Alexander McCall Smith: Corduroy Mansions

William raised an eyebrow. ‘From that, I take it that you don’t.’

Dee sniffed. ‘Well, look at Caroline. She’s doing that Master’s course at Sotheby’s. Fine Art. She goes to lectures and drifts around the salerooms. Very taxing.’

‘Very pleasant,’ said William. ‘But she’ll have essays to write, won’t she? “The Early Giotto” and that sort of thing. And articles to read? The Burlington Magazine , I suppose.’

Dee was not convinced. She worked in a health-food shop, the Pimlico Vitamin and Supplement Agency; she knew what hard work was.

‘And Jenny?’ William asked.

‘Her job consists of going to lunch, as far as I can tell,’ said Dee.

‘There must be more to it than that,’ said William. ‘Being a PA to an MP must involve something. All those letters from constituents. All those complaints about drains and hospital wards. Surely those must take up a lot of time?’

‘Oh yes, I suppose they do. But still she seems to have a lot of time for lunches.’

William smiled. ‘Have you met her boss? The MP.’

‘Oedipus Snark? Yes, I met him once. He came round to the flat to deliver some papers to Jenny.’ She shuddered involuntarily.

‘He didn’t make a good impression?’

‘Certainly not. A horrible man. Creepy.’

They had now come out of the front door and continued to walk together along the street. William walked to work; Dee was heading for the tube.

‘His name hardly helps,’ said William. ‘Oedipus Snark. It’s very unfortunate. Somewhat redolent of Trollope, I would have thought. What was the name of Trollope’s villain? Slope, wasn’t it? Snark and Slope are obviously birds of a feather.’

‘Creep.’

‘Yes,’ said William. ‘That would be another good name for a villain. Creep. Of course that’s a name with political associations already. You won’t remember CREEP, but I do. Just. Watergate. Remember Watergate?’ He realised that of course she would not. Just as she would know nothing about Winston Churchill or Mussolini; or Kenneth Williams or Liberace, for that matter. ‘CREEP was the name of the committee that President Nixon - he was a president of the United States, you know - had working for his re-election. The Committee to Re-elect the President. CREEP was the acronym.’ Dee seemed to be paying very little attention to him, but William was used to that. He was terribly old by her standards. She was twenty-eight and he was in his late forties (well, early fifties if one was going to be pedantic). He was old enough to be her father, a thought which depressed him. He did not want to be a father-figure to the young women who lived in the flat below. He wanted them to look upon him as a . . . friend. But it was too late for that. Being realistic, there were just not enough shared references in their respective worlds to allow for much of a friendship. The most he could hope for was a reasonably neighbourly relationship in which they did not condescend to him too much.

‘How does Jenny get on with Snark?’ asked William. ‘Does she share your low opinion of him?’

Dee became animated. ‘Yes. She really does. She hates him. She thinks he’s gross.’

‘I see.’

‘But then everybody hates him,’ Dee continued. ‘Even his mother.’

William laughed. ‘Surely not. Mothers rarely hate their sons. It’s a very non-maternal thing to do. Particularly if one’s son is called Oedipus.’

He waited for her to react. But nothing came.

‘Oedipus—’ he began.

‘But this one does,’ interrupted Dee. ‘Jenny told me all about it. She can’t conceal it. She hates him intensely.’

‘How does Jenny know all this?’

‘His mother has spoken to her about it. She said, “I wish I didn’t dislike my son so much, but I do. I can’t help it.”’ She paused. ‘And she’s plotting against him.’

William was silent. Mothers should not plot against their sons . . . and nor should fathers. And yet was that not exactly what he was doing? He was plotting against Eddie in that he was making plans for Eddie’s exclusion from the flat. But that was different: he was not working for Eddie’s downfall, merely for his moving out. It was a different sort of plot, but nevertheless he felt a degree of shame about it. And yet at the same time, he felt a certain satisfaction at the sheer cunning of his idea. Eddie could not abide dogs and was petrified of even the smallest and most unthreatening breeds. It would not be necessary, then, for William to buy himself an Alsatian or a Rottweiler; a mere terrier would do the trick. If a dog moved into the house, then Eddie would have to move out. It was a very simple and really rather clever plan.

William smiled.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Dee.

‘Nothing much,’ said William. ‘Just an idea I’ve had.’

‘Half the time,’ said Dee, ‘I can’t follow what he’s going on about. It was Watergate this morning. Watergate and some guy called Nixon.’

‘Old people wander a bit,’ said Martin, her colleague at the Pimlico Vitamin and Supplement Agency. ‘I had an uncle - or something - who lost all his nouns. He had a stroke and all the nouns went. So he used the word “concept” for any noun. He’d say things like “Pass the concept” when he wanted you to pass the salt.’

Dee frowned. William was not all that old. But there was no need to correct Martin on that; the interesting thing was the salt issue. ‘He ate a lot of salt?’

‘I think so.’

‘Well, there you are,’ said Dee. ‘Sodium blockages. You know I’ll never forget when I went for iridology the first time and the iridologist looked into my eyes and said, “You eat a lot of salt.” And it was true. I really freaked out.’

Martin looked concerned. ‘How do they tell?’

‘Sodium rings in the eyes,’ said Dee. ‘It’s pretty obvious.’

Martin was silent. Then, after a few moments, ‘Could you tell? Yourself, I mean. Would you be able to tell if you looked into my eyes?’

Dee smiled. ‘Maybe. Do you want me to?’

It took Martin a minute or so to decide. Then he said, ‘Yes. It’s better to know, isn’t it?’

‘Of course you must know anyway,’ said Dee. ‘You must know whether you eat too much salt. Do you?’

Martin looked away. ‘Maybe sometimes.’

‘All right.’

There were no customers in the Vitamin and Supplement Agency at the time and Dee pointed to a chair in front of the counter. ‘Sit down, Martin. No, don’t close your eyes. I’m going to have to shine a light into them. Just relax.’

There was a small torch beside the cash register. They used it from time to time to look into the mouths of customers who wanted something for mouth ulcers or gingivitis. Dee reached for this torch and crouched in front of Martin. She rested a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. His shoulder felt bony; Martin did not eat enough, she thought, but that was something they could deal with later. For now it was sodium rings.

The torch threw a small circle of weak light onto his cheek. She moved it up closely until it was shining directly into his right eye.

She felt Martin’s breathing upon her hand, a warm, rather comforting feeling. Then it stopped; he was holding his breath.

‘See anything?’ he asked.

‘Hold on. I’m just trying to see. Yes . . . Yes.’

‘Yes what? Are there any sodium rings?’

‘Yes. I think so. There are some white circles. I think those are sodium rings all right.’

She turned the torch off and stood back. Martin stared at her balefully.

‘What can I do?’

‘Eat less salt for starters.’

‘And?’

‘And the sodium rings should disappear.’ She paused. ‘But there were other things there.’