That afternoon, as Caroline and James embarked on the baking of Nigella’s lemon gems, Jenny found herself just a few blocks away, standing outside Daylesford Organic, debating with herself whether to go inside and treat herself to a cup of coffee, or walk up to Hatchards bookshop on Piccadilly and consult Roger Katz about what to read. It had been her birthday several days earlier and her aunt in Norfolk had sent her a book token, as she had done every year since Jenny’s fifth birthday. The value of the book token had increased by two pounds each year, with the result that it was now sufficient to allow the purchase of several hardbacks.
The onset of rain decided the matter. Jenny looked up at the sky; heavy purple clouds had built up in the east and the first drops of rain were splattering on the canvas awning of Daylesford. Inside, all was light, warmth and tempting aromas.
Just inside the doorway as she went in, an elegant dark-haired woman was dispensing small cups of tea to arriving customers. Jenny took the proffered cup and sipped.
“Jasmine,” said the woman. “Can you smell it?”
Jenny nodded, glancing at the open silver packet of tea on the table. The Rare Tea Company.
“White tea,” said the woman, “scented with jasmine. And this is oolong. Would you care to try it? I’m Henrietta, by the way.”
Jenny sipped at the second cup. “Very delicate,” she said.
“Proper tea,” said Henrietta. “When one thinks of what goes into the tea bags most people make do with …”
Jenny agreed, and was about to say so when she noticed that a man had entered the café and was standing beside her. He reached out for the cup of oolong being offered him and it was then that she recognised him.
“Mr. Wickramsinghe.”
The cup at his lips, he turned to face her. “Oh, Miss … Miss …”
“Jenny. From upstairs at Corduroy Mansions.”
He lowered his cup. “Of course, please forgive me. Basil Wickramsinghe.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve seen you, of course, and we did meet in William’s flat when he held that meeting about the hall carpet. Do you remember?”
Basil Wickramsinghe nodded. “That carpet. That most regrettable carpet. It’s still there—as are we.”
Jenny laughed. Something she had read last year in the biography of Wittgenstein came back to her. Wittgenstein, it seemed, had cleaned his floors by sprinkling tea leaves over them and then sweeping them up.
“Wittgenstein,” she said, “used damp tea leaves to clean carpets. Apparently tea soaks up the dirt.”
Henrietta looked disapprovingly at Jenny. “One would hardly use these rare teas for that.”
Basil Wickramsinghe nodded his agreement, and purchased a packet of white tea from Henrietta. He threw a shy glance at Jenny. “Are you walking back to Corduroy Mansions?” he asked.
She explained that she had been planning to have a cup of coffee. “The rain,” she said, looking out of the window over her shoulder.
“But I have an umbrella,” said Basil Wickramsinghe. “Perhaps you would care to walk under my umbrella with me, and then join me for a cup of white tea in the flat.”
Jenny hesitated. She knew nothing about Mr. Wickramsinghe and one had to be careful in London. But one could not go through life being suspicious of one’s neighbours, and William had spoken of him with affection. She agreed; Hatchards could wait, and there was something appealing about this quiet man with his rather formal manner.
They said goodbye to Henrietta and made their way out into the street. The rain had set in now, it appeared, and puddles were forming on the edge of the road, their surfaces speckled with circles created by the raindrops. They made their way quickly down the road, sheltering under Basil Wickramsinghe’s generous umbrella. A wind had blown up to accompany the rain, and the branches of the trees in the small square were bending, the canopy of the umbrella straining at its moorings. By the time they reached the front door of Corduroy Mansions, both had wet ankles and Jenny felt a trickle of cold water running down her neck.
“Most inclement,” said Basil Wickramsinghe, shaking the water off his umbrella. He had a pedantic, rather old-fashioned way of speaking, as if he were following a script. Jenny had encountered this before in actors, and wondered whether acting was her neighbour’s profession. Had she seen him on the stage perhaps?
