"Unfold?"
"Things will start to happen," she said, "unusual, unexpected ..."
"Like unusual scary things, unexpected criminals?" asked Arthur, smiling grimly.
"All things will pass,"
"Somebody else told me that today!"
"You see - unusual and unexpected!" said Amanda. "Seemingly unrelated things will start to fit together. All I can say is stay open and remember that all this will definitely pass - nothing actually matters. Now, can I get your statement for my report, please?" Arthur dutifully gave her his statement, while anxious to know more.
"Now, I really must go," said Amanda, looking at her watch, "but here's my mobile number if you want to know where to deliver the Maserati to." She scribbled her number on a serviette and handed it to him.
"The Maserati?" asked Arthur, trying to catch up with her.
"My consulting fee! Just joking, ninny," said Amanda, patting his shoulder. "If you want to know more or just want a chat, call and invite me round. Bye!"
'My gosh, invite me round,' thought Arthur as Amanda skipped out of the café, 'these Kiwis are very forward.' That thought was quickly squashed out of his brain as more pressing matters crowded in.
He would normally feel self-conscious, sitting in a café with an empty cup, no paper to pretend to read and nothing to do. This time he didn't. Despite all he had to think about, his mind went blank, quite empty, and he sat staring happily out the window at everything and nothing.
Blissfully unaware of the time, his mind slowly woke as a cat stretching after a nap. He looked around and was surprised the world hadn't changed during his absence. He picked himself up and wafted out the door with an inane smile on his face, quite unaware of what was waiting for him.
A Second Death
Monday, 5th March 2012, 1.45 p.m.
With a light and bouncy heart, he set off for home, preferring the ten-minute walk to being squished in a tram - a far cry from the previous dread he'd felt about meeting his wife with the upsetting news. In fact, he wanted to skip like a child but, of course, that just wasn't done. Not for an adult. Not for Arthur Bayly. Not in his suit today. That didn't stop his mind skipping along inside a body that carried a battered leather brief case with proper business-like decorum. He couldn't get the silly smile off his face and he worried that other pedestrians might think him mad or, worse, being silly. However, in true London style, no one looked or even pretended to notice.
The short walk seemed shorter this time and, as he turned the corner into Tunstall Road, he stopped abruptly. A small crowd and an ambulance, with flashing light, was such a contrast to his light mood. He tried to take the unexpected scene into his mind. As he tried to imagine what could be happening, he realised the ambulance men were carrying a stretcher out of his mother-in-law's house. The covered body on it looked chillingly still. His mind froze. His body froze. It was as if he knew, subconsciously, what was happening, thought his logical mind struggled to put the pieces together. He inched forward, searching the crowd and, soon, his wife came out of the house, ashen-faced.
Then it happened. The massive and persistent hand of God - as he would later describe it - was at his back, pushing him forward. With no choice but to obey, he covered the thirty yards in no time imaginable and had enveloped his wife in an uncharacteristically warm and loving embrace. She resisted, at first, the sudden hug from a stranger but, for the first time ever, he did not yield to her attempt to break free. He stood his ground strongly, lovingly and she quietly gave into his embrace, such was her need.
He was, of course, surprised at his decisive action and the warmth he felt inside. He was vaguely aware of other people fussing about him but he felt no concern for them. His only thoughts were for the woman in his arms - the woman, he realised, who needed his love and nothing else in this moment. He surprised himself as these old feelings of affection arose as Joan, usually the forceful one, melted into his arms and nothing needed to be said. As their envelope of silent togetherness wrapped them in, the outside world disappeared and they knew each other better than they ever had before. It was as if all the millions of words over the years had - instead of explaining and uniting them - confused and separated them. Reluctantly they separated, looking at each other, knowing they must allow the rest of the world to intrude.
"Oh, Arthur ..." said Joan softly, wanting to express what could not be put into words.
"It's okay, love, I'm here," said Arthur, knowing this was more important than anything - his job, his future, their future. This moment. He knew he must savour it, cherish it, remember it.
