Corduroy Mansions

by Alexander McCall Smith

  James looked at her imploringly. “I want to talk, Caroline. I want to tell you about what I saw behind the cricket pavilion …”

  “Of course you can … But couldn’t we go back to the flat? Go back to Corduroy Mansions and talk there?”

  James shook his head. “The moment is sometimes right,” he said. “And … Well, I feel secure here. Do you understand?”

  She reached out to take his hand again but stopped herself in time. He saw this and smiled. “No, please go ahead. It seems right. Please go ahead. I’ll talk. You hold my hand. I’ll talk.”

  But she did not have the opportunity. Two men at a neighbouring table had just paid their bill and one of them now stood up and looked intently in her direction.

  66. Tim Something Sits Down

  “IT IS YOU, isn’t it?” said Tim Something.

  Caroline looked up at the man who had come across to their table and was standing before them. He had been lunching with somebody—a man with a moustache—who was obviously in a hurry because he was already at the door and waving perfunctorily to his erstwhile companion.

  The thought occurred to her that the answer to this question of whether one is one must always be yes. If somebody says, “It is you, isn’t it?” then what else can one answer? No? That would only be possible if one read into the question a proper noun—implicit and unspecified—immediately after the pronoun. Of course it was her, but perhaps not the her this man had in mind. And then she realised. Tim Something!

  “Tim,” she said weakly. “It is you, isn’t it?”

  Tim laughed. “Of course it is. Well, I hope it is. It’s me.”

  Caroline felt warm with embarrassment. Tim Something was not somebody she wanted to meet—or not with James. She remembered the conversation she had had with James in which he had made light of those pictures of young women in the front of that country magazine, and she had said nothing, had failed to confess to him that she herself had in fact been one of those young women. Now here was Tim Something, the very photographer who had taken the photograph, and he would be bound to mention that fact. James would look at her and remember that he had made a joke about it and realise that all the time she must have been squirming. And then he would feel guilty about not having known how cruel his words must have seemed to her.

  Tim looked at James. “I’m Tim Something,” he said, extending a hand.

  Caroline almost blurted out: But he doesn’t like to be touched! Here was James, coming for a quiet lunch after a lecture on Caravaggio, and suddenly everybody was touching him.

  But James did not seem to mind. He reached up and took Tim’s proffered hand and shook it. Yet he dropped it quite quickly, thought Caroline; it had not been a lingering handshake.

  “Tim what?” asked James. “I didn’t quite get your name.”

  “Something,” said Tim.

  James glanced at Caroline. “Tim Something,” she muttered.

  James looked increasingly puzzled.

  Caroline decided to take the initiative. “How are things, Tim? Are you working in London?”

  Before Tim Something could answer, Caroline turned to James and said, “I know Tim from Oxford.”

  “Yes,” said Tim, “I took a—”

  “When was it, Tim?” Caroline interrupted. “Over two years ago now, wasn’t it?”

  “What?” asked James.

  “I haven’t seen Tim for a couple of years, I think,” Caroline went on. “And now, well … London. What are you doing, Tim?”

  There was a third, unoccupied chair at their table, which Tim now lowered himself into. “Do you mind?”

  Caroline wanted to say, Yes, I mind a lot. I was talking to my friend James and he was about to say something important, something really important to him, and maybe to me … And then you came along and sat down at our table uninvited and …

  “Yes,” said Tim, leaning his elbows on the table. “I do a bit of work over in Oxford and thereabouts from time to time—I’ve still got a flat there, you know—but most of the time I’m in London. More work here. And I must say that I got a bit fed up with taking those photographs of village fêtes and …” He paused, and smiled at Caroline. “Countyish girls for the inside page of the mag. Sorry, Caroline!”

  “What mag?” asked James.

  “You should ask her,” said Tim with a grin. He nodded in Caroline’s direction. “There’s this mag that county types read and they love having—”

  “What sort of work do you get in London?” Caroline blurted out.

  Tim turned back to face her. “This and that. Some social stuff, quite a lot of business-related work. The City. Men in suits sitting in boardrooms or behind desks. I do them really well, you know. You have to make them look solid and reliable but not too dull. Apparently there’s a look that’s just right. You see the photo and you think: That chap’s got ideas. And sometimes I photograph the odd actor or author. That chap who bought me lunch—you probably saw him leaving the restaurant—Christopher Catherwood, I’ve just taken his photograph for a magazine.”

  Caroline wondered whether James was getting annoyed with Tim and his interruption of their conversation. But if he was, he did not show it. In fact, he seemed quite pleased that Tim had sat down at their table. Perhaps, she thought, James did not really want to speak about whatever it was that he had been going to speak about—in which case he probably welcomed Tim’s arrival.

  “So you were at Oxford Brookes with Caroline?” James asked Tim. “Did you study art history too?”

  Tim shook his head. “No. I was at Bath Spa University. They have a degree course in photography. I did that.”

  Caroline saw her opportunity to navigate the conversation away from perilous shoals. “Bath Spa is terrific,” she said. “I had a friend who did design there. She had a great time.”

  “When?” asked Tim.

  “When she was there. She had a great time when she was there.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that,” said Tim. “I meant: When was she at Bath Spa?”

