But even if the dog-sharing arrangement were agreed that day, he would not want to travel back on the tube with a dog who would still be a stranger. And what if one had to pick up one’s dog to travel on an escalator? He was not sure he would be able to lift this Freddie de la Hay, who could for all he knew be a very large dog, the size of a Rottweiler perhaps and with a disposition to match, who would respond to William’s attempts to pick him up by savaging him, right there in the tube station, at the foot of the escalator beside the admonitory notice Dogs Must Be Carried. What a scene that would be, as the crowds, anxious not to be delayed, stepped around the scene of carnage, one or two muttering, “Well, you shouldn’t bring large dogs on the tube.”
The thought made William worry. In his eagerness to enter into this arrangement, he had forgotten to ask for any information about Freddie de la Hay. All he knew was that he was a Pimlico terrier, a breed that he had never seen, nor indeed heard of before. And as for his name … He looked out of the taxi window as he mused on the subject of canine names. From one point of view, the name of a dog said nothing about the dog itself and everything about the owner. But then, mutatis mutandis, that was the case with human names too, except in those comparatively rare cases where people chose to call themselves something other than the name imposed on them by their parents. John Wayne was really Marion Morrison—not a name by which a macho film star might wish to be known. And Harry Webb, had he sung under that name, might never have been as successful as he was as Cliff Richard. Such changes were understandable and necessary, perhaps, if creativity were to flourish. Of course, the new names chosen were usually much more suitable than those given at birth. John Wayne was clearly a John Wayne rather than a Marion Morrison. And the same must be felt by those boys who were called Beverley but became something else, out of sheer self-defence.
William remembered one such from school, a small boy with an intensely freckled face whose second initial was B. When it was discovered that this was for Beverley, a name that is technically available for both boys and girls, his life had become a torment of derision. Such is the cruelty of children, and of boys in particular, displayed in full vigour when difference or weakness is discovered. William tried to dredge the full name out of his memory: George Beverley Jones. That was it. And this George Beverley Jones had suddenly disappeared one day, absent from school—driven out, no doubt, sent somewhere else where the name might not follow him. Even now, in his taxi to Highgate, William felt a flush of embarrassment and regret at the ancient childhood cruelty. He had been one of those who had called out Beverley! in the corridors; everybody had.
Of course it was easy for parents to make a mistake, even if they chose popular names. What is unexceptional at one time might at another be ludicrous, or simply unfashionable. Elderly ladies called Euphemia—and there must be very few left—had been nothing unusual as girls, and no doubt never dreamed that their name would later come to be regarded as quaint. In fifty years’ time, the same conceivably might be said of the legions of Kylies, who already might be feeling a certain suspicion that they were touched with the mark of a particular decade. While Euphemia could be shortened to Effie or even Ef, there was not much that one could drop from Kylie. One might become Ky, perhaps, he mused; there was a certain ring to that.
River Phoenix, thought William. Now there was a name! Rover Phoenix would be the canine version, and it was just as effective, just as redolent of whatever it was that made River Phoenix such a desirable name. Rover Phoenix would be a good-looking dog; compact, decisive, with a baritone bark and a light in his eye. An American dog, no doubt; certainly a dog who would go down well in California, in the back of an open-topped car, his ears catching the wind. Rover Phoenix.
Mind you, he reflected, there are traffic jams in California, and we should not imagine that open-topped cars there proceed with much greater dispatch than London taxis, caught, as William’s taxi now was, in a slow-moving line of grumbling, irritable humanity. Even so, he was nearing his destination, and he felt a curious sense of anticipation, tinged with the realisation that what he was doing was somewhat absurd. Why should he be forced to get a dog in order to persuade his son to move out? It seemed quite ridiculous. It was Marcia, again. He always allowed himself to be persuaded by her to do things he really should not be doing.
He should stop the taxi; he should ask the driver to turn it round and go home. He could phone the dog’s owner and explain that he had decided that they should not go ahead with the whole ridiculous scheme. He could so easily do that.
But then the taxi driver half turned in his seat and said, “Number eight, wasn’t it?” And William said yes, it was.
As they stopped at the front gate, somewhere inside the house a dog barked.
15. An Experiment
“THIS WAY,” said Manfred James. “We’ll go into my study, I think.”
William looked at Manfred. The columnist was a tall man somewhere in his forties, wearing a small pair of unframed glasses and with a slightly distracted, scholarly air to him. The disdain that William had picked up on the telephone was present in the flesh, he thought; his host’s aquiline nose was carried at such an angle as to look down on his guest, as if slightly displeased—if noses can express such things. He had welcomed William at the front door and led him into a book-lined room off the small entrance hall. As William stood there, glancing at the bookshelves, the barking that had greeted his arrival abated. That would be Freddie de la Hay, shut away in some room at the back. Dogs barked, of course; he had not thought of the implications of that for Corduroy Mansions. Would Freddie de la Hay’s barking carry to the flat downstairs and disturb the girls? Eddie would not like it, but then that was the whole point of the exercise. The more Freddie de la Hay and Eddie got on each other’s nerves, the better.
