Alexander McCall Smith - The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

They caught a taxi in Ebury Street. The traffic was light, and in just a few minutes William and Freddie completed the short journey to Birdcage Walk. As they alighted from the taxi, Freddie sniffed again, raising his muzzle and taking in the air, which to a dog’s sensitive nose was very different from the air in Pimlico. He gave a low growl of anticipation; he could already smell the squirrels and, rich and tantalising, the lingering scent of an urban fox. Deep inside him, the dog’s heart leaped with joy; it was only St James’s Park, but Freddie might have had the whole Serengeti at his feet, or the rolling fields of the Quorn, so great was his sense of anticipation.

William looked about him. It was mid-morning on a Saturday, and such people as were out and about in the street were in casual attire, rather than in the uniform of the civil servants who abounded in those parts during the week. A small group of visitors sporting rucksacks emblazoned with the Australian flag passed him on the pavement. One of them bent down to pat Freddie on the back.

“Nice dog, mate.”

William smiled “Yes, he is. Thank you.”

“What’s his name?”

“Freddie de …” William stopped himself in time. He had been about to give Freddie’s full name, but he realised how odd it would sound, particularly to an Australian. The Australians were always – mistakenly – accusing the English of stuffiness, and he could just imagine the reaction that the name Freddie de la Hay would provoke when the story was told back home.

“Even the dogs in London have got surnames,” the traveller would report. “We met one with an incredibly posh moniker. Freddie de la Hay. Would you believe it? No, I swear we did. We really did.”

“Good on yer, Freddie,” said the visitor, and moved on.

They made their way into the park itself. William was experiencing a curious sense of anticipation – not an unpleasant sensation – but mixed with foreboding. He had not felt like that for a long time, and now he tried to remember what it reminded him of. It was elusive. It had been something like this before he sat examinations at school, but on reflection he decided that it was different. And he had felt like this when, as a boy of sixteen, he had been taken up in a glider by a friend of his father’s; it had seemed such a flimsy machine, spun gossamer in the currents of air, and he had closed his eyes in sheer terror. Now he felt a bit like that, but again the sensation was a bit different; it was more a state of astonishment that he, William French, wine dealer and quinquagenarian (just), should be doing something quite as foolhardy as this.

He found the bench without any trouble. It had not occurred to him that anybody might be sitting on it already, and for a few moments he wondered whether she could be his contact, the woman sitting at the far end, dispensing breadcrumbs to a small flock of pigeons on the ground before her. His eye moved from the woman to the pigeons; they had a dishevelled air to them and he began to look at them, and the woman, with disapproval. These pigeons had become dependent; they were the unintended casualties of the kindness of the woman.

William found himself wanting to warn her of the consequences of her misplaced generosity. “They’ll lose the ability to fend for themselves,” he might say. “They could even forget how to fly.” But he stopped himself; it was none of his business, and it made him sound like some curmudgeonly opponent of welfare schemes, which he was not. And yet these birds were obviously lazy – and opportunistic too, in their greedy devouring of this woman’s largesse. What bird, though, would not take advantage of free food? And what bird actually seeks out a life of hard work? The half-remembered line came back to him: Consider the birds of the air, they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns . . .

The birds had been settling into an untroubled feast but they were soon rudely dispersed by Freddie de la Hay. Freddie, who had been gazing at tree trunks in the hope of seeing a squirrel, suddenly noticed the pigeons and uttered a challenging bark. The birds took to the wing in a flutter and squawk, surprising their benefactress, who clasped one hand to her hat and the other to the bag of breadcrumbs. She glowered first at Freddie de la Hay and then at William, before rising to her feet and moving off. That at least solves that, thought William, as he took her place on the bench; she is definitely not MI6.

Ensconced on the bench, William spread himself in a way calculated to discourage any other passerby or feeder of pigeons to join him. He had brought with him a copy of a newspaper, and he now opened it and began to read, while Freddie, rapidly reconciled to the conclusion that this would not be an overly energetic walk, sat down at William’s feet to await developments.

Twenty minutes passed, and William began to regret arriving so early. Not only was it rather boring sitting on the bench with nobody to talk to, but he decided that it was also rather embarrassing. As people walked past him – and the park was by no means empty – they glanced at him, sometimes with looks that struck him as being almost pitying. And then there were others whose glances seemed more enquiring, and these disturbed him. Was this bench a meeting point for people who came to the park for … surely not; surely not in St James’s Park, so close to the centre of government and Churchill’s war rooms and all the rest of it. And yet he had read those odd, salacious reports in the newspapers of goings-on in the royal parks. If one wanted to meet a guardsman, for example, to discuss defence policy or whatever, presumably one came and sat about on benches exactly like this. Or did one lurk in bushes and go “psst” when likely-looking persons walked past? William was not naive, but there were certain parts of the city’s life, perhaps, of which he might be innocent.

And then something happened. William was looking at his watch and wondering whether to call the whole thing off when he became aware that a man was approaching the bench. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the man, who was somewhere in his forties, was wearing a lightweight grey suit and had a newspaper tucked under his arm. The man drew near and then, without hesitation, sat down. The newspaper was unfolded and he began to read.

William glanced at the paper. So that’s what they read, he thought.

“Bad business,” muttered the man.

William half turned to face his companion.

“No,” whispered the man. “Just look straight ahead.”

William stared at the surface of the lake. A duck, sitting on the bank, decided to launch itself with a little plop.

“Yes, it’s a very bad business,” the newcomer continued.

“What is?” asked William, out of the corner of his mouth.

“This business with the politician,” said the man. “Frightful.”

William said nothing. The situation, he thought, was becoming increasingly ridiculous.

“My name’s Sebastian, by the way,” said the man, turning a page of the newspaper. “Sebastian …” He paused, lowering the newspaper and looking out over the lake. “Sebastian Duck.”

“I see,” said William.

“And I take it that this is Freddie de la Hay?”

William nodded.

“Good,” said Sebastian, folding up his paper. “Now, let’s go for a walk. Normal pace. Not too fast. As if we’re enjoying the sunshine. All right?”

They set off, with Freddie trotting contentedly beside William.

“Angelica says that you’ve accepted our offer,” said Sebastian. “C’s very grateful.”

William frowned. “C?”

“Yes, C himself. He had a word with the head of section, and they’ve both very pleased that you’re on board. C hopes to meet you quite soon, and wonders whether you could meet him for lunch in the Garrick some day. But he’s off to Singapore in a day or two and has rather a hectic month ahead of him.”