The Dog Who Came in From the Cold

  The office occupied the top storey of the building, the two floors below being having been let for as long as anyone could remember to a film-editing company and a dealer in Greco-Roman antiquities. The dealer in antiquities, Ernest Bartlett, was himself of great antiquity, and there was occasionally some debate as to whether he could technically still be alive. However lights still went on and off in his office, and sometimes on the stairs one might hear drifting from behind his door snatches of sound from the ancient device that Gregory Ragg had christened “Bartlett’s steam radio”. This radio was permanently tuned to a radio station of the sort everybody thought had stopped broadcasting. It played light classical music and big bands, but played them in a quiet, rather distant way, as if from a far corner of the ether. The effect was haunting.

  Ernest Bartlett was always invited to the Ragg Porter Christmas party, and would normally attend. He would arrive wearing a very old silver-grey double-breasted suit and a Garrick Club tie, and bearing an armful of carefully wrapped gifts. In conversation with the staff, he would refer to Rupert as “Fatty Porter’s much-admired son”, and to Barbara as “Gregory Ragg’s distinguished daughter”. He drank bitter lemon at these parties and rarely ate more than one or two small biscuits, which he described as “egregiously Bacchanalian behaviour on my part”.

  As Rupert made up his way up the stairs that morning, he caught the faint sound of Ernest Bartlett’s steam radio. Vera Lynn, he thought, and smiled. It was a good omen for a day that had not, he admitted to himself, had a brilliant beginning, what with that uncomfortable froideur from Gloria, now happily laid to rest with the paying of mutually satisfactory compliments.

  He pressed the buzzer on the office door. He had a key somewhere, but he could see Andrea, the agency’s receptionist, through the glass. She looked up at him, waved and triggered the mechanism to open the door.

  “Nice and early this morning, Rupert.”

  “Raring to go, Andrea. Unlike some.” It was a vague, slightly snide reference to Barbara, who was still away on her romantic trip to the Highlands. Andrea understood, but said nothing. She nodded her head in the direction of the small waiting room behind her. “You have somebody waiting to see you,” she said.

  Rupert frowned. He had been under the impression that his morning was free until at least eleven o’clock, when he was due to meet a publisher to discuss a manuscript that was four years late. He had already marshalled his arguments: the author had been busy; the topic was more complicated than he had at first assumed; he was a perfectionist, indeed he was a manuscript-retentive. There were so many reasons.

  “An appointment?”

  Andrea shook her head. “No. Actually it’s one of Barbara’s authors. The American—”

  She did not finish. The door of the waiting room swung open and Errol Greatorex appeared in the doorway.

  Rupert did not move. He had been bending forward slightly to hear what Andrea had to say, and he stayed as he was, as if caught by a sudden attack of back pain. For his part, Errol Greatorex also froze, arrested by surprise rather than, as in Rupert’s case, by mortifying embarrassment.

  Errol Greatorex glanced briefly at Andrea. Then he looked at Rupert and frowned. “Teddy?”

  Rupert closed his eyes briefly. He drew himself up. “What?”

  It bought him time, but not much.

  “Teddy? Last night.”

  Rupert shook his head. Andrea watched. How could she make any sense of this? Teddy. Last night. How could one possibly interpret a situation where a man who is not called Teddy is recognised as Teddy by another person who then says, “last night”? To say “last night” is potentially explosive, as it implies that last night … And to say it to somebody who must have been using a false name … And Teddy is so patently false. Well, what on earth was one to think?

  “I beg your pardon?” said Rupert.

  Americans do not mince their words – it is one of their great qualities, and indeed one of the great causes of misunderstanding between the United States and the United Kingdom, where words are regularly minced so finely as to be virtually unintelligible. So Errol Greatorex went straight to the point. “But we met last night in Barbara’s flat. Remember?”

  Andrea looked at Rupert with interest. She knew that Barbara was in Scotland with her fiancé. What was Rupert doing in Barbara’s flat with Errol Greatorex?

  “I’m sorry,” said Rupert. “I think you’re mixing me up with somebody else.”

  It sounded lame. He could hear it himself. But what else could he say?

  “I don’t think so,” said Errol. “You were wearing the same tie, anyway. That stripy thing.”

  Rupert looked down at his tie, as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, that! It’s a very common tie, you know. Half the men in London wear this tie.”

  Errol Greatorex looked confused. “Strange,” he said. “Very strange.”

  “London is a large city,” said Rupert airily. “One’s bound to have a double. Several doubles, in fact. We are not unique – much as we might like to be.”

  Errol was still staring at him.

  “You wanted to see me?” said Rupert. “I’m Rupert Porter, by the way. Barbara’s co-director.” He reached out to Errol Greatorex, who took his hand and gave it a perfunctory shake. His stare was still fixed on Rupert, and his tie.

  “Strange,” he muttered again.

