Corduroy Mansions cm-1

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Dee read the message, her astonishment giving way to outrage. ‘Is he serious?’ she said. ‘How can anyone . . . ?’

  ‘It’s the sort of thing he does,’ said Jenny, taking the phone from her friend. ‘He’s horrible. He doesn’t care about anybody. He doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t care about the leader of his party, about the constituents, about the people who work for him in his constituency office. Nobody. We’re just disposable.’

  ‘But why would he sack you? What’s he got to gain?’

  Jenny shrugged. ‘He’s bored with me, I imagine. He thinks . . . well, I don’t like to say this, but he thinks that I show him up. He thinks that he knows everything and then he discovers that I’ve read books he’s never even heard of. Some men can’t take that.’

  Dee nodded. ‘I knew somebody like that. He couldn’t bear the thought that a woman could have her own ideas and that these ideas could be better than his. There are a lot of men like that. We make them feel insecure if we show signs of knowing more than they do.’ She paused. ‘Did he ever . . . did he ever make any moves? You know . . .’

  Jenny frowned. ‘Moves?’

  Dee explained further. ‘Did he ever make a pass at you?’

  Jenny looked up at the ceiling. She could not recall Oedipus ever doing anything like that; he had shown no interest in her, she thought, as a woman. She had assumed that this was because he had that girlfriend of his, Barbara Ragg, but it could equally well have been because he was so narcissistic that he could only think of making a pass at himself. What had somebody said of him in a newspaper column somewhere? ‘If Snark were to be found covered in love bites they would surely be self-inflicted.’

  She told Dee about this and they both laughed. Then she explained about her temporary job with William, starting the next day.

  ‘Mr French upstairs?’ asked Dee. ‘But he’s lovely, Jenny. He’s the nicest man there is. You’ll be far happier with him.’

  Dee went off to make them both a cup of tea and when she came back she discovered that Jenny was sitting up in bed and although her face was still puffy around the eyes from her tears, she was looking more cheerful.

  ‘So, let’s not talk about him any more,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ll get my own back some day.’

  ‘Great,’ said Dee. ‘And I’ll help you. Any ideas?’

  ‘I’ll think.’

  They drifted into pleasant, companionable conversation. Jenny was going to buy a new blouse that she had seen in a shop off Oxford Street. Dee approved. Jenny was going to book a holiday to Tunisia online, for about three months’ time. Dee approved of that too.

  ‘And you?’ asked Jenny. ‘What about you, Dee?’

  Dee looked at her watch. It was already half past eleven and there was no sign of Martin. They had agreed on eleven o’clock and everything was ready for the colonic irrigation session but he had simply not arrived.

  ‘I was going to do colonic irrigation for somebody,’ she said. ‘But he hasn’t turned up. He promised. It’s my assistant at the vitamin shop, Martin. You met him when you came in that day. Remember? That rather nice-looking boy.’

  Jenny sipped at her tea and looked at her flatmate. ‘You were going to give Martin colonic irrigation?’

  Dee nodded. ‘Yes. You see, when I looked at his eyes I saw flecks, which indicated toxins. You can always tell. He needs it.’

  Jenny grimaced. ‘But . . . but do you think it’s a good idea to give colonic irrigation to somebody you work with? Especially if he’s a young man and you’re . . . well, you’re you. Don’t you think that . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t see what the problem is,’ Dee retorted. ‘You know, people treat colonic irrigation with such suspicion - as if it were open heart surgery or something. It really isn’t. It’s simple, you know, you just—’

  Jenny raised a hand. ‘I really don’t want to hear about it, Dee. Frankly, I don’t think it’s the sort of thing you should talk about. Vitamins, OK. Echinacea, OK. But colonic irrigation, that’s another thing altogether.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘No, you obviously don’t. But think of it from the point of view of that poor young man. Here’s his boss - his boss, remember, even if it’s you - saying to him that she wants to take down his trousers and—’

  ‘It’s not like that at all,’ Dee said. ‘Colonic irrigation is not like that at all.’

