In a very short time – not more than ten seconds – an assistant in a formal black suit appeared to investigate. The assistant glanced at the mess on the floor, and at Rupert.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Rupert nodded. ‘I’m terribly sorry …” He gestured to the shattered bowl; large pieces of broken china stuck out of the exposed brown lump of anchovy paste.
The assistant seemed uninterested in the apology. “The important point is that you are all right, sir. That’s what matters.” He bent down and began to pick pieces of china out of the paste.
“Please let me help,” said Rupert, crouching down to join him. As he did so, he noticed a movement at the end of the aisle, behind the assistant. A tall man wearing a light olive-green overcoat had walked round the end of the line of shelves and was looking in his direction. Then, as quickly as he had arrived, he vanished.
Rupert stood up. The man he had seen was very tall, and although he had been unable to make out his face, he had had a distinct impression of facial hairiness.
The assistant straightened up too. “We’ll clear this up in no time,” he said. ‘It’s very easily done.” He paused. He had noticed that Rupert was staring down the next aisle, and appeared agitated.
“Have you seen something, sir?”
“I’m sorry,” said Rupert. “I have to go.”
He stepped forward, unfortunately into the Patum Peperium. It was soft underfoot, and it flowed out to cover the sole of his right shoe, creeping fishily up the sides.
“Do be careful, sir!”
Rupert looked down in dismay. His shoe was covered in thick anchovy paste.
The assistant looked concerned. “Can I get you a cloth to clean up, sir?”
Rupert shook his head. “No,” he said, craning his neck to get a better view of the tall figure disappearing out of the front door of the shop. “I shall be fine.”
“Your shoe is very … messy, sir. I really think …”
Rupert brushed the assistant aside, and strode off, leaving anchovy-paste footprints behind him.
“Really, sir, if you wouldn’t mind …”
He did not hear the objection. It was the yeti – he was sure of it. The yeti had been in Fortnum & Mason and was now leaving. Rupert pushed his way past the other shoppers. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I really must go. Excuse me.”
He would have to follow the yeti. He was not going to let him get away.
Chapter 62: À la recherche d’un yeti perdu
The yeti walked at an unnaturally fast pace. It was only to be expected, thought Rupert, as he struggled to keep up with his quarry; years of loping across the snow plains of the Himalayas presumably gave him an advantage over others when it came to the firmer, less challenging pavements of Piccadilly. But Rupert was determined that he would not let him out of his sight, and did not care if people stared at him as he broke into a run. Plenty of people ran in London; they ran for buses, they ran to keep out of squalls of rain, they ran for reasons known only to themselves. London, he thought, was used to everything, even to the sight of a suavely dressed man – Rupert had always been a natty dresser – pursuing a tall, lolloping figure out of the stately premises of Fortnum & Mason and into the crowds.
Fortnum & Mason. A thought suddenly occurred to Rupert as he pushed his way out of the front door of the shop – Ratty Mason. When they were at school together he had never asked Ratty Mason what his father did, but now he remembered a chance remark that the other boy had made. “My old man’s got a shop. Quite a big one actually.” He had said this when they were sitting together in Rupert’s study eating toast made on the battered toaster that he kept, against the regulations, in a cupboard. And the toast, he now remembered, was spread with … Patum Peperium! The memory came unbidden, and was, like many such memories, richly evocative. Proust’s hero’s memory of Sunday mornings at Combray, when his aunt Léonie used to give him little pieces of madeleine cake dipped in her tea, had later been evoked by the taste of such a cake; for Rupert, perhaps the trigger was also a food, in this case Patum Peperium. He and Ratty Mason had eaten toast and anchovy paste; now here he was, all these years later, outside Fortnum & Mason, with anchovy paste on his shoe. It was all very powerful. And could the shop that Ratty Mason had referred to have been the centuries-old Fortnum & Mason? Was Ratty Mason’s father a member of the same Mason family?
It was a complex line of thought. Such thoughts, though, are readily entertained by the human mind, so great is its capacity to wander off at a tangent. Now, as Rupert looked about him on the Piccadilly pavement to locate the vanishing figure of the yeti, he remembered something else that Ratty Mason had said. This time the remark had no association with Patum Peperium as they had not been eating toast but doing a compulsory cross-country run – he (Rupert), Billy Fairweather, Snark, Ratty Mason and Chris Walker-Volvo. The memory seemed so fresh: he could see them, all five of them, slowing down from their running pace as they went out of sight of the gym master, with the sun coming up over trees that were touched with soft rime – it was a clear day in winter – and their breath hanging in small clouds in the cold morning air. Five friends – as they then were – five boys on the cusp of sixteen, whose lives would turn out very differently, but who then thought that they would somehow be together for ever. And Billy Fairweather had made a chance observation about his father belonging to a club of some sort, and then Ratty had said, “My dad’s a mason.” Rupert had bent down to pick up a stick that was lying on the ground in front of him and had broken off a bit of this stick and thrown it across the field. “Useless throw,” said Billy Fairweather, and Rupert turned to Ratty and said, “Of course he’s a mason, Mason.” Something had happened at that moment – something that distracted their attention – and they had started to run again, because they had to finish the course within a certain time or the gym master, a peppery figure who had been a fitness instructor in the Irish Guards, would make them do the run all over again.
