The Dog Who Came in from the Cold (18 page)

“It’s such a lovely flat, though,” said Rupert. “If you threw out all this stuff you could make something really nice of it.”

“A criminal waste,” agreed Gloria.

“And Pa would have loved the thought of our living here,” continued Rupert. “That’s what he wanted. But he trusted Gregory—bad mistake.”

It was at this point that they heard the sound of a door opening somewhere in the flat. Rupert froze.

“She’s in Scotland,” he whispered. “I’m sure …”

He did not finish his sentence. A man had appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing a blue dressing gown over a pair of extravagantly striped pyjamas.

“Teddy?” the man said. “Barbara said that you two might be coming to stay while she was away.”

Rupert was a quick thinker. “Yes. Sorry to have woken you up.”

The man smiled. “No problem. I’m a light sleeper. Errol Greatorex, by the way. I’m one of Barbara’s authors.”

Again Rupert thought quickly. “The yeti man?
The Autobiography of a Yeti
?”

Errol Greatorex looked surprised. “Barbara’s told you about that?”

Rupert exchanged a quick glance with Gloria; he hoped that she would have worked out that this was their only option. He was Teddy and she was …

“She mentioned it,” he said.

“I’m almost done,” said Errol. “Finishing touches. He’s in London, you know.”

“Who?”

“The yeti. He’s dictating the last chapter.”

Rupert was silent.

“Yes,” said Errol, gesturing behind him in the direction of the bedrooms. “He’d sleep through an earthquake, though, so we won’t have woken him up.”

This is absurd, thought Rupert. Utterly absurd. This man is completely deluded, and I’m stuck here, masquerading as somebody called Teddy, with Gloria, who doesn’t even know what her name is meant to be. I shouldn’t have done this.
Don’t go there
, as the expression has it. Well, I did, and now I’m there.

F
REDDIE DE LA
H
AY
—Pimlico terrier, cohabitee of William French’s and now a temporary member of MI6’s establishment—had been baffled when William suddenly handed him over to a completely unknown woman in St. James’s Park. Such a thing had never happened to him before, or at least not that he could remember. Dogs remember places and people, and scents; they have no sense of the sequence in which these are experienced, nor of the time that separates the present from the past. Heathrow Airport, where Freddie had once been employed as a sniffer dog, was there somewhere in his memory—a place of noise and movement and strange smells—but it was vague and unlocated, not much different
from a half-remembered dream. Then there had been exile to his first domestic home in north London, a period of coldness and fear, as he was groomed for his role as an eco-dog: the carrot snacks rather than bones; the biodegradable dog blanket; the arbitrary, harshly enforced prohibition on chasing cats and squirrels. It had been rather like being Stalin’s dog, not that Freddie would have made the analogy—or any analogy at all for that matter.

Since then, there was William, who had brought colour and fun back into Freddie’s life, and had been rewarded with the dog’s total and unconditional affection. But now William was abruptly no longer there, and already Freddie missed him as a Finnish sun-worshipper must miss the sun in winter; a warm presence had become a cold absence, and he did not understand why it should be so. Had he done something? Had he misbehaved in such a way as to merit this exclusion, this casting into darkness?

Freddie’s relationship with William was, in traditional terms, that of dog and master. In traditional terms …

“You shouldn’t call yourself Freddie’s master, old man,” William’s twenty-eight-year-old son, Eddie, had once remarked. “Master is very yesterday.”

William stared. He wanted to tell Eddie that the term “old man” was itself very yesterday, but he was not sure that it was. Pejorative names for parents were, he thought, very
today
. He had heard parents being described as wrinklies, olds and ’rents, all of which he thought unflattering at the very least.

“Owner?” he wondered.

Eddie shook a finger. “Nope. Owner’s very yesterday too. It implies that you own him.”

“Which I do,” William pointed out mildly.

Eddie laughed. “You’re not very switched on, Dad. Lots of people don’t like that.”

