Corduroy Mansions cm-1 Read online

‘I hope that you don’t get too much noise from our flat,’ said Jenny. ‘We’re immediately above you and I suppose we do walk about a bit. And Jo - she’s one of my flatmates - sometimes plays music a bit loudly.’

  ‘It is no trouble at all,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe as he slit open the newly purchased packet of white tea. ‘I sometimes hear a bit of noise, but nothing serious. And it reminds me that I do not live all by myself in this building.’

  ‘One is always aware of other people in London,’ said Jenny. ‘The problem is that one doesn’t necessarily know who they are. I suppose there are people who live in this city and yet don’t know a soul. Strange, isn’t it?’

  It occurred to her as she spoke that Basil Wickramsinghe himself might fit into this category for all she knew, and she wondered whether she had perhaps unwittingly offended him. But he did not appear to mind and simply nodded his agreement.

  ‘Big cities can be impersonal, but I never feel that about London,’ he said. ‘When I first came here, I was worried I would be very lonely, but it hasn’t been the case. I came from a very friendly place, you see.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Galle, in Sri Lanka. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry. I’m sure that I should have, but I haven’t.’

  He smiled. ‘There is no need to apologise for never having heard of Galle. It is not like Colombo or Kandy or places like that. It is quite small. It has a harbour and an old fort and some very nice old Dutch houses. You would like it.’

  They were standing in his kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Jenny looked around; it was very neat, and far cleaner than their kitchen upstairs. Containers marked Rice and Beans and Flour were neatly lined up on the shelves alongside pots, chopping boards and various cooking implements.

  Basil Wickramsinghe took two cups out of a cupboard. ‘Living in a place like this, one wonders who the other people in the building are. I have often thought about all you people upstairs. William, I know what he does - he is a wine merchant - and that son of his is nothing, I believe. I do not think that he works. But when it comes to the four of you, I have no idea at all.’

  Jenny laughed, and told him what she and the others did. ‘I would never have guessed any of that,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe. ‘Never.’

  ‘And you, Mr Wickramsinghe?’

  ‘I am Basil, please. Me? I am an accountant. It is very ordinary. But there we are. That is what I do.’

  He poured two cups of tea and passed one to her. There was silence as they both sipped the scented brew. Then Basil Wickramsinghe glanced at his watch.

  ‘I mustn’t keep you,’ said Jenny.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘It’s rude to look at one’s watch. But I have remembered that I am expecting somebody.’

  Jenny drained her teacup. ‘You must come and have tea with us some time,’ she said.

  He thanked her and went to show her out. Just as they reached the door, the bell sounded.

  ‘My guest,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe, almost apologetically.

  He opened the door and Jenny saw a thin woman standing outside, holding a dripping umbrella. It may have been the rain or it may have been her dress, but the overriding impression she gave was of dowdiness. When the woman saw Jenny, she gave a start.

  ‘My neighbour,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe quickly.

  She’s jealous, thought Jenny.

  The woman glanced at Jenny and then looked away. ‘Am I early?’ she said.

  Basil Wickramsinghe’s glance darted to Jenny and then quickly back to the other woman.

  ‘This is Miss Oiseau,’ he said, in introduction.

  Jenny took the other woman’s hand and shook it. It was wet, and had a clammy, lifeless feel to it. She smiled at Basil.

  ‘Thank you for the tea.’

  ‘I’m glad that you enjoyed it.’

  She slipped past Miss Oiseau and out into the hall as the other woman went into the flat, and the door closed behind her. Miss Oiseau had left her umbrella in the hall, propped up against the jamb of Basil Wickramsinghe’s door, and a small puddle was growing at its tip. Jenny was about to climb the stairs when she heard voices from inside the flat.

  Miss Oiseau had a thin, reedy voice, with the quality of an old gramophone record. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘As I said, she’s one of the neighbours. There’s a flat full of girls upstairs. She’s one of them.’

  ‘Is she a sympathiser?’

