The Dog Who Came in from the Cold (9 page)

Angelica took a piece of paper out of her handbag. “The details are here,” she said, handing it to him.

William glanced at the paper. “Written in invisible ink?” he asked. “Do I have to iron it to get the ink to appear? That’s what we did when we were in the scouts. We wrote in lemon juice, if I remember correctly, and an iron would bring out the writing.”

Angelica laughed. “No, this is perfectly legible. But I’d appreciate it if you’d make a mental note of what is written there, and then burn it.”

William let out a hoot of laughter. “You’re not serious, Angelica!”

Angelica nodded. “Deadly serious,” she said. “And tell me, since
you mentioned the scouts, when you were in the movement did you make a promise? Did you promise to do your duty?”

William remembered standing in a circle and raising his arm in the scout salute. He remembered the words of the scout promise, dredged up now from the deep recesses of memory; it was so long ago, and the world was so different then. It was before sorrow and failure and the sense of things getting thinner.

“I suppose I did,” he said. “I wonder if modern scouts promise to do their duty?”

“I have no idea,” said Angelica. “But do remember what you promised. A promise is a promise, isn’t it?”

William stared at his visitor in silence. He wondered if this was the way they recruited people these days, and if so, whether anybody responded to such tactics. Nobody believed in anything any more, as far as he could make out, and promises appeared to mean nothing. And if that was the case, then why was he so readily agreeing to meet these people?

The reason came to him suddenly. He loved his country. He loved it because it might be a bit frayed round the edges but still it was filled with good-natured, tolerant people; with eccentrics and enthusiasts; with people who really did drink warm beer and ride bicycles (well, some of them did, although the cyclists now were mounted on racing bikes and drank high-energy drinks from aluminium flasks rather than warm beer—but they were still loveable).

So he agreed to do what they wanted him to do and to meet them where they said they wanted him to meet them.

“Remember to bring your dog,” said Angelica. “Don’t forget to bring Freddie de la Hay.”

William nodded his agreement. But then the thought struck him forcibly: How did they know Freddie’s name? He had not mentioned it to Angelica, and yet she knew. Was it the business of these people to find out
everything
—even the name of one’s dog?

M
ARCIA LOOKED AT
W
ILLIAM
in frank disbelief. “What?” she asked. “Could you tell me again what you’ve just told me?”

Marcia, who was William’s old friend, former flatmate—for a very brief time—and general confidante, had called in at Corduroy Mansions the same day he had received the visit from Angelica. Marcia was a caterer, and she owned a small company that specialised in cooking for events. In the days when boardroom lunches were more common, she had concentrated on those, but now, with companies being encouraged to be slender in every sense, she had been obliged to diversify. Catering for weddings and funerals was now the staple of her business, but she had also developed a profitable line in providing canapés for diplomatic cocktail parties and political receptions.

That day she had prepared a small finger-lunch for the Icelandic ambassador in honour of a visiting Icelandic poet, Sigurlin Valdis Antonsdóttir. The ambassador’s assistant had asked for several varieties of northern fish to feature on the menu, to mark the fact that the guest of honour was the author of
Cold Waves
, a highly regarded saga of migrating cod, which had won Iceland’s premier literary prize and had recently been translated into Finnish. Marcia had risen to the challenge and served herring rolls, cod roe, and a great deal of smoked salmon. Some of it had been left uneaten and was not wanted by the embassy, so Marcia dropped round to deliver it to William. He always welcomed the surplus snacks that Marcia brought him, and indeed had once remarked that he could live almost entirely off the scraps from her table. This pleased Marcia. She had been brought up by her very domesticated mother to believe that of all the satisfactions open to women, feeding men was ultimately the most profound. She knew that this was, quite simply,
wrong, but the beliefs instilled in childhood and youth are hard to dislodge, and Marcia had eventually stopped fighting the convictions that lay deep within her.

“I know I’m pathetic,” she once said to a friend. “I know I should be all independent and self-sufficient and so on, but that’s just not
me
. I want to feed men. I just love putting large plates of food in front of them. I love it.” She paused. “Does that mean there’s something wrong with me?”

