Marcia agreed, and invitations were duly written out and dropped through the letterboxes of the residents. These evidently fell on fertile ground, as within a day everyone had accepted. Basil Wickramsinghe replied that he was “deeply honoured and profoundly moved” to have been invited. Dee said that she would love to come and might she bring some elderflower cordial that she had recently made? Jenny was given her invitation at work and told William that it was “the best idea in decades.” James was included on the coat-tails of Caroline’s invitation; both said that they would “definitely be there.” As did Jo, who remarked that she had not been invited to a dinner party for almost eight months and revealed that she had almost cried when she received the invitation.
Downstairs in the first-floor flat, on the day before the party, the invitation sparked some discussion when the four flatmates found themselves around the kitchen table at the same time—a rare occasion.
“People are too tired these days to entertain as much as they used to,” said Jenny. “When I was at university we did our best. Nowadays it seems to be just too much of a hassle.”
“We had great parties at uni,” said Jo. “We used to go over for weekends to Rottnest Island and have barbies. Someone would get out a guitar and we’d sing. Out there in the darkness, under all those stars.”
“A beautiful image,” said Caroline. “I can just see it.”
“And you, Caroline?” asked Jo. “Remember any great parties?”
Caroline thought for a moment. The trouble with parties, she felt, was that they faded into one another so easily. There had been parties—great parties—but when did one end and the next one begin? That was the difficult part. She had met James at a party that the Institute had given at the beginning of the course. It had been a rather stiff affair, with the lecturing staff being somewhat formal and the students still all strangers to one another. She had liked the look of James and had struck up a conversation with him. Later, a group of them had gone on to somebody’s flat and the party had continued there.
“The parties that you remember are the ones where you meet someone,” she said. “You forget the others—or at least I do.”
Dee had remained silent. Now she spoke: “The problem with parties is that they represent a shock to the system. I like them, same as anybody else, but the human body isn’t really adapted to sudden high-volume inputs of either food or drink. We’re grazing creatures.”
All three stared at her. “Should grazing creatures avoid parties?” asked Jenny drily.
As this discussion was taking place downstairs, upstairs Marcia was making a list of ingredients she would buy later that day. She had taken two days off and would begin cooking that evening, preparing some of the food in advance. She wrote a list: quails’ eggs (two dozen), fennel, Parmesan (large block), Arborio rice, dried mushrooms.
She made a mental note to be careful about the mushrooms. She had read that radioactive mushrooms—some from sylvan glades in the vicinity of Chernobyl—had been illegally imported into Western Europe and were being mixed with innocent mushrooms. One had to be careful that the container gave the exact source. Mushrooms from various countries was not reassuring.
Basil Wickramsinghe, for his part, was worried about what he should wear. He was an elegant dresser but he felt that on this occasion he should avoid anything too formal, and had paid a visit to Jermyn Street to see if there was something suitable. There was.
“This shirt is a very nice cream, sir,” said the young man behind the counter of one shop. “And, if I may say so, it would be set off extremely well by this tie here. See? Look at that. Perfect.”
“I think that this occasion will be one where ties are not worn,” said Basil. “And yet a bit of colour would not go amiss.”
“You can have colour in a shirt, of course,” said the young man. “Or you can have it in the jacket. How about this blazer? That burgundy stripe will go very well with the cream shirt.”
Basil looked at the blazer. It had a slightly raffish look to it—it was the sort of blazer that rowers wore, set off perhaps by a straw boater. James Lock, the hat people, were just round the corner in St. James’s Street; should he go down there and buy a boater too? He could hardly wear a boater to a dinner party, but the summer season was under way and there would be plenty of opportunities to don a boater. There was the picnic, of course, the annual summer gathering of the James I and VI Society. A boater would be ideal for that.
He bought the shirt and the blazer and then decided to walk home, back through Green Park and Victoria, past the crowds of people, each in the world of himself, each with hopes, of varying degrees of intensity and realism, of something better for himself, and for others.
100. The End
WILLIAM WELCOMED the guests at the door and led them through to the kitchen. There he poured them a glass of champagne or, in Dee’s case, a glass of the elderflower cordial she had brought with her.
“You can add some to your champagne,” offered Dee. “This goes with anything.”
“What a good idea,” said William politely. “But perhaps not right now.”
Marcia was in the drawing room, where she was offering round several large plates of canapés. One plate, in particular, proved to be popular—a display of small tartlets into which a fried quail’s egg had been inserted, the tiny yolk sprinkled with fresh Kerala pepper.
“The pepper’s so important,” said Marcia. “The stuff you buy in supermarkets is dreadful—ancient old stuff that tastes like cardboard. Fresh pepper should smell green—it should prickle the nose.”
“I love pepper,” said James. “It’s so peppery. Gorgeous.”
Marcia considered this. “You’re right,” she said. “Have another tartlet.” She decided that she rather liked James. But was Caroline his type?
