The Dog Who Came in from the Cold (24 page)

“Where to?”

“Oh, anywhere. Amsterdam. Paris. What about somewhere in the U.K.? Aldeburgh. How about Aldeburgh? It’s such a lovely place, and they’ve got a divine bookshop. Remember we met the booksellers, that nice couple the Jameses? We could potter about in there, and go to some funny little pub for lunch. And we could go and see the monument to Ben Britten, that amazing scallop shell, and watch the fishermen launch their boats from the stony beach. Just like Peter Grimes. It would be so therapeutic.”

Rupert looked wistful. “I love that scallop shell,” he said. “It’s so much better than a statue. You can sit on it, and you can watch the sea from it, and listen. There are so few statues one can sit on.”

“I agree,” said Gloria. “And yet it’s recognisable. We know what it is. It’s part of our world. Unlike anything that wins the Turner Prize. Not that
all
Turner Prize artists are useless. I know somebody who actually knows what she’s talking about, and she says that some of them have been real artists.”

Rupert thought about this. “Actually, the Turner Prize stuff
is
part of our world,” he said. “That’s the problem. Those installations are merely the banal replication of the ordinary, and nothing more.” He looked at his watch. “We’re so lucky, my darling.”

She looked at him enquiringly. Why were they lucky? Because they had one another? Because they could go off to Aldeburgh together, when lots of people had nobody to go to Aldeburgh with?

Rupert explained, “We’re lucky because we both think the same way about the Turner Prize. Imagine being married to somebody who actually thought all that pretentiousness had any actual merit. Imagine that!”

Gloria shook her head. “Impossible,” she said.

Rupert looked at her fondly. “Do you think we’re reactionary?”

Again, Gloria shook her head. “Not at all. Not us. Nobody really
likes the jejune things those people create, Rupert. Nobody. But it’s the emperor’s new clothes. Remember the story? Nobody will dare say: Look, can these artists actually sculpt, or paint, or make anything of beauty? Or—terrible, naive question—can they actually draw?”

“They can’t,” he said. “Or many of them can’t. That’s what David Hockney was complaining about when he talked about the art colleges …”

“He can draw,” said Gloria.

“He certainly can.” He looked at his watch. “I really must get to the office, darling.
Tempus fugit.
”

“
Tempus
is so utterly predictable, darling. All he ever does is to
fugere.
”

Rupert shook a finger. “Darling, you mustn’t say ‘to
fugere.
’ That’s like saying ‘to to fly.’
Fugere
is the infinitive form, my little darling. Too many ‘to’s. No additional ‘to’ required.”

She planted a kiss on his brow. “Oh, darling, you’re so clever.”

“Not as clever as you, my darling!
A bientôt!
”

T
HE OFFICES
of the Ragg Porter Literary Agency occupied one-third of a comfortable-looking building overlooking a leafy square in Soho. It was convenient for both the agency’s members of staff and for their clients, as it was a stone’s throw or, as Rupert’s father, Fatty Porter, used so wittily to put it, a manuscript’s throw from Piccadilly Circus. He used the expression to describe to new authors how to find the offices, and they usually laughed, little realising that Fatty did, in fact, throw manuscripts out of the window if he considered them dull or they otherwise annoyed him. Behaviour was different in those days, and a literary agent who threw manuscripts out of the
window was considered merely eccentric, or colourful, rather than an over-educated litter-lout. The sense of entitlement, now so deeply embedded in consumerism, that would regard such behaviour as insensitive and arrogant was then quite unheard of. In those days people took what they got from a literary agent, just as they did from doctors, teachers, policemen and virtually all other figures of authority. That this was grossly unfair—and intimidating—is surely beyond debate, especially in an age when the tables have been so completely reversed as to require doctors, teachers, policemen and other figures of authority to take what they get from members of the public, and to take it in a spirit of meekness and complete self-abasement.

The office occupied the top storey of the building, the two floors below having been let for as long as anyone could remember to a film-editing company and a dealer in Graeco-Roman antiquities. The dealer in antiquities, Ernest Bartlett, was himself of great antiquity, and there was occasionally some debate as to whether he could technically still be alive. However lights still went on and off in his office, and sometimes on the stairs one might hear drifting from behind his door snatches of sound from the ancient device that Gregory Ragg had christened “Bartlett’s steam radio.” This radio was permanently tuned to a radio station of the sort everybody thought had stopped broadcasting. It played light classical music and big bands, but played them in a quiet, rather distant way, as if from a far corner of the ether. The effect was haunting.