  “Well, be that as it may,” said Rupert, now adopting a businesslike manner, “if you’d care to come with me, we can have a chat over a cup of coffee. Andrea, would you be a real darling and make Mr Greatorex a cup of coffee? If he wants one, that is. We don’t like to force our authors to do anything.” He gave a nervous laugh.

  Errol Greatorex nodded to Andrea. “No milk,” he said. “But have you got any ghee? That’s what the yeti drinks. Tea or coffee with ghee in it. Melted butter.”

  Chapter 50: The Yeti Goes Shopping

  “Well, Mr Greatorex,” said Rupert, as they sat down in his office. “This is an unexpected pleasure, I must say. Barbara has spoken to me many times about your manuscript. I find it most intriguing.”

  Errol Greatorex fixed Rupert with an intense stare. “Oh really? I was under the impression that her partners – and I assume she meant you – were sceptical.” He paused. “To say the least.”

  Rupert shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, I should have thought that’s a bit – how shall we put it? – extreme. There’s all the difference in the world between a healthy degree of caution and undue scepticism. No, I have a completely open mind. Show me a yeti and I’ll believe in him.”

  He was rather pleased with this last statement. Show me a yeti and I’ll believe in him. It had a resounding ring to it, and one might say it about so many things that were dubious or frankly non-existent. Show me a UFO and I’ll believe in them. Exactly. Belief required proof, and what better proof than that provided by one’s own eyes?

  “I shall,” said Errol Greatorex.

  Rupert was brought back from his contemplation of proof. “Shall what?” he asked.

  “I shall show you a yeti,” said Errol Greatorex. “You asked me to show you a yeti. I said that I shall.”

  Rupert smiled. “Of course.” All this talk of the yeti was utterly ridiculous, and that was all it was – talk. The yeti was said to be in London – very well, let him be produced. There were plenty of radio shows for him to go on.

  “Last night …” Rupert began, and then stopped himself just in time. He had been about to say “Last night you said the yeti was sleeping in Barbara’s flat.” But of course he – Rupert – supposedly had not been there and could not possibly have known about this.

  Errol Greatorex pounced on his words. “Last night what?”

  “Last night I was thinking about these issues,” said Rupert quickly. “Knowledge. Proof. That sort of thing.”

  Errol Greatorex clearly did not believe him. “The person who called at Barbara’s flat last night could have seen the yeti,” he said
. “Had he stayed, of course, instead of rushing off.”

  Rupert looked out of the window. He found the other man’s stare singularly disconcerting. “Oh yes?” He paused. “I’m not sure where all this is leading, Mr Greatorex. Is there anything I can do for you while Barbara is away? I take it that work is proceeding on the manuscript. You said that the yeti was dictating the final chapters.”

  Errol Greatorex’s eyes narrowed. “I said that, did I? When?” He had said it last night, in Barbara’s flat, but of course Rupert had not been there.

  Rupert saw that he had fallen into a trap – a trap entirely of his own creation. He squirmed. “Barbara told me,” he said.

  Errol Greatorex shrugged. “OK. Yes, he’s got to the part where his parents are killed in an avalanche. It’s painful stuff.”

  “I suppose that’s a risk for abominable snowmen,” mused Rupert. “Avalanches and so on. And global warming, too. I expect they’re concerned when they read about it in the papers.” He paused. “I assume yetis read the papers. Perhaps they don’t.”

  Errol Greatorex pursed his lips. “You are very sceptical, Mr Porter. You clearly don’t believe me, do you?”

  “Please, Mr Greatorex – I’ve never said that. All I’m saying is that yetis are somewhat … somewhat unproved. And you can hardly blame me for thinking it, can you? Has anybody actually ever seen one, I ask myself?”

  “I have.”

  “Yes, but anybody else?”

  Errol Greatorex still stared. “You mean anybody reliable? Is that what you mean?”

  Rupert did not answer, and so Errol Greatorex continued. “There’s a whole body of evidence,” he said. “There have been numerous, perfectly well-documented sightings. They’re all there in the literature.”

  “And photographs?”

  “Some.”

  Rupert spread his hands on the table. “Very well. Let’s just say that this particular jury is still out. And now, is there anything I can do for you until Barbara returns?”

  Errol Greatorex shook his head. “No, I just wanted to bring in the latest chapters. She’s been giving them to the commissioning editor at the publishers – passing them on personally.”

  “You have them here?”

  Errol Greatorex nodded, opening the briefcase he had brought with him. From this he extracted a folder and placed it on the desk in front of him. “You can read them if you like,” he said.

  Rupert took the folder. “Thank you, I shall.” He began to rise to his feet to indicate that the meeting was over. Errol Greatorex took his cue, and rose to his feet as well. “Do you want to meet him right now?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “The yeti,” said Errol Greatorex. “He’s in the waiting room.”

