Corduroy Mansions

  Terence frowned. “We’ll see.”

  “Monty Bismarck told me …” Lennie checked himself. “Well, maybe not. Perhaps I should show you what’s what and then we can take a little test drive down the road.”

  “Oh, I’d like that,” said Terence appreciatively, stooping to get into the low-slung car. “My goodness, this is not a car for very tall people. Oops! My poor old head. Do you think they build these cars for short men, Mr. Marchbanks?”

  Lennie thought about this. Unintentionally, Terence had displayed a real insight into the psychology of car manufacture. Who drove these very flashy, sporty cars? Short men. Yes, Terence was right. It took a tall man to drive a Morris Traveller.

  Lennie showed him the instruments. “That’s a rev counter,” he said. “You don’t want the engine to strain too much. So you keep it low.”

  Terence peered at the dial. “I see. And this thing here?”

  “The speedometer. The one on your Morris went up to eighty, I think. Which was a bit optimistic. I think that nobody ever got more than seventy-two miles per hour out of a Morris.”

  Terence pointed. “This one goes up to one-sixty, I see, Mr. Marchbanks. That’s jolly fast. Do you think we might …?”

  “No,” said the mechanic firmly. “Listen, Mr. Moongrove, I’m only going to let you have this car if you promise me—and I mean promise—that you won’t go above fifty in it. That’s it. You see that mark there? That’s fifty. No more than that, please.”

  Terence looked momentarily annoyed, but then nodded his assent. “All right. But what’s the point of being able to go a hundred and sixty miles per hour if you aren’t allowed to?”

  “That’s for Germans,” said Lennie. “These cars are made in Germany, you see, and they’re allowed to do whatever speed they like on their autobahns.”

  “That’s very unfair,” said Terence, adjusting the rear-view mirror. “What’s the point of having a European Union if there are different rules for the Germans? Tell me, Mr. Marchbanks, are there any Bulgarian cars?”

  “Not that I’ve heard of,” said the mechanic.

  “I just wondered,” said Terence. He gave the mirror a final tweak. “But why don’t we set off? I can’t wait to drive this car.”

  Lennie swallowed. Oh well, he thought. Here goes.

  Terence turned the key in the ignition, as instructed by Lennie. Immediately there came a deep growling sound. “My goodness!” he said. “Is there something wrong with the exhaust pipe? You know that pipe that comes out the back? When the Traveller’s exhaust pipe had a big hole in it, it made that sort of sound.”

  Lennie smiled. “That’s what they call a low, throaty roar. People pay for that sort of thing. No, there’s no hole.”

  “Well, I must say, that will certainly warn everybody that I’m coming,” said Terence. “Now, shall I put in the clutch?”

  He engaged the car in gear and then, very slowly, they moved off. It was a very smooth start, and Lennie was impressed. “You’re doing fine, Mr. Moongrove,” he said. “Nice smooth start.”

  Terence beamed with pleasure. “She handles well—even at speed.”

  Lennie glanced at the speedometer. “Well, you’re only doing eight miles per hour,” he said. “And we’re still on the drive.”

  “Very nice,” said Terence. “I really like this car, Mr. Marchbanks.”

  “Good.”

  “I shall go to the bank tomorrow morning and get the money. How much will I need?”

  “Twenty-five grand,” said Lennie. “Are you paying cash, Mr. Moongrove?”

  “Oh yes,” said Terence. “I’ve got bags of money in my current account. Bags.”

  Lennie looked at him sideways. He felt a very strong temptation to ask just how much money that was. Why not? Old Moongrove had no idea about anything and would not resent a question like that. Many would, but not old Terence.

  “How much?” Lennie asked casually.

  “In the bank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Six hundred and eighty thousand,” said Terence. “Maybe a little bit more, I think.”

  Lennie looked out of the passenger’s window. He was worried. He could try to protect Terence when it came to cars, but he could not look after him in other departments. Terence was clearly very liquid. Was he worldly-wise enough to know that there were plenty of people who would be very happy to help him change all that?

