Corduroy Mansions

50. The Dignity of Distance

William took Freddie downstairs, relieved that the corner into which he had inadvertently painted himself had proved to have this escape route. He liked Marcia and, if he was honest with himself, he was very slightly dependent on her - if one can be slightly dependent on anything, he thought. Dependence was surely something that was there or was not: a boat was either tied to the jetty or it was not. Would it matter to him if Marcia were to take it into her head to leave London? Would it make any real difference to his life? No, it would not. But then people are extremely resilient; most of us could lose somebody from our lives and not feel that the resulting gap could never be filled. Of course it could. Most of us know how to bounce back.

He looked down at Freddie de la Hay as they went out into the street. Dogs were an example to us all: they made the most of their current circumstances, whatever hand of cards they were dealt. Of course dogs, unlike humans, did not look back; what interested them was what lay ahead. So Freddie, he imagined, did not think back to his former career as a sniffer dog, but was instead more interested in the possibilities of Corduroy Mansions, such as they were.

‘I’ll do my best by you, Freddie,’ he said. ‘Starting with a change in diet. Would you like that? Meat?’

Freddie, aware of the fact that he was being addressed, looked up and wagged his tail. He liked William, indeed he loved him. He would have died for William, even after only two days, because that was his job, his calling as a dog. That was what dogs did.

William turned the corner. Freddie de la Hay had business with lamp posts but was quick and considerate, and did not linger. Their walk round the block completed, William found himself approaching Corduroy Mansions just as one of the young women from the flat below was returning from the shops, laden with bags of groceries.

‘I’ll open the door for you,’ he called out.

The young woman turned round and William saw that it was Jenny. He liked her, although he had on occasion found himself slightly intimidated by her conversation and her tendency to litter her remarks with references to the works of obscure writers. And even when she referred to somebody of whom he had heard, he felt that he had little to add.

‘Don’t you think that modern transport rather diminishes the world?’ she had once observed to him when they had found themselves standing at the same bus stop.

He had thought quickly. How is the world diminished by modern transport? In one sense, surely, it opens up the world, makes it available. Could that be construed as a diminution in that it shows the world not to be the grand place we fondly thought it to be? Or did she mean that it shrinks the world? That made more sense, perhaps.

He did not have time to answer because Jenny, peering down the road for the arrival of the bus, expanded upon the theme. ‘As you’ll probably know,’ she went on, ‘Proust said that steamships insult the dignity of distance. I think he was right. But just imagine what he’d say about the Airbus 380.’

William laughed. ‘Of course. Just imagine!’ And then he added, just to be on the safe side, ‘Proust.’

Jenny looked at him expectantly. She seemed pleased to have discovered a neighbour who could discuss Proust; so few neighbours could.

William looked down the road. There was no sign of the bus.

‘Proust wasn’t a great one for buses,’ he said. It was a wild remark: he had no idea whether Proust had views on buses, or even whether there were buses in Proust’s time. When had Proust lived? Eighteen something? In which case a reference to buses was inappropriate. ‘Not that he saw many buses,’ he added quickly, and laughed. That would cover the possible non-invention of buses in Proust’s time.

Jenny smiled. ‘Proust would not have liked all the germs you find on buses,’ she said. ‘He was a frightful hypochondriac. Most of his time he spent in bed - and when he did go out, he worried about draughts.’

‘Of course,’ said William. ‘He was always going on about that sort of thing, wasn’t he?’

‘And remember when they held that wonderful dinner party?’ Jenny said. ‘It was the biggest event of the nineteen- twenties.’

So there were buses, thought William. ‘Vaguely.’

‘And Proust came along and met Joyce and Diaghilev. He had had his maid call up ten times in advance to ensure that there would be tea for him on arrival. And he enquired about draughts.’

‘Hah! His famous draughts!’

The bus had lumbered into view and the conversation had stopped at that point, but William had remembered it and had been slightly wary of Jenny since then. But now, burdened with shopping bags, she could hardly start talking about Proust.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘I’ve got my key. And then I’ll give you a hand with the bags once we’re in.’

She nodded gratefully, and he opened the door. Once inside, he released Freddie de la Hay from his leash and reached out to relieve Jenny of one of her bags. And it was then that he noticed that she was crying.

‘My dear . . .’ He was about to place his hand on her shoulder but stopped himself. He would have done so a few years ago, would have put his arms about her to comfort her, but he realised now that the times discouraged such gestures. We did not touch one another any more.

‘My dear . . . what is it?’

She looked away. ‘It’s nothing. I’m all right.’

‘But you’re not! You’re not.’

He waited, and then she turned to look at him. She was wearing mascara, which had smudged. There was a black streak down her cheek. He felt in his pocket for his handkerchief, which he used to dab at the smudge. One could surely do that these days: one could unsmudge somebody.

She looked into his eyes. ‘I’ve been . . . been fired,’ she said. ‘I’ve lost my job.’

William frowned. ‘Your job with that MP? What’s his name? Snarp?’

She shivered as she uttered the name. ‘Snark.’

‘Oh dear, I’m very sorry.’

‘He did it by text message,’ she said. ‘He fired me by text.’