“You aren’t an actor, are you, Mr. Wickramsinghe?” she asked as he fumbled with the key to his door.
He shook his head. “No more so than anybody else,” he replied.
21. In Mr. Wickramsinghe’s Kitchen
“I HOPE THAT you don’t get too much noise from our flat,” said Jenny. “We’re immediately above you and I suppose we do walk about a bit. And Jo—she’s one of my flatmates—sometimes plays music a bit loudly.”
“It is no trouble at all,” said Basil Wickramsinghe as he slit open the newly purchased packet of white tea. “I sometimes hear a bit of noise, but nothing serious. And it reminds me that I do not live all by myself in this building.”
“One is always aware of other people in London,” said Jenny. “The problem is that one doesn’t necessarily know who they are. I suppose there are people who live in this city and yet don’t know a soul. Strange, isn’t it?”
It occurred to her as she spoke that Basil Wickramsinghe himself might fit into this category for all she knew, and she wondered whether she had perhaps unwittingly offended him. But he did not appear to mind and simply nodded his agreement.
“Big cities can be impersonal, but I never feel that about London,” he said. “When I first came here, I was worried I would be very lonely, but it hasn’t been the case. I came from a very friendly place, you see.”
“Which was?”
“Galle, in Sri Lanka. Have you heard of it?”
“No. I’m sorry. I’m sure that I should have, but I haven’t.”
He smiled. “There is no need to apologise for never having heard of Galle. It is not like Colombo or Kandy or places like that. It is quite small. It has a harbour and an old fort and some very nice old Dutch houses. You would like it.”
They were standing in his kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Jenny looked around; it was very neat, and far cleaner than their kitchen upstairs. Containers marked Rice and Beans and Flour were neatly lined up on the shelves alongside pots, chopping boards and various cooking implements.
Basil Wickramsinghe took two cups out of a cupboard. “Living in a place like this, one wonders who the other people in the building are. I have often thought about all you people upstairs. William, I know what he does—he is a wine merchant—and that son of his is nothing, I believe. I do not think that he works. But when it comes to the four of you, I have no idea at all.”
Jenny laughed, and told him what she and the others did. “I would never have guessed any of that,” said Basil Wickramsinghe. “Never.”
“And you, Mr. Wickramsinghe?”
“I am Basil, please. Me? I am an accountant. It is very ordinary. But there we are. That is what I do.”
He poured two cups of tea and passed one to her. There was silence as they both sipped the scented brew. Then Basil Wickramsinghe glanced at his watch.
“I mustn’t keep you,” said Jenny.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “It’s rude to look at one’s watch. But I have remembered that I am expecting somebody.”
Jenny drained her teacup. “You must come and have tea with us some time,” she said.
He thanked her and went to show her out. Just as they reached the door, the bell sounded.
“My guest,” said Basil Wickramsinghe, almost apologetically.
He opened the door and Jenny saw a thin woman standing outside, holding a dripping umbrella. It may have been the rain or it may have been her dress, but the overriding impression she created was of dowdiness. When the woman saw Jenny, she gave a start.
“My neighbour,” said Basil Wickramsinghe quickly.
She’s jealous, thought Jenny.
; The woman glanced at Jenny and then looked away. “Am I early?” she said.
Basil Wickramsinghe’s glance darted to Jenny and then quickly back to the other woman.
“This is Miss Oiseau,” he said, in introduction.
Jenny took the other woman’s hand and shook it. It was wet, and had a clammy, lifeless feel to it. She smiled at Basil.
“Thank you for the tea.”
“I’m glad that you enjoyed it.”
She slipped past Miss Oiseau and out into the hall as the other woman went into the flat, and the door closed behind her. Miss Oiseau had left her umbrella in the hall, propped up against the jamb of Basil Wickramsinghe’s door, and a small puddle was growing at its tip. Jenny was about to climb the stairs when she heard voices from inside the flat.