Her friend looked at her pityingly. “Yes,” she said. “It makes you inauthentic, Marcia.”

Marcia winced. “Does it really?”

The friend nodded. “Yes, it does. You have to live for yourself, you know. You have to do things that fulfil you, not others. Women are not there to look after men.”

Marcia thought about this. “But who’ll look after them if we don’t?” she asked.

Her friend rolled her eyes. “Marcia, dear …”

Marcia tried another approach. “But what if you’re fulfilled by doing things for other people? Why can’t I feel fulfilled by making food for other people …” She corrected herself. It was not the feeding of people that gave her pleasure, it was the feeding of
men
. “Making food for men, that is.”

The friend’s frustration showed itself. “That’s really sad,” she said. “It’s sad because you don’t know that you’re being used by a system—the old, deep-rooted system of male domination. Of course men want us to feed them. Who wouldn’t?” She looked at Marcia, as if to challenge her to contradict this. But Marcia just listened, and so the friend continued: “Most men, you see, don’t grow up; they’re fed by their mothers when they’re little boys and they realise how satisfactory that is. And being fed by somebody else
is
really very comfortable. So they manipulate women into carrying on doing it for the rest of their lives.”

“But if women want …”

“No, Marcia, that’s not going to work. Women
think
they want to make food for men, but that’s false consciousness. You know what that is? No? Well, I’ll explain it to you some other time. The point is that women are made to think that they like doing things, but they don’t really. They want to do their own things, things for themselves.”

The conversation had ended at that point, and Marcia had gone about her business, which was feeding people. Her friend might have been right but she felt that there was not much she could do about the state of inauthenticity that her friend had diagnosed. And now that she came to think of it, perhaps it was quite pleasant to be inauthentic, and if one was happy in one’s inauthenticity, why should one try to change it? It was an interesting question, but there were canapés to be prepared and that was a more immediate task than the rectification of false consciousness.

Now, as she removed the cover from a dish of rolled herring, she felt a warm glow of satisfaction at William’s obvious pleasure.

“My absolute favourite!” he exclaimed, picking up one of the strips of herring on its cocktail-stick skewer.

Marcia smiled. “Well, I’m glad. The Icelandic poet turned up her nose at these. And yet her poems are all about cod and herring, apparently.”

“Perhaps she couldn’t bring herself to eat the subject of her poems,” suggested William, reaching for another. “Poor woman. It would be like Wordsworth eating daffodils. One just can’t.”

William went on to tell Marcia about Angelica’s visit and the assignation that he had the next day. Marcia put down the plate of herring and listened intently.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, when he had described the incredible conversation for the second time. “I take it you won’t be going.”

William shook his head. “No. I mean, yes, I am going.”

Marcia stared at him incredulously. “But this is a lot of nonsense,
William. You can’t get involved in these ridiculous schoolboy games. Get a grip, for heaven’s sake!”

William looked away. He did not like Marcia telling him what to do, and he felt that this really was none of her business. But she was a difficult person to argue with and he had to admit that it was a rather absurd situation.

“But I told them I’d come,” he said. “They’re expecting me.”

“Then stand them up,” she retorted.

He looked at her reproachfully. Marcia might have been a friend but there were times when he realised that there lay between them a gulf of difference in attitudes to things both large and small. One of these was their attitude to obligation: if William said that he was going to do something, he did it. Marcia, although not unreliable, was more flexible. That was the difference between them.

Marcia stared back at William. She knew what he was thinking, which would be something to do with doing what one said one was going to do; she could read him so very easily.

“Don’t go, William,” she said quietly. “You’re going to regret it if you do.”

M
ARCIA HAD PUT IT BLUNTLY
. “Listen, William,” she said, “you haven’t crossed the … the Nile yet.”

“Rubicon, Marcia,” corrected William. “One crosses the Rubicon.” He paused. “And then, if one is
really
into mixing metaphors, one burns one’s boats.”