  78. Whose Home?

  WILLIAM FELT QUITE ELATED when he returned to Corduroy Mansions with Marcia and Freddie de la Hay. He had been profoundly shocked by his experience of the narrowly averted dog fight; not only had he been appalled by Eddie’s involvement, but he had been astonished that anybody—even Diesel’s disagreeable owner—could find pleasure in such activities. But then, he told himself, there would appear to be plenty of people who found violence agreeable—as professional pugilists knew very well.

  “Boxing,” he remarked to Marcia, as she parked her van.

  “What?”

  “I was thinking about boxing. It just came into my mind. I was thinking about how hypocritical we are. We don’t allow dog fighting, but it’s perfectly legal for people to knock the stuffing out of one another in the boxing ring. Doesn’t that strike you as being a bit odd?”

  Marcia shrugged; there was so much in life that was odd, she had stopped being surprised by anything. “Not necessarily. Dogs don’t consent to being harmed in the same way as boxers do. We push dogs into it. We don’t make boxers fight, do we? Maybe that’s the difference.”

  It was an interesting point, and the more that William thought about it, the more intriguing it became. Boxers were not forced to fight, but did they have a truly free choice in the matter? How many of them became boxers because they were obliged to do so by poverty and restricted opportunities? He was not sure whether he knew the answer to that; it could be condescending to assume that boxers were not volunteers just because they tended to come from the lower levels of the social heap. One could get one’s nose punched for that sort of assumption …

  “And anyway,” said Marcia as they reached the landing outside William’s door, “we’re funny about animals in this country. We don’t approve of cruelty to animals. Not at all. So dog fighting is out—completely out.” She paused, and added, “We’re home.”

  “Yes,” said William. “We’re …” He did not complete the sentence. I’m home, he thought. This is my home. Marcia may be staying here, but she has her own home over in Putney and she should not be saying we’re home because that implies that this is her home too, and it isn’t.

  Marcia was unaware of this mental reservation on William’s part and opened the door with all the assurance of a settled resident. And as she hung up her coat in the hall cupboard and patted Freddie cheerfully on the head, William felt his spirits sagging. He had made a dreadful mistake, he felt. It was like marrying somebody one did not want to marry and being unable to get out of it. He did not want to hurt Marcia—he liked her, and he found himself liking her even more after experiencing all the support she had given him that evening. She was generous; she was a character; she was easy company … but he was not in love with her. And, for William, that precluded anything but a platonic relationship. One did not enter into an affair unless one loved the other person—it was a minimum requirement of decency. It was as simple as that; or at least it was as simple as that when you were in your fif—late forties and above.

  Freddie de la Hay seemed relieved to be home. Free of his leash, he rushed around the flat, careering into each room and then bursting out again, barking joyously. And when he had completed his tour of inspection, he bounded over to William and enthusiastically licked such portions of his master as he could find: hands, shoes, and, standing on his hind legs in a brief moment of exhilaration, William’s face.

  Marcia went into the kitchen and began to prepare dinner. Freddie’s steak was cooked first—a choice cut which sizzled delectably in the frying pan. When it was done, she cut it into squa
res and put them on the dog’s plate. Freddie, sitting obediently as he had been trained to do before tackling his dinner, stared at the plate for a few moments before he stepped forward, on Marcia’s invitation, and sniffed at the steak.

  “You can eat it, Freddie,” said Marcia. “It’s all right.”

  Freddie looked up at William, as if to seek confirmation. “Go ahead, my boy,” said William. “Nice steak. Nice Freddie.”

  Freddie began to eat the steak—slowly at first and then very quickly, wolfing down the small squares of meat.

  “See?” said Marcia. “So much for Freddie being a vegetarian.”

  William nodded. Freddie had indeed tackled the steak with enthusiasm, but now he had taken a few steps back from the plate and was sitting with his head sunk, his gaze focused on the floor.