"Ah, excuse me, Mrs Bayly," said an ambulance driver, coming as close as their envelope of silence would allow, "we'll take the, er, your mother now, ma'am. We will need you to come and complete the paper-work for us - today, if possible."
"Yes, yes," Joan said, unable to keep the crack out of her voice and the tears from flowing.
"Thank you young man," said Arthur, with unaccustomed authority, "I'll bring my wife down to the hospital ..."
"No Sir, the funeral parlour, in Orchard Road," said the ambulance driver. "Do you know where it is?"
"Oh, ah, yes, of course, the funeral parlour, as soon as we can," said Arthur with his arm still around Joan's shoulders and a grip of fear around his gut with the mention of the word funeral. "We both need a little time to ourselves and then we'll walk down."
"Thank you, Sir," said the young man, "just when you can make it. There's no hurry, none at all."
"Thank you so much," said Arthur, thinking with remarkable clarity. "Now, dear, I'll lock your mother's house and we'll pop home for a cup of tea and a sit."
"Mmm, yes," said Joan quietly, apparently happy to hand over control for a change.
As they settled in their favourite lounge chairs, Joan suddenly looked up at Arthur who was placing a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on her side-table. "Arthur, I've just realised ... what are you doing here, now?" she asked. "I got Dottie, our neighbour, to ring your office but that was only half an hour ago."
"Yes dear, it's been quite a day hasn't it? Quite a day," said Arthur, sitting down with his cup of tea and wondering where to start and how much to say right now. "I, er, left work early today. I would have been on my way here when she rang, I suppose."
"But, Arthur, you've never left early before. Is something wrong?" asked Joan, realising she may not be the only one with problems.
"Well, yes, I'm afraid there is, my dear," said Arthur, still struggling with what details to reveal. "I was asked to leave, to not work at the office. Something about security ..." He waited for her attack.
"Oh dear, oh dear," said Joan, looking confused.
"It's okay, love, we can talk about it later," said Arthur, aware that she was unable to absorb much else at the moment. He was, also, quite relieved to have said the worst of it and avoided the terrible scene he had played out in his mind, several hours earlier at work. He was relieved, too, not to have to continue further explanations and tempt fate.
As he thought of his previous dread of this moment, it all seemed so far away - commuting, work, the interview, the shock - and it seemed to matter so little that he wondered how it could have mattered before at all.
"Do you want to tell me what happened?" asked Arthur.
"Oh, ah, well, I just went up there to see how she was - she hadn't called me," said Joan as her tears started again.
"Leave it for now if you like, love," said Arthur tenderly.
"No, I want you to know ... there's not much to tell, really," said Joan, wiping her eyes, determined to go on. "I knocked and there was no answer. That was unusual. I heard nothing inside, absolutely nothing. I had this horrible feeling in my stomach, that something was wrong ..." she said as another sob interrupted her story. Her crying subsided; she wiped her eyes and sat upright. "I've just got to tell you now, love. There's not much to say but it doesn't seem real, somehow. You know ..."
"Yes dear, I do know," said Arthur, smiling a
little as he recalled his own unreal experience that morning.
"Mmm, I think you do," said Joan with unaccustomed insight into her husband's thoughts. She blew her nose, sat up and started again. "I used my key, got in and found her on the floor of her lounge, beside her card table. You know, I always thought I'd scream or run away or do something dramatic when that happened. I always knew it would happen sometime, obviously ... it just, I just stood there and looked and looked. I knew a big part of me was lost, gone forever. I felt sort-of empty, dead, but ... but complete somehow, too. I can't explain it."
"Gosh," said Arthur, wanting to say something but not sure what. Some people just had the knack of saying the right things but he had never acquired it, he mused.
"But, you know, love," said Joan, dabbing her eyes, "it's not nice finding your mother, well, like that. Not nice at all but, well, yes, I was shocked and empty, somehow, but also ... I can't quite explain it ... I just felt fully complete, yes fully complete. That's all I can say. Strange really."
"Quite, yes, fully complete," said Arthur, savouring the phrase as if it was a new food he was tasting. Perhaps that's how he felt after his news at work today - shocked, frightened, maybe even angry. A little bit angry. And, yes, if he had to admit it, a sense of completeness, even peace, seemed to pervade. It certainly wasn't logical but it was undeniable - completeness and peace - there were no other words for it.