Miss Oiseau had a thin, reedy voice, with the quality of an old gramophone record. “Who’s that?”
“As I said, she’s one of the neighbours. There’s a flat full of girls upstairs. She’s one of them.”
“Is she a sympathiser?”
Jenny could not help but incline her head closer to the door; who would not act thus in such circumstances? She heard Basil Wickramsinghe laugh. “But how am I to know that? We didn’t discuss anything like that. I only met her in that organic place. We hadn’t talked about anything very much.”
“But do you think she might be?”
“It’s impossible to tell. You can’t ask people outright, can you? You have to be circumspect. There are signals. You know that.”
Something else was said that Jenny did not catch. Then the sound of the voices faded; they had moved away from the door. Jenny, thoughtful—and guilty—set off up the stairs. She was trying to make sense of the conversation she had overheard, and not getting very far. All she knew was that the anaemic Miss Oiseau and Basil Wickramsinghe had some cause in common—a cause which attracted sympathisers, of whom she, for all she knew, might be one. And signals came into it—although exactly how rather taxed the imagination. Were they …? No, it seemed absurd. Were Basil Wickramsinghe and Miss Oiseau involved in something illicit? And was all this happening in Corduroy Mansions, of all buildings, in Pimlico, of all places?
Don’t be absurd, she said to herself. The quiet accountant and his dowdy friend were not very likely co-conspirators. But were co-conspirators ever likely? The newspapers were full of instances of unlikely offenders, who had to live somewhere, after all. Jenny was not of a suspicious nature, but it was difficult to interpret the conversation she had overheard as anything but … intriguing, perhaps.
A sympathiser? Was she?
22. Master of Wine (Failed)
“SO,” SAID MANFRED JAMES, putting down his mug of tea. “I think that we’ve pretty much reached agreement, wouldn’t you say?”
William would not have said that, but there was something about the columnist’s manner that brooked no discussion. It was not exactly peremptory, but it was certainly high-handed—the manner of one who knew. That always irritated William; he was aware of the fact that there were people who knew, but he had always felt it incumbent upon them to keep their knowledge to themselves unless asked to reveal it. In which case they could—with all due modesty—reveal that they knew what they were talking about, while still remaining conscious of the fact that for most people it was extremely trying to listen to somebody who knew more than they did.
This was, of course, a major problem in the world of wine, the world in which William spent his professional life. Wine was a subject on which there was a great deal of expert knowledge to be acquired; for some it was a lifetime’s work, requiring prolonged and diligent study. This was rewarded, in some cases at least, by the Master of Wine qualification, which entitled one to put the letters MW after one’s name.
Five years earlier, William had attempted the examination of the Institute of Masters of Wine, but had failed the written part. He was not alone in this; the success rate for that particular examination was one in four, so rigorous and demanding were the tests. Naturally he had been disappointed, since he had been looking forward to putting MW after his name, which currently had no letters at all, unless one counted Esq., which some business correspondents kindly put on their correspondence with him. But Esq. was meaningless, since anybody could call themselves that, whatever their status in life.
“Don’t worry,” a friend had consoled him. “At least you got as far as the examination. Why not call yourself MW (Failed)? Like the BA (Calcutta) (Failed) that people used to use to show that they had been intelligent enough to get into the university, even if they didn’t pass the degree.”
“Did they really?” asked William.
“Probably not,” said his friend. “It was always said that you encountered the odd BA (Failed) in Kipling’s day, but I don’t think there’s any hard evidence. Sellars and Yeatman made a joke of it in 1066 and All That. But I think anybody has yet to meet a genuine BA (Failed). Mind you, I did hear of somebody going to see a dentist somewhere abroad and spotting a plate outside saying BDS (Failed).”
“Not a dentist one would necessarily wish to consult,” said William.
“Perhaps not.”