  “Guilt,” said William. “He feels guilty.”

  “Nonsense,” said Marcia. “Dogs don’t feel guilt.”

  William disagreed. He had only owned Freddie for a short time, but he knew that the dog had a broad cupboard of emotions and that it was perfectly possible that he was now feeling guilt and remorse.

  “Dogs feel these things,” he said. “They really do. They have emotional centres in their brains, same as we do.”

  “But surely not one for guilt?” said Marcia.

  “Why not? When a dog does something that he knows he should not, he often looks unhappy. He puts his tail between his legs. He skulks around.”

  Marcia nodded. “But that’s only because they fear our displeasure. They think we’re going to beat them or shout at them. It’s just a reaction. They don’t feel guilt deep down—not like we do.” She paused. Freddie de la Hay was looking up at her with mournful eyes. “And there’s no reason for Freddie to think that we’re going to disapprove of him for eating steak. After all, we gave it to him and encouraged him.”

  William was sure that there was a flaw in Marcia’s argument—as there often was. “He may not fear consequences from us—but that doesn’t mean that he won’t be afraid of somebody else. Somebody from his past. That Manfred character, for instance.”

  Freddie growled.

  “You see?” said William. “Freddie recognised the name. He’s still frightened of Manfred.”

  Freddie now whimpered, looking furtively over his shoulder, as if he expected the famous columnist to enter the room and remonstrate with him. Noticing this, William bent down to comfort him, putting an arm around the dog and whispering into his ear.

  “Don’t you worry, Freddie, old boy,” he said. “Daddy won’t let that man browbeat you any more.” It slipped out, and he thought, Our animals make fools of us—infantilise us just as we infantilise them. No, Freddie de la Hay, I’m not your real dad …

  “And neither will Mummy,” added Marcia.

  William caught his breath. He was going to have to talk to Marcia; he really was. And he would have to do it this evening, before things went any further.

  79. Marcia Understands

  “COQUILLES ST. JACQUES,” Marcia called from the kitchen. “How about that? And then …”

  “Perfect,” William replied from the living room. “I love anything with cheese.”

  “Sometimes I think that cheese doesn’t help,” Marcia said. “I use it if I think that whatever I’m cooking is maybe just a little bit past its best. You can get away with a lot when you use cheese.”

  This elicited only silence from the living room.

  “Not that these scallops aren’t fresh,” Marcia added hurriedly. “I think that they’re all right, but when you consider the distance they have to travel to reach us in London … Quite a journey.”

  William was about to say something about seafood and the case of prawns that had been discovered to have been flown out to Malaysia, frozen there, and then flown back to London. That was a criminal waste of precious fuel, he thought, but once one started to think of the wastage of fuel, where would one stop? How many of the journeys we made were necessary? Twenty per cent? Possibly less. We did not need to go to Florida for our holidays, let alone Thailand. If there was something unnatural about transporting our food halfway round the world, the same might be said about transporting ourselves. And yet, if the means existed to do something, we would do it; the most cursory glance at human history confirmed that. Here and there, brave souls questioned this and were often howled down for their pains. Or people agreed with them, nodded sagely, and then did nothing. Very few people were prepared to take the first step, to deny themselves—on principle—something that was readily available.

  William sighed. He would have to go and talk to Marcia, and he would have to do it before dinner. He rose to his feet, watched by Freddie de la Hay, who had settled himself on his favourite rug and was beginning to doze off, but still kept an eye half open, just in case something should happen in the inexplicable world of humans.

  She was standing in front of the cooker, attending to the scallops. There was a cheese grater on the worktop beside her and a square of cheese rind.

  “Marcia,” he began, “there’s something that I need to talk to you about.”

  She did not turn round. “I know,” she said.

  He was momentarily taken by surprise. What did she know? That he wanted to talk—or what he wanted to say? Marcia had many talents, and perhaps prescience was one of them.

