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

As the party of four filed into the dining room, Berthea felt her heart sink even further. There were several reasons for her feelings of dread. First and foremost, she was not looking forward to two or three hours in the company of Roger and Claire, to whom she had taken an overwhelming and quite unequivocal dislike. That aside, there was the meal itself to get through – Terence had boasted that three courses would be served, each one of them a treat in itself. “They are entirely my own creations,” he announced as he relieved them of their martini glasses. “I haven’t referred to a single recipe book, not one! But I’m really sure that you’ll love everything!”

“You’re frightfully clever,” said Claire. “So few men can cook … Mind you, quite a few women can’t either.” She looked at Berthea as she delivered this remark.

“I can,” said Berthea loudly. “I enjoy cooking a great deal. In fact, I’ve been on several residential cooking courses. You should try one.” She smiled at Claire as she spoke.

Claire was momentarily taken aback. Love-fifteen, thought Berthea. Your service.

“Claire doesn’t need to go on courses,” said Roger. “She’s a very fine cook indeed. In fact, you’ve had several recipes published, haven’t you, darling?” Fifteen-all.

“Parish magazine?” said Berthea brightly. “I do love the amateur recipes one reads in such things. And they’re such lovely little publications. You know, the local cub scouts’ recipe book, that sort of thing – six pages, fifty pence. Vanilla sponge, upside-down-pudding, and so on. Absolutely charming. Not that one would care to attempt any of the recipes!” Fifteen-thirty.

Terence, who was unaware of the tension underlying this exchange, was busy with the placements. “I’d like Claire to sit on my right,” he said. “Here we are, Claire. Place of honour.”

Claire moved to her chair and sat down. She was rather overweight, and the chair creaked ominously.

“Terence, you are naughty,” said Berthea, with concern in her voice. “You really should have given Claire a stronger chair.” Fifteen-forty. “Let me take that one and I’ll give her mine. I’ll be fine on the weaker one.” Game, set and match.

Claire glowered. “It’s fine,” she muttered. “This chair’s perfectly adequate. Please don’t bother.”

“It’s Uncle Edgar’s fault,” said Terence. “He used to take that chair up to his room when he wanted to get something down from one of those high shelves of his. He stood right on the middle of the sitting-down bit. Mummy got jolly cross with him. She used to say, ‘Dining-room chairs are not ladders, Edgar.’ Do you remember her saying that, Berthy? Do you remember her ticking Uncle Edgar off?”

Berthea’s eyes glazed over. “Vaguely.”

“And he also used to drink in his room,” Terence went on. “Nobody said anything, of course, but I remember seeing a large bottle of Scotch up there more than once. Mummy said that he had a weak chest and needed to take a drink for his breathing, but I think it went further than that. Don’t you think, Berthy?”

Berthea unfolded her table napkin. “I’m not sure,” she said, “that Roger and Claire are all that interested in Uncle Edgar, Terence.”

“Oh, but we are,” said Roger. “Family stories are always very interesting, and …” he paused and looked coyly at Terence, “and, as Terence said, we think of ourselves as family now.”

Berthea’s lip curled. “Tell me,” she said, turning to Terence, “what are you giving us this evening, Terence?”

“Pea soup, to start with,” he replied proudly. “Followed by kedgeree. Then, to round off, we have Christmas pudding. Not that it’s Christmas, of course, but I put the leftover pudding in the freezer and I came across it the other day.”

Claire clapped her hands together. “What a lovely menu, Terence. It’s a terrific balance of …”

“Yin and yang?” offered Berthea.

There was a silence, eventually broken by Terence, who announced that he would go to fetch the soup and the wine. “We’re having Sauternes with the soup,” he said. “Then a very nice Rioja with the kedgeree. I saw it recommended in the paper. They said it was a jolly good bargain. Six pounds.”

“Terence, dear,” said Berthea, “kedgeree is a fishy dish. I would have thought that it would be better to serve a white wine with fish. And Sauternes is really a pudding wine, don’t you think?”

Roger looked up. “There’s no reason not to have red with fish and white with meat,” he said. “I do it myself. A good choice, Terence, and I for one look forward to it.”

“There,” said Terence to Berthea. “See?”

Terence went out of the room, and silence descended once again. Berthea occupied herself for a moment by rearranging her knife and fork; then she looked up and saw that both Roger and Claire were staring at her expectantly. “I hear that you’re writing a book,” she said to Roger. “Do tell me about it.”

Roger nodded – pompously, she thought. “It’s about how we know the world,” he said.

“That’s a very broad subject,” said Berthea. “Epistemology?”

“In a way,” said Roger. “But it’s by no means a work of conventional epistemology. I’m not concerned with perception and understanding in the way in which modern philosophy is. I’m interested in how the old knowledge helps us to understand the world. I want to put people in touch with this deep wisdom. It’s a cosmological work, really.”

Claire joined in. “This wisdom is mainly to be found in myths and archetypes,” she said. “The Green Man, for instance.”

Berthea smiled. “The man who appears at morris dances? Wearing leaves – the tree?”

“That’s only one of his guises,” said Roger. “The Green Man appears in all sorts of iconographical contexts. You see him on churches and cathedrals, for instance.”

“Chartres Cathedral,” said Claire. “You generally see his face peeping through the leaves. He represents—”

Roger took over. “He represents our connection with the life-giving earth. He is the forest. He is the growth principle. He is what Hildegard of Bingen called viriditas , the green force.”

Terence returned with the pea soup. It was green, but with traces of brown where some sort of oil had separated from the rest of the mixture. Small lumps, of pea, or possibly ham, floated on the surface. Viriditas , thought Berthea. The green force.

Terence served the Sauternes. “I hope this wine is sweet enough,” he said. “If not, we can all add a tiny bit of sugar.” He raised his glass. “But first, let me propose a toast to fellowship, friendship and … and what else, Berthy? Can you think of something beginning with an F?”

Fraud, thought Berthea, looking at Roger, but she did not say it, of course. Fat, she thought, looking at Claire, but did not say that either. “Felicity,” she offered.

Terence thought this a completely suitable third element for his toast. “To fellowship, friendship and felicity,” he said, with a flourish.

Glasses were raised. Claire did not look at Berthea; Berthea looked at neither Roger nor Claire; Terence looked at Claire, who returned his admiring gaze with a smile. Roger looked at his pea soup, perhaps divining on its oily surface the face of the Green Man himself.

Oh, Terence, thought Berthea. Oh, Terence, my dear, silly, but thoroughly kind brother. You are in dreadful danger, and you haven’t an inkling of it, not an inkling.

Berthea had to save the little private word she intended to have with Terence until after Roger and Claire had gone to bed. It was a long wait, as the couple showed every sign of digging in and waiting until Berthea retired. But she would give them no quarter, and sat doggedly on until Roger started to nod off and Claire had no real alternative but to concede.