  Jenny could not help but incline her head closer to the door; who would not act thus in such circumstances? She heard Basil Wickramsinghe laugh. ‘But how am I to know that? We didn’t discuss anything like that. I only met her in that organic place. We hadn’t talked about anything very much.’

  ‘But do you think she might be?’

  ‘It’s impossible to tell. You can’t ask people outright, can you? You have to be circumspect. There are signals. You know that.’

  Something else was said that Jenny did not catch. Then the sound of the voices faded; they had moved away from the door. Jenny, thoughtful - and guilty - set off up the stairs. She was trying to make sense of the conversation she had overheard, and not getting very far. All she knew was that the anaemic Miss Oiseau and Basil Wickramsinghe had some cause in common - a cause which attracted sympathisers, of whom she, for all she knew, might be one. And signals came into it - although exactly how rather taxed the imagination. Were they . . . ? No, it seemed absurd. Were Basil Wickramsinghe and Miss Oiseau involved in something illicit? And was all this happening in Corduroy Mansions, of all buildings, in Pimlico, of all places?

  Don’t be absurd, she said to herself. The quiet accountant and his dowdy friend were not very likely co-conspirators. But were co-conspirators ever likely? The newspapers were full of instances of unlikely offenders, who had to live somewhere, after all. Jenny was not of a suspicious nature, but it was difficult to interpret the conversation she had overheard as anything but . . . intriguing, perhaps.

  A sympathiser? Was she?

  22. Master of Wine (Failed)

  ‘So,’ said Manfred James, putting down his mug of tea. ‘I think that we’ve pretty much reached agreement, wouldn’t you say?’

  William would not have said that, but there was something about the columnist’s manner that brooked no discussion. It was not exactly peremptory, but it was certainly high-handed - the manner of one who knew. That always irritated William; he was aware of the fact that there were people who knew, but he had always felt it incumbent upon them to keep their knowledge to themselves unless asked to reveal it. In which case they could - with all due modesty - reveal that they knew what they were talking about, while still remaining conscious of the fact that for most people it was extremely trying to listen to somebody who knew more than they did.

  This was, of course, a major problem in the world of wine, the world in which William spent his professional life. Wine was a subject on which there was a great deal of expert knowledge to be acquired; for some it was a lifetime’s work, requiring prolonged and diligent study. This was rewarded, in some cases at least, by the Master of Wine qualification, which entitled one to put the letters MW after one’s name.

  Five years earlier, William had attempted the examination of the Institute of Masters of Wine, but had failed the written part. He was not alone in this; the success rate for that particular examination was one in four, so rigorous and demanding were the tests. Naturally he had been disappointed, since he had been looking forward to putting MW after his name, which currently had no letters at all, unless one counted Esq, which some business correspondents kindly put on their correspondence with him. But Esq was meaningless, since anybody could call themselves that, whatever their status in life.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ a friend had consoled him. ‘At least you got as far as the examination. Why not call yourself MW (Failed)? Like the BA (Calcutta) (Failed) that people used to use to show that they had been intelligent enough to get into the university, even if they
didn’t pass the degree.’

  ‘Did they really?’ asked William.

  ‘Probably not,’ said his friend. ‘It was always said that you encountered the odd BA (Failed) in Kipling’s day, but I don’t think there’s any hard evidence. Sellars and Yeatman made a joke of it in 1066 and All That. But I think anybody has yet to meet a genuine BA (Failed). Mind you, I did hear of somebody going to see a dentist somewhere abroad and spotting a plate outside saying BDS (Failed).’

  ‘Not a dentist one would necessarily wish to consult,’ said William.

