“Bibbly,” she said, using her idiosyncratic pronunciation. “This calls for bibbly, which I have fortunately put on ice.”
William rubbed his hands together. “Perfect,” he said. “Bibbly. Just perfect.”
Marcia went into the kitchen and poured two glasses of champagne. When she came back into the drawing room, William was doing something with his shoes. What was it? Changing into …
He stood up. “Look,” he said. “Do you like my new Belgian Shoes?”
She looked down at the ostrich-skin slip-ons. “Oh, William!” she said. “They’re beautiful! Absolutely beautiful! Belgian, you say! Who would have thought?”
William accepted the glass of champagne that she held out to him. “You like them, Marcia? You really do?”
“I love them,” said Marcia. “And they look perfect on you.”
They raised glasses to one another. It was going very well. And in front of the fireplace, Freddie de la Hay watched them somnolently. The world of humans was a strange one—quite unintelligible to a dog. But Freddie could tell that things were going well, and he liked the smell of risotto. Would they leave some for him? One never knew, but for Freddie de la Hay, even the smell of such a risotto was enough.
52. Eddie’s Wardrobe
BY NINE O’CLOCK it was agreed. William would later reflect on the actual process of agreement and ask himself how it came about. At no point, he thought, did Marcia come right out and ask him whether she could move in, and yet there was no room for misunderstanding or ambivalence: she would pack up Eddie’s things for him and move them into the hall; then she would move her own possessions into his room and arrange for the lock on the flat door to be changed. It was a bold move, but, as she pointed out to William, Eddie had failed to take hints and had ignored a succession of direct requests. In the circumstances what else could they do?
The delicate issue of Marcia’s taking up residence was glossed over. “I’ll take his room,” she said. “It won’t be any trouble. And this place could do with a woman’s touch. Nothing dramatic, of course—just a bit of sprucing up.”
Nothing was said about any of the other normal concomitants of moving in with somebody. Was she merely going to be a flatmate, sharing in the same way as the girls downstairs shared? Or was she planning to live with William, in the sense in which most men and women live with one another? Had it not been for the champagne, William would have resisted. He liked Marcia, but he had not yet decided whether they would be lovers. He knew that was what she wanted, but he was unsure whether she was quite right for him and he realised that if he made a move in that direction, it would not be easy to extricate himself should he wish to do so. And now she was moving in …
“Let’s go and take a look at his room,” Marcia suggested as she cleared the plates from the table.
William frowned. “Well, I don’t know … He could come back.”
“We’ll hear him,” she said. “And anyway it’s far too early for Eddie to come back. I thought he stayed out all night on Saturdays. You said so yourself.”
“Did I? Well, maybe.”
She took him by the arm. “So … let’s go and take a look. I need to see what’s what, if I’m going to be living in that room.” She looked at him sideways as she made this last remark, but he did not take up the invitation to say that she would be in his room. It’s my life, he thought, my room. Nobody has the right to force their way into other people’s rooms. Bedrooms require an invitation—it was basic etiquette.
Half propelled by Marcia, William led the way into Eddie’s bedroom. As they entered, he became aware that Freddie de la Hay was at their heels and was looking about the room, his nose twitching with interest. Did Eddie indulge? He thought not: Eddie had shown no interest in such matters and indeed had often expressed a hostile view of drugs. Stevie, he had once said, had taken something that made him see double for three days. “It’s stupid,” Eddie said. “What’s the point?” So if Freddie de la Hay was picking up a scent it was probably no more than the minute traces which might have stuck to Eddie’s clothing during his visits to those clubs of his. The air in those places must be laden with the sort of thing that pressed an olfactory button with Freddie de la Hay.
“What a pit,” Marcia said, poking with her foot at a pile of dirty washing on the floor. “He’s such a—” She stopped herself. Eddie was William’s son after all and she should be careful.
“I tried to bring him up to be tidy.” William sighed. “But you know how it is.”
