The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

Chapter 8: Tibetan Hats

They emerged into the light through the Charing Cross Road exit of Leicester Square Station.

“Obviously a Mason,” said James. “Spooky.”

“They’ve got that big hall near here,” said Caroline. “Freemasons’ Hall. Great Queen Street. Perhaps he was on his way there.”

James smiled. “For a ceremony of some sort, do you think?”

Caroline was not sure. “Should we have asked him?”

James did not think this a good idea. “You can’t ask members of a secret society what they’re up to,” he said. “It spoils their fun. And it’s rude, too. It’s like laughing at Black Rod or the Garter King of Arms when they’re all dressed up for one of those occasions of theirs.”

They made their way round the corner into Cecil Court. This was a shopping expedition of the curious variety that James and Caroline enjoyed undertaking in each other’s company – an expedition in search of something small and obscure. They never shopped together for the functional or the necessary, for sweaters or shoes or the like; it was hardly any fun going with somebody into a shop on Oxford Street or Regent Street. In fact, nor was it any fun going into such a shop without somebody.

James had to collect something from a book-dealer in Cecil Court, an out-of-print monograph on the sense of imminent event in the works of Nicolas Poussin – not something one could readily buy on Oxford Street, given its lamentable decline. For her part, Caroline planned to pick up a Tibetan wool hat from a stall in Covent Garden Market. She had seen the hat a few weeks earlier and had vacillated, a fatal thing to do when confronted with shopping temptation. Since then, she had regretted her failure to make the purchase.

“Fifteen pounds,” she said to James. “That’s all it was. I should have bought it.”

“Fifteen pounds is not much for a hat these days. Tibetan, you say?”

“In concept,” said Caroline. “I think they’re actually made in Bermondsey.”

“By Tibetans?”

Caroline did not think so. “The woman who sells them was knitting one when I was at her stall. She was Irish, I think. Or she certainly sounded it.”

“She might have had a bit of Tibetan in her,” said James. “One never knows, and perhaps one should give the benefit of the doubt in such a case.”

“Does it matter?”

James shook his head. “Of course not. Hats don’t have to come from where they claim. Look at panamas. They come from Ecuador.” He slowed down to peer into the window of a secondhand bookshop. “You know, I saw the Dalai Lama once.”

Caroline was interested. “Where?”

“Outside Foyles,” replied James. “He had been signing copies of a book he wrote. And he came out of the shop as I was walking along the pavement. He had some people with him who sort of ushered him into a car, and off they went up towards Tottenham Court Road. Floated off, really. It was very …” he seemed to be searching for the right word. “It was very spiritual.”

“How strange. In the middle of London, with all the traffic and so on.”

James agreed. “Exactly. What struck me was the sense of peace that he radiated – it was a sort of glow. You know how some people glow.”

“No.”

“Well, they do. They glow because they’re full of inner peace and resolution.” He turned away from the bookshop window and looked directly at Caroline. “Most of us don’t really know what we want in this life, do we? We spend our time rushing around from here to there, and then back again. We have a very strong sense of forward motion. The Dalai Lama wasn’t like that – or at least he wasn’t when I saw him in Charing Cross Road.”

They continued to walk down Cecil Court. “You know that they find him?” said James.

“Who?”

“The Dalai Lama,” he said. “They find a new Dalai Lama as a child. He’s the reincarnation, you see, of the last one. They look for signs.” He paused. “We could do that with the Archbishop of Canterbury, don’t you think? We could find the reincarnated Archbishop of Canterbury as a small boy and bring him up in his new role.”

Caroline laughed. “He’d have a terrible time at school,” she said. “Imagine how he’d be teased by the other kids. And it would be difficult for the teachers too. ‘Stop talking and get on with your work, please, Archbishop of Canterbury.’ It wouldn’t be easy.”

“They’d call him Your Grace,” said James. “That’s what you call the Archbishop of Canterbury. Teachers would know that sort of thing.” He paused for a moment. “Or maybe not …”

They reached a small bookshop with a display of modern first editions in the window. “This is the place,” James said. “Tindley and Chapman. It’s a great place. They’ve got all sorts of stuff.”

They went in. Mr Tindley was at his desk, paging through a book. He looked up and smiled at them. “Poussin?”

“Yes,” said James.

Mr Tindley half-turned and extracted a small pamphlet from the shelf behind him. “It’s in quite good condition,” he said, handing the pamphlet to James.

James looked at the price. “Seventeen pounds?”

Mr Tindley nodded. “It’s quite rare.”

James reached into his pocket and extracted a twenty pound note. Mr Tindley took the note and gave the change. They went out.

Caroline noticed that after he had slipped the pamphlet into a pocket, James put the three pound coins into his wallet. Then he reached into another pocket and took out the bottle of sterilising gel.

“Money’s really dirty,” he said as they began to cross St Martin’s Lane.

She watched as he poured a small quantity of gel onto the palm of his right hand.

“Dirty in what sense?” she asked. “Corrupting? Or because it represents exploitation of others?”

James looked at her in surprise. “Of course not,” he said. “Nothing political. I meant because it’s often covered in germs. It’s handled by so many people, you see.”

Caroline said nothing for a few moments, but once they were safely across the street she turned to James and touched him lightly on the forearm. “Listen, James,” she said. “Aren’t you being just a little bit too fussy about germs? I mean, there are germs all over the place. We’re covered in them.”

James gave a shudder. “Speak for yourself,” he said.