Corduroy Mansions

78. Whose Home?

William felt quite elated when he returned to Corduroy Mansions with Marcia and Freddie de la Hay. He had been profoundly shocked by his experience of the narrowly averted dog fight; not only had he been appalled by Eddie’s involvement, but he had been astonished that anybody - even Diesel’s disagreeable owner - could find pleasure in such activities. But then, he told himself, there would appear to be plenty of people who found violence agreeable - as professional pugilists knew very well.

‘Boxing,’ he remarked to Marcia, as she parked her van.

‘What?’

‘I was thinking about boxing. It just came into my mind. I was thinking about how hypocritical we are. We don’t allow dog fighting, but it’s perfectly legal for people to knock the stuffing out of one another in the boxing ring. Doesn’t that strike you as being a bit odd?’

Marcia shrugged; there was so much in life that was odd, she had stopped being surprised by anything. ‘Not necessarily. Dogs don’t consent to being harmed in the same way as boxers do. We push dogs into it. We don’t make boxers fight, do we? Maybe that’s the difference.’

It was an interesting point, and the more that William thought about it, the more intriguing it became. Boxers were not forced to fight, but did they have a truly free choice in the matter? How many of them became boxers because they were obliged to do so by poverty and restricted opportunities? He was not sure whether he knew the answer to that; it could be condescending to assume that boxers were not volunteers just because they tended to come from the lower levels of the social heap. One could get one’s nose punched for that sort of assumption . . .

‘And anyway,’ said Marcia as they reached the landing outside William’s door, ‘we’re funny about animals in this country. We don’t approve of cruelty to animals. Not at all. So dog fighting is out - completely out.’ She paused, and added, ‘We’re home.’

‘Yes,’ said William. ‘We’re . . .’ He did not complete the sentence. I’m home, he thought. This is my home. Marcia may be staying here, but she has her own home over in Putney and she should not be saying we’re home because that implies that this is her home too, and it isn’t.

Marcia was unaware of this mental reservation on William’s part and opened the door with all the assurance of a settled resident. And as she hung up her coat in the hall cupboard and patted Freddie cheerfully on the head, William felt his spirits sagging. He had made a dreadful mistake, he felt. It was like marrying somebody one did not want to marry and being unable to get out of it. He did not want to hurt Marcia - he liked her, and he found himself liking her even more after experiencing all the support she had given him that evening. She was generous; she was a character; she was easy company . . . but he was not in love with her. And, for William, that precluded anything but a platonic relationship. One did not enter into an affair unless one loved the other person - it was a minimum requirement of decency. It was as simple as that; or at least it was as simple as that when you were in your fif—late forties and above.

Freddie de la Hay seemed relieved to be home. Free of his leash, he rushed around the flat, careering into each room and then bursting out again, barking joyously. And when he had completed his tour of inspection, he bounded over to William and enthusiastically licked such portions of his master as he could find: hands, shoes, and, standing on his hind legs in a brief moment of exhilaration, William’s face.

Marcia went into the kitchen and began to prepare dinner. Freddie’s steak was cooked first - a choice cut which sizzled delectably in the frying pan. When it was done, she cut it into squares and put them on the dog’s plate. Freddie, sitting obediently as he had been trained to do before tackling his dinner, stared at the plate for a few moments before he stepped forward, on Marcia’s invitation, and sniffed at the steak.

‘You can eat it, Freddie,’ said Marcia. ‘It’s all right.’

Freddie looked up at William, as if to seek confirmation. ‘Go ahead, my boy,’ said William. ‘Nice steak. Nice Freddie.’

Freddie began to eat the steak - slowly at first and then very quickly, wolfing down the small squares of meat.

‘See?’ said Marcia. ‘So much for Freddie being a vegetarian.’

William nodded. Freddie had indeed tackled the steak with enthusiasm, but now he had taken a few steps back from the plate and was sitting with his head sunk, his gaze focused on the floor.

‘Guilt,’ said William. ‘He feels guilty.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Marcia. ‘Dogs don’t feel guilt.’

William disagreed. He had only owned Freddie for a short time, but he knew that the dog had a broad cupboard of emotions and that it was perfectly possible that he was now feeling guilt and remorse.

‘Dogs feel these things,’ he said. ‘They really do. They have emotional centres in their brains, same as we do.’

‘But surely not one for guilt?’ said Marcia.

‘Why not? When a dog does something that he knows he should not, he often looks unhappy. He puts his tail between his legs. He skulks around.’

Marcia nodded. ‘But that’s only because they fear our displeasure. They think we’re going to beat them or shout at them. It’s just a reaction. They don’t feel guilt deep down - not like we do.’ She paused. Freddie de la Hay was looking up at her with mournful eyes. ‘And there’s no reason for Freddie to think that we’re going to disapprove of him for eating steak. After all, we gave it to him and encouraged him.’

William was sure that there was a flaw in Marcia’s argument - as there often was. ‘He may not fear consequences from us - but that doesn’t mean that he won’t be afraid of somebody else. Somebody from his past. That Manfred character, for instance.’

Freddie growled.

‘You see?’ said William. ‘Freddie recognised the name. He’s still frightened of Manfred.’

Freddie now whimpered, looking furtively over his shoulder, as if he expected the famous columnist to enter the room and remonstrate with him. Noticing this, William bent down to comfort him, putting an arm around the dog and whispering into his ear.

‘Don’t you worry, Freddie, old boy,’ he said. ‘Daddy won’t let that man browbeat you any more.’ It slipped out, and he thought, Our animals make fools of us - infantilise us just as we infantilise them. No, Freddie de la Hay, I’m not your real dad . . .

‘And neither will Mummy,’ added Marcia.

William caught his breath. He was going to have to talk to Marcia; he really was. And he would have to do it this evening, before things went any further.