X20

by Richard Beard

  ‘Buchanan’s is like any other big company,’ Theo said. ‘It’s very protective of its position. If I solved the problem of the virus I could sell the discovery to someone else, who could then grow tobacco wherever they liked.’

  ‘But this is stealing,’ I said. ‘It’s Julian’s personal vendetta against us.’

  ‘I thought you two were friends?’

  ‘He’s a mean, lying, two-faced, smarmy, deceitful, revengeful, bitter, betraying, begrudging bastard.’

  Theo stopped what he was doing. He lowered himself into the armchair we’d brought through from the front and lit a cigarette. I lit a cigarette. Bananas slid off the bean-bag, took his Latakia pouch between his teeth and jumped onto Theo’s lap.

  ‘Well now,’ Theo said. ‘I wouldn’t call him mean.’

  ‘He never sees the human angle. It’s always money and statistics. He thinks we should disband the Club.’

  ‘Of course you could always stop smoking.’

  ‘Apparently he sees Walter as a fire-risk. Sorry?’

  ‘Just an idea.’

  Theo stroked Bananas behind the ears, between the two bald spots on the top of his head. ‘Then it wouldn’t matter what Julian thinks.’

  I watched Theo calmly enjoying his cigarette, and tried to read his expression. He was joking, surely. He said,

  ‘If you don’t like the situation as it is then you have to take some of the blame.’

  No, Theo was wrong. I now knew as an absolute fact that everything without exception was Julian’s fault, ever since he’d drawn my attention to Lucy Hinton’s mouth. It shocked me to realize I couldn’t remember her mouth, and then I discovered I’d also lost her lips. I could remember her cheek-bones and her jaw, but these were now separated by a grotesque pair of all-purpose red lips, stuck in a pout directed at Julian.

  I’d accused him of knowing absolutely nothing about Lucy Hinton’s mouth. ‘You even thought she had blonde hair,’ I said. But he shrugged it off, and then taunted me some more by suggesting I find a new girlfriend before the results of my tests only applied to celibates. Well ha bloody ha, Julian.

  ‘Think what you like,’ I said to Theo, ‘I’ve known Julian a long time.’

  ‘He’s frightened. He works for Buchanan’s, who imagine people like me growing tobacco in allotments, between the carrots and the onions.’

  ‘Which would be bad news for Buchanan’s.’

  ‘Exactly. The market suits them as it is, so they resist any sort of change.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s not just Julian?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s Buchanan’s and the other tobacco companies. They all have the same vested interests and they generally co-operate to protect themselves, which includes suppressing a TMV-immune plant, if it comes to that.’

  He wouldn’t tell me if he’d actually created an immune strain. He said it hardly mattered. And even if he had, then one plant in a single Research Unit wasn’t going to help Buchanan’s very much. If they really wanted to be certain that nothing would change, they’d have to destroy his whole lab.

  Deerstalker. Greenish tweed. Flaps up and tied over the top.

  We also have Jonesy Paul, old Ben Bradley, Whittingham, Dr Hacket, the Pole Jan Peto and Lundy Foot, who between them ought to be doing a better job of cheering Walter up, even at the expense of driving me rapidly insane. They are all smoking except for Lundy Foot, who often loses track of conversations while wondering which of his addictions to service next. He chews on some nicorette while trying to remember if he’s taken his royal jelly supplement, and which desire it is exactly which gives him that faint but unmistakable feeling of discomfort. I know that feeling: it makes my hands nervous.

  In a room-full of smokers, my blood tries to circulate in a reverse direction. It crashes back into itself, desperate to return to the time when I could say sure you’re a good man Ben Bradley and I don’t mind if I do take a light, but without the Irish accent, which is just another symptom of not feeling myself today. My lung-ache is back and so is the pain in my arm, and my impatience towards stupidity like Jonesy Paul telling me I’ve left the Calor Gas heater turned on in the kitchen with a tin of bark or something on top of it and should he turn it off and I was about to suggest should he put his head in the oven when Walter in his truly absurd deer-stalking hat bangs the bowl of his pipe like a gavel against the edge of his ashtray on the arm of his armchair.

  He announces an extraordinary meeting of the Suicide Club, to commence immediately. Then he proposes the motion, without more ado, that Gregory Simpson have his membership revoked.