Jenny talked to Basil Wickramsinghe, reminding him of their meeting in Daylesford Organic the previous week. “There was the tea lady,” she said, “with her lovely rare teas. Remember? You bought some.”
“I did,” said Basil, smiling. “I bought some of her white tea. I love that. We produce white tea in Sri Lanka, you know. The tips of the buds. It’s very delicate.”
Marcia arrived at their side and joined in the conversation. She had not yet met Basil Wickramsinghe but had been admiring his blazer from the other side of the room. Such a handsome man, she thought, and after their introduction she went on to think, What charming manners. Was he single? she wondered. A few questions, neatly posed, revealed that he was. And he was an Anglican too—that came up in the conversation. Could he recommend a suitable church nearby? Somewhere reasonably High? Of course he could. He smiled—such an engaging smile, thought Marcia. Would she care to accompany him sometime—he could introduce her to the vicar? She would, gladly. And at this point Marcia—quite subtly, but clearly enough—let it be known that she and William were just flatmates.
More champagne was produced and poured. Since it was early evening there was still a lot of light outside, and the now tired sun, a great red ball, was setting over the rooftops. It is all very beautiful, thought William.
Freddie de la Hay, who had greeted each guest in the hall, nosing at their shoes and ankles in a friendly fashion, now came through to the drawing room and looked about him at the human guests. He was a dog with a sense of occasion and he was carrying himself with confidence and ease. Here and there, a guest would slip him a morsel, which he received with proper gratitude. James gave him an entire quail’s egg tartlet; Jenny gave him a cheese straw followed by a biscuit with pâté; and Dee gave him asparagus and a small lettuce leaf.
Then Eddie arrived. William opened the door to his son and was, for a moment, unable to say anything.
“Party, Dad?”
“Just a few people from the building. Nothing big.”
Eddie smiled—an unexpected smile. “That’s great. Nice to see you enjoying yourself.”
William looked for sarcasm but there was none. Eddie meant it.
> “Come and join us, Eddie,” he said.
Eddie followed his father into the drawing room. There he saw Marcia, who paled on seeing him but recovered her colour when she received a friendly wave from the young man.
“You seem very cheerful, Eddie,” said William as he handed his son a glass of champagne.
“Yup,” said Eddie.
“May I ask why?” William ventured.
“Met a really nice woman, Dad,” said Eddie. “She lives not far away actually. Got her own place.”
“Very nice,” said William.
“And a place in the Windward Islands,” Eddie went on. “It’s all a bit sudden but we’ve decided we’re going to spend six months there and six months here each year.”
William’s eyes widened. He would have enquired further about that but there was another question he had to ask: “Eddie, there was a painting in the wardrobe. We found it.”
Eddie shrugged. “Nothing to do with me. I didn’t have any paintings.” He paused. “No, hold on. There was a painting I won in the pub. Yes. I was going to throw it out. Funny thing. Some naked guy and a woman. Oh yes, and a snake. Peculiar. Did you get rid of it?”
William looked down at Freddie de la Hay-Poussin, who met his gaze innocently.
The party was now warming up. They would have more to eat—the main course that Marcia had so lovingly prepared—but they would not have it just yet. For the moment, William felt that he wanted to say something. Earlier that day, in anticipation of this occasion, he had written something on a piece of paper, and now he took it out and cleared his throat.
Dear friends, now in London,
Here and there, in their various forms
Of isolation or companionship,
People begin a journey into night;
Happy they go to bed, or sad—
The choice to a very great extent
Is theirs. Happiness is a state
Which few can define—
I shall not try—but even those
Who never attempt a definition
Know from experience
That happiness flows most readily
From friendship, from the company
Of those we would rather not
Be without: a double negative
Is a way of saying that which
You really believe;
And I believe that, I really do.
Friendship is a guise of love,
And love is friendship
Dressed up for a night out.
That we are together, here at this moment,
Alive, one with another,
Is the most delicious treat;
I, for one, ask for no more,
I, for one, am replete.
After he spoke there was silence. They looked at one another, uncertain as to how anything could be added to what had been said. Marcia stepped forward, took William’s hand, and held it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH is also the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series, the Isabel Dalhousie series, the Portuguese Irregular Verbs series and the 44 Scotland Street series. He is professor emeritus of medical law at the University of Edinburgh and has served on many national and international bodies concerned with bioethics. He was born in what is now known as Zimbabwe and taught law at the University of Botswana. He lives in Scotland.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Alexander McCall Smith
Illustrations copyright © 2009 by Iain McIntosh
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd., Edinburgh, in 2009.
Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McCall Smith, Alexander, [date]
Corduroy mansions / Alexander McCall Smith ;
illustrations by Iain McIntosh.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-37930-6
1. Pimlico (London, England)—Fiction. I. McIntosh, Iain. II. Title.
PR6063.C326C67 2010 823′.914—dc22 2009047155
www.pantheonbooks.com
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