William had been puzzled. Why could he not
own
a dog? If he could sell Freddie de la Hay (which of course he would never do,
but it was possible) then surely he must own him. When he next took Freddie to the vet for injections, he had asked her about it.

“Can I call myself Freddie’s owner?”

The vet sighed. “It’s a bit of a minefield,” she said. “We get people coming in here who insist on being called their dog’s companion. Sometimes they call themselves the animal’s guardian or carer. There are quite a lot of dog carers in certain parts of London. Islington, for example. I don’t mind, really. The idea is that the pet—oops, can’t say that—that the animal has rights, has its own existence that humans shouldn’t seek to control.” She paused, slipping the needle of the syringe under Freddie’s skin. “I have no problems with that. I think that we should respect an animal’s right to have a decent life.”

“It used to be called kindness,” said William. He agreed with what the vet said; there was so much suffering in the world—a great sea of it—and it washed around the feet of animals as much as it did around humans. We should not add to it.

The vet withdrew the needle and patted Freddie on the head. “Exactly. Everyone should be kind to animals. I can’t disagree on that score. There you are, Freddie. That’s you.”

As William walked back to Corduroy Mansions with Freddie de la Hay after the visit to the vet, he reflected on their conversation. He did not see why he should not call himself Freddie’s owner, and would continue to use the term, whatever Eddie had to say on the subject. Eddie was not one to preach on this issue anyway; he had been prepared to involve Freddie in a dogfight, of all things, and he had no experience of keeping an animal. And William was not so sure that those who described themselves as the companions of dogs were necessarily kinder towards their animals than those who described themselves as a dog’s master.

A dog’s master … What about cats? Of course nobody could tell a cat what to do, and so the term “master” was inappropriate. Cats have staff, as the saying went. Perhaps cats kept us, and it was they who should be described as the masters.

At home, over a cup of tea with Marcia, who had dropped in on her way back from an engagement serving sandwiches to the British Egyptian Board of Commerce, William raised the question of cats and ownership.

“Ha!” said Marcia. “Have you been reading about that advice thingy?”

“What advice thingy?”

“I think they call it the
Code of Practice for Cat Owners
. The government brought it out recently.”

“Our government?” asked William incredulously.

“Yes, believe it or not. They said that all cat owners should follow the
Code
’s advice. It talks about providing your cat with intellectual stimulation and so on.”

At first William found it hard to believe, but Marcia didn’t appear to be making the story up. “I laughed and laughed,” she said. “I actually read it because my aunt has cats and she was very worried about whether she was going to be prosecuted for something or other. So I agreed to read it.”

“And you reassured your aunt?”

“Yes,” said Marcia. “But I kept something from her. She’s ancient and rather vulnerable. So I didn’t tell her this. It says at the beginning, ‘It is your responsibility to read the complete code of practice to fully understand your cat’s welfare.’ Those are the exact words. So if you’re a cat owner and you haven’t read the
Code
, the government considers you to be in breach of your duty.”

William was silent. He was utterly appalled. This was not Stalin’s Russia, this was England. And there was another thing. “To fully understand your cat’s welfare …” Not only were the people behind this
Code
breathtakingly interventionist and condescending, bossy indeed … they also split their infinitives.

T
HE DARKNESS
into which Freddie de la Hay found himself cast when taken from William in St. James’s Park proved to be metaphorical rather than real. Led away by the pretty woman with whom William had enjoyed a brief conversation, the Pimlico terrier was bundled into a car that had been prowling along the edge of the park. Thereafter they took a drive to Notting Hill, to a small flat off Kensington Park Road. This flat was by no means dark; large windows in all four of its rooms admitted both morning and afternoon light, and on each of the window ledges there stood a well-tended box of brightly coloured flowers—pansies, trailing aubretia, rare summer-flowering crocuses. The walls were painted a uniform white and the exposed timber floors stained a natural pine shade, and the overall effect was one of a pleasant lightness and airiness.