"Arthur dear, why are you smiling?" asked Joan.
"Oh, I'm sorry dear," said Arthur, feeling a trifle embarrassed to be smiling at such an inopportune time. "I'm not quite sure but you said you felt a sense of completeness. It is so very illogical, at a time like this bit it does seem oddly right. I'm not sure how, but it does. I'm certainly not smiling at you dear."
"I know you're not, darling. I know that," said Joan as a smile sneaked onto her face. "I know I'm supposed to be sad and that I should be gnashing and wailing and making a scene but I don't feel like that. I do feel sad and shocked - it was unexpected - but I can't deny the completeness thing inside. I feel a weeny bit guilty for it. Maybe I'll feel the full impact later, when it all sinks in."
"Mmm, maybe you will; maybe we both will," said Arthur, feeling empathy with his wife's explanation. "These things are supposed to make us feel the worst, have us behaving the worst but there is this odd sense of rightness to it all. You agree?"
"Absolutely, my love, absolutely!" said Joan feeling less lonely in her unaccustomed feelings. "Oh, Arthur, can I have a hug please?"
"Oh, ah, yes Dear," said Arthur, wondering when he'd last heard those words - maybe during their honeymoon. As they stood and hugged, Arthur could feel the sense of completeness grow imperceptibly. He also felt something else grow a little - a nice but slightly embarrassing movement below his belt. But there were things to be attended to.
"So, what about you, you poor thing?" asked Joan. "Did you say you lost your job?"
"Well, not really. They want me to consider working at home," said Arthur. "A security risk and I witnessed a police scuffle ..." He just couldn't get the words to form logical patterns for her to understand.
"Security risk? Police scuffle?" asked Joan, wide-eyed.
"Well, I did mention my job but we were busy with your mother. I thought I should let it wait till later," said Arthur with a sigh.
"And a police scuffle?" asked Joan, repeating herself.
"Oh yes, I hadn't got round to mentioning it," said Arthur as the memory of it - so recent but so quickly gone from his mind - returned. "I think he was a New Zealander, a brown man. Would that be a Maori?"
"Ah yes, I suppose so ... who?" asked Joan, now totally confused.
"Ah, the man they caught ... and the other one who thanked me and it was all so quick ..." said Arthur as his mind went the speed of light and his mouth was stuck at thirty miles per hour.
"Arthur, Arthur, please stop there," said Joan, patting his hand. "Stop. Take a breath - a deep breath - and then tell me all about it. It's obviously not only me who's had a harrowing day!"
So Arthur told her about it - everything he could remember.
"So that's it?" asked Joan, enthralled at the events surrounding her husband.
"I'm afraid so, Joan," said Arthur, relieved that he'd got it all out in the open. "Why don't we get the official stuff done and then we can relax."
As they sat down with a late afternoon cup of tea, after returning from the funeral parlour, there was a thump at the front door. Arthur leapt up and returned with the evening paper. At the bottom of the front page was a photo of the woman and her child. He read the story out and it was mainly the woman's point of view. He was surprised that she considered him a hero and wanted to thank him, if she could contact him to do so. He felt uncomfortable. Joan reached over and took the paper from him.
"So this is you ... my hero husband?" asked Joan, her eyes wide.
"Not a hero quite," said Arthur, embarrassed. "I just happened to be there and the chap tripped over my foot and I got knocked down and was then helped up by a very helpful police woman - Amanda. Just like I told you."
"Mmm, sounds like you were more involved than that, according to the paper," said Joan looking at Arthur with obvious admiration.
The phone stabbed through their peace, shrill and jarring. Arthur was momentarily stunned and then reluctantly moved to pick it up.
"Where have you been? I've been trying to call you time and again," said Martin, obviously in a mood. "And why don't you get yourselves an answer phone? You really must get up to date and it's so rude not to let people contact you or leave messages. I don't know how many times I've told you about this, why don't you get one ..."