“Tea?” asked Manfred.
William accepted, and Manfred went out of the room, gesturing casually for his guest to sit on the small leather sofa backed up against a wall of shelves. As he sat down, William glanced at the books behind him. They seemed to be arranged in no particular order: Poland’s Past rubbed shoulders on one side with Schopenhauer Delineated and on the other with a small book on the history of rope-making in Bridport. Then came Garner’s Modern American Usage and a line of vintage Graham Greenes, as tatty and desolate as the territory they described.
A few minutes later Manfred came in with two mugs of tea. “You may conclude only one thing from my shelves,” he said, noticing the direction of his guest’s gaze, “and that is that I have not bothered to organise the books according to any of the accepted patterns.”
William accepted the mug of tea offered him. “It’s difficult. I find that—”
Manfred, lowering himself into a chair opposite the sofa, cut him short. “Alphabetical arrangement is not the only option,” he said. “And I’m always slightly suspicious of people whose books are arranged alphabetically. OCD issues. One isn’t a bookshop, you know. Nor a library.”
William shrugged. “It must be helpful, though. I find that when—”
“The late Alistair Cooke had a wonderful scheme,” Manfred continued, “whereby he placed books on the United States in such a position on his wall of shelves as to reflect their geographical situation. Books on Montana were at the top and those on Florida were down in the bottom right-hand corner.”
William smiled. “I once read about how the Victorians—”
“Yes,” said Manfred, “shelved books by male authors separately from those by female authors, out of a sense of propriety. Frightfully funny.” He took a sip of his tea, staring intently at William over the top of the mug. “Now then, Freddie de la Hay. It’s an extraordinary coincidence that Maria—”
“Marcia,” interrupted William.
Manfred looked slightly annoyed. “Of course. Marcia. That Marcia should have discovered that we wanted to share our dog. And then discovered that you would be quite keen on an arrangement of that sort. Isn’t London extraordinary? Th
ere will be a consensus ad idem somewhere for every matter under the sun. And this applies to selling things too. If there is one person wishing to sell a collection of the stamps of Fiji, there will be some other person anxious to buy just such a thing. London, I think, is the perfect market. Ideas. Things. People. Every vendor will find a purchaser.”
“I’m a wine merchant,” offered William. “I sometimes go to the wine auctions and you find that even the most obscure—”
“Yes, of course,” interjected Manfred. “Now, Freddie de la Hay. He’s a remarkable dog, you know. We found him down in Kent, in a little place called Sutton Valence. Charming spot. A friend had put us in touch with a breeder down there and we chose him from a litter of four. He was by far the most intelligent-looking of the lot. I can’t stand an unintelligent dog, can you?”
“It depends on the personality,” said William. “You find that some dogs who are a bit dim are very affectionate, and then—”
“Of course,” interrupted Manfred. “That’s to be expected. But we wanted to carry out a little experiment with our dog and so we wanted one that was up to the challenge.”
William frowned. “Experiment?” He decided that the best way to conduct a conversation with the columnist would be to use sentences of only one word. In this way, a contribution could be made before Manfred had time to interject.
“Yes. An experiment. We wanted to see whether one could raise a dog for the twenty-first century.”
William stared at him. “Oh?”
The columnist adjusted his glasses; behind the lenses, the eyes were large. The aquiline nose tilted higher. “Do you realise the damage that dogs cause to the environment?”
William thought for a moment. “No,” he said.
“Well, I can give you the figures. Or rather, I could look them up, I have them somewhere. If you work out how many cattle dogs get through with that disgusting dog food of theirs, you can extrapolate how many acres of rain forest are felled for pasture to feed those cattle. Quod erat—”
“Demonstrandum,” supplied William.
The nose tilted again. “Exactly. So we have tried to bring up Freddie de la Hay to be a responsible world citizen. This has two dimensions to it. One is behavioural, and the other is dietary.”
“Dietary,” muttered William.
“Yes. Freddie de la Hay, you see, is a vegetarian.” Then he added, “For starters.”
16. An Invitation to Bake Is Misconstrued
CAROLINE’S TÊTE-À-TÊTE with her friend James in a coffee bar off Tottenham Court Road proved to take longer than she had anticipated. She had no further lectures to attend that day, but she had thought that she might spend the late morning and afternoon writing an essay that, even if it was not yet overdue, had about it an air of impending tardiness. For the most part, her course assignments went smoothly, but every so often she found herself working on something where her thoughts never seemed to rise above the banal. This essay was one such project.
James, however, wanted to talk, and the claims of friendship were stronger than the promptings of academic obligation. His problem, too, was not something that could be disposed of in a few minutes; it was a matter that could affect the entire direction of his life.
“Are you sure?” she said to him. “Are you quite sure?”
He nodded. “Yes. I really am.”
“You see,” she said, “this is not something that one normally gets wrong, is it? One either feels a particular way, or one doesn’t. Do you see what I mean?”
He frowned. “But if it’s a question of taste, can’t one’s tastes change as one goes through life?” He warmed to the theme. “Think of music. I used to like the Carmina Burana—now I can’t stand it. I can’t take Orff. And Britten—I used to think he was tremendously boring, but now I actually enjoy his music. I saw The Turn of the Screw the other day at the ENO, by the way. I loved it.”
