The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

Chapter 25: Cars and Auras

When Berthea’s train drew into Cheltenham station, Terence Moongrove was waiting to meet her. He had arrived at the station half an hour earlier, allowing, as usual, a generous amount of time to park the car. This had taken him less time than anticipated, however, because he found the Porsche much more manoeuvrable than the Morris Traveller. It was not just the steering that seemed different; it was the response of other drivers, who generally seemed to get out of the way when they saw Terence in the high-powered German sports car.

“It’s a very funny thing, Mr Marchbanks,” he said to his long-suffering garagiste. “When I drive this new car you got me, I find I get looks from other drivers. Admiring looks, I think. Do you think that Monty Bismarck got the same thing when he drove this car?”

Mr Marchbanks raised an eyebrow. “Looks? Well, I don’t know – you’d have to ask Monty about that, I suspect. But I do know that some people judge others by their cars.”

Terence found this very strange. “What a peculiar thing to do,” he said. “What really counts is the spirit, Mr Marchbanks. Or a person’s aura. That’s the really important thing to look out for.” He paused, weighing up an idea that had come to him. “Do you think that cars have auras, Mr Marchbanks?”

Mr Marchbanks was used to strange questions from Terence Moongrove. He sighed. “Could be. Mind you, I’m not sure what an aura is. Cars certainly have emissions. Is an aura anything to do with that?”

Terence thought for a moment. “The concepts are not altogether unrelated. An aura is a sort of emission – an emission of light. And I suppose that inanimate objects can have waves associated with them. Water has a memory, after all.”

Mr Marchbanks stared at Terence. “Water has a memory, you say?”

Terence was now on firm ground; he knew about these things. “Yes, it does! Jolly surprising, but it does. They’ve done amazing experiments, Mr Marchbanks. There’s a professor called Beneviste. He’s the one who discovered that water could remember things that happened to it – stuff you put into it. It remembers it all and reacts to the same stuff when it next has it put into it. Amazing.”

Mr Marchbanks moved the top set of his false teeth out over his lower lip; it was a little mannerism of his that manifested itself when he was puzzled. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

“Indeed you will be,” Terence went on. “Of course there are bags of people – bags of them – who were ready to throw cold water on this idea …”

“Cold water,” said Mr Marchbanks. He wondered whether the water would remember being thrown.

“Yes. People with closed minds – people who aren’t prepared to accept any new ideas that don’t match their view of how things are. There are plenty of people like that, Mr Marchbanks.”

The mechanic looked thoughtful. “So are you suggesting that cars have memories?”

“They might have,” said Terence. “I wouldn’t state it as a fact – not categorically. But think of it – if inanimate objects can absorb vibrations, waves, energy, call it what you will, then it explains a lot, doesn’t it? Hauntings, for instance. Energy is absorbed by stones and then released. It explains why places have an atmosphere.”

Mr Marchbank looked interested. “Yes, places do have an atmosphere, don’t they? My mother-in-law’s house, for instance. I’ve always said that there’s something rum about that place. My wife doesn’t agree, but I always pick up a very negative feeling when I go there.”

Terence nodded encouragingly. “There you are, you see. Something negative has gone into the bricks and mortar. You’re just picking it up, Mr Marchbanks.”

“But I’m not sure about cars. Houses are one thing, but cars …”

Terence made a gesture of acceptance. “I didn’t say that cars necessarily have that ability, but they could do. My Porsche, for instance. I must admit I get a sort of … vibration when I drive it. I feel somehow … a bit … well, a bit younger.” He blushed. “A bit amorous even! Not that I would say that to anybody else, of course, but you’re a mechanic …”

Mr Marchbanks was wide-eyed. “Amorous, Mr Moongrove? Well, bless me! They say that these cars do help a bit in that department.”

“I always control myself,” said Terence quickly. “I’m sure that the Highway Code has something to say about amorousness and cars.” He paused, composing himself after the admission. “But I do find that people look at me with what I’m tempted to describe as respect. Very strange.”

And now that respect had meant that a car that had been thinking of claiming his parking spot near the station yielded when the driver saw him coming. Terence slipped into the parking place and, with time on his hands, walked into the station to buy a newspaper before Berthea arrived. So spent, the time passed quickly and there she was, his sister, carrying her weekend bag and waving to him from the end of the platform. Dear Berthy, he thought. So many things change in the world, but she always looks the same: same funny old jumper and odd-looking skirt; same old weekend bag, a holdall that she had had for ages and ages and which Uncle Edgar bought to take to Madeira.

And Berthea, for her part, looking down the platform, saw her brother walking towards her and thought: Dear Terence! What a disaster area he is! That defeated old cardigan and those shoes with the Velcro fastenings. And his ghastly glasses. Oh dear! He must be the only Porsche driver in the world – in the whole world – who wears shoes with Velcro fastenings. What a distinction to have in this life.

“Berthy!” exclaimed Terence, looking at his watch. “Your train’s arrived on the dot – on the absolute dot. Just as Mussolini promised it would. Only he wasn’t talking about England, was he? And he made such a beastly mess of Italy, didn’t he?”

Berthea leaned forward and kissed him lightly on his left cheek. “I have stopped noticing when trains arrive or do not arrive,” she said. “My life is quite full enough without that to exercise me.”

“Time is relative,” said Terence, reaching to take her holdall from her. “It’s a tyranny we invent for ourselves.”

“Mmm,” said Berthea.

“And anyway,” said Terence, “Like you, I find myself far too busy to think about time.”

Berthea threw him a sideways glance. Her brother, as far as she knew, had absolutely nothing to do – apart from his ridiculous sacred dancing and the occasional meetings of the various lunatic societies to which he belonged. How could he possibly be busy?

They made their way to the car. “I’ve got a nice surprise for you,” said Terence as he opened the passenger door for her.

“I’ve already seen this car,” said Berthea. “And I must say …”

He cut her short. “No, not the car. It’s nothing to do with the car. It’s a surprise for you at the house.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. I’ve got some people staying there. Roger and Claire. They’re terribly nice people. You’ll like them, I know it. They’re writing a book together, and they’re staying with me while they do it.” He laughed modestly. “I suppose that makes me a sort of patron of literature. Like those people who had salons. Madame de Staël, and people like that.”

Berthea said nothing. She was not going to like Roger and Claire – she knew it.

“Their book is very important,” said Terence. “It’s going to change the way we think about so much.”

Berthea looked out of the window. “How long is it going to take for them to write this magnum opus?” she asked.

“Four years,” said Terence. Then he added. “That’s for volume one, of course.” He paused. “And, listen, Berthy, it’s very unkind of you to call it a magnum opus in that sarcastic tone. Naughty, naughty! I’ve read about salons, you know, and there was a very strict etiquette, which included not saying anything nasty about the books of those present. Which in this case means Rog and Claire.”

Berthea sighed. Madame de Staël. Rog and Claire. Five minutes in my brother’s company and I’m already wading in a morass of intellectual treacle.