‘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 the 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 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 proved 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.
William agreed that this was the most likely place. ‘The Dog House,’ he said. ‘That’s the pub they go to. How appropriate.’
He knew the way. Eddie took him there on his birthday each year - William paying, of course - so he knew where it was. Stevie went there as well, and on one occasion William had paid for his drinks too, and for the drinks of Stevie’s girlfriend, Poosie. He had ended up paying for everybody, in fact, and Eddie had said at the end of the evening, when he, William, had thanked him, ‘My pleasure, Dad. Any time.’
Marcia parked the van in a nearby street and they made their way to where the Dog House, with its large, welcoming windows, dominated a street corner. William glanced through the windows hoping to catch a glimpse of Eddie but the pub was busy and he could not see him.
‘Now listen,’ said Marcia as they went through the door, ‘don’t let him sweet-talk you in any way. He’s in the wrong, remember.’
William nodded grimly. But righteous anger is all very well when one is on one’s home ground; here at the Dog House he was on Eddie’s turf.
‘See him?’ asked Marcia, peering about the dimly lit bar.
William shook his head. ‘I’ll ask somebody,’ he said.
He looked about him. Immediately to his left, a small group of people around a table had the air of being locals. He tapped one gently on the shoulder and the man looked up at him.
‘You don’t know Eddie French, do you?’
‘Yup. I know him.’
‘Has he been in?’
The man looked at his fellow drinkers. ‘Anybody seen Eddie?’
‘Yes,’ said one. ‘He was in when I turned up. He went off a few minutes ago. Him and Stevie and that girl who hangs around with Stevie. They went off with that geezer who owns Diesel. I saw them going up the lane there - over there. See? That one. Few minutes ago.’
William turned to Marcia upon hearing this information. Diesel? Who, or what, was Diesel? And what would be going on in the lane?
69. Freddie de la Hay in Peril
‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ said Marcia.
‘Nor do I,’ muttered William. He wondered how well he knew his own son. Not very well, it appeared, what with the discovery of stolen property in his wardrobe and now finding him consorting in the pub with somebody who owned something called Diesel.
They walked swiftly and in silence a short distance up the road to the small lane that the man in the pub had indicated. It was a narrow one-way street, barely large enough to allow the passage of a vehicle, and not a very wide vehicle at that. On either side were shop windows - a barber’s, a cramped newsagent, an Indian restaurant from which an enticing smell of spices drifted.
‘No sign of them,’ said William, peering through the window of the restaurant to see if he could see Eddie and his friends within. ‘Is this the right place, do you think?’
Marcia had spotted an entrance further up to the right - the mouth of a close or a small courtyard, she thought. ‘Let’s take a look up there,’ she said.
The entrance, a gangway between two buildings, was little more than a passage, dark even on this summer evening and slightly malodorous in an indefinable way. But as they entered it they heard sounds coming from the far end, and William stopped when he recognised Eddie’s laugh. He caught Marcia by the sleeve and pointed ahead.
‘That’s them,’ he whispered. ‘That was Eddie’s laugh.’
‘Right,’ Marcia whispered back. ‘Let’s go and see what they’re up to.’ She had an idea already but hardly dared utter it. Now a barking sound drifted up the passage and she knew that she was right.
At the end of the passage, tucked away to one side, was something midway between a courtyard and a postage stamp of waste ground. As they came upon it, they saw Eddie to one side of the space, next to Stevie and Poosie, and on the other side was a thick-set man with a shaved head and a tattooed ne
ck. And there was Freddie de la Hay, held at the collar by Stevie and facing a large white bull terrier that was, like its owner, extensively tattooed. As they came upon this scene, the bull terrier had just been released by his owner and was glaring at Freddie de la Hay, his teeth exposed in hostile rictus, emitting a low growling sound.
It was what Marcia had suspected - an organised dog fight.
‘Eddie!’ shouted William. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
Eddie spun round to face his father, staring at him speechlessly.
‘What does it look like, mate?’ shouted the thick-set man. ‘This is private business, innit? Get lost.’
The bull terrier looked briefly at William and snarled. This was Diesel.
‘I said get lost!’ shouted Diesel’s owner again. ‘Or shut up and watch.’
Stevie was busy with Freddie’s leash and collar, while Freddie stared in dread at Diesel and growled defensively.
‘Eddie!’ cried William again.
‘Go back to the pub,’ Eddie said. ‘We’ll come and see you later. We’re having some private fun.’
‘Fun!’ exclaimed William.
Stevie chose to intervene. ‘Yeah, fun, Mr French,’ he said. ‘A bit of innocent fun.’
‘This is preposterous,’ said William. ‘That’s my dog, for a start.’
‘Listen, mate,’ shouted the other man, ‘Diesel here is getting very irritated with you. So just shut your cake-hole . . .’
‘Come on, Dad,’ said Eddie. ‘This is just a bit of fun. Where’s your sense of humour?’
Poosie now looked at William. ‘Yes, don’t be so old!’
‘Old!’ exploded William. ‘Who’s old?’
‘You,’ said Poosie. ‘You’re acting seriously old.’
‘Tart,’ said Marcia.
Diesel now took a few steps forward. He was an extremely muscular dog and he walked a little as a drunken sailor might walk - swaying slightly from side to side. William looked in alarm at Freddie de la Hay, who had now been released by Stevie. ‘Chew him up, Freddie boy,’ said Stevie. ‘Go for the jugular.’
Corduroy Mansions cm-1 Page 24