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

“I think we should all go off to Bedfordshire,” said Terence, looking at his watch.

“Not yet,” Berthea said quickly. “Roger and Claire, you go up. Terence and I will have a little walk in the garden. It’s such a nice evening. Just the two of us. Family chat, you know.”

The last sentence was accompanied by a warning look directed at Roger. Real family , it said, not ersatz family. Roger pretended not to notice. “Such an enjoyable evening,” he said, stifling a yawn.

Once Roger and Claire had left, Berthea crossed the room and took her brother by the arm. He was reluctant. “I’m terribly tired, Berthy,” he said. “I really don’t want to walk in the garden.”

“Come along,” she said briskly, and Terence, out of ancient habit, complied. His sister had told him to come along as a little boy, and he had meekly done as he was told. It was no different now.

They went out into the garden. “Look,” said Terence. “It’s almost a full moon. It looks close enough to touch, doesn’t it?”

“That’s as may be,” said Berthea. “But listen, Terence, what’s all this about a centre? What have you been hatching with those … with those two back there?”

Terence looked petulant. “How do you know about this? It’s meant to be a secret.”

“Never you mind. The fact is that I know. So you may as well tell me exactly what’s going on.”

Terence made a small sound of protest. “You’ll just ruin everything,” he said. “You’ve always spoiled my fun. Even when we were young.”

Berthea was dismissive. “Nonsense,” she said. “What is it? A centre for what?”

Terence realised that resistance was futile; Berthea was such a bully, he thought. “It’s going to be a centre for cosmological studies,” he said. “And self-discovery. People will come and discover themselves. We’ll have courses in the old wisdom.”

“The Green Man and such stuff?”

“Exactly. The Green Man. And we’ll have morris dancing too. Roger promised me that.”

Berthea drew in her breath. “And this … this so-called centre will be run by them?” She nodded in the direction of the house. “By Roger and Claire?”

“Yes,” replied Terence. “I’m going to make the house over to a trust they run, and—”

She gripped his arm. “Make the house over! Are you mad? Where will you live?”

“Oh, they promised me that I’ll be able to live here the same as before. Only it’ll be a centre as well.”

Berthea looked up at the moon. She was going to have to be very careful. “Well, it all sounds such fun,” she said, forcing herself to utter the words.

“It will be,” Terence enthused. “It’ll be terrific fun, Berthy. And you can come too. You can come and listen to some of the lectures and maybe give a talk yourself.”

“That’ll be lovely,” said Berthea. “But I wonder whether it might not be a better idea to hold on to the house. Don’t make it over. You can let them run their centre here, but don’t sign anything. You never know …”

Terence nodded sagely. “I know what you mean. You have to be careful about these things. But I’m absolutely certain that Roger and Claire are trustworthy. You heard them – they said that they’re almost family.”

“Yes,” said Berthea. “That’s lovely, Terence. But you know that you shouldn’t give your house away – even to family. It’s just not wise.”

“It’s fine, Berthy. It really is. Roger’s promised me that everything will be all right. Nothing will change.”

She decided to change tack. “Don’t do it, Terence,” she said. She searched for language that might get through to her brother. “His karma, you see. It’s a question of karma.”

“But his karma’s fine,” said Terence. “You’re right to raise the issue, Berthy, but Roger’s karma is absolutely positive. No, there’s no problem there.”

She did not give up. “It’s just that I had this feeling about … about his aura. I felt that there was something negative there. I can’t put my finger on it, but I think we should trust our intuitions.”

“You’re right,” he said. “We must trust our intuitions, and my intuitions all say that Roger is the right person to have a centre here. I just know it, Berthy. I’m convinced.” He paused. ‘You know, I’m touched that you should take an interest in this. And I’m really pleased that you’re getting on so well with Rog and Claire. It means a lot to me that the whole family should be happy with the space that everybody’s in.”

Berthea gritted her teeth. “So you haven’t signed anything yet?”

Terence shook his head. “Not yet. But Roger has had a deed of some sort drawn up and it’s going to arrive next Wednesday. I’ll sign it then.”

“Don’t you think you should show it to Mr Worsfold?” Herbert Worsfold was the family solicitor; he might be able to stop this, thought Berthea. He had rescued Terence from a number of difficult situations before now, although none as potentially disastrous as this.

“Mr Worsfold’s terribly busy,” said Terence. “Lawyers always are – with all that law, you know. I don’t want to bother him.”

“But you must!” pleaded Berthea. “You really must, Terence. Mr Worsfold loves being bothered. He really does. It’s … it’s part of his karma.”

“No, Berthy. My mind is made up. If I start getting solicitors involved in all this, then the karma would certainly be wrong. This is a transaction based on love and respect, Berthy. Lawyers spoil all that with their ‘notwithstandings’ and their ‘hereins’ and all that nonsense. Not for me, Berthy. Not for me.”

Berthea looked back at the house. It meant a lot to her; she had spent her childhood there and it was rich in memories. She was perfectly content that it had been left to Terence rather than to her, as he was more vulnerable and would never have been able to find a place to live had he needed to. And with him living there, it felt for Berthea that it was still, in a way, her family home. She would not give it up without a fight. It did not matter if she had to resort to underhand techniques; she was prepared to do that. And she knew a thing or two about those, she reminded herself. After all, she was the mother of Oedipus Snark MP, which must make her in the eyes of some … well, not all that far removed from Lucrezia Borgia.

Very well, she thought. Gloves off. Roger and Claire: you’re toast . She pondered the expression, alien in her mouth though it seemed. It was so vindictive, so primitive, so unforgiving. She should not use it, because she was neither vindictive nor primitive, and she was always willing to forgive. Except, perhaps, in the case of Oedipus. He would be toast too, she thought. In time. In time.

Freddie de la Hay had found a comfortable spot on the floor of the flat occupied by Tilly Curtain, a Senior Field Officer (Grade 2) in MI6. The salary of an MI6 field officer, though adequate, is not unduly generous and certainly was not enough to stretch to a flat in that particular street in Notting Hill. Even C himself, who was paid at the level of a senior civil service mandarin – plus a twelve thousand pound annual danger allowance, and an automatic C (“C’s C”), leading, of course, to a K – would barely have managed the inflated monthly rental on this flat without feeling the pinch. The reason for the expensive rental was that the landlord had realised just how keen his prospective lessee was for this particular flat. He had suggested a number of other places to the young woman but she had not seemed in the slightest bit interested in those. That was when he understood that there was something about this flat in particular that she wanted. He could not see what it was, frankly, but people had their little ways, and if these idiosyncrasies enabled him to ask for twenty-five per cent more rent than he could normally expect to command for a short-term let, then so be it. And bless the little ways of tenants.