"Martin," Arthur said wearily, wondering who was father and who was son for an instant, his quietness stopping the tirade in mid-stream. "Martin, we don't have one because we don't want one."
"But I've told you, it's so rude and so damned annoying when people really want to contact you and you don't even have mobile phones like you should and it's like you're in the last century and you really need ..."
"Martin," said Arthur, quietly, "I've had quite enough of this. Now, what is it that you want?"
"Well, yes, it's still so rude and backward not to have an answer phone or a mobile, everyone else has them ..."
"Martin," said Arthur quietly, again. "I'm going to say this one thing and then I'm going to hang up. Okay?"
"Uh, oh, okay!" said Martin, surprised by this unaccustomed shortness from his father.
"Now, you haven't told us what you want so I'll tell you where we've been," said Arthur in measured tones. "We've recently got back from the funeral parlour because your grandmother died today. I've was also sent home from my job. The funeral is on Thursday and we really hope you and Ruth and the children can all be there. Good night."
As Arthur sat down, under the admiring gaze of his wife, the phone screamed again.
"Ah, I'm, ah, I didn't know, Dad," said Martin, coming the closest he ever had to an apology. "I just didn't know ..."
"Well, now you do, Martin, and we did leave a message on your home answer phone and I left a message with your secretary. I hope you can all be there to support your mother and I. Now, what was it you wanted us so urgently for?"
"Ah, oh, well, I wanted to know if you could look after the kids for two days," said Martin. "It's a teacher-only day or a half-term break or something ... ah hell, I didn't know, I'm really sorry about you and Grandma."
"Yes, so are we, Martin," said Arthur in a more conciliatory tone. "So, when would you like us to look after the children?"
"Well, I had hoped I could drop them off first thing in the morning ..." said Martin, trailing off.
"Look Martin, it's been a big day so let me have a talk to Mum and we'll call you back within half an hour. Is that okay?"
"Of course, Dad. That's fine. I'm really so sorry ..."
Later, after Arthur's and Joan's minds had cleared a little, they discussed having the children and decided a pleasant di
version from their current concerns was just what they needed. They rang Martin to tell him and he surprised twice - an apology and gratitude.
Slipping Off His Map
Tuesday 6th March 2012, 6.30 a.m.
After the deepest sleep he could remember, his body woke him up with a jolt at his habitual time of 6.30 am. He struggled out of bed, feeling his usual oppression and sense of futility at a life less lived. As he went to pick up the day's clothes from the chair, he stopped, embarrassed, uncertainly, smiling childishly to himself. His overwhelming sense of duty to march off to work, grim and stolid, evaporated as a shaft of gentle light penetrated his usual cloud of doom. He plumped down on the edge of the bed.
On any previous day, he would have obeyed the soldier's call, reluctantly. He would have wearily saluted that insanely barking sergeant-major - red-faced with swelling veins - in his head, and gone to war against an enemy that was not his own ... supposedly to vanquish an invisible enemy for the sake of work and family.
Only now, work had changed and family expected no pound of flesh at all ... never had, actually. That monstrous and grotesque parade ground screamer slowly shrank before his mind's eye and became a silly little man, mouthing senseless nothings. Such strange thoughts had never entered his mind before and he wondered where his inner poet had turned up from.
As he pondered a lifetime of obedience and fear to such insane demands - illusory demands - he saw the silly side of his own drivenness, his own blindness and his plodding forever onward on a mission that could never be accomplished. He saw the whole futility of generations of dumb cattle being herded to the milking shed every day, rain or shine, in sickness or in health, for richer or for poorer, till death do us part. Chewing on their meagre cud, the doe-eyed cows knew that no amount of milk would ever be enough to satisfy the appetites of those who had more than they needed. As these bizarre thoughts zipped round his mind, he realised - without knowing how he knew this as he'd never tasted power or affluence - that the more he had, the more he had to fear ... and that fear fuelled the desperate need for more power, money and toys. With surprising clarity he realised just how lucky he was, never having risen to such a position of fear - all he had to lose was the odd night's sleep.
The Last Stand Down Page 5