  ‘Well, he’s not here, is he?’ snapped Jenny. ‘You’ve scared the poor boy, haven’t you? And who can blame him?’

  ‘He’ll be grateful,’ said Dee. ‘You’ll see. He just needs a bit of time, that’s all.’

  59. Something to Do With Justice

  William was delighted with his new assistant.

  ‘Our customers are quite sophisticated,’ he explained to her as he showed her round the shop. ‘Buying wine is not like buying groceries. The enjoyment of wine is an aesthetic experience, you know. Wine is about place and the culture of place.’

  Jenny looked at him anxiously. ‘I don’t really know much about wine, you know.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ he said. ‘If somebody asks for a recommendation and you feel out of your depth, then simply say so. Refer them to me. And if I’m not here, suggest to them that they try something new, something that looks interesting to them. Say something like, “Well, you’re going to be the one who’s drinking it. What do you think?” Something like that. Of course there are a few tried and tested expressions you can use. You can always talk about nose. Most wines can be said to have an interesting nose.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘Shall we have a little practice before the first customer comes in? I’ll be the customer and you be you. But you’ll be me, if you see what I mean.’

  He adjusted his tie. ‘All right. Here we go. You say to me: “Can I help you with anything?” Go on - you say that.’

  Jenny took a deep breath. ‘Can I help you with anything?’

  ‘Well, good morning. Yes, you can actually. I’m looking for something for a dinner party I’m going to be having. Can you recommend anything?’

  She looked flustered. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Ask what I’m having,’ whispered William.

  Jenny complied. ‘What are you having?’

  ‘I was thinking of a venison stew,’ said William. ‘And maybe smoked salmon to begin with.’

  Jenny thought quickly. ‘You’ll want white for the fish and . . . er, red for the venison.’

  ‘Good, good,’ whispered William. ‘But you need to be a bit more specific. Ask what sort of white I like.’

  ‘What sort of white do you like?’

  ‘Something clean.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘New Zealand,’ he whispered. ‘You can’t go wrong with New Zealand.’

  ‘I don’t think you can go wrong with New Zealand,’ said Jenny.

  William nodded. ‘Good, good. So you show me the New Zealand section over here. See? And then you wave a hand at the whites and you say: “Would you care to look over some of these?” And I do, like that. And I choose this one, let’s say, and you say, “That’s very nice.” Because it is. All the wines I stock are nice - so you won’t be telling a lie. And then you say, “As for the red, you’ll need something big for venison, don’t you think?” And I’ll say “Big? Yes, that would be nice.” So you take me to the Bordeaux section over there and you wave your hand at that shelf - those are all big wines - and I choose one and, again, you say, “That’s very nice.” You see how it is. Simple, isn’t it?’

  He showed her the till and the way the credit card machine was operated. ‘Always turn your face away when customers put in their PIN,’ said William. ‘Thus. You see? You must never watch them putting in their PIN.’

  That was the end of her training, and she was launched. When the first customer came in, William deliberately held back and gave her a nod of encouragement. It was not difficult and by the time that William made her a mid-morning cup of coffee, she had competently attended to over ten customers
, all of whom seemed pleased enough with her service.

  Then, while she was drinking her coffee with William in the back office, her mobile phone rang. She glanced at the number on the screen just in case it was Oedipus - in which case she would not answer. But she did not recognise the number, so she answered.

  ‘Jenny?’

  She knew the voice immediately. Barbara Ragg - his girlfriend, poor woman. She saw her from time to time and sometimes took calls and messages for Oedipus from her. She quite liked Barbara, who could surely do far better, she thought, than Oedipus.

  ‘Before you go any further, Barbara,’ she said, ‘I don’t know if Oedipus has told you - I’m not working for him any longer.’

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Eventually Barbara spoke. ‘Oh.’

