Corduroy Mansions Page 0,119

bursting point with pride and pleasure; he had been reminded, years later, by his mother how he had refused for weeks to take the boots off, wearing them to bed, to church, everywhere.

Marcia looked at Freddie de la Hay with horror when she realised what he had done. “You wicked, wicked dog!” she shouted. “Bad dog!”

Freddie de la Hay hung his head. A small drop of saliva fell from his mouth to the floor; it could have been a tear.

“Smack him,” Marcia urged. “William, you can’t let him get away with it! Your lovely Belgian Shoes. Bad, bad dog!”

“I can’t smack him,” said William. “He’s already suffering remorse. Look at him. He’s saying sorry.”

“Rubbish,” snapped Marcia. “He’s just bad.”

William shook his head. “He’s not bad. He’s had a bit of a lapse, that’s all.”

He crouched down on his haunches and gently lifted up Freddie’s snout so that man and dog were looking at one another eye to eye. “Freddie, I’m very disappointed,” he said. “Those shoes … well, they were very special shoes. Do you promise never to do that again?”

Freddie stared at William. He knew that he had done something terrible and that he was in disgrace. He was not quite sure what it was, but he knew that there had been a sudden interruption of the current of love and affection that existed between him and William, which was, for him as it was for all dogs, the entire rationale of his existence. His theology was simple: William existed, and he, Freddie, existed to do William’s bidding and to please him. William’s displeasure was terrible unto him, and he could not bear it. But now his owner was patting his head and that brief, awful period of being cut off was over. He licked William’s hand, grateful for the restoration, the forgiveness.

Marcia turned away. Seeing William forgive Freddie de la Hay in this way, she had become conscious of how vindictive she sounded when she had urged him to smack the dog. How mean she must have seemed in William’s eyes; how cruel. William was a good man, a gentle and kind man, and she had behaved like one of those women, strangers to the case, who hammer on the side of the police van as it takes some unpopular criminal away from court and off to prison, the contemporary equivalent of the tricoteuses who knitted as the guillotine did its terrible revolutionary work.

This realisation amounted to more than a mere dawning of self-understanding; it made her see, too, how different they were. William was a sensitive, thoughtful man, and she admired him for that. But was she worthy of such a man? The problem was that there were depths to him that she simply could not match in herself. He was more perceptive than she was; he had read more; knew more about the world; saw things in a different, more subtly nuanced light. And while she appreciated this, her appreciation was that of the amateur who gazes upon a work of beauty, a great painting perhaps: the work of art is admired, but the observer knows that it belongs to a realm of understanding that will be for ever beyond him. He may look on, but that does not mean he can converse with the artist.

All of this made her conscious that her decision to renounce her claim on him was the right one. And although Marcia did not know it, that very decision, in its unselfishness and realism, made her something of a great person too. She was unlikely ever to say anything profound; she would never change the way the world was; but she had taken a step in the direction of living rightly. That made Marcia great—in a tiny way.

She turned back to face William and Freddie de la Hay. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re not a bad dog, Freddie de la Hay. We all fall into temptation from time to time.”

“Hear that, Freddie?” said William. “Marcia says that you’re not so bad after all.”

Freddie looked at Marcia and made to lick her from a distance—a token, virtual lick, but an important gesture nonetheless.

“I’ll buy you a new pair of Belgian Shoes,” Marcia said to William. “Tomorrow.”

“Oh, you can’t do that,” protested William. “They’re very expensive.”

“How much?” asked Marcia.

“One hundred and seventy pounds,” said William.

Marcia laughed. “That wouldn’t be expensive by the standard of women’s shoes. Men’s shoes are obviously much cheaper.”

“Maybe,” said William. He was remembering the pair of handmade shoes he