“Rubicon, Nile—whatever,” said Marcia breezily. “The point is you’ve crossed nothing yet. So you can still get out of this. Don’t go. Just don’t go.”

But he had ignored her advice, and found himself taking a delicious, almost perverse pleasure in doing so. The problem with Marcia, he thought, is that she thinks she’s my
mother
. For some men, of course, that would be a positive recommendation, the many men whose deepest ambition is to find their mother in another woman; but for William exactly the opposite was true. His mother had sought to run his life for him, and he had engaged wholeheartedly in both a conscious and subconscious cutting of apron strings. So any suggestions from Marcia were viewed through the very strong antimaternal filter developed over time. This filter had led William to become a wine merchant precisely because his mother had been a teetotaller; it had prompted him to apply—unsuccessfully—to the University of Cambridge because his mother had set her heart on his going to Oxford; and it had resulted in his living in Pimlico because his mother had once expressed an antipathy for that part of London.

The trip from which Marcia sought to dissuade him was hardly a dangerous one. William was no Mungo Park, setting off into uncharted regions of the upper Senegal Basin; Mungo Park’s mother, he imagined, was probably dead set against her son wandering off to Africa like that—as, no doubt, was Mrs. Livingstone. But if they had advised their sons not to go, then they had been ignored. And likewise William would take no notice of Marcia’s advice, even though he was only proposing to take a taxi to Birdcage Walk, stroll across the road into St. James’s Park, and then along a footpath in the direction of the Mall. At the point where the path skirted the ornamental lake, he was told, he would come across a bench facing a copper beech tree, and that was where he was to sit until he was approached.

He left the flat with Freddie de la Hay half an hour before he was due to be in the park. As always, Freddie was delighted at the prospect of a walk and sniffed the air appreciatively as they set off from Corduroy Mansions.

“They were very insistent that you should come along, Freddie,” William explained. “That’s why you’re here.”

Freddie de la Hay glanced up at his owner. He was aware that a remark had been addressed to him, but of course he had no idea what it was. He was a well-mannered dog, though, and he wagged his tail in that friendly way dogs have of encouraging their owners. Freddie de la Hay valued William highly, not simply because he was his master, but because Freddie was what the Americans refer to as a
pre-owned
dog, and as such he had a distant memory of somebody else who had not been as kind as William; who had made him eat carrots and use a seatbelt when he travelled in the car; who had forbidden him to chase cats and squirrels, lecturing him sharply if he set off in the pursuit of either. It had been a world of un-freedom, a world from which all joy and canine exuberance had been excluded, and he did not want to return to that dark and cold place. William was to be valued for that—for rescuing him from bondage, from durance vile.

They caught a taxi in Ebury Street. The traffic was light, and in just a few minutes William and Freddie completed the short journey to Birdcage Walk. As they alighted from the taxi, Freddie sniffed again, raising his muzzle and taking in the air, which to a dog’s sensitive nose was very different from the air in Pimlico. He gave a low growl of anticipation; he could already smell the squirrels and, rich and tantalising, the lingering scent of an urban fox. Deep inside him, the dog’s heart leaped with joy; it was only St. James’s Park, but Freddie might have had the whole Serengeti at his feet, or the rolling fields of the Quorn, so great was his sense of anticipation.

William looked about him. It was mid-morning on a Saturday, and such people as were out and about in the street were in casual attire, rather than in the uniform of the civil servants who abounded in those parts during the week. A small group of visitors sporting rucksacks emblazoned with the Australian flag passed him on the pavement. One of them bent down to pat Freddie on the back.

“Nice dog, mate.”

William smiled “Yes, he is. Thank you.”

“What’s his name?”

“Freddie de …” William stopped himself in time. He had been about to give Freddie’s full name, but he realised how odd it would sound, particularly to an Australian. The Australians were always—mistakenly—accusing the English of stuffiness, and he could just imagine the reaction that the name Freddie de la Hay would provoke when the story was told back home.