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  But even though he had failed the MW examination, still William knew a great deal about wine and would share his knowledge, tactfully and discretely, with his customers. Some of them, of course, were not quite as reticent and took pleasure in parading their considerably shakier knowledge in front of William, who refrained from correcting them, except gently, and even then only in respect of the most egregious errors. (‘If I may say so, Rioja is not quite Italian. In fact, it’s Spanish - but I agree, it’s so easy to mix the two up . . .’ )

  Manfred James had opinions on everything, and these were delivered, as if ex cathedra, with a certainty that carried all before it. And on the subject of dogs, as became apparent to William, he was as opinionated as he was on politics and social policy. ‘Diet is the key,’ he said. ‘The canine diet, as you know, is both physically and psychologically determined. Physically there is a taste for meat; psychologically there is a desire to hunt. There’s little point in tackling one without addressing the other - as you’ll appreciate.’

  William wondered about the psychological aspect. Was a disposition to hunt genetically or environmentally determined? ‘Is there—?’ he began.

  ‘So,’ Manfred James continued, ‘with a view to breeding characteristics out of the breed, we have tried to reduce the psychological urge to hunt, which will therefore lead to a reduction in the desire to eat meat - with all its environmental consequences. One cannot eradicate deep-rooted behavioural-genetic traits, but their impact can be changed.’

  ‘Changed,’ said William simply.

  ‘Exactly. Ever since he came to us - after his retrenchment from the airport - Freddie de la Hay has been brought up to respond positively to other creatures, not to see them as a potential source of food. And I must say, it’s worked very well.’

  ‘Oh.’ That was all that William felt he could manage, and there seemed to be no point in saying much more. Manfred’s interventions, he thought, had all the characteristics of radio jamming, designed to stop anybody else talking.

  ‘It’s been remarkably successful,’ the columnist went on. ‘We used straightforward behavioural techniques. Pavlov would have understood. We gave him rewards when he remained calm even in the presence of a stimulus that would normally have provoked an aggressive response. So you’ll notice something very interesting about him now.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Manfred James looked at William with the air of one about to announce a major scientific breakthrough. ‘Freddie de la Hay,’ he proclaimed, ‘likes cats.’

  William’s eyes narrowed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Manfred James. ‘And now I think that we should agree on the details of the sharing. I suggest that you take him right now and be his carer for, what, a couple of months? Then we’ll take him back for a few weeks - depending on whether I’m around - and then you take him back for another stay. Agreed? Good.’

  The columnist rose to his feet and gestured to the door. ‘I suggest we go and see Freddie,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll call a cab, if you like. You’ll need to take his bed and a supply of carrot sticks - I can tell you where to get more of those. And his certificates.’

  ‘Certificates?’

  ‘From the canine lifestyle course,’ said Manfred. ‘The paperwork. ’

  William nodded.

  They left the study and made their way into the kitchen at the back of the house. There was Freddie de la Hay, sitting obediently in the middle of the floor - like a sentry, thought William.

  ‘Freddie,’ said Manfred. ‘This is Mr French. He’s your new carer. Say hello, Freddie.’

  Freddie de la Hay looked at William with his dark, mournful eyes, eyes so liquid that they might conceal the presence of tears, might break the very heart.

  23. Nice Dog

  William French MW (Failed) climbed into the cab called by the celebrated columnist, Manfred James. He was accompanied by Freddie de la Hay, a Pimlico Terrier, a ‘new dog’, whose small canine life was now beginning an important and challenging phase. Not much happens to dogs; they lead their lives around our feet, in the interstices of more complex doings, from which perspective they look up at the busier human world, eager to participate, eager to understand, but for ever limited by biology and the vagaries of evolution to being small-part players in the drama. Every so often a particular dog might rise above this limited destiny, might perform some act of loyalty that attracts human recognition and praise. But for most dogs such saliences are rare, their lives being punctuated by nothing more significant than the discovery of an intriguing smell or the sight of a rabbit or a rat - usually frustratingly inaccessible - or by some minor territorial challenge that requires a bark. Nothing much, really, but for dogs, their lot, their allocation.

  ‘Pimlico,’ said William to the taxi driver, and gave the address of Corduroy Mansions.

  The driver nodded. ‘Nice dog,’ he said. ‘Got one myself. A bit like that but smaller. What make is he, guv?’