“Oh, it’s not your fault that Eddie’s like he is,” Marcia soothed. “It’s the … It’s the …” She searched for the right object of blame. “It’s the Government’s fault. They’ve done nothing to stop the rot. They’ve undermined the authority of teachers. They’ve—”
“Yes,” said William. He had heard Marcia on the subject before; it was all very familiar.
Marcia crossed the room to the desk, which Eddie had positioned under the window. A number of unopened letters lay on the top.
“A red bill,” she said, picking up one of the envelopes. “And this one is for jury service—you can tell.”
“I don’t think Eddie would be a particularly good juror,” William said.
“Well, I’ll pack all these up for him,” said Marcia, moving the letters into a pile. She bent down and opened the top drawer of the desk. Old chocolate wrappers had been stuffed inside and now cascaded out.
“Eddie always had a sweet tooth,” said William.
Marcia pursed her lips. “I see.”
While Marcia had been busying herself with the desk, Freddie de la Hay had moved across to the wardrobe at the other end of the room and seated himself in front of it. Then, turning towards William, he gave him an intense stare.
“He’s found something,” said Marcia. “Look.”
William sighed. He did not want Freddie to find something. Life was complicated enough without having to think about Eddie’s possible use of drugs.
“They all do it,” he muttered. “But perhaps he doesn’t inhale …”
Freddie was now scratching at the wardrobe door and whining.
“We can’t ignore him,” Marcia said firmly. “I’m going to have a look.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” muttered William. “It’s Eddie’s wardrobe, you know. We should respect his privacy.”
But Marcia was not listening; she was now at Freddie de la Hay’s side. The dog looked up at her briefly and then glanced over at William, as if to confirm Marcia’s authority. William nodded.
The catch on the wardrobe was stiff and it took Marcia a minute or so to twist it in such a way that the door would open. William came and stood behind her, craning his neck to see what the wardrobe would contain. Chocolate wrappers? A cache of dirty laundry? Or would it, as he feared, contain something considerably worse?
53. Freddie de la Hay Points to Something
WILLIAM AND MARCIA found themselves staring into Eddie’s wardrobe, each noticing something different about the clothes hanging from the rail. In contrast to the rest of Eddie’s room, the inside of the wardrobe was at least a corner of order, with jackets at one end of the rail and trousers, belts and ties at the other. Marcia’s eyes were fixed on a tie: Ghastly, she thought, but just right for Eddie. For his part, William spotted several garments that he recognised but had not seen for a long time, including a suede jacket fringed in the cowboy style. This had been a favourite of the teenage Eddie—his mother had bought it for him for his fourteenth birthday and he had cherished it. And here it was, still loved, perhaps a reminder to Eddie of the mother he had lost, or of his earlier years, when he had been happier. William swallowed and looked away. Eddie had been an affectionate boy, enthusiastic, friendly in a puppyish way; William had been so proud of him, had loved him, and then something had gone wrong. Eddie had changed, had grown surly and distant. At first William had thought that it was the normal teenage change—that mutation which transforms likeable children into odious bein
gs. But the teenage years had passed and the old (young) Eddie had not returned, and it seemed to William that he never would. But should he be throwing him out now—because that was what Marcia had somehow engineered? Was that what a father should do?
“I wonder …,” began William, but he did not finish. Marcia had seized his arm and was pointing down at Freddie de la Hay. The hairs on the back of Freddie’s neck seemed to be standing up and he was pointing with his left paw towards a small pile of sweaters on the floor of the wardrobe.
“He’s seen something,” whispered Marcia. “Look. Freddie’s seen something.”
His heart cold within him, William bent down and felt around under the pile of sweaters. As he did so, Freddie de la Hay growled softly.
“That’s all right, Freddie boy,” William muttered. “I’ll handle this.”
But Freddie de la Hay remained on duty as he had been taught to do at Heathrow Airport, and when William extracted the item that had been concealed under the sweaters, he gave an eager bark and pointed more energetically at the object in William’s hand.