Ernest Bartlett was always invited to the Ragg Porter Christmas party, and would normally attend. He would arrive wearing a very old silver-grey double-breasted suit and a Garrick Club tie, and bearing an armful of carefully wrapped gifts. In conversation with the staff, he would refer to Rupert as “Fatty Porter’s much-admired son,” and to Barbara as “Gregory Ragg’s distinguished daughter.” He drank bitter lemon at these parties and rarely ate more than one or
two small biscuits, which he described as “egregiously Bacchanalian behaviour on my part.”

As Rupert made his way up the stairs that morning, he caught the faint sound of Ernest Bartlett’s steam radio. Vera Lynn, he thought, and smiled. It was a good omen for a day that had not, he admitted to himself, had a brilliant beginning, what with that uncomfortable
froideur
from Gloria, now happily laid to rest with the paying of mutually satisfactory compliments.

He pressed the buzzer on the office door. He had a key somewhere, but he could see Andrea, the agency’s receptionist, through the glass. She looked up at him, waved and triggered the mechanism to open the door.

“Nice and early this morning, Rupert.”

“Raring to go, Andrea. Unlike some.” It was a vague, slightly snide reference to Barbara, who was still away on her romantic trip to the Highlands. Andrea understood, but said nothing. She nodded her head in the direction of the small waiting room behind her. “You have somebody waiting to see you,” she said.

Rupert frowned. He had been under the impression that his morning was free until at least eleven o’clock, when he was due to meet a publisher to discuss a manuscript that was four years late. He had already marshalled his arguments: the author had been busy; the topic was more complicated than he had at first assumed; he was a perfectionist, indeed he was a manuscript-retentive. There were so many reasons.

“An appointment?”

Andrea shook her head. “No. Actually it’s one of Barbara’s authors. The American—”

She did not finish. The door of the waiting room swung open and Errol Greatorex appeared in the doorway.

Rupert did not move. He had been bending forward slightly to hear what Andrea had to say, and he stayed as he was, as if caught by
a sudden attack of back pain. For his part, Errol Greatorex also froze, arrested by surprise rather than, as in Rupert’s case, by mortifying embarrassment.

Errol Greatorex glanced briefly at Andrea. Then he looked at Rupert and frowned. “Teddy?”

Rupert closed his eyes briefly. He drew himself up. “What?”

It bought him time, but not much.

“Teddy? Last night.”

Rupert shook his head. Andrea watched. How could she make any sense of this?
Teddy. Last night
. How could one possibly interpret a situation where a man who is not called Teddy is recognised as Teddy by another person who then says, “Last night?” To say “Last night” is potentially explosive, as it implies that last night … And to say it to somebody who must have been using a false name … And Teddy is so patently false. Well, what on earth was one to think?

“I beg your pardon?” said Rupert.

Americans do not mince their words—it is one of their great qualities, and indeed one of the great causes of misunderstanding between the United States and the United Kingdom, where words are regularly minced so finely as to be virtually unintelligible. So Errol Greatorex went straight to the point. “But we met last night in Barbara’s flat. Remember?”

Andrea looked at Rupert with interest. She knew that Barbara was in Scotland with her fiancé. What was Rupert doing in Barbara’s flat with Errol Greatorex?

“I’m sorry,” said Rupert. “I think you’re mixing me up with somebody else.”

It sounded lame. He could hear it himself. But what else could he say?

“I don’t think so,” said Errol. “You were wearing the same tie, anyway. That stripy thing.”

Rupert looked down at his tie, as if seeing it for the first time.
“Oh, that! It’s a very common tie, you know. Half the men in London wear this tie.”

Errol Greatorex looked confused. “Strange,” he said. “Very strange.”

“London is a large city,” said Rupert airily. “One’s bound to have a double. Several doubles, in fact. We are not unique—much as we might like to be.”

Errol was staring at him.

“You wanted to see me?” said Rupert. “I’m Rupert Porter, by the way. Barbara’s co-director.” He reached out to Errol Greatorex, who took his hand and gave it a perfunctory shake. His stare was still fixed on Rupert, and his tie.

