She looked at Terence. ‘Oh, Terence,’ she began, but did not finish her sentence. Terence’s eyes had closed.
‘Eh?’ he muttered sleepily. ‘Eh, eh?’
She took his hand and stroked it; his frail, foolish, human hand. He was still talking about the AA; dear Terence, dear constantly searching but never finding Terence.
47. Your Shoes, Your Sad Shoes
As William began to make his way back to Corduroy Mansions, he became aware that Freddie de la Hay was trying to tell him something. The dog, who had been trotting happily at his side, circled round and sat down pointedly in front of him, all the while looking up with an expression that seemed to be a mixture of concern and anticipation. It occurred to William that Freddie merely wanted to prolong his walk, which was perfectly understandable: just as a walker might wish to draw out the pleasure of a stroll in bucolic surroundings, so might a dog wish to put off the moment of going back inside. Outside was a world of fascinating smells - a whole map, a palimpsest of the comings and goings of people, of other dogs, of cats, even the trace here and there of a wily urban fox; how could a dog be indifferent to all that? Inside, by contrast, was very much the same thing all the time and quickly exhausted from the olfactory point of view. That must be it: Freddie de la Hay was simply not ready to come in.
‘More walks?’ enquired William. ‘Is that it, Freddie?’
Freddie de la Hay stared at his new owner, his head moving slightly in what William thought might be a shaking motion; but surely no dog would shake his head to convey disagreement? I shall not be anthropomorphic, thought William; I am not going to imagine that this dog understands English.
He bent down to get closer. ‘What is it, Freddie? I can’t spend all my time taking you for walks, much as I’d like to. You do know that, don’t you, my boy?’
Freddie de la Hay stared into William’s eyes. Very brown, thought William, you have very brown, liquid eyes. And what lies behind them? What emotions? What canine thoughts?
Freddie answered the question with a whine. It was not a large sound, just a whimper really. And then, glancing quickly at William, the dog stood up and took the bag containing the Belgian Shoes in his jaws. Carrying the bag jauntily, he moved to William’s side, ready to continue the journey back to the flat.
William chuckled. ‘Oh, I see. That’s what you want. Thanks, Freddie.’
They made their way up the staircase in Corduroy Mansions, man and dog, Freddie de la Hay carrying the Belgian Shoes with the air of a gundog bringing back a pheasant - and this, William thought, was the urban equivalent. London dogs might not be able to bring pheasants back to their owners but they could at least retrieve Belgian Shoes.
William’s amusement over Freddie’s desire to be useful meant that he did not dwell on the question of Eddie until he was taking off Freddie’s leash in the hall of the flat. Eddie was not an early riser on a Saturday - nor on any day, William reminded himself - but now there were sounds, and the smell, of freshly ground coffee coming from the kitchen. Eddie always ground coffee with careless abandon, putting far too much into the grinder and then throwing out the surplus. I paid for that, William thought; I pay for every single coffee bean that my son grinds and then throws out.
Leaving Freddie de la Hay in the hall, William walked into the kitchen. Eddie was standing at the kettle, filling the coffee jug with water. He had just got out of bed by the look of things and was wearing only a pair of red boxer shorts. William looked at his son with distaste; he looked at the small mole on his back, at the line of hairs at the top of his spine, and . . . there was a tattoo just above the beginning of the natal cleft.
Eddie, continuing with his coffee-making, did not turn round. ‘Morning, Dad. Taken your new friend for a walk? Or the other way round? “Dog Makes Fat Owner Lose Weight”.’
It was another of Eddie’s headlines. William clenched his teeth. It helped, he found, to do this when Eddie said something particularly annoying. ‘“Idle Son Wastes Father’s Hard-earned Coffee”,’ he replied. ‘And I am not fat, by the way.’
Eddie laughed. ‘Come on, Dad. No need to be so sensitive. So you’re thin. Feel better now?’
William found himself staring at his son’s tattoo. ‘You’ve got a tattoo,’ he muttered.
Eddie looked over his shoulder nonchalantly. ‘Oh, that. Yeah, I’ve got a tattoo. So? You want one too? I know this guy who does really good work. Not cheap, but you have to pay for quality. You could have “wine merchant” tattooed on your arm if you like. Or “Pimlico” maybe. Anything you like - he’s really artistic. Calls himself Da Vinci Tattoos. How about that? Da Vinci Tattoos.’
‘I wouldn’t dream . . .’ began William. But he was now peering more closely at his son’s back, straining to make out the details of the somewhat indistinct tattoo. There were words underneath the picture and he read these now - and then recoiled sharply. ‘Eddie, why on earth would you have that put on . . . put on your back?’
Eddie shrugged. ‘Because it says it all, doesn’t it?’
William sighed. ‘And what if you decide that you don’t want it any longer? What then?’
Eddie moved across the room to pour the coffee. ‘Oh, people always say that about tattoos,’ he replied. ‘But that argument could be used against doing anything. Any building, for example. The Dome. The new terminal at Heathrow. Anything.’ He paused, sniffing at the jug of coffee he had just made. ‘You need to get more of that Jamaican stuff, Dad. I don’t like those big bags of Colombian that you get cheap. Anyway, where’s our dog?’
