“Students should not bring good quality wine with them as to do so will be seen as elitist and arrogant, and will imply that you do not approve of whatever your host will provide. This rule does not apply if you can explain that you took the wine in question from your parents’ stocks while they were away. That is perfectly acceptable in today’s dishonest climate.
“In my own day, the correct thing for students to take to a party was a cheap Spanish wine or, if flush with funds, Mateus Rosé, distinguished by its squat oval bottle, which can later be turned into a lamp stand or candleholder. This wine can occasionally be found in the back of parental cupboards and may be circulated at dinner parties without ever being drunk, in the same way as boxes of out-of-date After Eights do the rounds, like bankers’ negotiable instruments never presented for payment.
“If you are no longer a student, you should nevertheless continue to take a bottle of wine when invited for dinner unless the invitation comes from people who are much older than you. As far as friends of equal age are concerned, you should take a bottle of wine with you until you have all celebrated your fortieth birthday. After that, you must assume that your hosts will be in a position to entertain you without assistance.
“It is never wrong to take a bottle of champagne, even to a host who is well off. If the host is not on the breadline, this should be in a presentation case; it should never be taken chilled, as that implies that his own supplies of champagne will be exhausted and recourse may need to be made to the bottle you brought with you.
“In no circumstances is it polite to take away with you the bottle that you brought if it has not been consumed at the table. It is also impolite to say at the end of a meal, ‘I hope that you enjoy the wine we brought.’ That is not a friendly comment, and will be interpreted accordingly. Nor, as a host, is it polite to examine the label of a bottle brought by your guests. If you do, always misread the vintage, saying, for example, of a 2007 Bordeaux, ‘Ah, 2001. What a treat.’”
That is the advice that William would have put in his leaflet had he written it. He thought about it now as he made his way downstairs with Freddie de la Hay, his newly acquired Pimlico terrier. He would take Freddie for a walk—that is what dog-owners do—and then he would make his way to the shop at eleven or even half past eleven, before the busy period started. Paul, his assistant, always opened up the premises on Saturday mornings and so it did not really matter when William arrived.
As they stepped out of the building, Freddie de la Hay looked up at William appreciatively, as if to endorse the decision to bring him out. He raised his nose into the air, sniffed, and began to tug at the leash. As they walked down the street, he stopped at each lamp post, inspected it and then walked on. There was a jaunty spring in his step; it was, thought William, the gait of a dog who had been released from durance vile and was now enjoying the increased freedom of his new circumstances.
“We’re going to get along just fine,” said William. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
He was pleased that Freddie seemed comfortable with the new arrangement, although he was worried about Eddie. His son’s initial reaction to the arrival of Freddie had been more or less what he had expected, but then had come that rapid and curious acceptance of the dog’s presence. William wondered whether this meant that he now had a dog and a son living with him. The freedom that he had dreamed of seemed to be receding rapidly; perhaps he should move out, or … It occurred to him that if Eddie would not be displaced by a dog, then perhaps he might be displaced by a person. Marcia. Eddie hated Marcia, and if she were to come and live in the flat it would be unbearable from Eddie’s point of view. Yes, he would invite Marcia to stay. If Eddie thought that he was having a mid-life crisis, then a mid-life crisis was what he would give him.
He crossed the street. He was now at the corner occupied by an elegant interior decorator’s shop. And there in the window of the shop he saw the sign: Belgian Shoes. He had often wondered what these Belgian Shoes were, and now, on impulse, he went in, taking Freddie de la Hay with him.
If one was going to have a mid-life crisis, William thought, then one might as well have it in Belgian Shoes. They sounded like ideal footwear for a mid-life crisis.
41. Belgian Shoes
WILLIAM WENT INTO THE SHOP and looked about him. He had walked past this shop many a time—almost every day—but had never paid much attention to it, beyond the Belgian Shoes sign in the window, of course. William felt that he had reasonable taste and was artistically as sensitive as the next person, but he did not take a great interest in interior decoration. There was something rather unworthy, he thought, about interior decoration; he knew that there were men who were interested in curtains and bibelots, but he was not one of them. In his view, curtains should be functional: keeping the light out, or in, and that was it. Chairs and tables should similarly be functional: allowing one to sit down when necessary and to eat, or write, or stack copies of Decanter magazine, also when necessary. William had no time for all the fussy bits and pieces which decorators seemed to go in for; the bronze horses’ heads, the casually displayed old glass fishing floats, the objets trouvés that covered every surface of a fashionable living room. What was the point? he asked himself. What was the point of all this ridiculously expensive clutter?
But now he saw that this particular shop was not like that—it had attractive things: an imposing smoked-glass table, for example, that would do very well in his sitting room, he thought, and a small bookcase that would look good in the spare bedroom, once he got Eddie out of it. And there was a rug too, which he rather liked, and which Freddie de la Hay now sat upon in a gesture of canine approbation.