“Strange,” he muttered again.

“Well, be that as it may,” said Rupert, now adopting a businesslike manner, “if you’d care to come with me, we can have a chat over a cup of coffee. Andrea, would you be a real darling and make Mr. Greatorex a cup of coffee? If he wants one, that is. We don’t like to
force
our authors to do anything.” He gave a nervous laugh.

Errol Greatorex nodded to Andrea. “No milk,” he said. “But have you got any ghee? That’s what the yeti drinks. Tea or coffee with ghee in it. Melted butter.”

“W
ELL
, M
R
. G
REATOREX
,” said Rupert, as they sat down in his office. “This is an unexpected pleasure, I must say. Barbara has spoken to me many times about your manuscript. I find it most intriguing.”

Errol Greatorex fixed Rupert with an intense stare. “Oh really? I was under the impression that her partners—and I assume she meant you—were sceptical.” He paused. “To say the least.”

Rupert shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, I should have thought that’s a bit—how shall we put it?—extreme. There’s all the difference in the world between a healthy degree of caution and undue scepticism. No, I have a completely open mind. Show me a yeti and I’ll believe in him.”

He was rather pleased with this last statement. Show me a yeti and I’ll believe in him. It had a resounding ring to it, and one might say it about so many things that were dubious or frankly nonexistent. Show me a UFO and I’ll believe in them. Exactly. Belief required proof, and what better proof than that provided by one’s own eyes?

“I shall,” said Errol Greatorex.

Rupert was brought back from his contemplation of proof. “Shall what?” he asked.

“I shall show you a yeti,” said Errol Greatorex. “You asked me to show you a yeti. I said that I shall.”

Rupert smiled. “Of course.” All this talk of the yeti was utterly ridiculous, and that was all it was—talk. The yeti was said to be in London—very well, let him be produced. There were plenty of radio shows for him to go on.

“Last night …,” Rupert began, and then stopped himself just in time. He had been about to say “Last night you said the yeti was sleeping in Barbara’s flat.” But of course he—Rupert—supposedly had not been there and could not possibly have known about this.

Errol Greatorex pounced on his words. “Last night what?”

“Last night I was thinking about these issues,” said Rupert quickly. “Knowledge. Proof. That sort of thing.”

Errol Greatorex clearly did not believe him. “The person who called at Barbara’s flat last night could have seen the yeti,” he said. “Had he stayed, of course, instead of rushing off.”

Rupert looked out of the window. He found the other man’s stare singularly disconcerting. “Oh yes?” He paused. “I’m not sure where all this is leading, Mr. Greatorex. Is there anything I can do for you
while Barbara is away? I take it that work is proceeding on the manuscript. You said that the yeti was dictating the final chapters.”

Errol Greatorex’s eyes narrowed. “I said that, did I? When?” He had said it last night, in Barbara’s flat, but of course Rupert had not been there.

Rupert saw that he had fallen into a trap—a trap entirely of his own creation. He squirmed. “Barbara told me,” he said.

Errol Greatorex shrugged. “OK. Yes, he’s got to the part where his parents are killed in an avalanche. It’s painful stuff.”

“I suppose that’s a risk for abominable snowmen,” mused Rupert. “Avalanches and so on. And global warming, too. I expect they’re concerned when they read about it in the papers.” He paused. “I assume yetis read the papers. Perhaps they don’t.”

Errol Greatorex pursed his lips. “You are very sceptical, Mr. Porter. You clearly don’t believe me, do you?”

“Please, Mr. Greatorex—I’ve never said that. All I’m saying is that yetis are somewhat … somewhat
unproved
. And you can hardly blame me for thinking it, can you? Has anybody actually ever
seen
one, I ask myself?”

“I have.”

“Yes, but anybody else?”

Errol Greatorex still stared. “You mean anybody reliable? Is that what you mean?”

Rupert did not answer, and so Errol Greatorex continued. “There’s a whole body of evidence,” he said. “There have been numerous, perfectly well-documented sightings. They’re all there in the literature.”

“And photographs?”

“Some.”

Rupert spread his hands on the table. “Very well. Let’s just say that this particular jury is still out. And now, is there anything I can do for you until Barbara returns?”