  Rupert struggled to remain calm. How should one behave in the presence of full-scale, florid delusions? Should one humour the person concerned, and then try to call, what, an ambulance? The police? Should one play along with the delusions, or did that draw one into a form of engagement with the sufferer which would merely exacerbate the problem? This was all Barbara’s fault, he thought crossly. The rest of us are perfectly capable of identifying the lunatics when they send us their manuscripts. She has to go and get this man a contract of all things! Now he was a client, and one could therefore hardly slam the door in his face, or get him sectioned under the Mental Health Act. It would not be a good advertisement for the Ragg Porter Literary Agency were they to have their clients sectioned under the mental health legislation.

  “Very well,” said Rupert. “I’ll see him.” He looked at his watch ostentatiously. “I’m afraid I don’t have a great deal of time, though.”

  “Just a minute will do,” said Errol Greatorex. “Just to shake hands with him.”

  They left the office and walked down the short corridor to the reception area and waiting room.

  “What’s his name, by the way?” asked Rupert.

  “His yeti name is fairly unpronounceable,” said Errol Greatorex. “Most of the locals who get an education at the mission schools choose a saint’s name. It makes things easier. There are a lot of Jameses and Johns, that sort of thing. A smattering of John-Pauls in recent years, for obvious reasons. But he’s called Charles.”

  Rupert did not know what to say, so he muttered, “Mmmn. Charles.”

  They reached the reception area. Andrea smiled at them. “I gave your friend a cup of tea,” she said to Errol Greatorex. “He drank it and then said he had to go out. He asked me to tell you that he’d meet you outside Fortnum & Mason at twelve.”

  Errol Greatorex appeared to take this in his stride. “He’s got some shopping to do,” he explained to Rupert. “Fortnum & Mason do a wonderful ghee. Another time.”

  “Yes,” said Rupert. “Another time.”

  He showed Errol Greatorex out and then returned to face Andrea. “You saw him?”

  She looked blank. “Who?”

  “Greatorex’s friend. The … er, man who was with him.”

  She did not seem in the least perturbed. “Yes. I made him tea – as I said.”

  “Describe him,” said Rupert.

  She shrugged. “Tall. Very tall in fact. Wearing a sort of beige coat – Marks & Spencer’s, I’d say.”

  “And?”

  “And a bit hairy, I suppose. Could have done with a shave.”

  “Hairy?”

  “Yes. Hairy. Some men are, Rupert, believe it or not. I don’t go in for that sort of thing, not personally, but some people—”

  “Yes, yes, I know all that. I wasn’t born yesterday. But what did he sound like? What sort of accent?”

  Andrea thought for a moment. “Belgian, I’d say.”

  Chapter 51: A Painful Memory

  William’s sense that all was not well in his life, an incipient, nagging doubt, had now become a full-blown conviction. There were many reasons for this, but one of them –possibly the most important one – was simple loneliness. Just as Freddie de la Hay was missing him, so too was he experiencing that sense of incompleteness one feels when a familiar presence is suddenly no longer there. Such feelings can be profound and long-lived, as when we lose a close friend or a member of the family – at that level, we are in the presence of true grief – or they may be less substantial, more transient, as when a shop or coffee bar we have grown to like closes down, or a favourite office colleague is transferred. These may seem little things, but they constitute the anchor-points of our lives and are often more important than we imagine. If we lose enough of these small things, we risk finding ourselves adrift, as William now felt himself to be.

  Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura … In the middle of the path through life I found myself in a dark wood. This was one of the scraps of William’s education that had remained with him, and now, as it came to mind, he remembered the classroom in which the line had been explained to him by his English teacher, a chain-smoker with a nicotine-stained moustache and a wheezy voice. The middle of the path in Dante’s days, the teacher had pointed out, was thirty-five – an impossibly distant age when you are sixteen, as William then was. Sixteen was not even quite the middle of the path to thirty-five, and now here he was, at forty-nine, or thereabouts, and thirty-five seemed distant from a quite different perspective. Life seeped away ever more quickly the further along Dante’s path one went, he decided, just as water drained more quickly the emptier the bathtub became. When the plug was first pulled it all seemed so slow and then, towards the end, it rushed away in a tiny, feverish whirlpool.

  These thoughts came to William as he closed up his wine shop for the night. It had not been a particularly busy day, and he had been able to use much of the morning to catch up on paperwork, which had kept his mind off his situation. But as the day progressed, he had increasingly dwelled on what he thought of as his plight. No dog, no wife nor girlfriend, no social life worthy of the name, and, to top it all, no letters after his name.

  The letters he particularly wanted were
MW. This stood for Master of Wine, a qualification awarded only after a gruelling examination that took four days, during which the candidate was subjected to searching theoretical and practical tests. William had sat the examination a few years ago and failed, a galling experience, heightened in its intensity by the sight of a whole cohort of younger people succeeding, some of whom were only nel mezzo del cammin, or not even that far. What did they know that he did not? How was it that they could write about wine with such authority when he, who had spent a lifetime in the business, had so manifestly failed to impress the examiners?