Rupert spotted the yeti. The shambling figure had moved speedily in the direction of Piccadilly Circus and then, so quickly that had Rupert not been sharp-eyed he might not have noticed, he went through the front door of Hatchards book shop. The sight cheered Rupert: Hatchards, where he was a regular customer, was home ground. Rupert knew the staff there, as he would often accompany one of his authors to do a lunchtime signing. This meant that not only was he familiar with the layout of the shop – which would give him an advantage over the yeti, who presumably did not know the place – but also he knew that there was only one way out, for the customers at least. If he waited by the front door, just inside the shop, then the yeti would not be able to leave without walking past him. And that would be the moment when he would see his face for the first time, and would even be able to accost him and find out whether he really was a yeti – which he certainly would not be – or whether he was an impostor – which he certainly would be. That would put la Ragg’s gas at a peep! “Your so-called yeti,” he would say. “I met him, you know. In Hatchards, no less. Himalayan section, of course, looking at the mountaineering books.” Ha! That would be funny. And la Ragg, who blushed easily, would look furtive, and Rupert would go on to say, “You really need to be more careful, Barbara. Representing this autobiography stands to make us look very foolish indeed.”
And Barbara Ragg would be chastened, which is how Rupert liked her to feel. It was all very well getting possession of that flat which had been intended for him, but where was the satisfaction in having a comfortable – although ill-gotten flat – when you were such a rotten failure at work, a soft touch for every crank and charlatan with a dubious manuscript about a yeti, of all things? Where was the satisfaction in that? Nowhere, though Rupert. Nowhere.
He went into Hatchards. Roger Katz, the legendary bibliophile, was standing just inside the door. He had just finished talking to a customer, and he smiled when he recognised Rupert. “Ah, Rupert,” he said. “I’ve got just the book for you.”
R
upert looked over Roger’s shoulder into the shop beyond. Where had the yeti gone?
“Did you see anybody?” Rupert blurted out. “A very tall chap. This tall.” He raised a hand to well above head height.
Roger nodded. “Yes, I did, actually. He went upstairs, I think. Strange-looking fellow.”
“I have to find him,” said Rupert. “Will you come with me?”
Roger shrugged. “Yes, of course. One can usually locate a person quite easily.” He paused, and gave Rupert an enquiring look. “Who is he? A friend?”
“It’s complicated,” said Rupert. “More complicated than you can imagine.”
Chapter 63: Meeting Stephanie
Had Hugh’s mother had a brood of other children, her relationship with Hugh might have been an easier one. But he was an only child and an only son, and for a mother in such a position it is not always easy to accept that another woman will eventually enter her son’s life and, if all goes according to plan – the plan being that of the other woman – take him away. This common conflict, so understandable and so poignant, is played out time and time again, and almost always with the same painful result: mother loses. It is so, of course, if mother is overt in her attempt to put off the almost inevitable; if she is covert, then she stands a chance, admittedly a remote one, of introducing into her son’s mind a germ of doubt that the woman he has chosen might not be the right one for him. That takes skill, and boundless patience, but is a course fraught with dangers for the relationship between mother and future daughter-in-law, let alone for that between mother and son.
Stephanie, of course, adored Hugh – what mother could not? Her adoration was founded on precisely those qualities that Barbara had discerned in him and that had drawn her to him – his gentleness, his kindness, his masculine vulnerability. Stephanie knew that she should let go of him, should welcome other women into his life, but she found it almost impossible to do. If only she could like his girlfriends; but how, she wondered, do you like people whom you quite simply do not like?
She had been dreading this meeting with Barbara; on a number of earlier occasions Hugh had brought girlfriends home to whom she had found herself taking an almost immediate dislike – a dislike that she had great difficulty in concealing. This had been picked up on by her husband, as for all his apparent equanimity and farmerly appearance Sorley had an astute sense of atmosphere. “You judge these poor girls too quickly,” he had said of one of them, a sound engineer from Glasgow. “How can you tell? You really must give her a chance.”
“But she has a piercing in her nose,” Stephanie said. “You must have noticed. And her tongue too. Did you see the stud right in the middle of it?”
Sorley shrugged. “The world’s changing,” he said. “Aesthetic standards change. What’s unattractive to us may be just the thing for Hugh and his generation – we have to remind ourselves of that, you know.”
“But her tongue,” Stephanie persisted. “What’s the point? And presumably it traps particles of food.” Or could trap her son, she thought – with horror. What if they were kissing and the stud got caught between a gap in Hugh’s teeth? What then?
Again Sorley had urged her to be tolerant. “But does it really matter if our son’s girlfriend traps particles of food?” He smiled as he spoke. Who among us has never trapped particles of food? Indeed, that was part, surely, of being human; an inevitable concomitant of our imperfection.
