Corduroy Mansions

47. Your Shoes, Your Sad Shoes

As William began to make his way back to Corduroy Mansions, he became aware that Freddie de la Hay was trying to tell him something. The dog, who had been trotting happily at his side, circled round and sat down pointedly in front of him, all the while looking up with an expression that seemed to be a mixture of concern and anticipation. It occurred to William that Freddie merely wanted to prolong his walk, which was perfectly understandable: just as a walker might wish to draw out the pleasure of a stroll in bucolic surroundings, so might a dog wish to put off the moment of going back inside. Outside was a world of fascinating smells - a whole map, a palimpsest of the comings and goings of people, of other dogs, of cats, even the trace here and there of a wily urban fox; how could a dog be indifferent to all that? Inside, by contrast, was very much the same thing all the time and quickly exhausted from the olfactory point of view. That must be it: Freddie de la Hay was simply not ready to come in.

‘More walks?’ enquired William. ‘Is that it, Freddie?’

Freddie de la Hay stared at his new owner, his head moving slightly in what William thought might be a shaking motion; but surely no dog would shake his head to convey disagreement? I shall not be anthropomorphic, thought William; I am not going to imagine that this dog understands English.

He bent down to get closer. ‘What is it, Freddie? I can’t spend all my time taking you for walks, much as I’d like to. You do know that, don’t you, my boy?’

Freddie de la Hay stared into William’s eyes. Very brown, thought William, you have very brown, liquid eyes. And what lies behind them? What emotions? What canine thoughts?

Freddie answered the question with a whine. It was not a large sound, just a whimper really. And then, glancing quickly at William, the dog stood up and took the bag containing the Belgian Shoes in his jaws. Carrying the bag jauntily, he moved to William’s side, ready to continue the journey back to the flat.

William chuckled. ‘Oh, I see. That’s what you want. Thanks, Freddie.’

They made their way up the staircase in Corduroy Mansions, man and dog, Freddie de la Hay carrying the Belgian Shoes with the air of a gundog bringing back a pheasant - and this, William thought, was the urban equivalent. London dogs might not be able to bring pheasants back to their owners but they could at least retrieve Belgian Shoes.

William’s amusement over Freddie’s desire to be useful meant that he did not dwell on the question of Eddie until he was taking off Freddie’s leash in the hall of the flat. Eddie was not an early riser on a Saturday - nor on any day, William reminded himself - but now there were sounds, and the smell, of freshly ground coffee coming from the kitchen. Eddie always ground coffee with careless abandon, putting far too much into the grinder and then throwing out the surplus. I paid for that, William thought; I pay for every single coffee bean that my son grinds and then throws out.

Leaving Freddie de la Hay in the hall, William walked into the kitchen. Eddie was standing at the kettle, filling the coffee jug with water. He had just got out of bed by the look of things and was wearing only a pair of red boxer shorts. William looked at his son with distaste; he looked at the small mole on his back, at the line of hairs at the top of his spine, and . . . there was a tattoo just above the beginning of the natal cleft.

Eddie, continuing with his coffee-making, did not turn round. ‘Morning, Dad. Taken your new friend for a walk? Or the other way round? “Dog Makes Fat Owner Lose Weight”.’

It was another of Eddie’s headlines. William clenched his teeth. It helped, he found, to do this when Eddie said something particularly annoying. ‘“Idle Son Wastes Father’s Hard-earned Coffee”,’ he replied. ‘And I am not fat, by the way.’

Eddie laughed. ‘Come on, Dad. No need to be so sensitive. So you’re thin. Feel better now?’

William found himself staring at his son’s tattoo. ‘You’ve got a tattoo,’ he muttered.

Eddie looked over his shoulder nonchalantly. ‘Oh, that. Yeah, I’ve got a tattoo. So? You want one too? I know this guy who does really good work. Not cheap, but you have to pay for quality. You could have “wine merchant” tattooed on your arm if you like. Or “Pimlico” maybe. Anything you like - he’s really artistic. Calls himself Da Vinci Tattoos. How about that? Da Vinci Tattoos.’

‘I wouldn’t dream . . .’ began William. But he was now peering more closely at his son’s back, straining to make out the details of the somewhat indistinct tattoo. There were words underneath the picture and he read these now - and then recoiled sharply. ‘Eddie, why on earth would you have that put on . . . put on your back?’

Eddie shrugged. ‘Because it says it all, doesn’t it?’

William sighed. ‘And what if you decide that you don’t want it any longer? What then?’

Eddie moved across the room to pour the coffee. ‘Oh, people always say that about tattoos,’ he replied. ‘But that argument could be used against doing anything. Any building, for example. The Dome. The new terminal at Heathrow. Anything.’ He paused, sniffing at the jug of coffee he had just made. ‘You need to get more of that Jamaican stuff, Dad. I don’t like those big bags of Colombian that you get cheap. Anyway, where’s our dog?’

‘Our dog?’

‘Yes. Freddie de la Whatever. The dog you got us.’

William looked out of the window. ‘I thought that you didn’t like . . . ?’

‘Exactly, Dad - didn’t. Past tense. I’ve been thinking, and I think Freddie and me are going to get on fine.’

‘Freddie and I.’

‘Yes, you too.’

William felt himself getting warm at the back of his neck. He looked at the red boxer shorts. Disgusting. My own flesh and blood. Disgusting.

‘I thought I might take Freddie down the pub,’ Eddie remarked. ‘I’m meeting Stevie. He’s keen on dogs.’

William said nothing. His plan had failed. He had failed.

Then Eddie saw the Belgian Shoes, which his father had retrieved from Freddie de la Hay in the hall. For a moment his eyes narrowed, then he looked up at William. ‘You’re going to wear those, Dad? You’re going to wear them?’ He reached forward and snatched one of the shoes from William’s hand. ‘“Man Buys Sad Shoes”,’ he said.