The Dog Who Came in from the Cold by Alexander McCall Smith Page B
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
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to you asks you to keep it under your hat.”
“Then you shouldn’t tell me,” said William firmly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Marcia. “I know how discreet you are, William. You won’t pass it on.”
William said nothing; he was wondering what sensitive stories there could possibly be about sandwiches.
Marcia lowered her voice to a whisper. “There are plenty of receptions in the House of Commons, you know. Members of Parliament are always giving parties in honour of this, that and the next thing. The Commons Antarctic Treaty Group, the Joint Committee on South American Relations and so on. Every evening without fail.”
William made a gesture, the gesture of one who knows that things are going on, but knows too that he is never invited. The parties of others—or those that one doesn’t attend—are always so self-indulgent. For most of us, the knowledge that somebody, somewhere, is enjoying himself more than we are is strangely disturbing. A common human response is to disapprove, and to try to stop the enjoyment; that has been the well-established response of the prude in all ages. William was not like that, but he did feel the occasional pang at the thought that London was full of parties and yet when he contemplated his own social diary, it was virtually empty. Very occasionally he received an invitation to dinner somewhere, and there were always the occasions when Marcia dropped in. And of course there was his club—the Savile—where the conversation sparkled at the members’ table, but the members all seemed so much better informed than he was, and he felt too shy to push himself forward in conversations where he was at a disadvantage.
“Well,” continued Marcia, “I heard from a catering friend that MPs have developed a racket in wine. There’s a group of them who call themselves the Parliamentary Committee on Sustainable Receptions and go round at the end of these occasions, pour all the dregs from the glasses into large containers and
then rebottle it
. Yes! They pour it back into bottles and re-cork the bottles. Then, when it comes to the next reception, they serve the dregs and take the full, untouched bottles for themselves.”
William was appalled. “I thought we’d heard the end of all that,” he said. “What if the
Telegraph
got hold of this?”
Marcia shook her head. “This story will never end up in the
Telegraph.
”
“But that’s dreadful!” William exploded. “And it’s not just because I’m a wine dealer. Think of all the bits and pieces—the crumbs, the lipstick … It’s disgusting. It’s … it’s beyond belief.”
“Precisely,” said Marcia. “And do you know something? They’re all members of one party.”
William frowned. An all-party scandal was one thing, a single party scandal quite another. “Which one?”
Marcia waved a hand in the air. “Oh, I can’t remember, I’m afraid. They all seem so alike these days.”
22. Codes and Things
O F COURSE W ILLIAM KNEW what Marcia would say about his meeting with MI6; she had already said it. He owed these people nothing; they had no right to make any demands of him. They were playing games, these espionage people—that’s what they did, and there was no difference, no difference at all, between what they did and what boys, mere boys, did when they played on the playground. William knew that, didn’t he? He had been a boy, hadn’t he? (Absurdly distant prospect.) It was ridiculous, all this cloak-and-dagger business in the middle of London
in broad daylight
!
But as he walked back to Corduroy Mansions, he tried to put Marcia’s voice out of his mind. “You are not my mother,” he muttered. And Marcia, or the idea of Marcia, looked askance at him, as if to disclaim any such notion. “Why on earth should you imagine that I think of myself as your mother?” He shook his head; it was toocomplex even to begin to explain, but every son knew instinctively what the problem with Mother was. It was
“Then you shouldn’t tell me,” said William firmly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Marcia. “I know how discreet you are, William. You won’t pass it on.”
William said nothing; he was wondering what sensitive stories there could possibly be about sandwiches.
Marcia lowered her voice to a whisper. “There are plenty of receptions in the House of Commons, you know. Members of Parliament are always giving parties in honour of this, that and the next thing. The Commons Antarctic Treaty Group, the Joint Committee on South American Relations and so on. Every evening without fail.”
William made a gesture, the gesture of one who knows that things are going on, but knows too that he is never invited. The parties of others—or those that one doesn’t attend—are always so self-indulgent. For most of us, the knowledge that somebody, somewhere, is enjoying himself more than we are is strangely disturbing. A common human response is to disapprove, and to try to stop the enjoyment; that has been the well-established response of the prude in all ages. William was not like that, but he did feel the occasional pang at the thought that London was full of parties and yet when he contemplated his own social diary, it was virtually empty. Very occasionally he received an invitation to dinner somewhere, and there were always the occasions when Marcia dropped in. And of course there was his club—the Savile—where the conversation sparkled at the members’ table, but the members all seemed so much better informed than he was, and he felt too shy to push himself forward in conversations where he was at a disadvantage.
“Well,” continued Marcia, “I heard from a catering friend that MPs have developed a racket in wine. There’s a group of them who call themselves the Parliamentary Committee on Sustainable Receptions and go round at the end of these occasions, pour all the dregs from the glasses into large containers and
then rebottle it
. Yes! They pour it back into bottles and re-cork the bottles. Then, when it comes to the next reception, they serve the dregs and take the full, untouched bottles for themselves.”
William was appalled. “I thought we’d heard the end of all that,” he said. “What if the
Telegraph
got hold of this?”
Marcia shook her head. “This story will never end up in the
Telegraph.
”
“But that’s dreadful!” William exploded. “And it’s not just because I’m a wine dealer. Think of all the bits and pieces—the crumbs, the lipstick … It’s disgusting. It’s … it’s beyond belief.”
“Precisely,” said Marcia. “And do you know something? They’re all members of one party.”
William frowned. An all-party scandal was one thing, a single party scandal quite another. “Which one?”
Marcia waved a hand in the air. “Oh, I can’t remember, I’m afraid. They all seem so alike these days.”
22. Codes and Things
O F COURSE W ILLIAM KNEW what Marcia would say about his meeting with MI6; she had already said it. He owed these people nothing; they had no right to make any demands of him. They were playing games, these espionage people—that’s what they did, and there was no difference, no difference at all, between what they did and what boys, mere boys, did when they played on the playground. William knew that, didn’t he? He had been a boy, hadn’t he? (Absurdly distant prospect.) It was ridiculous, all this cloak-and-dagger business in the middle of London
in broad daylight
!
But as he walked back to Corduroy Mansions, he tried to put Marcia’s voice out of his mind. “You are not my mother,” he muttered. And Marcia, or the idea of Marcia, looked askance at him, as if to disclaim any such notion. “Why on earth should you imagine that I think of myself as your mother?” He shook his head; it was toocomplex even to begin to explain, but every son knew instinctively what the problem with Mother was. It was
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