  Well now. I take the communal silence that follows as an expression of support.

  Old Ben Bradley says: ‘But he lives here.’

  ‘Beside the point,’ Walter snaps, checking his hat is still tied on top. ‘The point is,’ and here he gavels the ashtray again for good measure, ‘that Simpson is no longer a smoker, so therefore how can he still be a member of the Suicide Club?’

  Actually, I’d be willing to correct this ommission almost instantly, because Bradley’s JPS are only inches away, next to my invitation to The Mikado, saying Hi There!, saying Hello Baby!, saying just smoke me for God’s sake what difference does it make?

  Jonesy Paul says: ‘He might start again.’

  Walter shakes his head regretfully. ‘It’s been more than two weeks.’

  Now they all take a good look at me. Two weeks?

  ‘But it feels like a lot longer,’ I say.

  ‘Well I don’t smoke either,’ says Lundy Foot.

  ‘That’s different,’ Walter says slowly. ‘You would if you could. You’re true to the principle of the thing.’

  ‘What about Haemoglobin?’

  This is exactly the sort of digression the Suicide Club likes best, involving a detailed assessment of whether Haemoglobin counts as a member at all, or whether he is less of a member than Bananas, whose commitment to tobacco was altogether more intense. There follows a moment’s silence and eyes down in honour of Bananas, undoubtedly the greatest cat who ever lived, before Walter petulantly calls the meeting to order again with his pipe, insisting on someone telling him how I can still be a member.

  More silence.

  Jonesy Paul says: ‘He’s a friend of ours?’

  ‘But it’s not a club for people who write things down, is it?’

  ‘It keeps my hands occupied,’ I say.

  ‘If you took up writing to give up smoking,’ Lundy Foot asks, ‘how are you going to give up writing?’

  ‘We could make him an honorary life-member,’ Dr Hacket suggests.

  ‘It’s the principle of the thing,’ Walter insists.

  Jonesy Paul comes over and offers me a Lambert and Butler. He pulls two cigarettes out of the pack in stages, like in all the best adverts. I say no thanks, and then start writing like fury, hearing old Ben Bradley saying he didn’t see me smoke at Humphrey King’s funeral, and Well Done Quite Right Gregory Dr Hacket says, and Jonesy Paul puts his fag in his mouth and starts clapping, and then someone else, but I have no idea really because my head is down and the Pole Jan Peto is silently emptying his pockets onto the desk, and here is a pipe, and a packet of pipe-cleaners, and four cigars from a Panatella six-pack, and a plastic pouch of Erinmore, and a box of Chesterfield, and a twisted pack of Golden Virginia, and a single sheath of red Rizla papers with a corner torn off and he’s saying, in the middle of all this, I Give Up Too, Good Man.

  At last I look up. Jan is standing there, smiling encouragingly, knowing it’s a nice gesture he’s made. He does this all the time, but it’s still a nice gesture. Walter, admitting defeat, slumps sulkily back into his chair, crosses his arms.

  ‘We’re supposed to like it,’ he says.

  Julian said I wouldn’t give up smoking in a million years, so when I arrived home from the Unit, out of breath from running, I asked Theo if he thought it was true.

  ‘If you’ve got that long I wouldn’t bother,’ he said.

  ‘Rea
lly.’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m late.’

  He was going to visit Emmy in the Estates. He gave me a tobacco plant and a red nylon shopping bag to carry outside to the taxi. The bag was full but surprisingly light, like in the old days, but now it was foil of flowers laid lengthways, huge orange and white daisies for Emmy. Theo had managed to change, so why couldn’t I?

  I went back into the front room, where Walter was discussing domino strategies with Jonesy Paul and Humphrey King, and I asked them if they thought I could give up.

  ‘What would you want to do that for?’

  ‘But do you think I could?’

  ’Search me,’ Walter said, and then he was pulling on his coat and so were the others. Humphrey King said ‘Giro day,’ and as the door closed behind them I took out a cigarette, but then remembered the self-satisfied look on Julian’s face when he told me I’d never give up.

  ‘You can’t afford to,’ Julian had said, ‘not with the upkeep of the house and everything. And anyway, you’re not the type.’

  ‘I might be the type.’