  “Oh, same time that I was at Oxford Brookes.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have known her. When you were at Oxford Brookes was when I took that—”

  Caroline interrupted again. “She was called Stella.”

  Tim looked interested. “I knew a Stella. What was her name again? Her surname? You know, you forget these things. Stella …”

  “Stella Something,” suggested James.

  Tim looked at him. He opened his mouth to say something—or something other than Something—but Caroline seized the initiative again. They needed to talk about anything but photographs and country magazines. Anything.

  “I think she’s no longer with us,” she said. “The Stella I knew, that is.”

  James looked puzzled. “What do you mean? She died?”

  Caroline looked away. Stella did not exist. She never had. And now she was proposing to kill her off. No, she could not do that.

  “She went to France,” she said wildly.

  “Why?” asked James.

  Tim Something looked amused. “I can think of plenty of reasons to go to France! Where do you start?”

  “She met this French boy,” muttered Caroline.

  “That’s a good enough reason to go to France,” said Tim, glancing at James.

  “I didn’t like him,” Caroline went on; how easily were the lives of others invented. “But she did. They went to live in Paris. And then …” She trailed off.

  Both Tim and James were looking at her expectantly.

  “Then what?” asked James. “You know, it’s a fascinating story. This Stella person! You’ve simply got to tell us more, Caroline. I’ve got to know!”

  “Then she found out that he wasn’t French at all,” she said. “He was Italian.”

  James snorted. “Is that it?”

  “I’ve remembered the name of the Stella I knew,” said Tim Something. “Stella Lachfield. An unusual name. I took her photograph for the mag.” He looked up at th
e ceiling. “Quite soon after I took yours, Caroline.”

  67. Where’s Freddie de la Hay?

  MARCIA TOLD WILLIAM that after she had seen her seafood supplier she would go back to Corduroy Mansions to carry on with the task of sorting out Eddie’s room.

  “I hope that he’s picked up the rest of his clothes,” she said, “because if he hasn’t, I’m going to give them to a charity shop.”

  This brought a sharp intake of breath from William. It was one thing to bundle Eddie’s clothes out of his room; it was quite another to give them away. Did they have the right to do that? Could anybody give away somebody else’s clothes, or was it simple theft? Marcia was showing a fairly cavalier attitude to the law, what with her apparent indifference to the presence of the stolen painting and now her willingness to dispose of Eddie’s property. He would have to watch this and, if necessary, start educating her as to the requirements of the law-abiding life.

  “I really don’t think we can give his stuff away,” he protested. “It doesn’t belong to us, you know.”

  Marcia had no time for such niceties. “It’s in your flat, isn’t it? Surely you’ve got the right to dispose of things from your flat?”

  William was doubtful. “I don’t think so.”

  “But you must have,” said Marcia. “Otherwise it would be ridiculous. Listen, if I came and dumped something in your flat without your permission—just dumped it in the hall, let’s say—surely you have every right to put it out on the street. After all, you didn’t ask me to bring it, whatever it is.”

  William thought about this. People obviously could not land their property on others, but Eddie had not done that anyway; his property was in the flat because he had lived there. That, William felt, made a big difference.

  “I’m still not sure,” he said. “Look, here’s an example. Let’s say that I go and stay in a hotel.”

  Marcia smiled sweetly. “All right. Let’s say that you and I go and stay in a hotel.”

  William froze. He had not said “you and I,” he was sure of it. He would have to correct her; he could not let it pass.

  “I go and stay in a hotel—” he continued pointedly.

  Marcia interrupted him. “You know, that’s what Eddie has taken you for all these years. A hotel. He’s treated you as if you were a hotel.”

  “All children treat their parents like that,” William mused. “It’s the way they think of home. Anyway, let’s say that I go and stay in a hotel but leave my pyjamas behind. Can the hotel—?”

  He did not complete the question. “Of course, some people don’t wear pyjamas,” Marcia muttered.

  William faltered. What was this? A comment? A confession? A come-on? He raised his voice to prevent further interruptions. “I leave something behind. A tie, then. Can the hotel just give it away?”

  Marcia looked thoughtful. “Well, it depends, doesn’t it? A tie is nothing very much. So I think they could probably get rid of it. They can’t send on everything their guests leave. Where would you draw the line?”

  “So they hold on to anything of any value?”

  Marcia shrugged. “I suspect that’s what they do. Although I don’t really know. I imagine that the staff just pocket most things.”

  William sighed. He had brought up the hotel analogy but he did not feel that it had helped. “Well, I don’t think that Eddie’s stuff is in quite the same category,” he said. “And I also don’t think that you should give it away. We’ll find room in a cupboard somewhere, or I’ll take it over to Stevie’s place in the car.”

  The matter was left there, and when William went home after work he discovered that Marcia, having arrived a few minutes before, had bundled some of Eddie’s clothes into a cupboard. Although he said nothing, William was pleased that she had heeded his advice; he had never been sure whether Marcia listened to anything he said, but at least in this case she appeared to have done so.

  He stood in the hall, watching her push the last of Eddie’s possessions into the cupboard. “Is Freddie de la Hay sleeping?” he asked.