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
William turned round to see that a tall, extremely attractive young woman had appeared at his side, smiling as she spoke—and she spoke to him. Where was she from? he wondered. She was Italian, he decided. Milanese, perhaps; Milan was the design capital of the world, was it not?
Taken by surprise, William needed a moment to gather his thoughts. “Belgian Shoes?” he asked eventually. “I saw the sign in the window, and …”
“Of course,” said the assistant. “Belgian Shoes. The men’s shoes are over here on the table.” She led him to a table on the other side of the room.
“May I leave my dog on the rug?” William asked. “He’s very well behaved. A very good dog.”
It occurred to him that he did not know this. Was Freddie de la Hay well behaved in all circumstances? William realised that he simply did not know whether Freddie de la Hay could really be described as a good dog. That was not an appellation that should be conferred automatically; good dogs should earn it, thought William, in the same way as soldiers earned their medals. Soldiers did not get the MC for nothing—or at least British soldiers did not. Some countries gave their soldiers a medal the moment they received the slightest injury: William had heard of a medal (a foreign one) awarded to any soldier who cut himself while shaving, but he could not believe that. It simply could not be true. Surely one had to do far more than that to get a particular medal? One had to get one’s finger jammed in the door of a tank at the very least.
“Your dog may certainly stay on the rug,” said the assistant. “He seems to be a very fine dog.”
Standing in front of the shoe table, William looked at the selection. He had had no idea what Belgian Shoes would look like; now he gazed upon a selection of about twenty exemplars of the footwear, ranging from black patent-leather dancing pumps to brown ostrich-skin casual loafers.
“Very nice,” he said, picking up one of the shoes. It was feather-light.
“They are very comfortable,” said the assistant, “because they are so light. The sole has horsehair in it.”
She turned one of the shoes over and showed it to William. The underside of the sole was thin leather—not a conventional sole, but rather the smooth leather that one might find on an expensive pair of slippers.
“They’re not
really outside shoes,” said William. “These soles wouldn’t last long outside.”
He wondered whether Belgians spent an inordinate amount of time indoors; in restaurants, perhaps, enjoying their distinguished cuisine.
“They are designed for wear inside the house,” said the assistant. “However, you can have a thin rubber sole applied, which will protect the shoe if you take it outside. But they are not for the rain.”
William picked up the ostrich-skin loafers and looked at the inner sole. Like the rest of the shoe it was of soft, light leather, and had imprinted on it a picture of a cobbler’s sewing needle and thread and the words “Belgian Shoes.”
They then discussed his size and the assistant went off to get an appropriate pair of the ostrich-skin loafers. William realised that he had not asked the price, but it was too late now to do so. He had to have a pair of Belgian Shoes. He simply had to.
“They look very good on you,” said the assistant when William put on the shoes and stood up to admire them. “You must have them.”
William nodded. There are some shoes that say to us: “Buy us and we shall change your life.” That is what these shoes now said to him—quite unequivocally. And William knew that the claim was true: his life would change once he had a pair of shoes like this. He knew it.
Of course, it all seemed so unlikely. Belgian Shoes! Nobody would associate elegant footwear with the Belgians of all people; the Italians, yes—they were destined to design and make elegant, life-changing shoes. But the Belgians? What were they best at making? Regulations?
He turned to the assistant. “Why are they called Belgian Shoes?” he asked.
She smiled. “They are made in Belgium,” she said. “And the Belgians are a great people for comfort. Belgians do not like to be uncomfortable.”
William thought about this. Did anybody wish to be uncomfortable? The British certainly lived in conditions of great discomfort, with their cold, draughty homes and their admiration for a culture of cold showers. But did they actually like to be uncomfortable, or did they accept discomfort as a constant factor in British life, like bad weather and run-down trains?
“So the Belgians are hedonists, are they?” he remarked.
He had not thought he would get an answer to this, and he did not. But what he did get was a sudden chilling of the atmosphere.
“You’re not … you’re not Belgian?” William stuttered.
The assistant shook her head. “I am Italian,” she said. “But I have nothing but admiration for the Belgians.”
She placed the Belgian Shoes in a dark green shoe bag and passed it over to William.
“These shoes will make a difference,” she said. “They will bring you a great deal of happiness. It is very clear.”
William paid—one hundred and seventy pounds—and then, collecting Freddie, he left. As he made his way back to the flat, he considered how his life had changed dramatically within a couple of days. He had acquired a dog. He had begun to resist his son. And he had acquired a pair of potentially life-changing Belgian Shoes. And … He was about to add: “And I’ve embarked upon my mid-life crisis,” but he stopped himself. It was not a crisis he had initiated, it was a rebellion—a full-blooded post-teenage rebellion. I am rebelling, he thought. I have never rebelled in my life—not once. Not as a teenager, when I was entirely compliant; nor as a young adult. Never. Now, at long last, I have started to rebel.
It was an intensely satisfying feeling.