The woman who brought Freddie to this flat had not given William her name, which was Tilly Curtain, nor had she told him that she was a Senior Field Officer (Grade 2) in MI6, slightly—but only slightly—junior to Sebastian Duck, who was a Senior Field Officer (Grade 1) in the same branch of the service. Tilly had been at university, in her case the University of East Anglia in Norwich, where she spent three years studying for a joint degree in philosophy and French. She was the daughter of a male nurse from Nottingham, George Curtain, and his wife, Patricia, a dental hygienist. She had one brother, Tom, who was slightly older than her—she was now thirty-eight—and worked for a firm of civil engineers in Singapore.

George had spent a large part of his career in a psychiatric hospital, where he had been highly regarded for his exceptional skills at calming distressed patients. He had subsequently transferred to a community psychiatric team, where again he was much appreciated,
to the extent of being nominated for and awarded an MBE. George had not tried to influence his daughter in her choice of career, but she had acquired from him a sense of public service that was eventually to lead her into the arms of MI6. Her first choice had been dental hygiene, her mother’s calling, although once again there had been no deliberate parental influence in that direction. That is not to say that nothing was said in the home about her mother’s profession—it was.

“I sometimes think of myself as bit of a missionary,” her mother used to say. “A missionary for good dental hygiene. Floss. Proper brushing. If only people
knew.
”

Tilly knew. She flossed after every meal—
every meal—
and supported this with the use of a well-maintained electric toothbrush. The effects were evident; her teeth, in fact, were one of the most attractive features in an already appealing face, and although William was not aware of noticing her teeth during their brief meeting, subconsciously he had been taken by the brightness of her smile.

Tilly was similarly unaware of the power of her smile. It was the smile that had ensured that she was given every job she applied for during her gap year, that had secured her election (unopposed) to the students’ representative council at university, and that had in due course resulted in her sweeping through every stage of selection for MI6.

“Tilly has such a wonderful smile,” George often observed to Patricia.

“Regular flossing,” Patricia would reply. “It always shows.”

“It’s going to get her far in life,” George continued. “You know how people say that somebody’s face is their fortune. In Tilly’s case, it’s her smile.”

Patricia agreed. “So many people don’t bother to smile. But they should try it. Add a smile to a request. Result: get what you want. Add a smile to a greeting. Result: a happier encounter.”

It was a particular mannerism of speech, one George did not notice because he had lived with it for so long: Patricia often used the word “result,” followed by a consequence. To her patients she said, “Regular flossing. Result: no gum disease.” And to her husband, whom she sometimes had to urge to take more exercise, she said, “A brisk walk each day. Result: cardiac health.”

As so many of us do, Tilly had fallen into her career. During her university days she would never have seen herself as the type for security work, about which she knew nothing and in which she then had not the slightest interest. She had enjoyed her philosophy courses at Norwich. Less so the French part of her curriculum, largely because of an unpleasant experience in Montpellier, where she had been inconsiderately treated by a French student with whom she had become emotionally involved. His cavalier attitude to her feelings for him—which he dismissed as
vachement ennuyeux—
had led her to take against France in general, a ridiculous attitude, but very human and understandable. For that is what people do, even though they should not. If we meet one Eskimo whom we do not like, then of course we are going to take against the Arctic in general.

Philosophy was different. She had no particular enthusiasm for the aridities of some parts of the discipline, but she found herself responding warmly to the more engaged and accessible works of those philosophers who had something to say about the world in which ordinary, morally sensitive people lived. In particular, she read Iris Murdoch’s
The Sovereignty of Good
with a curious sense of discovering afresh something that she had always known. Of course this was how one should approach the business of being human; of course it was.

But philosophy is a tiny trade, and, in spite of a good performance in her final examinations, her student career had not been stellar, and any opportunities to take philosophy further were effectively confined to those who were indeed stellar. So when a recruiter
for MI6, a member of the academic staff, said that he knew of a job that might interest her, she had agreed to be interviewed.

This, then, was the person who took Freddie de la Hay into her flat in Notting Hill and introduced him to the place where he would be sleeping that night. After which she led him into the kitchen and gave him three large dog biscuits from a newly purchased box of Happy Dog Treats.