Alexander McCall Smith - Corduroy Mansions

‘And what are you going to do about your car?’ Berthea asked as they began their walk. ‘Are you proposing to get a new one?’

Terence, who was oblivious of irony, replied, ‘Oh no, certainly not. That car is not all that old. Thirty-nine years, or thereabouts, I think. There’s still a lot of energy left in it. It’s amazing. It’s as if the energy fields of the men who made it are lodged in its soul.’

‘I assume that it will start again when you put some petrol in,’ observed Berthea.

Terence nodded. ‘Quite possibly. Indeed, I might go so far as to say that’s probable.’

‘Because cars do require petrol,’ Berthea continued. ‘They need it for . . . for their energy fields.’

‘Yes,’ said Terence, simply. ‘That’s largely true.’

‘No, Terence,’ hissed Berthea. ‘It’s not just largely true, it’s absolutely and completely true. It’s a truth which is verifiable in the physical world. It is the actual case.’

Terence looked at her in surprise. ‘No need to get shirty,’ he said. ‘It’ll only take us half an hour or so to walk to the house, and I am carrying your bag for you.’ He paused. ‘Do you remember A Town Like Alice ? We saw it when we were small and we went to stay at Uncle Ted’s. He took us to the cinema and that’s what we saw.’

‘Vaguely.’

‘Well, I remember it very well. They had a long march after the Japanese captured them. Remember? All those British ladies had to march along the roads and jungle paths. It was frightfully hard work and the Japanese guards kept shouting at them if they slowed down. It must have been jolly hot, too.’

Berthea frowned. ‘And what has that got to do . . . ?’

‘What I’m suggesting,’ said Terence, ‘is that you treat this in the same spirit. Those ladies didn’t complain all that much - they just got on with it. Imagine that you’re in Malaysia and I’m a Japanese soldier and—’

‘No, thank you,’ said Berthea grimly. ‘It might be better, you know, to walk in silence.’

‘Oh, surely not,’ said Terence. ‘You should know that, as a psychologist.’

‘Psychoanalyst.’

‘Of course. You should know that there are little mood-changing tricks you can use if you want to make an unpleasant experience more bearable. You could try whistling. Remember that popular song, the one about whenever you feel afraid, whistling a happy tune? And then there’s Maria. Remember? Remember how she sang to the children when they all came and jumped on her bed, about her favourite things?’

Berthea bit her lip. ‘I really don’t think that we need to do any of that, Terence. As you yourself observed, the walk should not take long. Perhaps we should just walk it in silence. That, I suspect, is what any Beings of Light in the immediate vicinity would really appreciate.’

Terence had looked at her dubiously but said nothing and they completed the walk in silence. Once at the house, Berthea took a long bath; Terence’s bathroom was well stocked with bath crystals of various types, and she luxuriated for almost half an hour in a deep tub of lavender-scented water. After that she felt in a better humour, and joined her brother in the kitchen where he was preparing a plate of snacks to precede the leek pie.

It was then that Berthea chose to reveal her project.

‘I’m writing a book,’ she said with a flourish. ‘I feel you should know.’

‘What a good idea,’ said Terence. ‘Writing a book is a very good way of getting to know oneself.’

‘That is not the reason why I’m doing it,’ said Berthea. ‘This book is not being written as some sort of self-analysis. This book is being written as a form of public service.’

Terence snipped at a bunch of chives. ‘Do tell,’ he said. ‘Terence is very interested.’

He had an occasional habit of referring to himself in the third person - a habit which Berthea disliked intensely, but she said nothing about it now. Terence had to know about her book because he could be called upon to help.

‘I’m glad to hear that Terence takes that view,’ she said. ‘Yes. I have decided to write a biography of my son, and indeed I have already embarked on the task.’

Terence put down the chives and turned to his sister. ‘Oedipus?’

‘He is, I believe, the only son I have,’ said Berthea drily. ‘Yes. The biography of Oedipus Snark, MP.’

Terence exhaled, a long drawn-out sound that was half-way between a whistle and a sigh. ‘By his mother,’ he said. And then added, ‘Sensational!’

Berthea raised an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t overstate its impact,’ she said. ‘I might not call it sensational myself, but I expect there will be a certain level of interest in it. After all, Oedipus is reasonably well known these days.’

‘I read about him in the paper recently,’ said Terence. ‘He had been somewhere and made some speech or other. About something. ’

Berthea smiled. ‘That’s the sort of detail that I need,’ she said.

Terence showed no sign of having understood the barb. ‘I’m sure that you’ll do him justice,’ he said.

Berthea nodded. ‘It would be useful to have your perspective,’ she said. ‘After all, you are his uncle, and he did spend a lot of time with you as a schoolboy when he was on his summer holidays. Remember? You were very good to him.’

Terence sighed. ‘Berthea, dear, we’re both adults, aren’t we? Which means that I really should be able to speak to you frankly.’

‘I would expect nothing less,’ said Berthea.

‘In that case, dear sister, I really must confess to you that I’ve always had problems with Oedipus. I’ve tried to like him, I really have - he has an immortal soul like the rest of us. But, I don’t know, my dear. The truth of the matter is . . . Well, to put it bluntly, I really can’t stand him.’

‘But, my dear,’ whispered Berthea. ‘Neither can I. And that’s why I’m writing his biography. I want the world to know what my son is like. This is an act of expiation on my part. In writing this book, I am atoning for Oedipus. Do you understand that?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Terence. ‘And now let’s have some of this lovely leek pie. Smell it. Beautiful. Pure.’

Berthea sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Fit for the Beings of Light themselves?’

‘They love it!’ said Terence.

Berthea Snark was not the only person to head out of London that weekend in search of the peace that the English countryside, and at least some of the towns that nestle in its folding hills, can bring. Oedipus Snark MP, the son whose distinctly non-hagiographical biography Berthea had begun to pen, was also in the country, although at a different end of it, in his case, in Rye.

The idea of going to Rye for the weekend had not been his, but had been suggested by his lover, Barbara Ragg, the literary agent and author of the moderately successful Ragg’s Guide to the Year’s Best Reads.

‘Rye,’ she had said, a few weeks earlier. ‘If the weather holds, it could be gorgeous.’

Oedipus Snark, who disliked being trapped with Barbara for a whole weekend, searched his mind quickly for an excuse. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a constituency do, see? A long-term commitment, I’m afraid. You go by yourself. Send me a postcard.’

Barbara was prepared for this. ‘But I checked with Jenny,’ she said. ‘She confirmed that both Saturday and Sunday are completely clear. She looked in both of your diaries and there’s nothing. Friday night too. We could go down late on Friday afternoon.’

He frowned. That girl. She had no business telling any person who asked whether or not he had anything on. She was getting above herself. Going on about the LSE and the books she had read. Glorified secretary. She would need taking down a peg or two. Maybe a written warning; one had to be so careful with employment tribunals now. Best to give a written warning or two before you show somebody the door.