Caroline considered this. Had her own tastes changed? They had, she thought, but she was not sure the analogy was entirely appropriate. “I don’t know whether it’s quite the same thing,” she ventured. “It’s not like a preference for red wine over white. I don’t think it’s that simple. It can’t be.”
James looked at her searchingly. “But if you read what the developmental psychologists have to say, isn’t it true that people go through stages? I read that it’s standard stuff for boys to be fond of other boys when they’re growing up and then to start liking girls instead. Maybe that’s what’s happening to me. I’m going from one stage to another. Just a little bit later.”
Caroline stared into her cup of coffee. She was not sure whether she should be expressing an opinion on developmental theories. What did she know about all this? Nothing, really. All she knew was that there were people who liked one or the other, and some who liked both. Perhaps that was where James was. He was one who liked both. And if that was the case, then there was not very much that anybody else could do about it, even if they wanted to. James would have to decide what to do.
They rehearsed various possibilities, but forty minutes later they were no further on. “Why don’t you wait and see what happens?” she said eventually. “Give it a year. Then if you really are going through some sort of change, you’ll know about it. See how things turn out.”
James looked thoughtful. “But if I’m to make a choice—and maybe you’re right, maybe that’s what I should do—then surely I’ll need to try being straight? Which means I’ll need to find a girlfriend.”
Caroline agreed. “Fine. No problem with that. Find one.”
“But that’s hardly fair on the girl,” said James. “Nobody wants to be an experiment.”
That, thought Caroline, is why I like you. You’re so decent, so good. In general, men were only too willing to treat women as experiments.
“I think you should just tell her,” she said. “You should explain the situation.”
James looked doubtful. “But will anybody want me if I say that?”
Caroline knew the answer to this. “Listen,” she said. “There are hundreds of girls—thousands—who believe that they can win over a man who appears not to be interested. These girls think that they just need to show him what he’s missing. They really do. Such men are seen as projects.”
James laughed. “Then they’re wrong.”
“Misadvised,” said Caroline.
“I don’t want you to think that I believe there’s anything wrong about it,” said James. “I suspect I could be equally happy either way. It’s just that I’m not sure which way I am.”
The conversation had come full circle, and Caroline now looked at her watch. “I have to go to Blackwell’s,” she said, “and then I want to go back to my flat.” She hesitated. She did not want to leave him in the coffee bar, uncertain about who he was, but nor did she want to stay too long. She would ask him to accompany her. He was easy company and he would be no bother.
“Look, James,” she said. “Would you like to come back to Corduroy Mansions with me?”
He gave a start, and spilled a small amount of coffee on the sleeve of his shirt. “You mean—?”
Caroline realised that he had misunderstood. “Of course not,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you to think that. Oh dear.”
For a moment he looked crestfallen. She swallowed hard. “Listen, James,” she went on, “I find you really attractive. And you are, you know. Anybody would find you attractive. But you and I are just friends, aren’t we? There would be no point in changing the nature of our relationship.”
He nodded. “I suppose you’re right. But that’s what everybody’s going to think, aren’t they? They will want me as a friend and that’s all. How will I ever know what I want if all I’m going to get is friendship?”
“Oh come on, don’t talk such rubbish. As I told you, there’ll be plenty of girls wanting to … to get to know you better. Plenty.”
“I hope so.”
She rose to her feet. “Come on, let’s go
to Blackwell’s. Then, when we get back to Corduroy Mansions, we can bake something together. I want to make some biscuits.”
He looked at her mournfully. “There you are,” he said. “Would any woman ever invite a straight man to cook biscuits with her?”
Caroline was about to dismiss his objection out of hand, but then she thought, Yes, he’s right. No woman would ask a completely straight man to cook biscuits with her. It just wouldn’t happen.
17. Brutalism in Architecture
“ARTS AND CRAFTS!” exclaimed James. “Is this your place, Caroline? Corduroy Mansions.”
They had walked together up Ebury Street and turned into the side street on which, along with several other less distinguished blocks of flats, stood Corduroy Mansions. James, who had a strong interest in architecture, was ecstatic.
“Look at your chimney,” he exclaimed. “Pure Domestic Revival! And the sharply sloping roof. And the dormers. Oh, Caroline!”
“Those dormer windows are fake,” Caroline said. “William—he lives on the top floor—says that there’s nothing in the roof, just empty space.”
James became even more enthusiastic. “Fake windows! Even better. Can you think of one contemporary architect, just one, who would bother to put in fake windows?”
They were standing on the pavement outside Corduroy Mansions, both looking up at the building’s cream-painted brick façade and at the fake windows jutting out of the roof. Caroline tried to think of a contemporary architect who would resort to such decoration, and could not. Her problem was more profound, though: she was having difficulty thinking of any contemporary architect, whether or not he would resort to fake windows. She was weak on architects, but she knew that there was one, at least, who was iconic. What was the name of the man who designed Stansted Airport? Norman Foster. That was it.
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