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

“About what? Worry about what?”

“About … about … You know what I’m talking about.”

Caroline shook her head. “Actually, I don’t.”

Her mother sighed. “Well, darling, let me let you in on a little secret. You know that I married Daddy because, well, I supposed it was the thing to do. I’m sure you must have gathered that. And sometimes when you do that you don’t actually know what you’re doing, or what you’re really about. Daddy is a lovely man, as I’m sure you’ll agree. But he’s not exactly the most romantic figure in the county, is he?”

Caroline shrugged. It had never occurred to her to wonder how her father rated in romantic terms. “Daddy’s quite good-looking,” she said. “I imagine that …”

It was as if Frances had not heard her. “So if you’re wondering what I think about Jo, then let me assure you that I understand.”

Caroline was now beginning to see where the conversation was going. She realised that she would need to correct her mother, but before she had the opportunity to do so, Frances went on, “So many of us are, well, a little bit that way, including me. I had a tremendous passion for somebody, you know. Not that I had the chance to do anything about it. She was—”

Caroline’s jaw sagged. “Mummy! Please!”

Frances looked at her, smiling. “But darling, I only want you to know that if you’re wondering where it comes from, obviously it comes from me!”

Caroline put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Mummy, I wish you hadn’t started to talk about all this. There’s nothing between Jo and me. And I don’t think Jo would want it anyway. So she wears boots. She’s Australian. From Perth. You need boots there. She’s just my flatmate – that’s all.”

Frances collected herself quickly. “Mummy’s little joke,” she said. “Not at all serious. I was just having a little fun.”

“Of course.”

“So, let’s get on with the canapés,” Frances went on briskly. “Tell me what Delia says I have to do after I’ve cut the puff pastry.”

They began to work in silence, each remembering and reconstructing the conversation that had gone before. When they were finished, they each went to change and get ready for the arrival of the guests. Caroline thought: Our parents are not always what we think they are. And Frances could have had the same thought about her daughter, but had decided not to think about it at all. She had her duty as hostess before her, and she always attended first to her duty, no matter what.

The guests arrived. They were mostly neighbours or Rufus’s colleagues. But a newly arrived retired couple was there – people who had recently moved to Cheltenham from Ely – and they had with them their son, Anthony. He was a year or two older than Caroline, and he was brought across the room by Frances to be introduced.

Caroline looked at him as he spoke to her. He had grey eyes, she noticed, and a pearl-grey jersey. He matched. She looked down at his shoes: he was wearing ankle boots. They somehow matched his trousers. His hair was blonde and swept back to reveal a strong forehead. His hair seemed just right too. He asked her where she lived in London. His voice matched … matched him.

“I live in Pimlico,” she said. “In a block of flats called Corduroy Mansions.”

He laughed. His laugh matched his voice. “Hey, I know that place,” he said. “I live quite close by. Three streets away, in fact.”

She could think of nothing to say but, “Oh.” There was so much else she could say; so much else that she wanted to tell him.

“Would you like to have dinner?” he asked. “After this? After this party?”

She did not hesitate for a moment. Why hesitate when you were so sure, so utterly sure? “Of course. That would be great.” Jo would entertain herself; she was good at that.

“Italian?”

“Perfect.”

Anything would have been perfect. Italian, French, Indian, Chinese, Thai. Anything. She remembered Delia. Even English.

Terence Moongrove was only very vaguely known to Rufus and Frances Jarvis, as he moved in different circles from them. He had his sacred dance association, peopled by sundry adherents of the Bulgarian mystic, Peter Deunov; Rufus and Frances had their golf club. Between the sacred dance association and the golf club there was very little, indeed no shared ground, even if the members might recognise one another in the street, as happened when Rufus and Frances had seen Terence Moongrove in the supermarket car park, bundling his shopping into the rear seat of his Porsche.

“What an extraordinary sight,” Rufus had said. “That Moonshine character seems to have acquired the tart cart that used to belong to Alfie Bismarck’s boy. Look at that!”

“Moonwater,” corrected Frances. “Is it really his? Mind you, he’s getting into the driving seat, so it must be. My goodness. Whatever next!”

“I’ll be keeping well out of Moonwater’s way,” said Rufus. “He’ll be lethal in that machine. Why is it that middle-aged men buy themselves these totally unsuitable cars?”

“Precisely because they’re middle-aged men,” said Frances. “A car like that compensates for a lot, you know.”

“Poor Moonwater,” said Rufus.

“Indeed.”

This slight acquaintanceship – if one could call it that – meant that it was very unlikely that Terence would be one of the guests at the Jarvises’ drinks party. And indeed while the Jarvises were shopping that day for their evening entertainment, Terence was sitting in his conservatory, meditating, while his sister, Berthea, rifled through his papers in his chaotically untidy study. Berthea had a very specific objective – to find the telephone number of Lennie Marchbanks, the garagiste who had sold Terence the Porsche. She had looked for the number in the telephone directory and failed to find it because unbeknown to her Lennie Marchbanks traded not under his name but that of Stellar Motors. At last, however, she found a receipt bearing the garage name and his signature – a crumpled, slightly greasy document – and was able to dial his number.

“Mr Marchbanks?”

“Yes. Lennie speaking.” There was a curious clicking sound as he spoke, and she remembered that he had an ill-fitting pair of false teeth that often protruded awkwardly.

She gave him her name and asked whether she could possibly see him on a matter of great urgency. It was, she explained, in connection with Terence, who was in the gravest danger.

“Lordie!” exclaimed Lennie Marchbanks. “Has he had an accident or something? The Porsche? I’ve told him a hundred times not to drive fast.” Click. “I told him, so I did.”

Berthea assured him that it was nothing to do with the Porsche. “Financial danger,” she said.

Click. Click.

“Yes. But it’s difficult to explain over the phone. Can you please meet me in the lane outside the house in half an hour? I can tell you all about it then.”

Lennie agreed. He was fond of Terence, and had always recognised his vulnerability. He would be there, he said, and he would do whatever he could to help. And he was as good as his word, arriving exactly thirty minutes later in the appointed spot, where he found Berthea waiting for him.

The two had met before and Berthea did not bother with preliminaries. She told Lennie about Roger and Claire, and explained their plan to divest Terence of his house and, she suspected, his money too. Lennie Marchbanks listened, wide-eyed. “He’s not the most worldly of men,” he said in a concerned tone. “In fact, I must say I’ve always regarded your brother as an accident waiting to happen. Sorry to have to say it, but that’s what I think.”