought?’

  There was complete silence. The other dancers, who had been chatting to one another, all turned and stared at Berthea.

  She gulped; there was no going back now. ‘Time is meaningless, ’ she said. ‘It is . . . without meaning.’

  The silence persisted. ‘Without time, we are timeless,’ Berthea went on.

  Now there was a buzz of excited conversation. Minnie raised a hand for people to be quiet. ‘Our sister has revealed something to us today,’ she said. ‘And what she says is . . . Well, it’s just so true. And now I’d like to dedicate our first dance to an interpretation of our sister’s insight. This dance will be called “Without Time We Are Timeless”. Our sister will stand in the middle of the circle to represent time itself. We shall weave around her, all holding hands, inviting the Beings of Light to join us. Then we’ll see what happens.’

  Bertha found herself pushed into the middle of the circle. From a woman standing on the edge of the circle she heard the comment, ‘That’s a tennis dress, you know. It is not a pure garment at all.’ She did not see who said it though, and could not respond with a discouraging glare. She was conscious of the BBC camera, which was moving from one member of the group to another, its automatic telephoto lens whirring in and out as the focus adjusted.

  The dancers began to move round in a circular motion, like the figures in Matisse’s painting. Some of the
m were chanting, others were silent, but all were smiling benignly as they danced. Minnie occasionally uttered a high-pitched whistling sound.

  ‘O Sister Time,’ implored Minnie. ‘Tell us about time.’

  ‘Yes,’ sang a thin woman dancing next to Minnie. ‘Enlighten us, O timeless one.’

  Berthea, who had been swaying slowly from side to side, more from embarrassment than conviction, looked at her wristwatch; she would have to say something.

  ‘It’s ten-thirty,’ she chanted.

  ‘Ten-thirty!’ repeated one or two of the dancers.

  At this point the BBC cameraman, who was standing just outside the circle, his camera trained on the dancers, began to laugh. Minnie, looking over her shoulder, frowned at him, as did the thin woman who had also been singing invocations to Sister Time.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ muttered the cameraman, trying to control himself. But it was just too difficult, and the camera resting on his shoulder began to wobble wildly. His assistant, who was holding a powerful lamp on an extended pole, began to giggle.

  ‘Beings of Light!’ intoned Minnie.

  ‘That’s you,’ muttered the cameraman to his assistant.

  This brought more giggles from the lighting man.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Minnie, clapping her hands together. ‘We have some very negative forces present today.’ She turned and glared at the cameraman. ‘You’re behaving very discourteously,’ she admonished, ‘and I must ask you to leave.’

  The cameraman lowered his camera. ‘I’m sorry,’ he spluttered. ‘I really am. It’s just that . . . You know how it is, sometimes one gets an attack of the giggles for no reason at all. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘But it is,’ said Minnie, shaking a finger at him. ‘It’s everything to do with us. You think we’re funny, don’t you? Oh, there are plenty of people like you, you know - people who mock the spiritual lives of others. We admitted you to our dance and now you’re laughing at us.’

  The cameraman looked down at the lawn.

  ‘I think you should leave,’ said Berthea from the centre of the circle. ‘It’s easy to laugh, isn’t it?’

  The cameraman looked at her with regret. His assignment was ruined; they would never get an interview with Minnie now. He would have to explain himself to his editor. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I really am.’

  Berthea looked at him intently. She was the hard-bitten psychoanalyst now. She was angered by this man and his presumptions.

  ‘I don’t think that you’re really sorry,’ said Berthea. ‘Not really. You’ll laugh at these people behind their backs, won’t you? The moment you leave. Your type thinks it funny to humiliate people, to laugh at them.’

  The cameraman turned to his assistant. ‘We’d better pack up, Bill.’

  The assistant nodded.

  ‘We shall resume our dance in due course,’ said Minnie. ‘Agreed?’

  The dancers all agreed.

  ‘They’re jolly rude,’ said Terence, with some force. ‘But then what can you expect these days? Everybody’s so rude.’

  88. Through the Letterbox

  It had been William’s idea that James should take the Poussin with him.

  ‘There’s no point my trying to find out anything more about it,’ he said, pressing the painting into James’s hands. ‘You take it and show it to the right person.’

  James looked at the painting dubiously. It was nice to hold a Poussin, but a stolen Poussin? He glanced uncertainly at Caroline.

  ‘Or Caroline could hold on to it,’ he suggested. ‘Then it can stay safely here in Corduroy Mansions. My place . . .’

  Caroline came to the rescue. ‘Is less secure,’ she supplied. ‘James’s building has had two break-ins recently. Or is it three, James?’

  ‘One, actually,’ said James. ‘The flat downstairs was broken into last month. They didn’t take much. Just some books. A literate burglar apparently.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Caroline continued, ‘I’ll look after it. Then we can work out what to do.’

