The Dog Who Came in from the Cold (15 page)

He drew breath. “Secondly, if abominable snowmen do exist, then it would be very unlikely that they would have the gift of speech, being some sort of sub–Homo
sapiens
primate. So how could this yeti have conveyed his experiences to your friend, Mr. Greatorex? Somewhat unlikely, I would have thought. Correct me if I’m wrong, of course.
Cela va sans dire
.

“You have to be careful, Barbara. Literary frauds are always lurking in the undergrowth. Grey Owl—look at him. Ojibway Indian—I ask you! Archie Belaney from Sussex, in actual fact. And how did his publishers and agents feel, I wonder? And that book,
My Uncle Joe
, about Stalin, by his nephew, except he wasn’t Stalin’s nephew at all. We’re on well-worn ground here, Barbara, and I don’t think that Ragg Porter should end up with egg all over its face.”

She had resisted Rupert’s opposition to the project, and encouraged Errol Greatorex to produce a manuscript. So far four chapters had been written and had been submitted in a neat folder marked
Yeti’s Life Story, Confidential
. She had taken these home one evening
and had pored over them, so transfixed by the story that her soup had boiled over and burned, unnoticed.

“My earliest memory,” wrote the yeti, “is of being taken by my uncle to a place just outside one of the high villages in a remote part of the country. There was a monastery outside this village, a square stone building with a commanding view of the valley below. I had never been in a proper building before—we lived in small shelters, tents of a sort, that we disguised with snow. They were comfortable enough, but the sight of this monastery with its darkened windows and its high parapets made a great impression on my five-year-old self.

“I wanted to go into the monastery, but my uncle, with the natural shyness of our people, refused. ‘They will not understand,’ he said. ‘That is part of their world, not ours.’

“I heard the monks chanting within, and the sound seemed to me to be beautiful beyond imagining. Yetis do not have any music of their own—they have small singing bowls that they sometimes use to produce a single note, but I hesitate to call it music. Hearing the chants of the monks filled me with excitement. It seemed to me that I was being addressed, personally and directly, and that if I did not respond this mournful, moving sound would disappear from the face of the earth.

“My uncle, however, told me to be quiet, and so I said nothing, but crouched there with him, watching the monks going about their tasks, tending their struggling vegetables in the patches of raked earth they had prepared in front of the monastery.

“I had no idea that, six years later, I was to return here and be given the chance of an education. I had no idea, too, that some of the monks whom I had watched with such curiosity would come to mean so much to me. At that point they were just men in saffron robes, clutching hoes, scratching at the thin soil of the mountainside, behind them the prayer flags fluttering in the wind: blue, green, yellow, red—colours that had until then been no part of our
world, which knew only the white of the snow and the pale, singing blue of the sky above.”

“T
HAT’S OUR SLEEPER TRAIN
,” said Hugh, pointing along the platform. “See it?”

Barbara Ragg nodded, momentarily distracted by the sight of a group of staggering football fans being searched by a contingent of transport police before they were allowed on the platform. The search was being conducted in good spirits, it seemed, even though it was proving productive. At the side of the concourse was steadily growing a motley pile of bottles and cans, taken off the fans by the police. Barbara did not want to stare, but found it difficult to tear her gaze away. For a moment she was consumed with shame; where else in Western Europe could such sights be seen? Where else was public drunkenness so manifest? On the streets and in the cafés of France? She thought not; such places always had a light, civilised air, even if the statistics showed that the French consumed vast lakes of wine. But they drank it with food, while engaged in pleasant conversation, not like this. Nor, she imagined, did they have mobs of drunken young women, screeching hen parties, tottering in high heels and short skirts from bar to bar, fuelled by sweetened vodka concoctions. And in Germany? The Germans got drunk at beer festivals, in large tents, to the strains of oompah music—again, all very different from this. And yet if you said anything about it to anybody, they merely shrugged, or smiled at you as if to imply that you were some sort of killjoy.

Hugh did not appear to have noticed. Perhaps, being Scottish, he was inured to such sights. “I like sleepers,” he said, as they made their way down the platform. “Do you?”