42. The Morning Sun Was in Her Eyes
WHEN ASKED whether she was driving back to London, Barbara Ragg hesitated before replying. She looked at the young man standing beside her: what business of his was her destination? She appreciated his materialising from nowhere and helping to pick up the shattered glass from her wing mirror, but she did not think that it gave him the right to ask where she was going. She looked at him coolly—or in a manner she hoped would give the impression of coolness—but even as she stared at him she knew that the effect of her gaze was probably quite different from what she wanted. She felt flushed, rather than composed; suddenly unsettled, rather than determined. Only a few minutes ago she had walked out of the Mermaid Inn filled with resolve and firmness—a free agent once again after deciding that no longer would she endure the humiliation of being a mere adjunct to Oedipus Snark’s life. And here, within the space of a few minutes, she found that a pair of green male eyes fixed on hers had reduced her to a state of vulnerability and indecision. How she answered this simple question, she vaguely sensed, would in some way determine the course of her life.
That, of course, was absurd. The pattern of one’s life could not be changed by a chance encounter in the parking place of the Mermaid Inn. And yet, it could—lives, even our own, could be changed by such apparently insignificant events, and Barbara knew it. An apparently throwaway remark by one person could send another in a direction that would have profound consequences for what they did. “Why don’t you write poetry?” one young schoolboy had said to another young schoolboy—the sort of thing that boys used to say to one another in more literate days, and the sort of remark that might have no effect on the world unless … unless the boy to whom the suggestion was made was none other than the young Wystan Auden. Perhaps a similar boy had said to another small boy called Horatio, “Why don’t you go to sea?,” and the juvenile Nelson had replied, “Yes, why not?”
So, in less elevated circles, we might toss a coin as to whether or not to go to a party, decide to go, and there meet the person whom we are to marry and spend our lives with. And if that person came, say, from New Zealand, and wanted to return, then we might find ourselves spending our life in Christchurch. Not that spending one’s lifetime in Christchurch is anything less than very satisfactory—who among us would not be happy living in a city of well-behaved people, within reach of mountains, where the civic virtues ensure courtesy and comfort and where the major problems of the world are an ocean away? But had the coin fallen the other way—as coins occasionally do—then that wholly different prospect might never have opened up and one might spend the rest of one’s days in the place where one started out. Or one might pick up a newspaper abandoned in a train by a person not well schooled in those same civic virtues, open it and chance to see an advertisement for a job that one would not otherwise have seen. And that same job might take one into the path of risk, and that very risk may materialise and end one’s life prematurely. Again the act of picking up the paper has consequences unglimpsed at the time, but profound nonetheless.
Barbara knew this, and knew that how she answered would have consequences for her. It would be safest to say, “No, I’m not going to London,” but that would mean that she would never know why he had asked, and it would, in addition, be a lie, and she was a truthful person. Oedipus lied; he lied all the time, she thought, but somehow lies suited him. He was a natural liar—he had a gift for meretricious speech that would be the envy of any snake-oil salesman or politician in a tight corner, a facility based on the fact that he actually believed his lies. It was a great gift, as it had immense transformative powers: if everything that one said was true, then what power one had over the world. Bad weather could be changed at a stroke to good; a downturn of fortune could simply by misdescription become something quite different. But Barbara could do none of that, not even mislead a stranger as to her destination.
So she said, “Yes, I am going to London, as it happens.”
The young man holding the shards of glass looked over his shoulder. “One sec,” he said. “I need to go and put these in the bin.”
He turned round and walked over to a small rubbish bin beside the hotel’s back door. She watched him. The morning sun was in her eyes and she used a hand to shade them. She watched the young man, and did not see Oedipus at the window of the hotel dining room, looking down at her. He was watching her.
The young man dropped the glass in the bin and came back to join her. She saw his face now, for those few seconds that are crucial—so
psychologists say—for the forming of an opinion one way or the other about another person.
He dusted his hands on the side of his jeans. “I was wondering …,” he began.
“Do you need a lift up there?”
She had not intended to say this; it just came out.
He smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t mind. I was going to catch a train, but I’d have to walk down to the station and get a ticket …” He shrugged, and smiled in a self-consciously helpless way. “And I’d far rather travel in a car like yours than in a train.”
“Why not?”
“That’s great.”
She glanced into the open-top car. “Have you got a suitcase? There’s not all that much room, but I can shift my things a bit.”
He had only a small bag, which he went into the hotel to retrieve. While he did that, Barbara moved the car to the side of the parking place and took stock of her situation. One should not give lifts to a stranger; that was now an elementary precaution, which anybody would be considered very unwise to ignore. The days of hitchhikers standing by the roadside seemed to be well and truly over, such was the distrust that prevailed. Everybody was a potential assailant; nobody spoke to one another for fear of being misinterpreted; nobody comforted another, put an arm around a shoulder—to do so would be to invite accusation. And yet here I am, thought Barbara, picking up a man whose name I don’t even know, allowing him to get into the car, and driving off to London. Anything could happen.
She reached for the key in the ignition. The simplest thing to do, the safest thing, would be to start the engine and drive out while he was fetching his bag. She turned the key and the engine sprang to life.