  The pair returned to Caroline’s flat and made themselves a cup of coffee.

  ‘Well,’ said James, ‘what are we going to do?’

  Caroline picked up the painting and studied it closely. ‘Did you look at the snake?’ she asked. ‘It has lovely, fluid lines. As if somebody’s just taken a crayon and drawn an S. Just like that.’

  ‘That’s what makes a great painting,’ said James. ‘Everything looks as if it should be there. Of course, Poussin was interested in snakes. There’s that famous picture in the National Gallery of the man bitten by the snake at the side of the road.’

  ‘What are we going to do, James?’

  ‘That’s what I just asked you.’

  Caroline sighed. ‘Of course we could just do nothing.’

  James frowned. ‘You know, I rather regret agreeing to take it. What if it is stolen? We’ll be in possession of stolen property. And who would believe us if we said that it had been found in a wardrobe?’ He looked anxiously at Caroline. ‘I think that we should take it back to William. It’s his problem - not ours.’

  Caroline agreed. ‘I’ll take it back to them right now.’

  ‘I hope that you don’t disturb them.’

  Caroline looked puzzled.

  ‘I mean, they were having some sort of romantic dinner. You know . . .’

  Caroline laughed. ‘But he’s ancient,’ she said. ‘Fifty-something.’

  ‘I’m just warning you,’ said James. ‘You might find them having a cuddle on the sofa.’

  ‘I’ll take that risk,’ said Caroline. ‘They’re probably playing Scrabble.’

  As she went upstairs, she thought about what James had said. It was all very well for him to imagine the neighbours having a love life - but where was his? They had skirted around the issue of their relationship both verbally and physically. Nothing had happened - absolutely nothing. She, of course, found James attractive, and he had said, had he not, that he found women interesting, and yet there had not been so much as a kiss or a tender gesture - he had been as chaste as a monk.

  It’s hopeless, she thought; it really is. Lovely, amusing James was lovely and amusing because he was above all that. If she wanted a love affair then she was wasting her time with him; they would be friends - they already were close in that sense - but it would never mature into anything else. Perhaps she should be satisfied with that - her half a glass of blessings rather than a full one.

  Unless, of course, she made the first move. Perhaps that was the key to it. James was inexperienced and probably did not know what to do, or was too shy to do it. Well, she could show him. She could turn the lights down and put on a suitable piece of music, and perhaps one thing would lead to another. What music? she wondered. ‘My Heart Will Go On’. That was a good choice. People had been using it as a romantic background for years.

  By the time she had climbed the stairs to William’s flat she had decided that she would act. Tonight would be the night where things were decided: whether she and James would have a proper relationship, or whether it would be made finally and unambiguously clear that they were just good friends.

  She looked at the fanlight above the door. It was in darkness, and she hesitated. Perhaps James was right; perhaps it would be tactless to ring the bell now. She bent down and peered through the letterbox; the dim light coming through a window picked out the shape of the hall table but there was no light from anywhere else.

  She stood up again. She would have to take the Poussin back to the flat, which was irritating, unless . . . She peered through the letterbox again. It was as she had remembered: the floor was carpeted.

  Very gently, taking care not to scratch the frame, she posted the painting through the letterbox. There was a dull thud as it landed on the carpet. No, it’s not irresponsible, she told herself. I’ve merely returned it to its owners - or its sort-of-owners.

  Back in the flat below, James asked her what had happened.

  ‘It�
�s back where it belongs,’ she said. ‘You can get William to take a photograph of it and you can show that to people at the Institute.’

  James agreed that this was a good idea.

  ‘Now,’ said Caroline, ‘there was something I wanted to talk about.’

  James was sitting on the sofa, paging through a magazine. He looked up with interest. ‘Paris?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to talk about our trip to Paris? I’m so looking forward to that, Caroline. Aren’t you?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. It’s going to be great.’

  ‘Do you know the Renoirs in the Orangerie?’ asked James. ‘There’s a whole corridor of them. They’re really lovely.’

  ‘I love Renoir,’ said Caroline vaguely. She suddenly thought that it might be better to put her plan into action in Paris. Paris was far better than ‘My Heart Will Go On’ for seduction purposes. Seduction . . . Is that what I’m doing? she asked herself.

  ‘Where are all the others?’ James suddenly asked. ‘Jenny. Dee. Jo. Where are all your flatmates?’

  ‘They probably went to the pub,’ said Caroline.

  There was a sound at the front door. Caroline thought that somebody - one of her flatmates - was coming back, but then the sound became a knock.

  ‘Somebody at the door,’ said James.

  ‘Evidently,’ said Caroline.

  She looked at her watch; it was a bit late for a casual caller. William? Did he want to find out why they had returned the Poussin? Or somebody else?