“I don’t really think very much about them,” she said.

Hugh quoted Norman MacCaig. “There’s a Scottish poet,” he said. “He wrote a poem about the Edinburgh to London sleeper. He said something about not liking being carried sideways through the night. That’s such a powerful image, isn’t it? Being carried sideways through the night.”

Barbara agreed. “Sometimes,” she said, “when I look up and see an aeroplane overhead I think of all the people in it. All those people being carried in the sitting position through the air. If you just took the outer skin of metal away, imagine what it would look like. Rows of people shooting through the air.”

Hugh smiled. “Yes, very odd. I think I probably prefer being carried sideways through the night to being carried through the air like that. One is less of a hostage to fortune when one is only a few feet off the ground, don’t you think, rather than, what is it, four miles above it?”

“Five, I think.”

“Give me a train any time.”

Trains were normally of little interest to Barbara, except as a means of getting from place to place, but this one was different. At first, it seemed to her that it had no windows, that it was that curious thing, a
sealed train
, of the sort in which Lenin travelled from Switzerland to Russia; then she saw that there were windows, but they were rendered opaque by drawn blinds.

“I can hardly remember when I last took a sleeper train,” she said. “As a teenager I did some travelling on the Continent. We were in a
wagon-lit
, I think.” It was a hazy recollection: a vague memory of sounds; of being rocked through the night on the way down to Italy; the slightly acrid smell of sleeper carriages, a smell redolent of batteries and stuffiness, and slightly sour milk.

“I want to go on the Orient Express one day,” said Hugh as they neared their carriage. “To Istanbul. I’ve always wanted to. It’s such a romantic idea, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said Barbara.

“Shall we do it?” asked Hugh. “Should I book?”

She laughed. “Perhaps.” He had started to say
we
now, quite frequently, and she was still getting used to it. It touched her. Oedipus Snark had never said
we;
her life with him had never been a shared one. With Oedipus, it was always
I
.

They boarded the train. A woman with a clipboard, a diminutive woman with a strong Glaswegian accent, showed them to their compartments, two single-bed cabins with a communicating door between. For a moment Barbara felt a twinge of disappointment, but then asked herself what she had expected. Sleepers did not have double bunks, of course, because that was not the point of a sleeper. You were meant to sleep when on a sleeper—as the name suggested.

The woman took their order for morning tea, which would be served, she said, just before they drew in to Glasgow. Then it would be on to Fort William, where they would arrive shortly before ten. Then, with a smile, she left them.

Barbara put her case on the rack and went to raise the window blind. As she did so, she caught sight of her blurred reflection in the blank glass of the window. I am on a train with my
fiancé
, she thought. I am going to Scotland. I am with the most beautiful man I have ever met—yes, he really is that—and it is
I
, Barbara Ragg, who has him. He is mine. Mine.

It was an unexpected thought, and it made her reflect on how she had come to be where she was. She felt that what had happened to her was not deserved, but had happened at random and quite unexpectedly. She felt a sense of wonder over it; it had not been in her script; it was not meant to be like this. And that, of course, made her situation seem all the more precious, all the more vulnerable.

She turned round. Hugh was standing behind her.

“My darling, beautiful, wonderful Barbie,” he whispered.

The first part of this was fine; the latter not quite. He had never called her Barbie before.

She made light of it. She smiled. “Barbie™?”

He put his arms around her. “Barbie. Well, it’s short for Barbara, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But … But do you know who Barbie™ is?”

Hugh looked puzzled. He planted a kiss on her brow. He was wearing some sort of cologne; there was the scent of sandalwood. “No.”

“She’s a doll.”

Hugh smiled. “I knew somebody who called his girlfriend ‘doll.’ She seemed to like it. She was one of those blondes, you know, not a great intellectual. ‘Doll’ seemed to suit her.”

The train gave a sudden shudder.

“We’re on our way,” said Hugh. Then he whispered, “To be in love
and
to be on the sleeper. Bliss.”