  ‘He’s a Pimlico Terrier,’ William replied.

  They were moving off now, and he waved to Manfred James, standing at his gate. There was a look of relief on the columnist’s face, which irritated William. One does not wave goodbye to one’s dog with a broad smile on one’s face.

  ‘Pimlico Terrier?’ repeated the taxi driver, craning his neck to look into the mirror. ‘Bit big for a terrier, if you ask me. Are you sure?’

  Freddie de la Hay was sitting at William’s feet, looking up at his new carer (as Manfred James had described the relationship). The dog seemed anxious. Understandable, perhaps, in the circumstances: being passed from one carer to another is a traumatic experience for any dog, even the strongest and most secure. To them, we are God incarnate, and to have one god exchanged for another is as stressful as any change of religion can be in the human world.

  ‘Never heard of a Pimlico Terrier,’ continued the taxi driver. ‘You get it by mixing something up? Crossing one breed with another?’

  William found his irritation increasing in the face of this close examination by the driver. While he was as prepared as anybody to enter into conversation with a taxi driver, he felt that there were circumstances in which a driver should be able to detect reticence on the part of a fare. It should be part of the famous knowledge that taxi drivers went on about. It was all very well knowing the quickest way from an obscure street in one part of London to an equally obscure street in another, but it was important, too, to understand the mood of the person in the back of the cab and to know when an atmosphere of Trappist silence would be appreciated. Not all taxi drivers shared that insight.

  For his part, William had devised a good way of avoiding talking, if one wanted to do so, a way that prompted the taxi driver himself either to talk at great length - to deliver a monologue, in fact - or to become quite silent. This was to ask, at an early stage of the journey, ‘What do you think of the government?’

  It is well known that taxi drivers have a low opinion of governments - of any government - but almost without exception take a particularly dim view of their own. This question tends, therefore, to offer them the maximum opportunity to express themselves in monologue, or alternatively it gives them the impression that the fare is a secret sympathiser with the Government and therefore not to be engaged in conversation.

  This technique of asking just the right question to inhibit further conversation was a useful one, and was used by William in other s
ocial circumstances when small talk needed to be avoided. At cocktail parties, where one might quite reasonably simply wish to stand, or sit, and not be pestered by other guests seeking to make small talk, the use of a discreet lapel badge was sometimes to be recommended. This badge might state one’s religious position in unequivocal terms, and invite discussion on it. Thus a small badge saying ‘Please talk to me about Salvation’ usually had the effect of ensuring a peaceful time at any party, leaving one untroubled by other guests coming up to engage one in unwanted conversation. Similarly a badge saying ‘No longer infectious’ could usually be calculated to ensure physical space, another commodity in short supply at the more popular cocktail parties.

  Nevertheless, on this occasion William would have attempted to answer the taxi driver’s questions had Freddie de la Hay not started to whine.

  ‘Sounds a bit unhappy,’ remarked the driver. ‘Wants up on the seat, I’d say. You can let him up as long as his paws are clean.’

  William thought that the taxi driver was right. Freddie de la Hay, who was still shivering with anxiety, now had his gaze fixed firmly on the seat next to his new carer.

  ‘Want up, old chap?’ William asked, patting the seat beside him. ‘Up, Freddie de la Hay! Up!’

  Freddie de la Hay hesitated for a few moments, and then, as the taxi slowed down to turn a corner, he leapt up onto the seat beside William.

  ‘Good boy,’ said William, patting the dog on the head. ‘Clever boy.’

  Freddie looked appreciatively at William, but then turned and stared pointedly at the back of the seat he was occupying.

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked William. ‘Do you see something?’

  Freddie de la Hay responded to this question by moving further back in his seat and nuzzling at the seatbelt. William, observing this, was puzzled. The dog appeared to be objecting to the seatbelt; perhaps he thought it was a leash of some sort.

  Freddie started to whine again, pressing his snout behind the belt, trying to lift it off the seat.