Alexander McCall Smith - Corduroy Mansions

‘Mr Wickramsinghe.’

The cup at his lips, he turned to face her. ‘Oh, Miss . . . Miss . . .’

‘Jenny. From upstairs at Corduroy Mansions.’

He lowered his cup. ‘Of course, please forgive me. Basil Wickramsinghe.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ve seen you, of course, and we did meet in William’s flat when he held that meeting about the hall carpet. Do you remember?’

Basil Wickramsinghe nodded. ‘That carpet. That most regrettable carpet. It’s still there - as are we.’

Jenny laughed. Something she had read last year in the biography of Wittgenstein came back to her. Wittgenstein, it seemed, had cleaned his floors by sprinkling tea leaves over them and then sweeping them up.

‘Wittgenstein,’ she said, ‘used damp tea leaves to clean carpets. Apparently tea soaks up the dirt.’

Henrietta looked disapprovingly at Jenny. ‘One would hardly use these rare teas for that.’

Basil Wickramsinghe nodded his agreement, and purchased a packet of white tea from Henrietta. He threw a shy glance at Jenny. ‘Are you walking back to Corduroy Mansions?’ he asked.

She explained that she had been planning to have a cup of coffee. ‘The rain,’ she said, looking out of the window over her shoulder.

‘But I have an umbrella,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe. ‘Perhaps you would care to walk under my umbrella with me, and then join me for a cup of white tea in the flat.’

Jenny hesitated. She knew nothing about Mr Wickramsinghe and one had to be careful in London. But one could not go through life being suspicious of one’s neighbours, and William had spoken of him with affection. She agreed; Hatchards could wait, and there was something appealing about this quiet man with his rather formal manner.

They said goodbye to Henrietta and made their way out into the street. The rain had set in now, it appeared, and puddles were forming on the edge of the road, their surfaces speckled with circles created by the raindrops. They made their way quickly down the road, sheltering under Basil Wickramsinghe’s generous umbrella. A wind had blown up to accompany the rain, and the branches of the trees in the small square were bending, the canopy of the umbrella straining at its moorings. By the time they reached the front door of Corduroy Mansions, both had wet ankles and Jenny felt a trickle of cold water running down her neck.

‘Most inclement,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe, shaking the water off his umbrella. He had a pedantic, rather old-fashioned way of speaking, as if he were following a script. Jenny had encountered this before in actors, and wondered whether acting was her neighbour’s profession. Had she seen him on the stage perhaps?

‘You aren’t an actor, are you, Mr Wickramsinghe?’ she asked as he fumbled with the key to his door.

He shook his head. ‘No more so than anybody else,’ he replied.

‘I hope that you don’t get too much noise from our flat,’ said Jenny. ‘We’re immediately above you and I suppose we do walk about a bit. And Jo - she’s one of my flatmates - sometimes plays music a bit loudly.’

‘It is no trouble at all,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe as he slit open the newly purchased packet of white tea. ‘I sometimes hear a bit of noise, but nothing serious. And it reminds me that I do not live all by myself in this building.’

‘One is always aware of other people in London,’ said Jenny. ‘The problem is that one doesn’t necessarily know who they are. I suppose there are people who live in this city and yet don’t know a soul. Strange, isn’t it?’

It occurred to her as she spoke that Basil Wickramsinghe himself might fit into this category for all she knew, and she wondered whether she had perhaps unwittingly offended him. But he did not appear to mind and simply nodded his agreement.

‘Big cities can be impersonal, but I never feel that about London,’ he said. ‘When I first came here, I was worried I would be very lonely, but it hasn’t been the case. I came from a very friendly place, you see.’

‘Which was?’

‘Galle, in Sri Lanka. Have you heard of it?’

‘No. I’m sorry. I’m sure that I should have, but I haven’t.’

He smiled. ‘There is no need to apologise for never having heard of Galle. It is not like Colombo or Kandy or places like that. It is quite small. It has a harbour and an old fort and some very nice old Dutch houses. You would like it.’

They were standing in his kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Jenny looked around; it was very neat, and far cleaner than their kitchen upstairs. Containers marked Rice and Beans and Flour were neatly lined up on the shelves alongside pots, chopping boards and various cooking implements.

Basil Wickramsinghe took two cups out of a cupboard. ‘Living in a place like this, one wonders who the other people in the building are. I have often thought about all you people upstairs. William, I know what he does - he is a wine merchant - and that son of his is nothing, I believe. I do not think that he works. But when it comes to the four of you, I have no idea at all.’

Jenny laughed, and told him what she and the others did. ‘I would never have guessed any of that,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe. ‘Never.’

‘And you, Mr Wickramsinghe?’

‘I am Basil, please. Me? I am an accountant. It is very ordinary. But there we are. That is what I do.’

He poured two cups of tea and passed one to her. There was silence as they both sipped the scented brew. Then Basil Wickramsinghe glanced at his watch.

‘I mustn’t keep you,’ said Jenny.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘It’s rude to look at one’s watch. But I have remembered that I am expecting somebody.’

Jenny drained her teacup. ‘You must come and have tea with us some time,’ she said.

He thanked her and went to show her out. Just as they reached the door, the bell sounded.

‘My guest,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe, almost apologetically.

He opened the door and Jenny saw a thin woman standing outside, holding a dripping umbrella. It may have been the rain or it may have been her dress, but the overriding impression she gave was of dowdiness. When the woman saw Jenny, she gave a start.

‘My neighbour,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe quickly.

She’s jealous, thought Jenny.

The woman glanced at Jenny and then looked away. ‘Am I early?’ she said.

Basil Wickramsinghe’s glance darted to Jenny and then quickly back to the other woman.

‘This is Miss Oiseau,’ he said, in introduction.

Jenny took the other woman’s hand and shook it. It was wet, and had a clammy, lifeless feel to it. She smiled at Basil.

‘Thank you for the tea.’

‘I’m glad that you enjoyed it.’

She slipped past Miss Oiseau and out into the hall as the other woman went into the flat, and the door closed behind her. Miss Oiseau had left her umbrella in the hall, propped up against the jamb of Basil Wickramsinghe’s door, and a small puddle was growing at its tip. Jenny was about to climb the stairs when she heard voices from inside the flat.

Miss Oiseau had a thin, reedy voice, with the quality of an old gramophone record. ‘Who’s that?’

‘As I said, she’s one of the neighbours. There’s a flat full of girls upstairs. She’s one of them.’

‘Is she a sympathiser?’

Jenny could not help but incline her head closer to the door; who would not act thus in such circumstances? She heard Basil Wickramsinghe laugh. ‘But how am I to know that? We didn’t discuss anything like that. I only met her in that organic place. We hadn’t talked about anything very much.’

‘But do you think she might be?’

‘It’s impossible to tell. You can’t ask people outright, can you? You have to be circumspect. There are signals. You know that.’