Alexander McCall Smith - Corduroy Mansions

‘That’s very unfair,’ said Terence, adjusting the rear-view mirror. ‘What’s the point of having a European Union if there are different rules for the Germans? Tell me, Mr Marchbanks, are there any Bulgarian cars?’

‘Not that I’ve heard of,’ said the mechanic.

‘I just wondered,’ said Terence. He gave the mirror a final tweak. ‘But why don’t we set off? I can’t wait to drive this car.’

Lennie swallowed. Oh well, he thought. Here goes.

Terence turned the key in the ignition, as instructed by Lennie. Immediately there came a deep growling sound. ‘My goodness!’ he said. ‘Is there something wrong with the exhaust pipe? You know that pipe that comes out the back? When the Traveller’s exhaust pipe had a big hole in it, it made that sort of sound.’

Lennie smiled. ‘That’s what they call a low, throaty roar. People pay for that sort of thing. No, there’s no hole.’

‘Well, I must say, that will certainly warn everybody that I’m coming,’ said Terence. ‘Now, shall I put in the clutch?’

He engaged the car in gear and then, very slowly, they moved off. It was a very smooth start, and Lennie was impressed. ‘You’re doing fine, Mr Moongrove,’ he said. ‘Nice smooth start.’

Terence beamed with pleasure. ‘She handles well - even at speed.’

Lennie glanced at the speedometer. ‘Well, you’re only doing 8 miles per hour,’ he said. ‘And we’re still on the drive.’

‘Very nice,’ said Terence. ‘I really like this car, Mr Marchbanks.’

‘Good.’

‘I shall go to the bank tomorrow morning and get the money. How much will I need?’

‘Twenty-five grand,’ said Lennie. ‘Are you paying cash, Mr Moongrove?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Terence. ‘I’ve got bags of money in my current account. Bags.’

Lennie looked at him sideways. He felt a very strong temptation to ask just how much money that was. Why not? Old Moongrove had no idea about anything and would not resent a question like that. Many would, but not old Terence.

‘How much?’ Lennie asked casually.

‘In the bank?’

‘Yes.’

‘Six hundred and eighty thousand,’ said Terence. ‘Maybe a little bit more, I think.’

Lennie looked out of the passenger’s window. He was worried. He could try to protect Terence when it came to cars, but he could not look after him in other departments. Terence was clearly very liquid. Was he worldly-wise enough to know that there were plenty of people who would be very happy to help him change all that?

William felt quite elated when he returned to Corduroy Mansions with Marcia and Freddie de la Hay. He had been profoundly shocked by his experience of the narrowly averted dog fight; not only had he been appalled by Eddie’s involvement, but he had been astonished that anybody - even Diesel’s disagreeable owner - could find pleasure in such activities. But then, he told himself, there would appear to be plenty of people who found violence agreeable - as professional pugilists knew very well.

‘Boxing,’ he remarked to Marcia, as she parked her van.

‘What?’

‘I was thinking about boxing. It just came into my mind. I was thinking about how hypocritical we are. We don’t allow dog fighting, but it’s perfectly legal for people to knock the stuffing out of one another in the boxing ring. Doesn’t that strike you as being a bit odd?’

Marcia shrugged; there was so much in life that was odd, she had stopped being surprised by anything. ‘Not necessarily. Dogs don’t consent to being harmed in the same way as boxers do. We push dogs into it. We don’t make boxers fight, do we? Maybe that’s the difference.’

It was an interesting point, and the more that William thought about it, the more intriguing it became. Boxers were not forced to fight, but did they have a truly free choice in the matter? How many of them became boxers because they were obliged to do so by poverty and restricted opportunities? He was not sure whether he knew the answer to that; it could be condescending to assume that boxers were not volunteers just because they tended to come from the lower levels of the social heap. One could get one’s nose punched for that sort of assumption . . .

‘And anyway,’ said Marcia as they reached the landing outside William’s door, ‘we’re funny about animals in this country. We don’t approve of cruelty to animals. Not at all. So dog fighting is out - completely out.’ She paused, and added, ‘We’re home.’

‘Yes,’ said William. ‘We’re . . .’ He did not complete the sentence. I’m home , he thought. This is my home. Marcia may be staying here, but she has her own home over in Putney and she should not be saying we’re home because that implies that this is her home too, and it isn’t.

Marcia was unaware of this mental reservation on William’s part and opened the door with all the assurance of a settled resident. And as she hung up her coat in the hall cupboard and patted Freddie cheerfully on the head, William felt his spirits sagging. He had made a dreadful mistake, he felt. It was like marrying somebody one did not want to marry and being unable to get out of it. He did not want to hurt Marcia - he liked her, and he found himself liking her even more after experiencing all the support she had given him that evening. She was generous; she was a character; she was easy company . . . but he was not in love with her . And, for William, that precluded anything but a platonic relationship. One did not enter into an affair unless one loved the other person - it was a minimum requirement of decency. It was as simple as that; or at least it was as simple as that when you were in your fif—late forties and above.

Freddie de la Hay seemed relieved to be home. Free of his leash, he rushed around the flat, careering into each room and then bursting out again, barking joyously. And when he had completed his tour of inspection, he bounded over to William and enthusiastically licked such portions of his master as he could find: hands, shoes, and, standing on his hind legs in a brief moment of exhilaration, William’s face.

Marcia went into the kitchen and began to prepare dinner. Freddie’s steak was cooked first - a choice cut which sizzled delectably in the frying pan. When it was done, she cut it into squares and put them on the dog’s plate. Freddie, sitting obediently as he had been trained to do before tackling his dinner, stared at the plate for a few moments before he stepped forward, on Marcia’s invitation, and sniffed at the steak.

‘You can eat it, Freddie,’ said Marcia. ‘It’s all right.’

Freddie looked up at William, as if to seek confirmation. ‘Go ahead, my boy,’ said William. ‘Nice steak. Nice Freddie.’

Freddie began to eat the steak - slowly at first and then very quickly, wolfing down the small squares of meat.

‘See?’ said Marcia. ‘So much for Freddie being a vegetarian.’

William nodded. Freddie had indeed tackled the steak with enthusiasm, but now he had taken a few steps back from the plate and was sitting with his head sunk, his gaze focused on the floor.

‘Guilt,’ said William. ‘He feels guilty.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Marcia. ‘Dogs don’t feel guilt.’

William disagreed. He had only owned Freddie for a short time, but he knew that the dog had a broad cupboard of emotions and that it was perfectly possible that he was now feeling guilt and remorse.

‘Dogs feel these things,’ he said. ‘They really do. They have emotional centres in their brains, same as we do.’

‘But surely not one for guilt?’ said Marcia.

‘Why not? When a dog does something that he knows he should not, he often looks unhappy. He puts his tail between his legs. He skulks around.’