The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

Chapter 26: Pantoufles

But the conversation soon moved on, as it always did with Terence. Flight of ideas, thought Berthea – but not quite. It was true that Terence could talk at great length – and frequently did – but there was usually a reasonable connection between the topics he rambled on about. A true example of flight of ideas would go from this to that at the bat of an eyelid, and that would, of course, be indicative of bipolar disorder or attention deficit disorder, or even schizophrenia. No, Terence was afflicted with none of those things – Berthea’s trained eye could spot that well enough. His problem, she thought, was more one of magical thinking. He had spoken to her – as well as to Mr Marchbanks – about the memory of water, and that was a good example of the problem. He wanted the world to be otherwise than it really was; he wanted to see causality and connection where none really existed. He wanted to believe that pure thought could change the world.

She paused. Who doesn’t? she asked herself. As children we try to create the world along the lines we want it to be. We wish an imagined world into existence through play – castles and kingdoms, fairies and elves, imaginary friends – but at some point we have to let go of it. Santa Claus dies; for all of us a personally felt demise that brings down one of the great pillars of that self-created world. From then on, although reality asserts itself for most of us, for some the memory of that power to create, the memory of that universe of the imagining, persists. It is this that tempts us still to believe that the world actually functions in ways other than those that we understand through our senses. How sad, she thought, and she was reminded of those patients of hers who were stuck in some earlier stage of their development, for example the city trader who sat in her consulting room once a month and repetitively recited, in loving, nostalgic detail, the events of his eighth year, when the world was innocent and fresh and he was happy. And then wept – not every session, but often enough – for everything that he had lost. Slowly she was leading him to an understanding of why he mourned, laying bare his unhappiness.

Or how about the woman who would talk only of her mother, and of what mother had thought about things. Everything triggered a maternal memory; Berthea had given her a cup of tea, and she had launched into a long description of the china her mother had once possessed but which had been broken by the removal men. Removal men, Berthea had written in her notes, and underlined the words. Removal men were such a powerful metaphor for brutal change, for dispossession, for the shattering of the security of the domestic universe. They came and put our life into boxes and took it away. Boxes, wrote Berthea, and underlined that too.

She glanced at Terence beside her, at the wheel of his Porsche. Then she looked at the speedometer. Twenty-eight miles per hour, and they were out of the speed limit zone, as Terence’s house was just into the country on the very fringes of Cheltenham. Poor Terence, with his magical thinking, and his Porsche …

“I do like this little car of yours, Terence,” said Berthea. “But you must miss that old Morris of yours.”

“Morris is gone,” said Terence firmly. “Mr Marchbanks took him away.”

Berthea smiled. Morris is gone. The title of a novel, perhaps. Or a song, like that haunting one she had heard the other day, “Tortoise Regrets Hare”. Terence regrets Morris. Morris gone.

“Yes, maybe he’s gone,” Berthea said. “But don’t you miss familiar objects, once they break or are replaced or whatever? I do. I had to throw out an old pair of slippers the other day. You know, those sheepskin ones – I used to bring them down here for the weekend and pad about your house in them. Frightfully comfortable.”

Terence nodded. “Pantoufles,” he said. “I called them your pantoufles.”

“So you did. Such a good name for them. The French are often better at naming things than we are, don’t you think? We come up with such prosaic names.”

Terence was silent for a moment. “Where do you think they are now? Do you think that they might have been picked up by some old tramp, who’s wearing him in his … wherever tramps live, and feeling rather proud of them? Do you think?”

“I doubt it,” said Berthea. “But it’s possible. And it’s rather nice to think that our things have an afterlife, as it were.”

“Yes,” said Terence. “I got this cardigan from a charity shop, would you believe? It belonged to somebody else, you know. Some other chap. Then it belonged to me, and I’ve had it for eight years now.”

“So I’ve noticed,” said Berthea. “Have you thought of getting …”

“No,” said Terence firmly. “I don’t need new things yet, Berthy. These outer things are of no real significance, you know. What counts is the spiritual state. Peter Deunov …”

But there was no time for Deunov, as they had reached the driveway of Terence’s house, and Berthea, anxious to avoid further explorations of the Bulgarian mystic, was commenting on the profusion of rhododendrons at the garden’s entrance. “Such thick foliage,” she said. “I’ve always loved rhododendrons. I remember when those went in, you know. We were very small, so they’ve lasted an awful long time.”

“Like us,” said Terence. “We’ve lasted a long time, haven’t we, Berthy? And we’ve …” He did not finish. A figure had stepped out from behind one of the rhododendron bushes , causingTerence to brake sharply. Berthea, who had been gazing at the bushes, gave a start.

“Who …”

Terence answered her question. “Rog,” he said. “He loves walking about the garden. He says that the energy of the plants is conducive to his creative processes. He spends a lot of time in the garden.”

The man who had appeared so suddenly was staring at Berthea through the window of the Porsche. He was a tall man, dressed in white – as many of Terence’s friends seemed permanently to be. His face was craggy, with high cheekbones, a slightly patrician face, the face of a boarding-school headmaster, or a senior army officer. This was not what she had expected. A Rog, Berthea had thought – shuddering at the abbreviation – ought to have a weak face, the face of one who did not quite know what was going on and was writing a book about it. This Rog, she decided, knew exactly what he was about.

She looked away, unwilling to meet the scrutinising gaze of the stranger. But then she turned back, and held the man’s gaze. Charlatan, she thought.