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

Now, sitting at the till of her shop, reading the latest copy of Anti-oxidant News, she kept half an eye on a couple of customers huddled at the back of the shop in the flower remedies section. In general, her customers did not steal; on Sundays at least, they were clean-living types, with consciences as clear as their lower intestines (or that was the case for those who underwent regular colonic irrigation, anyway). No, she need not worry too much about shoplifting.

But there was something that did worry her. She was reading a report in Anti-oxidant News to the effect that a new study purported to show that homeopathic remedies achieved no better results than placebos. This worried Dee. Principally, she doubted it were true; everything in her rebelled against the thought that mere evidence-based medicine should seek to debunk an entire section of her shop, for that, indeed, was what she had, half a wall of homeopathic remedies, designed to deal with a wide range of those ills to which the mortal flesh was heir.

She read on. “The authors of this so-called study” – that was fighting talk, thought Dee, with approval – “argue that the very small dilutions of the active ingredient cannot possibly have an effect on the human body. They forget succussing, of course. So many critics of homeopathy forget about succussing.”

“Exactly,” muttered Dee. “Succussing changes everything.”

“There is ample proof,” continued the article, “that the act of striking the container of the dilution ten times or more on a firm surface makes all the difference to the molecular properties of the water. So why do these allegedly dispassionate scientists ignore something as significant as that?”

Why indeed, thought Dee. Because they don’t want to find out the truth? Because they don’t want homeopathy to work? Talk about homeophobia!

Succussing: it was a most peculiar thing, but she was convinced of its efficacy. Only last night, a friend had given her a gin and tonic as a treat, and Dee had found herself succussing the glass against the arm of her chair. The drink had been delicious, and she was sure that it had been much more potent as a result of the succussing. Perhaps that was why James Bond called for his martini to be shaken, not stirred. It was for homeopathic reasons.

She was reflecting on the so-called study, her outrage growing, when she saw a tall man in his early thirties enter the shop. Many of her customers she already knew, but not this one; she was sure she would have noticed him before now.

He came to the cash desk. “You telephoned me,” he said. “Richard Eadeston.”

She looked at him blankly. “Did I?” And then she remembered. Of course she had. This was Richard Eadeston, the man who described himself as a venture capitalist. She looked at him with renewed interest. So this was what a venture capitalist looked like. Rather dishy. An adventure capitalist, perhaps!

“Can I make you a cup of tea?” she offered. “Peppermint? Ginger? Mixed fruit?”

“I rather like peppermint,” he said. “It’s so refreshing. Thank you.”

“10x dilution?” said Dee, and then laughed. “Just a little homeopathic joke. Nothing serious.”

“Delicious,” said Richard Eadeston, savouring his peppermint tea. “So delicate.”

“And it helps you concentrate,” said Dee. “You could take it when juggling figures, or whatever it is that you do.”

“Indeed.”

He looked at her over the rim of his teacup. She was not in the usual mould of his clients but she had an interesting face, he thought. Plucky. A risk-taker – in a rather fuzzy Age of Aquarius way, of course. There had been lots of girls like her when he had been an undergraduate at the University of Sussex. It was something to do with the air down there – Brighton and Glastonbury and places like that attracted these people.

“You weren’t at Sussex, were you?” he asked. “At university there, I mean.”

Dee showed her surprise. “Yes, I was, as it happens. How did …?”

“Oh, I just wondered,” said Richard. “There’s a Sussex look. I was there too, you know.”

They sized one another up wordlessly, discreetly computing ages. Yes, they might have been contemporaries.

He broke the silence. “Remember that pub? What was it called again?”

“The Shaggy Dump?”

“That’s the one! I wonder if it’s still there.”

Dee nodded. “Yes. I went down to see somebody there last month. A friend who lives in Kemp Town. And there was the Shaggy Dump – unchanged. That chap with the ring in his nose, remember him? He’s still running it. He had all those kids, each with a ring in the nose as well. I saw one or two of them too. It was just like the old days.”

Richard laughed, and thought, and now I’m a venture capitalist.

“What did you do at uni?” he asked.

“Anthropology and Turkish,” said Dee.

He was not sure what to say. So he smiled, and said, “Cool.” Awesome would perhaps have been a shade too strong.

“And you?”

He had done business studies, although he usually called it economics; now he renamed it development studies.

Dee gestured towards the loaded shelves. “As you can see, now I’m involved in vitamins,” she said.

“And you’ve had an idea, too. Which is why you phoned me, I assume.”

She nodded. “You must get some real crackpots.”

“Oh, we do. Lots of them. Probably nine calls in ten are from nutters of one sort or another. But we take them seriously. That’s why we call ourselves Alternative Vision Capital.”

“Some of them are good ideas then?” She pointed to the teapot. “More peppermint?”

“Yes, please.” He passed her his cup. “Yes, we get some very interesting ideas. And we don’t turn up our noses just because somebody doesn’t look as if they’re straight out of the business pages.”

Dee smiled. “Like me?”

“Well, you’re not … Yes, like you. Why not? Look at Richard Branson. When he started that record shop or whatever it was he could hardly have looked less like the stereotypical capitalist, could he? The beard and the casual clothes and so on. And look what he’s achieved.” He paused, holding out his hands in an all-embracing gesture. “We’re open to ideas. Any ideas.”

Dee nodded. They were seated behind the cash desk and a customer now approached bearing a small bottle of pills. Dee indicated to Richard that she would be a moment attending to the customer. Afterwards he asked, “What did she buy?”

“Just magnesium,” she said.

“Magnesium? Do we need magnesium?”

Dee’s eyes widened. “Do we need magnesium? Boy, do we need magnesium! Did you know that there are over three hundred – yes, three hundred – bodily chemical reactions that require magnesium?”

Richard shrugged. “I didn’t. But I don’t take magnesium pills and I’m still—”

Dee cut him short. “You get it in your diet. Or should do.” She looked at him in a way that suggested she was assessing his magnesium levels. “Do you eat many nuts?” she asked. “Or whole grains?”

Richard shook his head. “Not really.” He patted his stomach. “Nuts are fattening, aren’t they? I love those big fat ones – macadamias. They’re seriously good. But eat too many of those and you begin to look like a macadamia nut yourself – you know, big and fat and round.”

Dee’s answer came quickly. “There are other nuts. Almonds, for example. Pine nuts are full of magnesium too.” She paused. “You’ve probably got a magnesium deficiency, you know. Do you get tired?”

“I suppose so. Who doesn’t?”

She did not register his question. “And do you suffer from sleeplessness? Wake up at odd times?”