Corduroy Mansions by Alexander McCall Smith: Chapter 13

Marcia left William in a thoughtful state. Her visits usually gave him something to reflect upon – Marcia brimmed with ideas, not all of them useful – but on this occasion he felt that what she had said was well worth considering. He had prepared himself for a show-down with Eddie over moving out, and had decided that the best tactic to adopt was to insist – and he would have to insist – that Eddie pay rent out of the small fund his grandmother had left for his benefit, but which, crucially, was entirely controlled by William. This rent would be an economic one, thus forcing Eddie to choose between a cheap rent elsewhere or an expensive rent at home. Eddie did not like to spend money – if it was his own, the money of others being a different matter – and might just prefer the cheaper option. It was a long shot, perhaps, but worth trying. The time was ripe. A few days earlier, William had overheard the alternative offer being made over the telephone when he had picked up the receiver in his bedroom at precisely the moment Eddie had lifted it in the kitchen. "That you, Ed?" He recognised the voice of Eddie's friend, Stevie. "Yup." And it's me too, thought William, because I live here. He was just about to put the receiver down and leave Eddie to get on with his telephone call when he heard himself mentioned. Nobody could resist that, especially when it was on his own phone in his own house. Stevie's nasal voice continued. "Your old man." "Yup. What about him?" "Pretty fed up with him, aren't you?" William held his breath. And what about me? he thought. "Yup." William clenched his teeth. "Mine gets on my nerves too. Blah, blah, blah. On and on about getting a job and a mortgage and so on. Blah, blah, blah." "Yup. Blah, blah, blah. Old-speak." William, on the point of interjecting "blah", stopped himself in time. There was more to come. "Got a place at last. Found it yesterday. Kennington. Not bad at all." "Oh yeah?" "Yep. De Laune Street. Heard of it?" Eddie had not. "Sounds posh. Not?" "No, not. But it's got three bedrooms. Three hundred quid a month each. I need one other person. Maggie says she'll take one of the rooms, but only three weeks after the lease starts. That's a bit awkward but I said OK, that's cool. So there's her and me. I thought you might like the other room. Get your old man out of your hair." William's eyes widened. "Well . . . " Take it, thought William. I'll pay. "Nice place," said Stevie. "You know that pub we went to last month with Mike? Remember? It's round the corner." There was silence. William imagined Eddie doing the calculation. Currently he lived rent-free in a better area. He also received free food and heating, and paid no discernible taxes. If anything went wrong and a tradesman was required, then it was William who made the arrangements. And Eddie, as far as his father could remember, had never used the vacuum cleaner, nor washed up, nor even loaded the dishwasher, in spite of frequent hints and requests. Eventually William had tired of piles of unwashed crockery and accepted that he would have to do everything himself – in a tight-lipped way, of course, but keeping before him, like the prospect of release from servitude, that glorious moment when his son would announce that he had found a flat and was moving out. Durance vile, though, was proving to be drawn out. Eddie spoke. "Can you give me time to think? There's quite a lot going on round here that I have to sort out." "Next week, Ed," said Stevie. "Next week, max. I have to tell the guy next week or he gives to it to somebody else. Students, I think. He doesn't really want students, but he says they're offering to pay a bit more rent and he has to know." "Students are bad news," said Eddie. William slipped the handset back into its cradle. He had heard enough – too much, in fact. Eddie had said that there was a lot going on – but what exactly did he mean by that? And as for the comment about students . . . One has to laugh, he thought, and he did then; looking up at the ceiling, he laughed at his son's sheer effrontery. One had to like the young man, one really did. Perhaps he should just let him stay, resign himself to the fact that some people were meant to stay at home, like those Victorian and Edwardian women who never married but lived at home to look after their parents. And then, when the parents were no more, they became companions to other women, richer ones, and lived in that beholden state for the rest of their days. But there was a difference. Those daughters looked after their parents, whereas it was he who was looking after Eddie. That was a major difference. And then those women busied themselves with all sorts of activities – sewing, making things – whereas Eddie . . . No, the decision was made. And now, sitting in his office, staring at the empty chair recently occupied by Marcia, he realised that the endless rehearsal of options could be just that – endless. Upon reflection, the rent scheme looked less and less likely to achieve its objective. Eddie would simply refuse to pay up, and even though William controlled the purse-strings of the grandmother fund, he doubted whether he would be able to stand up to a furious Eddie should he turn off the monetary tap. No, he would have to be more subtle, and Marcia's idea of obtaining a dog under a dog-share scheme seemed the perfect answer. Eddie hated dogs. He was scared of them in an utterly irrational way. And there was a physical reaction too: dogs made his eyes water – not uncontrollably, but at least to the point of irritation. And if a dog licked him, his skin itched. He picked up the telephone and dialled the number Marcia had left. Would this dog be licky? he wondered. He hoped so. A voice answered at the other end: a slightly impatient voice, the voice of one who rather resents being telephoned by a caller who will almost certainly be less significant than the owner of the voice. "Look," said William, "I'm sorry to phone out of the blue, but I was given your number by Marcia. She did some catering for you recently and she said that—" The voice cut him short. "If you're wanting to sell me something, I'm afraid—" "No, I'm not. Not at all. It's just about your dog." There was a surprised silence at the other end of the line. Then: "My dog? Freddie de la Hay? Do you know him?" Listen to this chapter, or download | Get podcast via iTunes | Get email or feed Information appearing on telegraph.co.uk is the copyright of Telegraph Media Group Limited and must not be reproduced in any medium without licence. For the full copyright statement see Copyright