  “I suppose so,” said Marcia. “I haven’t looked for him. He must be in that smelly dog bed of his.”

  William raised an eyebrow. He did not like Freddie’s bed to be described as smelly; it was not. At least, it was no smellier than any other dog bed. Of course it smelled of dog, which was what Freddie de la Hay was. Did Marcia expect it to smell of anything different?

  He left the hall and went into the living room. There was the bed, but there was no sign of Freddie. He now felt a twinge of alarm.

  “He didn’t slip out when you came back, did he?” he shouted to Marcia.

  And she called back from the hall, “No. I didn’t see him at all.”

  William looked about the room. A cat might conceal itself in some odd place and bide its time before announcing its presence. A dog would never do that. Dogs were transparent, he thought; you knew where you stood with a dog.

  He called Freddie’s name and went into the kitchen to see if he was there. He was not. Nor was he in the bathroom or any of the other rooms in the flat.

  “Freddie de la Hay’s missing,” he said to Marcia. “He’s not here.”

  Marcia groaned. “Eddie,” she said.

  “What about Eddie?”

  “Eddie’s stolen Freddie de la Hay,” she said.

  William closed his eyes. “Why on earth would he do that?”

  The answer was clear—to Marcia at least. “To get at you,” she said. “Eddie has decided to punish you and so he’s taken your dog.”

  William sat down. “Oh no,” he said. “Do you really think so?”

  “It’s obvious,” said Marcia. “You know what Eddie’s like. He’ll have said to himself: ‘Son Liberates Dog from Mean Father.’ You know how he talks.”

  William was silent.

  68. The Dog House

  WILLIAM HAD PUT UP with a great deal from Eddie, but this was too much. He was not given to displays of anger, but now, watched by Marcia, who very much approved of the change in her friend’s demeanour, his cheeks and brow flushed choleric.

  “That’s it!” he shouted. “That’s it!”

  “Yes,” said Marcia. “It is. It’s it all right!”

  She waited for William to say something more, but he just stood there, looking red in the face.

  “Well?” said Marcia.

  “I’m going over to Stevie’s place. I’m going to fetch my dog.”

  Marcia got up and reached for her coat. “I’m coming too,” she said. She was secretly pleased that Eddie had taken Freddie de la Hay, not because she had anything against Freddie, whom she was nevertheless planning to get rid of sooner rather than later, but because she relished the thought of a further confrontation between William and Eddie. It would firm up matters in her direction, she thought: the more that William was freed of his son, the more he would come to rely on her. And that, at the end of the day, was exactly what she wanted.

  As for Freddie de la Hay, the beginnings of a plan had already been made. Being aware of the dog’s background, she had made a discreet enquiry of a friend who occupied a senior position in catering at Heathrow Airport. Did this friend know if the sniffer-dog department was short of dogs? Would a former sniffer dog be at all welcome if there were any vacancies?

  The friend reported back within a few hours. She had spoken to somebody who knew about these things and the answer was an enthusiastic yes.

  “It’s been a disaster,” Marcia’s friend said over the telephone. “You know that they sacked half of the dogs in order to make vacancies for female dogs? It was something to do with equal opportunities and gender balance.”

  Yes, Marcia had heard about it. William had told her about Freddie’s background and about his sacrifice on the altar of equal rights.

  “Well, it hasn’t worked,” said the friend. “The female dogs are all over the place. Apparently they keep sniffing out perfume in people’s bags. And then, to make matters worse, all the male dogs p
roved to be more interested in the female dogs than in suitcases. So all hell broke loose, with the male dogs going after the female dogs and carrying on like nobody’s business. Now they want to try to get the male dogs back.”

  This information was exactly what Marcia had wanted to hear and she filed it away in her mind. Freddie de la Hay could be quietly relocated in the fullness of time—back to Heathrow, where he belonged and where he obviously had a brilliant career awaiting him. And as for William, well, her recent victory at insinuating herself into the flat—taking her rightful place, as she preferred to call it—had demonstrated that there was no difficulty there. William could be managed.

  They drove over to Stevie’s flat in Marcia’s van. William calmed down on the way but was clearly still angry. Marcia listened sympathetically, nodding her agreement at appropriate points.

  “I’ve given him everything,” said William. “Everything. And now he steals my dog.”

  “Yes,” said Marcia. “Typical.”

  “And Freddie,” said William. “What will he be thinking? He hardly knows Eddie and I suspect that he doesn’t like him very much after Eddie kicked him. Dogs don’t forget that sort of thing, you know.”

  “No, they don’t,” said Marcia. Although in fact she thought that they did. Lots of dogs were ill-treated and then appeared to forgive the humans who had subjected them to all sorts of cruelties. Dogs were like that.

  They parked outside the address that Eddie had written down, a shabby terrace house in wedding-cake white, now divided into flats. William had been told that the flat was on the first floor, and he looked up to see if there were any lights on. There were not; the windows were in darkness.

  They got out of the van and walked up to the front door. William saw Stevie’s name on a button: Potts. He pressed it.

  They waited a minute, and then William pressed the button again.

  “The pub,” Marcia muttered.