  Now she turned round and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. He gasped, and took a step forward, instinctively ready to comfort her. “Oh, my dear …”

  She held up a hand. “No, William. I’m all right. I’m all right.”

  “You’re crying.”

  She put down the spoon she had been holding and wiped at her eyes. “Not really. Not really crying.”

  “But why?”

  She looked at him. “I know, you see. You don’t even have to talk to me about it. You don’t have to say a thing—not a thing. The whole idea of my moving in here was a mistake. I should never have done it.”

  William looked down at the floor. If he had imagined at one time that he might be alone in feeling that things were not right—that he alone might have picked up on the unspoken—now he was being reminded that when an atmosphere exists, it is usually not just one person who detects it. He felt bad about Marcia; he should have been firmer, he should have made his position clearer, rather than allowing her to make unwarranted assumptions.

  “Marcia,” he began, “I …”

  “No. You don’t need to spell it out. It was all my fault—my own silly fault.”

  “It was not. It was not.”

  She shook her head. “And now you’re being kind to me—which is just like you. But you don’t need to be.”

  He drew in his breath. “Listen,” he said, “I like you a great deal. It’s just that I don’t know whether it should go further. That’s not to say that I don’t … that I don’t find you attractive. It’s just that …”

  “I know,” she said. “You really don’t have to say anything more.”

  He swallowed hard. “But I want to. Look, why don’t you stay on for a while? We could be simply flatmates, like the girls downstairs. How about that?”

  “Is that what you’d like?”

  He nodded. It was. And when Marcia accepted, tentatively at first, but with greater warmth when after a few moments she realised he meant the invitation, he felt a surge of relief. The encounter with Diesel’s owner had left him feeling raw, as can happen when one comes up against hatred, or evil, or just sheer rudeness. It was a form of moral shock and it made one yearn for reassurance. Having Marcia in the flat for a while longer would provide just that. And he was not doing it under any false pretence; she would stay there as a friend, free to come and go as she pleased, with neither of them reading anything more into the situation.

  He stepped forward and took her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This has all been my fault.”

  She put a finger to her lips. “I have to do the scallops.”

  “I can’t wait
. Coquilles St. Jacques. Do you know why they’re called that?”

  She shook her head. “St. Jacques?”

  “St. James. The scallop was his symbol. I’m not sure why. It was something to do with his having saved somebody from scallops, I think.”

  Marcia laughed. “Are they dangerous?”

  “Get your fingers in a live scallop shell and see,” he said. “And they swim around in shoals, you know. They’re quite energetic little things. They propel themselves by sucking water in and out. So I suppose if you had a whole shoal of them latching onto you …”

  Marcia frowned. It was hard to envisage, but it was, she feared, something else to worry about. There seemed to be so much already—and now scallops.

  But there were other, more pressing matters. “That painting,” she said. “What are we going to do?”

  William thought for a moment. “Show it to somebody,” he said. “Caroline downstairs is doing some sort of course at Sotheby’s. Shall we show it to her?”

  Marcia turned to stir the white wine sauce she had been preparing. “Can she keep her mouth shut?”

  William wondered why this would be necessary. Did Marcia know—or suspect—something that he did not? Or did she have some plan that she had not yet disclosed?

  He was thinking about this when Freddie de la Hay came into the room with something in his mouth. It was something that he had been chewing—a piece of old leather perhaps. William bent down to examine the plaything and Freddie dropped his tail between his legs. It was a metaphor for guilt, and it was guilt itself.

  “What have you got hold of, Freddie?” William asked, taking the piece of leather from the dog’s mouth.

  Freddie looked up at William with his large, liquid eyes. William froze.

  A Belgian Shoe—or what remained of it.

  80. In Touch with His Feminine Side

  HUGH DID NOT WEEP for long.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he said, unfolding a handkerchief. “I’m meant to have got over it all. But every so often it comes back.”