“All right, Freddie,” said William. “You’ve made your point. You can sit down now.”
Freddie immediately sat back and looked up at William, an expression of satisfaction on his face.
William straightened up. He had in his hands a rectangular parcel about twelve inches by eight, wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied about with waxed string.
“A book?” Marcia suggested. “Or …”
William waited for her to make an alternative suggestion, but none came.
“I wonder why Freddie was so interested?” he mused. “This doesn’t look like anything … anything illegal.”
“Then open it,” said Marcia. “Or give it to me. I’ll unwrap it.”
William frowned. “I don’t know,” he said. “This is Eddie’s property. I don’t know whether we should be …”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Marcia. “It’s your flat and you can look at anything you like in your flat.” She reached out and snatched the parcel from William’s hands.
“I really don’t know,” William said. “When I was Eddie’s age, I don’t think I would have liked my father to open my private parcels.”
Marcia was dismissive. That was the trouble with William: he was frightened of Eddie. Eddie! That complete waste of space! William needed stiffening up—needed more backbone. Or bottom. That’s what people said, was it not, when they talked about courage? Bottom. He needed more bottom.
“Come on, William,” she said. “Bottom. More bottom.”
William looked at her in astonishment. He blushed. “I beg your pardon?” he stuttered.
“In the sense of courage,” Marcia said coolly. “‘Bottom’ means courage.”
“Oh.”
“Yes,” said Marcia, beginning to unwrap the parcel. “You have a perfect right to see what’s in here. What if it’s something …?”
She did not finish. Released from its string binding, the brown paper wrapping fell away to reveal a small, exquisitely executed painting.
Now Marcia finished her sentence. “Stolen,” she half whispered. “What if it’s stolen …”
It was more of a statement than a question. And when William took the painting from her and began to examine it, he knew that what Marcia feared was surely correct. Eddie had never expressed any interest in art and it was inconceivable that he would have bought a painting, especially a painting so beautiful and so obviously expensive as this.
“Oh no,” he groaned, staring at the tiny scene depicted in the painting: the expulsion from Paradise. God, stern as a righteous magistrate, pointed the way; Adam and Eve, chastened and aware now of their nudity, looked back over their shoulders at what they were leaving behind them. It looked a little like the private gardens near a friend’s house in Notting Hill, thought William, but without the signs telling you what the committee decreed you should not do. And we were all expelled, he thought, from something.
“It must be stolen,” said Marcia. “Why else would Eddie hide it under a pile of sweaters in his wardrobe? And why else would Freddie de la Hay …?”
The tension that had been building up within William now came flooding out. “Oh don’t be ridiculous, Marcia,” he snapped. “How could Freddie know that a painting was stolen? He’s only a dog, for heaven’s sake!”
Marcia was not one to be put down in this way. “Oh yes?” she challenged. “Then why did he point to it? You saw him—he pointed to it.”
“He must have smelled something,” said William. “Maybe there’s something on one of those sweaters. Eddie spends time with a young man called Stevie. I’m sure that Stevie smokes all sorts of things. In fact, I’d be highly surprised if he didn’t.”
Marcia’s response to this was to bend down and pick up the pile of sweaters. Separating them, she passed each in turn under Freddie de la Hay’s nose. Each time, the dog sniffed briefly at the wool and then, after appearing to think for a moment, shook his head.
“There!” said Marcia triumphantly. “You see? Freddie has given the sweaters a clean bill of health.”
“This is ridiculous,” said William. “Absurd.”
“I don’t think so,” said Marcia. And with that, she snatched the painting from William and bent down again to hold it in front of Freddie de la Hay’s snout. Almost immediately, the dog stiffened and began to growl. Finally he lifted a paw and pointed at the painting.
“There!” said Marcia. “That proves it.”
