Alexander McCall Smith - Corduroy Mansions

‘Let’s go and take a look at his room,’ Marcia suggested as she cleared the plates from the table.

William frowned. ‘Well, I don’t know . . . He could come back.’

‘We’ll hear him,’ she said. ‘And anyway it’s far too early for Eddie to come back. I thought he stayed out all night on Saturdays. You said so yourself.’

‘Did I? Well, maybe.’

She took him by the arm. ‘So . . . let’s go and take a look. I need to see what’s what, if I’m going to be living in that room.’ She looked at him sideways as she made this last remark, but he did not take up the invitation to say that she would be in his room. It’s my life, he thought, my room. Nobody has the right to force their way into other people’s rooms. Bedrooms require an invitation - it was basic etiquette.

Half propelled by Marcia, William led the way into Eddie’s bedroom. As they entered, he became aware that Freddie de la Hay was at their heels and was looking about the room, his nose twitching with interest. Did Eddie indulge ? He thought not: Eddie had shown no interest in such matters and indeed had often expressed a hostile view of drugs. Stevie, he had once said, had taken something that made him see double for three days. ‘It’s stupid,’ Eddie said. ‘What’s the point?’ So if Freddie de la Hay was picking up a scent it was probably no more than the minute traces which might have stuck to Eddie’s clothing during his visits to those clubs of his. The air in those places must be laden with the sort of thing that pressed an olfactory button with Freddie de la Hay.

‘What a pit,’ Marcia said, poking with her foot at a pile of dirty washing on the floor. ‘He’s such a—’ She stopped herself. Eddie was William’s son after all and she should be careful.

‘I tried to bring him up to be tidy,’ William sighed. ‘But you know how it is.’

‘Oh, it’s not your fault that Eddie’s like he is,’ Marcia soothed. ‘It’s the . . . It’s the . . .’ She searched for the right object of blame. ‘It’s the Government’s fault. They’ve done nothing to stop the rot. They’ve undermined the authority of teachers. They’ve—’

‘Yes,’ said William. He had heard Marcia on the subject before; it was all very familiar.

Marcia crossed the room to the desk, which Eddie had positioned under the window. A number of unopened letters lay on the top.

‘A red bill,’ she said, picking up one of the envelopes. ‘And this one is for jury service - you can tell.’

‘I don’t think Eddie would be a particularly good juror,’ William said.

‘Well, I’ll pack all these up for him,’ said Marcia, moving the letters into a pile. She bent down and opened the top drawer of the desk. Old chocolate wrappers had been stuffed inside and now cascaded out.

‘Eddie always had a sweet tooth,’ said William.

Marcia pursed her lips. ‘I see.’

While Marcia had been busying herself with the desk, Freddie de la Hay had moved across to the wardrobe at the other end of the room and seated himself in front of it. Then, turning towards William, he gave him an intense stare.

‘He’s found something,’ said Marcia. ‘Look.’

William sighed. He did not want Freddie to find something. Life was complicated enough without having to think about Eddie’s possible use of drugs.

‘They all do it,’ he muttered. ‘But perhaps he doesn’t inhale . . .’

Freddie was now scratching at the wardrobe door and whining.

‘We can’t ignore him,’ Marcia said firmly. ‘I’m going to have a look.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ muttered William. ‘It’s Eddie’s wardrobe, you know. We should respect his privacy.’

But Marcia was not listening; she was now at Freddie de la Hay’s side. The dog looked up at her briefly and then glanced over at William, as if to confirm Marcia’s authority. William nodded.

The catch on the wardrobe was stiff and it took Marcia a minute or so to twist it in such a way that the door would open. William came and stood behind her, craning his neck to see what the wardrobe would contain. Chocolate wrappers? A cache of dirty laundry? Or would it, as he feared, contain something considerably worse?

William and Marcia found themselves staring into Eddie’s wardrobe, each noticing something different about the clothes hanging from the rail. In contrast to the rest of Eddie’s room, the inside of the wardrobe was at least a corner of order, with jackets at one end of the rail and trousers, belts and ties at the other. Marcia’s eyes were fixed on a tie: ghastly, she thought, but just right for Eddie. For his part, William spotted several garments that he recognised but had not seen for a long time, including a suede jacket fringed in the cowboy style. This had been a favourite of the teenage Eddie - his mother had bought it for him for his fourteenth birthday and he had cherished it. And here it was, still loved, perhaps a reminder to Eddie of the mother he had lost, or of his earlier years, when he had been happier. William swallowed and looked away. Eddie had been an affectionate boy, enthusiastic, friendly in a puppyish way; William had been so proud of him, had loved him, and then something had gone wrong. Eddie had changed, had grown surly and distant. At first he had thought that it was the normal teenage change - that mutation which transforms likeable children into odious beings. But the teenage years had passed and the old (young) Eddie had not returned, and it seemed to William that he never would. But should he be throwing him out now - because that was what Marcia had somehow engineered? Was that what a father should do?

‘I wonder . . .’ began William, but he did not finish. Marcia had seized his arm and was pointing down at Freddie de la Hay. The hairs on the back of Freddie’s neck seemed to be standing up and he was pointing with his left paw towards a small pile of sweaters on the floor of the wardrobe.

‘He’s seen something,’ whispered Marcia. ‘Look. Freddie’s seen something.’

His heart cold within him, William bent down and felt around under the pile of sweaters. As he did so, Freddie de la Hay growled softly.

‘That’s all right, Freddie boy,’ William muttered. ‘I’ll handle this.’

But Freddie de la Hay remained on duty as he had been taught to do at Heathrow Airport, and when William extracted the item that had been concealed under the sweaters, he gave an eager bark and pointed more energetically at the object in William’s hand.

‘All right, Freddie,’ said William. ‘You’ve made your point. You can sit down now.’

Freddie immediately sat back and looked up at William, an expression of satisfaction on his face.

William straightened up. He had in his hands a rectangular parcel about twelve inches by eight, wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied about with waxed string.

‘A book?’ Marcia suggested. ‘Or . . .’

William waited for her to make an alternative suggestion, but none came.

‘I wonder why Freddie was so interested?’ he mused. ‘This doesn’t look like anything . . . anything illegal.’

‘Then open it,’ said Marcia. ‘Or give it to me. I’ll unwrap it.’

William frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘This is Eddie’s property. I don’t know whether we should be . . .’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Marcia. ‘It’s your flat and you can look at anything you like in your flat.’ She reached out and snatched the parcel from William’s hands.

‘I really don’t know,’ William said. ‘When I was Eddie’s age, I don’t think I would have liked my father to open my private parcels.’

Marcia was dismissive. That was the trouble with William: he was frightened of Eddie. Eddie! That complete waste of space! William needed stiffening up - needed more backbone. Or bottom. That’s what people said, was it not, when they talked about courage? Bottom. He needed more bottom .