“I think he’s a fraud,” said Pat. “His real name is probably Smellie, or something like that.”
“We’ll find out,” said Matthew.
146
“Will we?”
“Maybe not.” Then he asked: “I wonder who else will be there, Pat?
The house itself was not large, but was flanked by a byre, behind which a garden sloped up to a stand of oaks, and beyond the oaks, the steeper parts of the hillside itself, pines, scree, the sky.
“I’ve driven past this place hundreds of times,” said Matthew, as he and Pat alighted from the taxi in the driveway. “And never noticed it. That’s the Biggar road out there. We used to go out to Flotterstone Inn when I was a boy. We’d have sandwiches and cakes from one of those three-tiered plate things and then go for a walk up to the Glencorse Reservoir.”
“So did we,” said Pat. “And there were always crows in those trees near the reservoir wall. Remember them? Crows in the trees, and sheep always on the wrong side of the dyke.”
They stood for a moment under the night sky, the taxi reversing down the drive behind them. Matthew reached out and put his arm around Pat’s waist. “We could walk over there now,” he said. “We could go over the top of the hill, then down past the firing ranges.” He wanted to be alone with her, away from distraction, to have her full attention, which he thought he never had.
She shivered. “Too cold,” she said. “And we’ve been invited to a party.”
They looked up at the house behind them. There was clearly a party going on inside, as lights spilled out of the front windows and the murmur of many conversations could be heard coming from within.
“Somehow, I don’t imagine him living here,” said Matthew.
“I don’t know why. I just don’t.”
“They don’t all live in grand houses,” Pat said. “Some dukes are probably pretty hard-up these days.”
Matthew raised an eyebrow. “But this one paid thirty-two thousand for a plain white canvas. That doesn’t sound like penury.” He paused. “Of course, he hasn’t paid yet.”
They walked to the front door and Matthew pulled at the old-fashioned bell tug.
“They’ll never hear that inside,” said Pat. “Let’s just go in.”
Matthew was reluctant. “Should we?”
“Why not? Look, nobody’s answered. We can’t just stand here.”
They pushed the door open and entered a narrow hall. At the side of this hall was an umbrella and walking- stick stand of the sort which is always to be seen in country houses – a jumble of cromachs, a couple of golf umbrellas, and to the side, along with a boot scraper, mud-encrusted Wellingtons, a pair of hiking boots for a child, a tossed-aside dog collar and lead.
The hall became a corridor which ran off towards the back of the house. The sound of conversation was louder now –
laughter, a tap being run somewhere in the background – and then, from a door to their right, a man emerged. He was wearing a crumpled linen suit and a forest green shirt, open at the neck.
“So, there you are,” said the Duke of Johannesburg. “Hoped for, but not entirely expected.” He came up to Pat and kissed her lightly on each cheek – a delicate gesture for a large man.
Then he turned to Matthew and extended his hand.
Matthew, flustered, said, “Your Grace.”
“Please!” protested the Duke. “Just call me Johannesburg.
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Pat smiled at the Duke. “Where exactly is Johannesburg?”
she asked.
The Duke looked at her in surprise. “Over there,” he said, waving his hand out of the window. “A long way away, thank God.” He paused. “Do I shock you? I think I do. That’s the problem these days – nobody speaks their mind. No, don’t smile.
They really don’t. We’ve been browbeaten into conformity by all sorts of people who tell us what we can and cannot say.
Haven’t you noticed it? The tyranny of political correctness.
Don’t pass any judgement on anything. Don’t open your trap in case you offend somebody or other.”
He led them through the door into the room from which he had just emerged.
“Everybody knows,” he went on, “that there are some places which are, quite frankly, awful, but nobody says that out loud.
Except some bravely spoken journalists now and then. Do let me get you a drink.”
