Alexander McCall Smith - Corduroy Mansions

Something else was said that Jenny did not catch. Then the sound of the voices faded; they had moved away from the door. Jenny, thoughtful - and guilty - set off up the stairs. She was trying to make sense of the conversation she had overheard, and not getting very far. All she knew was that the anaemic Miss Oiseau and Basil Wickramsinghe had some cause in common - a cause which attracted sympathisers, of whom she, for all she knew, might be one. And signals came into it - although exactly how rather taxed the imagination. Were they . . . ? No, it seemed absurd. Were Basil Wickramsinghe and Miss Oiseau involved in something illicit? And was all this happening in Corduroy Mansions, of all buildings, in Pimlico, of all places?

Don’t be absurd, she said to herself. The quiet accountant and his dowdy friend were not very likely co-conspirators. But were co-conspirators ever likely? The newspapers were full of instances of unlikely offenders, who had to live somewhere, after all. Jenny was not of a suspicious nature, but it was difficult to interpret the conversation she had overheard as anything but . . . intriguing, perhaps.

A sympathiser? Was she?

‘So,’ said Manfred James, putting down his mug of tea. ‘I think that we’ve pretty much reached agreement, wouldn’t you say?’

William would not have said that, but there was something about the columnist’s manner that brooked no discussion. It was not exactly peremptory, but it was certainly high-handed - the manner of one who knew. That always irritated William; he was aware of the fact that there were people who knew , but he had always felt it incumbent upon them to keep their knowledge to themselves unless asked to reveal it. In which case they could - with all due modesty - reveal that they knew what they were talking about, while still remaining conscious of the fact that for most people it was extremely trying to listen to somebody who knew more than they did.

This was, of course, a major problem in the world of wine, the world in which William spent his professional life. Wine was a subject on which there was a great deal of expert knowledge to be acquired; for some it was a lifetime’s work, requiring prolonged and diligent study. This was rewarded, in some cases at least, by the Master of Wine qualification, which entitled one to put the letters MW after one’s name.

Five years earlier, William had attempted the examination of the Institute of Masters of Wine, but had failed the written part. He was not alone in this; the success rate for that particular examination was one in four, so rigorous and demanding were the tests. Naturally he had been disappointed, since he had been looking forward to putting MW after his name, which currently had no letters at all, unless one counted Esq, which some business correspondents kindly put on their correspondence with him. But Esq was meaningless, since anybody could call themselves that, whatever their status in life.

‘Don’t worry,’ a friend had consoled him. ‘At least you got as far as the examination. Why not call yourself MW (Failed)? Like the BA (Calcutta) (Failed) that people used to use to show that they had been intelligent enough to get into the university, even if they didn’t pass the degree.’

‘Did they really?’ asked William.

‘Probably not,’ said his friend. ‘It was always said that you encountered the odd BA (Failed) in Kipling’s day, but I don’t think there’s any hard evidence. Sellars and Yeatman made a joke of it in 1066 and All That . But I think anybody has yet to meet a genuine BA (Failed). Mind you, I did hear of somebody going to see a dentist somewhere abroad and spotting a plate outside saying BDS (Failed).’

‘Not a dentist one would necessarily wish to consult,’ said William.

‘Perhaps not.’

But even though he had failed the MW examination, still William knew a great deal about wine and would share his knowledge, tactfully and discretely, with his customers. Some of them, of course, were not quite as reticent and took pleasure in parading their considerably shakier knowledge in front of William, who refrained from correcting them, except gently, and even then only in respect of the most egregious errors. (‘If I may say so, Rioja is not quite Italian. In fact, it’s Spanish - but I agree, it’s so easy to mix the two up . . .’ )

Manfred James had opinions on everything, and these were delivered, as if ex cathedra , with a certainty that carried all before it. And on the subject of dogs, as became apparent to William, he was as opinionated as he was on politics and social policy. ‘Diet is the key,’ he said. ‘The canine diet, as you know, is both physically and psychologically determined. Physically there is a taste for meat; psychologically there is a desire to hunt. There’s little point in tackling one without addressing the other - as you’ll appreciate.’

William wondered about the psychological aspect. Was a disposition to hunt genetically or environmentally determined? ‘Is there—?’ he began.

‘So,’ Manfred James continued, ‘with a view to breeding characteristics out of the breed, we have tried to reduce the psychological urge to hunt, which will therefore lead to a reduction in the desire to eat meat - with all its environmental consequences. One cannot eradicate deep-rooted behavioural-genetic traits, but their impact can be changed.’

‘Changed,’ said William simply.

‘Exactly. Ever since he came to us - after his retrenchment from the airport - Freddie de la Hay has been brought up to respond positively to other creatures, not to see them as a potential source of food. And I must say, it’s worked very well.’

‘Oh.’ That was all that William felt he could manage, and there seemed to be no point in saying much more. Manfred’s interventions, he thought, had all the characteristics of radio jamming, designed to stop anybody else talking.

‘It’s been remarkably successful,’ the columnist went on. ‘We used straightforward behavioural techniques. Pavlov would have understood. We gave him rewards when he remained calm even in the presence of a stimulus that would normally have provoked an aggressive response. So you’ll notice something very interesting about him now.’

‘Oh yes?’

Manfred James looked at William with the air of one about to announce a major scientific breakthrough. ‘Freddie de la Hay,’ he proclaimed, ‘likes cats.’

William’s eyes narrowed. ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ said Manfred James. ‘And now I think that we should agree on the details of the sharing. I suggest that you take him right now and be his carer for, what, a couple of months? Then we’ll take him back for a few weeks - depending on whether I’m around - and then you take him back for another stay. Agreed? Good.’

The columnist rose to his feet and gestured to the door. ‘I suggest we go and see Freddie,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll call a cab, if you like. You’ll need to take his bed and a supply of carrot sticks - I can tell you where to get more of those. And his certificates.’

‘Certificates?’

‘From the canine lifestyle course,’ said Manfred. ‘The paperwork. ’

William nodded.

They left the study and made their way into the kitchen at the back of the house. There was Freddie de la Hay, sitting obediently in the middle of the floor - like a sentry, thought William.

‘Freddie,’ said Manfred. ‘This is Mr French. He’s your new carer . Say hello, Freddie.’

Freddie de la Hay looked at William with his dark, mournful eyes, eyes so liquid that they might conceal the presence of tears, might break the very heart.