  Jenny debated with herself whether to say anything about the circumstances of her dismissal. Why not? It was nothing to do with Barbara, she knew, but perhaps it would be a good idea for her to know how her lover behaved.

  ‘Yes. Oedipus sacked me over the weekend. On Saturday. He sent me a text. He sacked me by text message.’

  There was a further silence at the other end of the line. Then: ‘By text? My God, Jenny! That’s . . . that’s hateful.’ There was a pause. ‘And to think . . . Saturday. That’s the day I walked out on him. You didn’t know that, did you? I was phoning to tell you because I thought that you might get a very different version from you-know-who. I thought I’d set the record straight.’

  Jenny’s heart gave a leap. ‘You dumped him? You dumped Oedipus?’

  ‘Yes. You know we went down to Rye?’

  ‘Yes, I put it in the diary.’

  ‘Well, we were down there and the scales fell from my eyes. Over breakfast, to be precise. I was sitting there at the table and the scales fell from my eyes.’

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘And I feel much better. I can’t tell you how much better I feel. I’ve already met somebody else, by the way, but that’s another story. Now, look . . .’

  William, listening to one side of the conversation but pretending not to, stared at the inside of his coffee cup. He had problems of his own - with Eddie, and, to an extent, with Marcia. And here were these two women talking about their own problems with that nasty Snark character. Was anybody’s life straightforward, he wondered, or did one have to go into a monastery for that? To be a monk and keep bees and make wine for the abbot and lead a life of quiet order and contemplation. Was it still possible, he wondered, or had the world become too complicated, too frantic, to allow such peace of mind?

  Jenny and Barbara finished their conversation. They would meet for lunch the following week. Barbara had a proposition that she wanted to put to Jenny. Something to do with Oedipus. Something to do with justice, she said.

  60. Going Home

  The hospital authorities in Cheltenham were doubtful at first, but there was pressure on beds and Terence Moongrove seemed to have made a remarkable recovery from his near-death experience.

  ‘Ideally, we’d like to keep you under observation, Mr Moongrove,’ said the doctor who had attended him, ‘but you seem to be pretty bright and breezy. How would you feel about going home?’

  ‘It’d suit me very well,’ said Terence, sitting up in bed. ‘I feel fully restored, both in karma and in body.’

  The doctor smiled. ‘I gather that your sister is staying with you at present. She told me that she’d see that everything is all right.’

  ‘She’s very helpful,’ said Terence. He could not think of any way in which Berthea was particularly helpful, but she had saved his life, he had to concede, and that was helpful, he supposed.

  ‘Well then,’ said the doctor. ‘I think we can probably discharge you. But you will be careful, won’t you? Electricity is very dangerous.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ said Terence. ‘What happened was . . . Well, it was an accident really. I think that there was something wrong with my car battery. I’ll get my garage man to get me a new one.’

  The doctor frowned. ‘You tried to charge it, your sister said. Was the charger faulty?’

  Terence looked away. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

  ‘You have to be terribly careful with these things,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Oh, I am, doctor. I’m very careful. But . . . Well, thank you so much for bringing me back from the other side.’

  The doctor smiled. ‘That’s what we’re here for. We try to keep people from . . . going to the other side before their time.’ He laughed. ‘I suppose that’s our job.’

  Terence looked thoughtful. ‘It was very peaceful over there,’ he said. ‘It was exactly the way I had seen it described.’

  The doctor looked at his watch and excused himself while a nurse helped Terence out of bed and took him to a small compartment where his clothes had been stored. Shortly afterwards, Berthea appeared and accompanied Terence to the car park, where a taxi was waiting for them. In less than fifteen minutes they were on the driveway of Terence’s house. There, in the open garage, was the Morris Traveller, with the fatal cable leading away from it. While Terence went into the house, Berthea coiled the cable away. The incident had thrown the fuse switch and everything was quite safe, but she handled the cable with evident distaste: this, after all, was the instrument of her brother’s near-demise. He really was useless, poor Terence; imagine connecting the mains directly to the battery! What could he have been thinking? And would she ever be able to leave him now without worrying that he would do something really stupid?