  ‘You’re not, believe me. That’s why we picked you.’

  Ever since the break-in, everything Julian said could be made to sound sinister. I remembered the way he’d talked about the house, just before he called Walter a fire-risk.

  ‘It’s not very well protected, is it?’

  At the time I’d imagined he was worried for us, but now, after what Theo had said about the lab, I wanted to find a way to hurt Julian, if only to prove we weren’t entirely defenceless. I said the first thing which came into my head.

  ‘I could give up smoking.’

  He laughed out loud.

  Back at the house now, someone was banging the brass knocker at the front door. I still hadn’t lit my cigarette so I was glad for the distraction. It was Jamie.

  ‘Where’s everyone else?’ he asked, surprised by the empty room.

  ‘Out, about. Jamie, do you think I could give up smoking if I wanted to?’

  ’Sure you could. Can I do the test again?’

  He jumped into one of the leather chairs and I asked him what vegetable was known to counteract cancer. That ought to keep him quiet for a bit, at least while I smarted at the memory of Julian threatening me that I shouldn’t try to threaten him. He said I was weak, and indecisive, and full of anxiety. I had no discipline. I had no qualifications and nothing to look forward to. ‘You’ll never give up,’ he said. ‘You need us as much as we need you.’

  ‘Carrots,’ Jamie said.

  ‘Have you been talking to Walter?’

  ‘Everybody knows that.’

  ‘Alright then. Who sponsored one-day international cricket in Australia in the nineteen seventies?’

  Julian said I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. I’d remember every cigarette I ever smoked. It would mean completely changing the way I thought, and I just wasn’t the kind of person who did that. I was obsessive, and repetitive in my habits. I was anxious about making decisions, which reinforced my attachment to the decisionless rituals of addiction. Julian told me there was no substitute. He said I didn’t stand a chance, and I think he quite enjoyed saying it.

  ‘Benson and Hedges.’

  I didn’t enjoy hearing it. It felt like an affront to my manhood.

  ‘Benson and Hedges.’

  ‘Yes, quite right, Jamie. So you really think I could give up if I wanted to?’

  ‘Do I get to join?’

  ‘Would you say I was a weak person?’

  ‘Give me another question. Any question.’

  ‘Jamie, has no-one ever told you that cigarettes damage your health?’

  ‘Harder than that.’

  ‘What do you most want in life?’

  ‘Money, fast cars. Cigarettes.’

  ‘Whatever it is you want,’ I said to him solemnly, ‘you can’t have it. Not exactly how you want it. My mother taught me that.’

  ‘All I want is a cigarette,’ he said.

  I gave in and tossed him a Carmen. We shared a match.

  A belly of low cloud flattened the glare of the street-lights and trapped the day’s heat into the city. I was on my way to the cinema, wearing my black leather jacket and my Camel boots and my most communicative clothes in between. I had a comforting wad of Uncle Gregory’s money in my back pocket, and dreaming of eloquent purchases I could make for Ginny I passed an old lady in a blue duffel coat who asked me a question I didn’t understand. I wasn’t in a hurry, so with the decency I’d inherited from my parents I stopped and asked her if she could kindly repeat herself.

  ‘A few francs,’ she said.

  I flustered through my pockets, avoiding Uncle Gregory’s money, and inside my jacket my hand fell on the pack of Gauloises. I held them out to her, meaning she should take just one, but she thanked me and took the whole pack, with no idea at all of how lucky they were. She walked away before I could explain.

  When I arrived at the cinema Ginny was already queuing. She was wearing over-size dungarees and the white sleeves of her long-sleeved T-shirt overlapped her knuckles. She was wearing her round-rimmed glasses. In need of solace as I was, I could easily have chosen this moment to fall in love with her, but I was distracted by a non-smoking fat couple standing in the queue behind her. They were sharing a baguette and a Camembert cheese, which they spread on the bread with a pen-knife. Lucy’s parents, I thought, on a gastronomic weekend away.

  Assuming they had instructions to report back to Lucy, I made a point of kissing Ginny on both cheeks. Her dungarees gaped at the side when she leant forward and I saw her hip-bone naked below the seam of her T-shirt. I think I must have blushed, but I tried to hide it by saying I hadn’t seen Now Voyager, either, at which point, thankfully, the queue began to move.