‘Our dog?’
‘Yes. Freddie de la Whatever. The dog you got us.’
William looked out of the window. ‘I thought that you didn’t like . . . ?’
‘Exactly, Dad - didn’t. Past tense. I’ve been thinking, and I think Freddie and me are going to get on fine.’
‘Freddie and I.’
‘Yes, you too.’
William felt himself getting warm at the back of his neck. He looked at the red boxer shorts. Disgusting. My own flesh and blood. Disgusting.
‘I thought I might take Freddie down the pub,’ Eddie remarked. ‘I’m meeting Stevie. He’s keen on dogs.’
William said nothing. His plan had failed. He had failed.
Then Eddie saw the Belgian Shoes, which his father had retrieved from Freddie de la Hay in the hall. For a moment his eyes narrowed, then he looked up at William. ‘You’re going to wear those, Dad? You’re going to wear them?’ He reached forward and snatched one of the shoes from William’s hand. ‘“Man Buys Sad Shoes”,’ he said.
48. A Golden Parachute
By the time he left for the shop that Saturday, William was in a thoroughly bad mood. Exchanges with Eddie were difficult at the best of times but that morning’s conversation with his son - if one could really be said to converse with someone who spoke in newspaper headlines - had made him feel quite bereft of hope. Eddie, it seemed, was the cross that he was destined to bear in life, the reluctant, work-shy fledgling who would never leave the nest. The prospect of years of his company was grim indeed, and what if - awful thought - Freddie de la Hay were to decide to side with Eddie? It was too appalling to contemplate. ‘Man Pushed Out,’ he thought, ‘by Son and Dog.’
He stopped. He could not allow himself to catch Eddie’s dreadful headline habit; like all linguistic short cuts, it was so seductive, so easy to slip into. No, he would take command of the situation and act decisively . . . He would . . . he would . . . he would move out. No, he would not. That would be capitulation. He would give an ultimatum to Eddie. He would throw him out. He would tell him . . . No, he would speak to Marcia. She would tell him what to do.
When William arrived at the shop he found Paul serving a small queue of customers. His assistant threw him a reproving sideways glance, muttering under his breath, ‘Look at the time.’
William smiled at the customers and then turned to glower at Paul. ‘Did you say something?’
Paul counted out a cus
tomer’s change. ‘I said, look at the time,’ he repeated out of the corner of his mouth.
William drew in his breath. ‘That’s what I thought you said. And what, may I ask, do you mean by that?’
Paul now turned away from the customers and addressed William. He spoke quietly but his voice became louder as his indignation increased. ‘I meant that you’re always criticising me for being late and then where are you when all these people need to be served? I had to get up on the ladder twice this morning to get those stupid Californian wines off the top shelf. Twice. Almost broke my neck. And people waiting to be served.’
William smiled again at the customers. ‘I’ll speak to you later,’ he whispered to Paul. ‘And remember it’s California wine, Paul. Not Californian. A Californian is a person, not a wine. They’re very fussy about that. And that, if I may remind you, is how we tell those who know what they’re talking about from those who don’t.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Paul. ‘I’m going over to Oddbins.’
‘Then we’ll have a little chat when you come back. And don’t be long, please.’
Paul laughed. ‘You didn’t get it, Mr French. I said I’m going over to Oddbins. Not to buy anything. I’m going to go and ask for a job. The manager said that any time I needed a job I should speak to him. So I’m going. Right now. This morning.’
William stood in silence. He reached out to place a hand on his assistant’s shoulder - a gesture half of apology, half of restraint. ‘Now listen, Paul—’
‘No, I’ve just had enough. Sorry. You don’t pay me enough. You never have.’
William felt the same warm feeling that came to him when he argued with Eddie. It was exactly the same: inter-generationalgenerated subcutaneous warmth.
‘I’ll pay you more—’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Then why did you raise it?’
‘Dunno. Just did.’
The customers had now drifted away in embarrassment. One had gone to examine a shelf of special promotions; a couple had left the shop altogether; another, thought William, had been carrying a bottle of unpaid-for wine when he walked out of the door.
William rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Look, Paul, if you’ve been unhappy here you should have said something. We could still sort this out. You’ve got a great future ahead of you in the wine trade.’
‘Thanks. With Oddbins. I’ve got a great future with them.’
William sighed. ‘I can’t stop you, can I?’
‘No.’
William sensed that there was no point in prolonging the discussion. ‘All right. But you don’t think that you should work your notice? A week at least?’
Paul looked surprised. ‘Notice?’
William stared at his assistant. ‘No?’
‘I said that I’d get over there this morning,’ said Paul. ‘Saturday’s busy for them. They’ll need me.’
William stretched out a hand. The young man hesitated, then took it, limply. Nobody, thought William, has taught him to give a proper handshake. Where was his father? And then it occurred to him: have I taught Eddie how to shake hands properly? Where have I been?
