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

Or it could be, she thought, that Jo was referring to the fact that they were going to Cheltenham to spend a weekend with Caroline’s parents. Again, she would not have described that as fun, although Jo, of course, had yet to meet her host and hostess. Not that they were particularly bad, as parents went; it was just that, well, they were her parents, with all that this entailed. Parents were very rarely just right, no matter how fond one might be of them. For instance, her father, Rufus Jarvis, was extremely conservative in his outlook; she only hoped that the conversation would not stray on to politics. What would Jo think? Or was she used to it? After all, she had parents back in Western Australia, and they no doubt had views of their own.

“Yes,” she said, in delayed answer to Jo’s observation, “it is going to be fun.”

“It’s good of you to invite me,” Jo said, as the train began to pull out of the station. She looked at Caroline quizzically. “Did you ever take James back to meet them?”

Caroline winced. “Not a success.”

Jo smiled at this. It was what she had expected. “Maybe James is not ideal material to take home,” she said.

Caroline said nothing. James was her friend. Kind, amusing, stimulating James was still her friend. And that was all, she thought ruefully. Jo was right: it was time for her to abandon her expectations for that relationship. It was to be friendship, and nothing more.

“What about you?” she asked. “Did you take anybody home?”

She realised immediately after asking the question that she might be venturing into awkward territory for Jo. Her flatmate had never been explicit about her private life and Caroline was as a result uncertain about where Jo’s real interests lay. She had talked in the past about a boyfriend, but Caroline had not been sure whether she meant a boyfriend in the sense in which she herself sometimes talked about girlfriends: a friend who was a boy. James was a boyfriend, but not her boyfriend …

And now, as she looked at Jo in the seat facing her, she thought: it’s the clothing that makes one speculate; the rather masculine-looking jacket. And the short hair. And the boots. But one should not jump to conclusions, she reminded herself, and it could be something to do with coming from a rather sporty family in Perth.

“Oh yes,” said Jo. “I took boys back. Quite a few, actually.”

Well, thought Caroline; that settles that.

“Not that I wanted to marry any of them, of course,” Jo went on.

And that unsettles that, Caroline decided.

The journey passed quickly. Jo dropped off to sleep, and Caroline read, and looked out of the window, and reflected on her life. Now that she had let go of the idea of James, it seemed to her that everything had become much less complicated. She had a job; she had somewhere to live; she had a home to go back to if London became too much – which it was unlikely to do. She could meet somebody now, somebody who would suit her rather better than James – poor James – did. Where was the problem? There was none. That was the answer. There was nothing holding her back.

They took a taxi from the station to the house. Rufus answered the door and embraced Caroline warmly. He smelled so familiar; he put bay rum on his face after shaving, and it lingered. It was one of the smells of childhood that she loved. He smelled of bay rum and newspapers, and sometimes of smoke, when he had been making bonfires in the garden, which he liked to do.

He shook hands with Jo. She saw his eyes flicker and move quickly to hers but she did not meet his glance. Then Frances, her mother, arrived, dusting her hands as she came out of the kitchen. Frances looked at Jo before she turned to her daughter, and then the same thing happened – a quick exchange of glances. Did Jo notice this, Caroline wondered. She guessed not; Jo was patting Patrick, the aged dog, who had come to sniff arthritically at her boots.

They went upstairs to put their bags in their rooms. The guest room had been prepared for Jo, and there were flowers in a vase near the window. A small tin of biscuits had been placed on the bedside table, and a bottle of mineral water. The comforts of home, thought Caroline. These little touches.

Jo turned to her and said, “It makes me want to cry.”

Caroline was alarmed. So she had noticed. She had seen the expressions on her parents’ faces, and she had been wounded. Of course she would be; this was what people had to put up with, day in, day out. If they did not conform, if they were different, they had to put up with these glances, these expressions, this unspoken passing of judgement.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is England …” It was all she could think of to say, and it was not very well put.

“Of course it’s England,” said Jo. “That’s what makes it so nice.”

Caroline realised that she had misunderstood. “I thought …”

“The flowers and the biscuits,” said Jo. “And look at the towels laid out at the end of the bed. It’s home, Caroline, it’s home. That’s what makes me want to cry.”

And she did, and Caroline instinctively went up to her and put her arms around her. “Dear Jo. Dear Jo.”

She knew why her friend was crying. She was crying because she was far from home, and who among us has never wanted to do that? There need be no other reason; just that. We cry for home, and for flowers on tables, and biscuits in little tins, and for mother; and we feel embarrassed, and foolish too, that we should be crying for such things; but we should not feel that way because all of us, in a sense, have strayed from home, and wish to return.

Caroline’s mother, Frances, was preparing canapés in the kitchen. Caroline was helping her but only desultorily, as she was more interested in paging through a large recipe book that she had found lying on the kitchen table.

“I’m so pleased that you managed to come down this weekend rather than next,” said Frances. “We’ve been meaning to hold this drinks party for ages and it’s lovely to have you with us.” She paused. “And your friend, Jo, of course.”

Caroline turned a page of the cookery book. “Delia,” she said. “The blessed Delia. You call her that, don’t you? And everybody uses her book. Everybody, as far as I can see. How does she do it?”

“She’s a real cook,” said Frances. “She actually knows how to do it. And she rescued English cooking more or less singlehanded. Back when she was training everybody used French recipes. Delia went into the British Museum one day and looked through the seventeenth-century cookbooks – English cookbooks – wrote out the recipes and published her own versions.”

“Nice.”

“Yes, and then she went on and showed everybody how to cook proper roast potatoes. And the whole nation started to eat crispy roast potatoes after that.” She clicked her fingers. “Pass me the pepper please, Caroline. It’s over there.”

Caroline handed the pepper grinder to her mother.

“Are you unhappy, darling?” her mother said rather absent-mindedly, as she sprinkled pepper on a small side of smoked salmon.

Caroline stared at the recipe book. “A bit.”

Frances started to cut the salmon into squares. “You’ll get over it,” she said. “I remember being unhappy at your age. The whole world seems so complicated. Nobody seems to understand you. And so on. Then things sort themselves out. You don’t believe it now, but they’ll sort themselves out.”

She turned and looked at her daughter. “You do know, darling, that Daddy and I will always be behind you. You know that, don’t you? No matter what you choose to do, we’ll always be there to support you. And I do like Jo – or what I’ve seen of her. You mustn’t worry …”