  I soon found out that anyone trying to forget the loss of a pack of lucky cigarettes should avoid Now Voyager. The cigarettes in this film are uniquely expressive, managing to communicate lucidly in the awkward territory between language and action. In the very first scene, for example, Bette Davis smokes secretly in her bedroom, thus signalling her inhibited and even suicidal nature. Davis looks terrible at this stage, and there seems to be something wrong with her upper right incisor. However, the power of tobacco means that as soon as she smokes in public, Davis blossoms. Even her tooth heals up. She then finds love in the figure of Paul Heinreid, who seduces her by putting two cigarettes in his mouth, lighting both, and then handing one of them over. Although by the end of Now Voyager both Heinreid and Davis have suffered for love, neither of them noticeably suffers from lung cancer.

  Cigarettes aside, it’s a simple tale of a European man who falls disastrously in love with an American woman, and I suppose Ginny and I were wondering what to make of this as we later strolled down towards the river. There was no romantic moon, but it was still warm. We stopped half-way across the Alexander Bridge and looked down at the slow-moving water, where the lights from the bridge crazed like fire-flies.

  Ginny’s elbow touched mine. She pointed upstream to where a perfect circle expanded on the sparkling surface.

  ‘Fish,’ she said. She took my arm. ‘Look, another one.’

  She pointed out the ripples where several more fish were breathing, and then the river started to fill with fish, all of them breathing perfect circles. They gradually spread down-river, swimming towards us and as they came closer we leant further over the parapet to keep track of them, and one raindrop fell, and then another, and then many, and we realized it was raining.

  Ginny laughed and put her forehead against my arm. We looked at the sky and then we looked at each other. She licked some rain from her lips and took off her rain-dropped glasses. And it was there, standing in the middle of the Alexander Bridge, an instant ocean of fish leaving Paris beneath us, that we kissed for the first time.

  Then we stopped kissing. I said I had to go. I blamed it on the rain, but it had nothing to do with the rain.

  Of course I could, if I wanted to. But
it was important not to be simplistic about such things. It wasn’t a straight-forward choice, and there were many and complicated issues involved. There were convincing arguments both for stopping (think of your health), and for carrying on (what to do with your hands).

  Stop: I knew all the facts and the figures. I knew the statistics and the death-count.

  Smoke: I liked it. And besides, statistics never told the whole story.

  Stop: My aching lungs and the way I sometimes had to hold my heart in my hand. Think of the worry.

  Smoke: Think of the worry, and the crematorium gardens full of roses dedicated to non-smoking dead people. Keep in mind, at all times, the distinction between life and survival.

  Stop: It would upset Julian, but Julian aside, Theo wasn’t a statistic and he was dying. Remember Uncle Gregory and Walter’s wife and John Wayne. Remember the preference for funeral number 2 in the middle of the next century, and not funeral number 1, sometime soon. Think of all those liberated minutes to spend doing something else. Anything else. And. But.

  Smoke: Up at the Unit, week after week, they declared me fiddle-fit, and causality was yet to be scientifically demonstrated. It could be one particular brand which was responsible for the death-count, or a not unusual combination of cigarettes with something else. No-one knew. The cancerous cigarette might be an independent event, so that each smoke was like a separate bet, having nothing to do with the last. The dangerous smoke might be number three on the second Tuesday of each month, or the one you didn’t smoke because you were too drunk to pull it from the packet, or the one you saved especially for your best friend at the end of a long day. And anyway, I liked the money Buchanan’s paid me. And the Chinese might drop a bomb. And it had to be better than Roman discontent and twenty dormice a day.

  Stop: Okay then. Forget everything else. It would really upset Julian if I gave up.

  Smoke: Everything else. The importance of showing my solidarity with the Estates and with Theo. The taste of Lucy Hinton in every fresh cigarette, and like Paracelsus said, it’s the dosage which counts. The way I could light a match and openly hold the danger in my hand in otherwise banal and wholly tamed places. The fear of fattening up. Bogart, and the little bit of Bogart that rubs off. The chemical satisfaction and the seven seconds. The less certain satisfaction of openly defying mortality. And beyond even that, a deeper fear that without cigarettes I might be left with no desires at all.