  She sighed. She could not take Terence back to London - there was not enough room in the house, unless she gave up her study, and it would be impossible having him mooching around, going on about sacred dance and such matters. There were plenty of soi-disant visionaries in London, of course, and he would doubtless fall in with others who shared his interest in Bulgarian mystics and the like, but she had her own life to lead and she just could not look after her brother too. No, Terence would have to stay in Cheltenham.

  As she walked up to the front door, an idea occurred to her. If she could get to know some of Terence’s friends - the sacred dance crowd - then perhaps she would be able to find somebody who would agree to keep an eye on him. There were women in the sacred dance group, no doubt, and one of these might be taken aside, woman to woman, and asked to help see that he came to no harm. England was full of helpful women, Berthea was convinced: there were legions of them, all anxious to help in some way and many of them feeling quite frustrated that there were not quite enough men - for demographic reasons - in need of their help. One of these women would be the solution and, with any luck, it might even turn into a romance. That would be the best possible outcome - to get Terence settled with a suitable woman who would look after him and make sure that he did not try to do anything unwise with electricity.

  Berthea sighed. It was something of a pipe dream. What woman in her right mind would take on somebody like Terence? What would be the point? He had no conversation to speak of, other than sentimental memories of things that no woman would be remotely interested in. He read nothing of any consequence, apart from peculiar tomes from small, mystically minded publishing houses, and even then he rapidly forgot both the titles and the contents of these books. He could not cook; he was inclined to asthma; and if sacred dance required any deftness of foot, then Terence would almost certainly be no good at it. And when it came to the romantic side of things - oh, dear, poor Terence with his square glasses and his untidy hair and his cardigans that always had buttons missing . . .

  But she could try; it was the least she could do.

  ‘Terence,’ Berthea said as she came into the dining room, ‘I’ve decided to extend my stay a little, if I may.’

  Terence, who had seated himself at the small bureau, where he was going through mail, seemed pleased. ‘You’re always welcome, Berthy. We could sort out some of those old photographs together. There are Daddy’s pictures of Malta - all those photies - and maybe we could e
ven stick them in an album.’

  Berthea nodded. She could think of nothing worse than going through the several boxes of old photographs of Malta that she knew Terence had in the attic, but he was her brother and she had to do something. ‘I thought that I might also come along to one of your sacred dance meetings,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’

  Terence looked up from his letters. He beamed. ‘But that’s wonderful, Berthy. You’d be very, very welcome. You know that. And I could give you one of Peter Deunov’s books to read first. You could then see what the objectives are, and understand.’

  ‘That would be very nice.’

  ‘Good.’ He pushed the mail to the side of his desk. ‘And you know what, Berthy? You know what? I’ve decided to do something about my car.’

  Berthea looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Terence. ‘I’m going to get rid of it. I shall phone Mr Marchbanks immediately and ask him to find me a new one.’

  61. A Suitable Car

  Lennie Marchbanks, patient garagiste to Terence Moongrove and the proprietor of Marchbanks Motors, drove round in his truck and parked before the stranded Morris Traveller. Terence, who had seen the truck coming up the drive, went out to meet him, while Berthea watched discreetly from an upstairs window.

  ‘So what’s the trouble now, Mr Moongrove?’ asked Lennie. ‘Old Morris not starting? I put petrol in for you, remember? Should go now.’

  ‘I’ve decided to sell it,’ said Terence. ‘That’s why I asked you to come out, Mr Marchbanks. I want to get rid of it and get a new car.’

  Lennie stared at him in frank disbelief. ‘You want to sell the Morris? Did I hear you correctly, Mr Moongrove?’

  ‘You heard perfectly correctly, Mr Marchbanks. I think the time has come.’

  Lennie whistled. ‘Well, I’ve been saying that for a good long while, you know. But you always said you were fond of the old bus and didn’t see the need. Remember, Mr Moongrove?’