Barbara closed her eyes. “Oh, Hugh …” And then she thought: Barbie. Few mistakes were genuinely without meaning—Professor Freud had told us that, and the lesson still stood. So was Barbie
Barbie
or another Barbie? Or even her? Or was she
Barbie
? It was enough to confuse even a semiotician.

“I have a surprise for you,” said Hugh.

T
HE SURPRISE
that Hugh had for Barbara was revealed shortly after the sleeper train slipped out of Euston, rocking through the somnolent suburbs of London, headed for Scotland and the Great Glen. The surprise was a demonstration—nothing more than that—of a special way of keeping the interconnecting door between their two compartments open during the journey. This was done by attaching one end of a leather belt to a coat hook in one compartment and the other end to a second coat hook in the other.

Barbara watched, and if her smile seemed rueful, it was. What had she expected? When a devastatingly handsome man, one whom one can—with complete pride—call one’s fiancé, says that he has a surprise in store, what is one
entitled
to expect? A present of some sort, perhaps? Something one would never buy oneself—an item of jewellery, a brooch, a set of earrings. Or, more imaginatively, and perhaps even more romantically, a concealed miniature picnic basket, produced and opened to reveal a tiny pack of delicate sandwiches—translucent cucumber slices on slivers of bread—a half bottle of champagne, kept chilled in a tight-fitting ice-filled life-vest, and flecked quails’ eggs, as neat and beautiful as the tiny birds that had laid them. Such a picnic could be eaten in the half-light of the sleeper compartment, the two of them perched companionably on the one bunk, like two children enjoying a midnight feast in the far-fetched pages of some schooldays story. One would not expect merely this, a mundane way of keeping a door from opening and closing with the movement of the train.

“Now we’ll be able to talk,” said Hugh, pointing at his vaguely Heath Robinson arrangement.

She looked down, a look tinged with regret. “Of course.”

“Talking in the darkness is very special,” said Hugh. “You hear your words going out into the night, almost like a prayer—because you can’t see the person you’re addressing them to.”

He took off his jacket. She saw that a button was missing from his shirt; there was a glimpse of brown beneath. He was one of these people who did not need the sun to look tanned. He took off his shoes. There was a hole in one of his socks exposing the tip of a toe; it made her smile. He looked so vulnerable.

“What’s funny?”

She pointed to his holed sock. “Your poor toe.”

He wiggled the toe. “This little piggy,” he said, “went—”

“If you do that,” she said, “you’ll enlarge the hole.”

Hugh finished the line—the pig’s destination should not remain
unclear—“Went to market. What do you think that means? All those nursery rhymes have a hidden meaning, you know. Often quite sinister.”

“They can be dreadful,” agreed Barbara. “They’re full of violence and cruelty.” She paused. “Why do you think we feel the need to scare our children?”

Hugh thought for a moment. He wiggled his exposed toe again. “Bettelheim?” he asked.

“Oh.
The Uses of
 …” The uses of something.

“Of enchantment.
The Uses of Enchantment.
”

“Of course.”

Hugh bent down and started to remove a sock. She watched him; the simple act of getting undressed in a confined space brought home the intimacy of the relationship into which she had entered. This was not occasional, which had been the nature of her relationship with Oedipus, and the boyfriend who, some years previously, had preceded him. It was quotidian, diurnal-nocturnal. She averted her eyes lest he see her
looking upon him
, as biblical language would have it; one would not want to be found
looking upon
another.

He took off the other sock. “Bettelheim said that violence in fairy stories and the like has a very important function. It enables us to experience it as children, and to deal with it. If you look something in the face, then you are no longer frightened of it.”

He turned away from her and switched out the main light in the compartment. The bunk reading light, though, was still on, giving out a low, reassuring glow. The train rocked, and he had to reach out to steady himself by holding on to Barbara’s shoulder; she was already seated on the edge of the bed. Once steadied, he sat down.

“I’m very glad that you’re coming to Scotland,” he said.

She said that she was glad too. But she hardly knew Scotland, she added; it seemed very far away, particularly places with names like Fort William. “It makes it sound like a distant outpost.”