Alexander McCall Smith: Corduroy Mansions

Berthea shook a finger at Terence. ‘We mustn’t allow ourselves to think like this,’ she said. ‘Oedipus is my son and your nephew.’

‘Yes,’ said Terence. ‘God will punish him when he dies. Not before.’

Berthea thought about this. ‘Actually, it would be much more satisfying if God punished him in this life so that we all could see. And you know what the best punishment for him would be? You know what?’

Terence shook his head.

‘If God were to make him prime minister!’ shrieked Berthea.

Terence roared with laughter. ‘Oh Berthy, what a brilliant idea! It must be such a horrid job. Especially now.’

William surprised himself by how quickly he got over the loss of the Poussin. His initial reaction had been one of utter dismay but within hours of the event he had come to see it all in perspective. The painting’s attribution had never been confirmed, nobody appeared to be missing it and Freddie de la Hay himself appeared to be making a rapid recovery from the ingestion of a major work of French art.

Life, William thought, was taking a distinct turn for the better. In the space of only a few days, Marcia had settled down in Corduroy Mansions very easily and was proving to be an unobtrusive and considerate flatmate. The rules of engagement had been quickly and amicably agreed: each had his or her own bedroom, William had his study, and the drawing room and kitchen were shared space. Marcia insisted on paying rent, and William put this straight back into the kitty they had set up for the purchase of household supplies. The purchase of these was undertaken by Marcia, which greatly relieved William as he had never enjoyed shopping.

‘It’s very nice having you here,’ William observed over breakfast. ‘It seems as if you’ve lived here for ever.’

‘And I’m happy to be here,’ said Marcia.

No more was said. Any further observation would have been unnecessary, possibly too much: delicate understandings are sometimes best left largely unspoken. And the same may be said of feelings; a refined brush works best there too. I am happy, thought William; that was all he needed to think.

The moment seemed right to William to hold a party, and he put the idea to Marcia that day.

‘Let’s invite the other people in the house,’ he said. ‘Maybe one or two others. Not a big do - a buffet, perhaps. I’ve got some rather good champagne at the shop at the moment, which would probably go down well.’

Marcia agreed, and invitations were duly written out and dropped through the letterboxes of the residents. These evidently fell on fertile ground, as within a day everyone had accepted. Basil Wickramsinghe replied that he was ‘deeply honoured and profoundly moved’ to have been invited. Dee said that she would love to come and might she bring some elderflower cordial that she had recently made? Jenny was given her invitation at work and told William that it was ‘the best idea in decades’. James was included on the coat-tails of Caroline’s invitation; both said that they would ‘definitely be there’. As did Jo, who remarked that she had not been invited to a dinner party for almost eight months and revealed that she had almost cried when she received the invitation.

Downstairs in the first-floor flat, on the day before the party, the invitation sparked some discussion when the four flatmates found themselves around the kitchen table at the same time - a rare occasion.

‘People are too tired these days to entertain as much as they used to,’ said Jenny. ‘When I was at university we did our best. Nowadays it seems to be just too much of a hassle.’

‘We had great parties at uni,’ said Jo. ‘We used to go over for weekends to Rottnest Island and have barbies. Someone would get out a guitar and we’d sing. Out there in the darkness, under all those stars.’

‘A beautiful image,’ said Caroline. ‘I can just see it.’

‘And you, Caroline?’ asked Jo. ‘Remember any great parties?’

Caroline thought for a moment. The trouble with parties, she felt, was that they faded into one another so easily. There had been parties - great parties - but when did one end and the next one begin? That was the difficult part. She had met James at a party that the Institute had given at the beginning of the course. It had been a rather stiff affair, with the lecturing staff being somewhat formal and the students still all strangers to one another. She had liked the look of James and had struck up a conversation with him. Later, a group of them had gone on to somebody’s flat and the party had continued there.

‘The parties that you remember are the ones where you meet someone,’ she said. ‘You forget the others - or at least I do.’

Dee had remained silent. Now she spoke: ‘The problem with parties is that they represent a shock to the system. I like them, same as anybody else, but the human body isn’t really adapted to sudden high-volume inputs of either food or drink. We’re grazing creatures.’

All three stared at her. ‘Should grazing creatures avoid parties?’ asked Jenny drily.

As this discussion was taking place downstairs, upstairs Marcia was making a list of ingredients she would buy later that day. She had taken two days off and would begin cooking that evening, preparing some of the food in advance. She wrote a list: quails’ eggs (two dozen), fennel, parmesan (large block), Arborio rice, dried mushrooms.

She made a mental note to be careful about the mushrooms. She had read that radioactive mushrooms - some from sylvan glades in the vicinity of Chernobyl - had been illegally imported into Western Europe and were being mixed with innocent mushrooms. One had to be careful that the container gave the exact source. Mushrooms from various countries was not reassuring.

Basil Wickramsinghe, for his part, was worried about what he should wear. He was an elegant dresser but he felt that on this occasion he should avoid anything too formal, and had paid a visit to Jermyn Street to see if there was something suitable. There was.

‘This shirt is a very nice cream, sir,’ said the young man behind the counter of one shop. ‘And, if I may say so, it would be set off extremely well by this tie here. See? Look at that. Perfect.’

‘I think that this occasion will be one where ties are not worn,’ said Basil. ‘And yet a bit of colour would not go amiss.’

‘You can have colour in a shirt, of course,’ said the young man. ‘Or you can have it in the jacket. How about this blazer? That burgundy stripe will go very well with the cream shirt.’

Basil looked at the blazer. It had a slightly raffish look to it - it was the sort of blazer that rowers wore, set off perhaps by a straw boater. James Lock, the hat people, were just round the corner in St James’s Street; should he go down there and buy a boater too? He could hardly wear a boater to a dinner party, but the summer season was under way and there would be plenty of opportunities to don a boater. There was the picnic, of course, the annual summer gathering of the James I and VI Society. A boater would be ideal for that.

He bought the shirt and the blazer and then decided to walk home, back through Green Park and Victoria, past the crowds of people, each in the world of himself, each with hopes, of varying degrees of intensity and realism, of something better for himself, and for others.

William welcomed the guests at the door and led them through to the kitchen. There he poured them a glass of champagne or, in Dee’s case, a glass of the elderflower cordial she had brought with her.

‘You can add some to your champagne,’ offered Dee. ‘This goes with anything.’