At least Barbara Ragg had no piercings. That was noted with relief by Stephanie, who cast a quick glance at the other woman’s tongue when she first spoke to her. Barbara noticed her future mother-in-law looking into her mouth, and was momentarily concerned. What was this – a dental examination? Or was it the way country people, many of whom were incorrigibly horsey, looked at prospective members of the family, examining the mouth in the same way that they might look into the mouth of a horse being considered for purchase. Surely not?
She, in return, ran a quick eye over Stephanie. Hugh’s mother was in her mid-fifties, she decided, but had weathered well. She was dressed more or less as Barbara would expect somebody like her to dress, sporting as she did an olive-green tweed skirt with a navy blue cashmere top – the sort of outfit worn by legions of country women in comfortable circumstances. Had she stepped out of a station at a point-to-point she would, Barbara thought, have raised no eyebrows. And yet there was something slightly exotic about her, a quality that Barbara perceived immediately, a hint of greater depths than such women usually showed.
This impression was strengthened as Stephanie showed Barbara to her room. “We call this the Cadell room,” she said, pointing to a pair of pictures above the fireplace. “My grandfather knew Bunty Cadell rather well. He gave him these paintings. They used to be in my parents’ drawing room in Montevideo, when we were there.”
Barbara looked at the paintings. One was a small study of a woman in an extravagant hat; the other a picture of a yacht moored in a Mediterranean harbour.
“You lived in Uruguay?” said Barbara with interest. “Hugh didn’t tell me.”
Stephanie stared out of the window. “Hugh doesn’t speak much about South America. Ever since …”
She did not finish the sentence, but moved across the room to open the door of the wardrobe. “I’ve cleared this out for you,” she said briskly. “One gets so much clutter, and guests are a good reason to sort it out.” She smiled brightly at Barbara. Clearly there was to be no more discussion of South America.
Barbara found herself wondering about Stephanie’s accent. She had assumed that she was Scottish, but there was something else there, a suggestion of French, perhaps; just a hint. Now she remembered something that Hugh had said about his mother – a chance remark that she had not paid much attention to, but now came back. She had been educated in Switzerland, he had said. There had been a school outside Geneva.
But what had happened to Hugh in Colombia? Stephanie had said that he did not like to talk about it, but he had certainly talked to Barbara, although not at great length. She decided that there might not be another opportunity to raise the matter, and so she would ask.
“Did something bad happen to Hugh in Colombia? He once told me—”
Stephanie moved quickly to her side. “Did he?” she asked with urgency. “Did he tell you?”
“Well, he started to,” said Barbara. “He began a story about being on that ranch near Barranquilla. But then …”
“What exactly did he say?” Stephanie was staring at her imploringly. Barbara noticed her eyes. They were a very faint green, like those of a Tonkinese cat. They were innocent eyes, and they now begged for information, their gaze as eloquent as any words.
“He didn’t tell me much,” Barbara said.
Stephanie seemed relieved, and Barbara realised that her relief came from learning that Barbara did not know what had happened. That, she thought, suggested that Stephanie herself knew, but would not tell.
“You know, don’t you?” she asked. “Did he tell you?”
Stephanie turned away. “You must excuse me,” she said distantly. “I have to check on something in the kitchen. I should not like to serve burnt offerings on your very first day here.”
Chapter 64: Inconclusive Conversation
Dinner was served at seven o’clock.
“We like to eat early in the summer months,” Stephanie said to Barbara. “The evenings here are so lovely – so long drawn out. It gives us a chance to get things done after the meal.”
“Such as going for a walk,” said Hugh. He looked at Barbara invitingly. “Would you like that?”
“Of course.”
He was accompanying her into the dining room, and took her arm as they went through the door. She nestled against him briefly, fondly, almost conspiratorially; she sensed that he was aware of her slight feeling of awkwardness – this was his family, his home, and she was the outsider. No matter how warm and welcoming a family may be, there is always a period of restraint, of mutual examination and testing, be
fore a new member is taken to heart; no amount of social confidence could change that.
Barbara took her place at the dinner table under the stern gaze of a Highland ghillie, caught in paint, gaffing a salmon and, it seemed, looking directly at her as he did so. Was this Hugh’s taste in art, she asked herself – wounded stags at bay, Perthshire hillsides with indolent Highland cattle, impossibly gloomy glens with mists descending? She realised that this was yet another thing she did not yet know about him. They had never discussed art, never been to a gallery together. You’re marrying a stranger, she thought; and for a moment she wondered whether it would be wisest to call the whole thing off. Not immediately, of course; she would wait until the end of the weekend and see how she felt then. No, she could never do that. Never.
The hour or so at the table moved slowly. She was conscious that Hugh was watching her, as if he were trying to ascertain her reaction to his parents. When she caught his eye, he appeared to want to convey something to her – an unspoken apology, it seemed. Please understand, he said. Please understand that these are my parents, but none of us chooses our parents, and I am not the same as them. It was such a common message, one that almost everybody, at one time or another, sends to friends. And the reply that comes back is usually one of sympathy and understanding. “Yes, I see what you mean,” it says. “But they’re really not all that bad, and you should see mine!”