William gripped Paul’s hand. The young man winced. ‘Ow. Let go.’
William smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. It’s just that when you shake hands you should give a little bit of pressure - just a little bit, to show that you mean it.’
‘Mean what?’
‘Mean what a handshake is meant to mean. In this case . . . well, I suppose I’m wishing you good luck and also . . . well, I’m saying thank you.’
William looked down on his assistant; he was appreciably taller, and better built, too. And he had everything, he thought, while this young man seemed to have nothing: a rather dim girlfriend somewhere, an mp3 player that he was always fiddling with, not many clothes - the scraps of a life. He slept on somebody’s floor, William remembered him once saying; slept on the floor of a shared flat because he could not afford to rent his own room.
Paul hesitated. ‘Yeah, well, thank you too. You taught me a lot.’
William frowned. Had he?
‘Yeah, you did. You always explained things really well. You did.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘And you were kind to me too.’ Paul paused. ‘I’m not really leaving because I don’t like you or because you didn’t pay me enough. I’m leaving because I want a new job . . . You know how it is.’
William reached out again and put an arm on the young man’s shoulder. It was bony. He wanted to embrace him, but could not. He wanted to say sorry. ‘There’s something I want to give you before you go.’
‘What?’
William walked through to the office and took his cheque book out of the drawer. Then he sat down and wrote out a cheque for one thousand pounds. Returning to the counter, he passed the cheque over to Paul, who stared at it with wide eyes.
‘That’s what they call a golden parachute,’ said William. ‘Ever heard of it?’
49. A Confession of Loneliness
‘That was generous of you,’ Marcia said. ‘One thousand pounds. And he didn’t give you any notice at all?’
‘Ten minutes,’ said William. ‘Maybe fifteen.’
It was Saturday evening, and Marcia was sitting on William’s sofa, her favourite seat in his flat. She wished that he would join her there, and occasionally she patted a cushion, not too overtly, she hoped, but in a way that could be interpreted either as an adjustment of the upholstery or as an invitation. But William, if he was aware of the gesture, ignored it and remained firmly seated in the place that he preferred, a single armchair on which it would have been impossible for Marcia to perch, had she decided to try.
Marcia had come round to the flat in response to William’s quietly desperate telephone call earlier that day. He had called at about five, an hour before the shop was due to close. ‘I’ve had it,’ he said. ‘I’ve been single-handed all day. I’m finished.’
Marcia had immediately offered to come to his aid. ‘Poor darling,’ she said. ‘Would you like me—?’
He did not let her finish her question. ‘To cook supper? Yes, I would. You’re an angel.’
The compliment thrilled her. He had occasionally called her an angel before, and the term had given her cause to debate with herself the precise implications of the compliment. Just how warmly did one have to feel about somebody before angelic status was conferred? Did one have to feel actual affection?
Now, however, there was no time to consider nuances. ‘I need to talk to you about something,’ she heard William say. ‘A problem.’
‘Oh . . .’ There were so many things she would have loved to talk to William about other than problems. In a rare moment of realism she thought, I’m a sympathetic ear for him, nothing more.
And now, sitting with Marcia, and with a restorative gin and tonic on the table beside him, William unburdened himself of the day’s trials. He told her about Paul’s sudden decision to leave; he told her about the hectically busy day; he told her about the sheaf of unfilled orders that he would have dispatched had Paul been there to assist him with the customers. And he told her about Eddie’s Damascene conversion to liking Freddie de la Hay and the resultant failure of his plan. Marcia listened attentively, making sympathetic faces as each hammer blow was described.
‘I feel so frustrated,’ said William at last. ‘I feel that I just allow events to wash over me. Where is my life going?’
‘Make a list,’ said Marcia. ‘Make a list of the things that are wrong, and then write a solution. Look, come over here. I’ve got a pen. Get some paper.’
Once again, she patted the cushion beside her. William hesitated, but decided that it would be churlish to remain where he was. They were going to make a list, that was all. He rose to his feet and crossed the room.
‘Now,’ said Marcia, folding the piece of paper he handed her. ‘Let’s write down the big thing, the worst thing in your life.’ Her pen was poised over the paper.
‘Begins with a capital E, I’d say.’
William sighed. ‘I suppose so.’
Marcia wrote down: Eddie. Won’t grow up. Won’t go.
‘All right. Now number two. “Being short-handed at the shop. Need to replace Paul.”’
William nodded. ‘That’s a serious one.’
‘All right. Serious, but still number two.’ Marcia lowered her gaze. ‘On to number three.’
William looked up at the ceiling. ‘I can’t really think of a third thing,’ he said. ‘I suppose . . .’
‘Loneliness?’ Marcia spoke softly, almost seductively. ‘I’d say loneliness must be number three. Here, I’ll write it down. “Loneliness.”’
‘I don’t know—’ William began.
‘Of course you’re lonely,’ Marcia interrupted. ‘You’re all on your own.’
‘But that’s exactly what I’m not,’ protested William. ‘I’d like to be on my own, but there’s Eddie. And now there’s Freddie de la Hay. I’m not really on my own.’
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