William was perplexed. Freddie de la Hay had certainly reacted to the painting, but what could that mean? Perhaps he had had another job before he had been posted to the sniffer-dog unit at Heathrow Airport—perhaps he had worked with the Metropolitan Police’s art squad. Anything, he mused, was possible.
“I need to think,” he said. “This is getting very confusing. I really need to think.”
“Of course you do,” said Marcia soothingly. “Of course you do, darling.”
William looked down at Freddie, who gazed back up at him with unambiguous affection. The possibility occurred to him that Freddie de la Hay was merely trying to please; after all, that was what dogs did, and it really was the only possible explanation for Freddie’s behaviour. He turned to Marcia and suggested this, but she discounted it out of hand.
“Highly unlikely,” she said.
William said nothing, but thought, What does Marcia know about dogs? The answer, of course, was that Marcia knew nothing. And now she was going to be living with him.
I have a criminal son. I have lost my assistant. My domestic arrangements have been turned upside down. My future, he thought, is markedly crepuscular.
54. Polar Bears and Vitamin A
DEE’S SATURDAY was busy, even if it was not as hectic as William’s single-handed ordeal at the wine shop. The Pimlico Vitamin and Supplement Agency always took a close interest in the latest vitamin stories to appear in the press, since the effect of these was inevitably felt during the week following publication. That Thursday had seen the announcement of the results of a study into vitamin D deprivation in Scotland and she knew that it would result in a run on vitamin D in Pimlico.
This proved to be correct.
“Three bottles of cod liver oil capsules left,” said Martin. “Everybody wants it now.”
“So they should,” said Dee. “But I do wish they’d send us a circular before they made these announcements. Then we could meet demand.” She paused. “Are you taking it yourself?”
Martin shook his head. “Should I be?”
Dee looked at him. “Your skin’s quite pale,” she said. “Pallid, even. Are you getting enough sunlight?”
“I thought we shouldn’t,” said Martin. “My dad plays golf with a dermatologist. He says that people shouldn’t be going to Spain and sitting in the sun.”
“That’s true, but you need some sunlight to manufacture vitamin D. That’s the trouble with people in Scotland. They don’t get enough sunlight what with
all that mist. And their diet’s awful too. Look at Glasgow.”
Martin nodded. He was uncertain about Glasgow. The previous week he had been on a train with some Glaswegian football supporters on their way to a friendly. Perhaps their problem had been vitamin D deficiency.
“Of course, you can get too many vitamins,” Dee went on. “Do you know that if you ate a polar bear’s liver you would die? Did you know that, Martin?” She made the statement with the air of one giving a warning.
“Really?”
“Yes. Their livers contain lethal doses of vitamin A. They’re very efficient at making it, polar bears are. They need to be, up there. Poor things. Their ice floes are melting.”
“And people shoot them,” Martin observed.
Dee was puzzled. “Do they? Or do they just shoot grizzly bears?”
Martin adjusted the position of one of the remaining bottles of cod liver oil on the shelf. “I don’t know. But could you sleep at night, if you were a bear, in the knowledge that people were out there, prowling around, hoping to shoot you?”
“Why do they do it?” Dee mused. “Why does anybody shoot anything for pleasure, Martin? Do you understand it? You, being a man, does it make more sense to you?”
It did not. “Of course not,” he said. “But it’s not just men, Dee. There are some women who shoot too. They approve of shooting creatures to death. Ending their lives, which is all they’ve got. Even if they’re just bears, their lives are all they’ve got.”
It was a defence of men that Martin felt he needed to make. Many of the shop’s customers assumed that men did not understand, and Martin resented this. He understood.
Dee did too. “No,” she said, “you’re right. Women can be as bad as men, I suppose. Not normally, of course, but sometimes. They have fewer toxins than men, you know. That makes a big difference to behaviour.”
Martin shifted on his feet. He was not sure that he wanted the conversation to drift onto toxins, but now it was too late. Dee was looking at him with renewed interest.