But even though he had failed the MW examination, still William knew a great deal about wine and would share his knowledge, tactfully and discreetly, with his customers. Some of them, of course, were not quite as reticent and took pleasure in parading their considerably shakier knowledge in front of William, who refrained from correcting them, except gently, and even then only in respect of the most egregious errors. (“If I may say so, Rioja is not quite Italian. In fact, it’s Spanish—but I agree, it’s so easy to mix the two up …”)
Manfred James had opinions on everything, and these were delivered, as if ex cathedra, with a certainty that carried all before it. And on the subject of dogs, as became apparent to William, he was as opinionated as he was on politics and social policy. “Diet is the key,” he said. “The canine diet, as you know, is both physically and psychologically determined. Physically there is a taste for meat; psychologically there is a desire to hunt. There’s little point in tackling one without addressing the other—as you’ll appreciate.”
William wondered about the psychological aspect. Was a disposition to hunt genetically or environmentally determined? “Is there—?” he began.
“So,” Manfred James continued, “with a view to breeding characteristics out of the breed, we have tried to reduce the psychological urge to hunt, which will therefore lead to a reduction in the desire to eat meat—with all its environmental consequences. One cannot eradicate deep-rooted behavioural-genetic traits, but their impact can be changed.”
“Changed,” said William simply.
“Exactly. Ever since he came to us—after his retrenchment from the airport—Freddie de la Hay has been brought up to respond positively to other creatures, not to see them as a potential source of food. And I must say, it’s worked very well.”
“Oh.” That was all that William felt he could manage, and there seemed to be no point in saying much more. Manfred’s interventions, he thought, had all the characteristics of radio jamming, designed to stop anybody else talking.
“It’s been remarkably successful,” the columnist went on. “We used straightforward behavioural techniques. Pavlov would have understood. We gave him rewards when he remained calm even in the presence of a stimulus that would normally have provoked an aggressive response. So you’ll notice something very interesting about him now.”
“Oh yes?”
Manfred James looked at William with the air of one about to announce a major scientific breakthrough. “Freddie de la Hay,” he proclaimed, “likes cats.”
William’s eyes narrowed. “Really?”
“Yes,” said Manfred James. “And now I think that we should agree on the details of the sharing. I suggest that you take him right now and be his carer for, what, a couple of months? Then we’ll take him back for a few weeks—depending on whether I’m around—and then you
take him back for another stay. Agreed? Good.”
The columnist rose to his feet and gestured to the door. “I suggest we go and see Freddie,” he said. “Then I’ll call a cab, if you like. You’ll need to take his bed and a supply of carrot sticks—I can tell you where to get more of those. And his certificates.”
“Certificates?”
“From the canine lifestyle course,” said Manfred. “The paperwork.”
William nodded.
They left the study and made their way into the kitchen at the back of the house. There was Freddie de la Hay, sitting obediently in the middle of the floor—like a sentry, thought William.
“Freddie,” said Manfred. “This is Mr. French. He’s your new carer. Say hello, Freddie.”
Freddie de la Hay looked at William with his dark, mournful eyes, eyes so liquid that they might conceal the presence of tears, might break the very heart.
23. Nice Dog
WILLIAM FRENCH, MW (Failed), climbed into the cab called by the celebrated columnist Manfred James. He was accompanied by Freddie de la Hay, a Pimlico terrier, a “new dog,” whose small canine life was now beginning an important and challenging phase. Not much happens to dogs; they lead their lives around our feet, in the interstices of more complex doings, from which perspective they look up at the busier human world, eager to participate, eager to understand, but for ever limited by biology and the vagaries of evolution to being small-part players in the drama. Every so often a particular dog might rise above this limited destiny, might perform some act of loyalty that attracts human recognition and praise. But for most dogs such saliences are rare, their lives being punctuated by nothing more significant than the discovery of an intriguing smell or the sight of a rabbit or a rat—usually frustratingly inaccessible—or by some minor territorial challenge that requires a bark. Nothing much, really, but for dogs, their lot, their allocation.