LEONARD AND HUNGRY PAUL

by Ronan Hession

  ‘To whom it may concern’ has a certain letter-in-a-bottle sound to it, in that it seeks to engage the reader without specifying, or attempting to find out, their name, surname, title, gender or position. It also leaves open the possibility that the letter may not be relevant to the reader at all; the ‘may’ suggesting that this might all be the wildest of goose chases after the loosest of gooses.

  ‘Dear Sir or Madam’ was originally agonised over as a concession made by the leather-bound gentlemen’s clubs towards the inevitable possibility that some important letters were read by women. The either/or approach here also unintentionally opens the possibility that the recipient could decide to read the letter one day as a man and the next as a woman. In any event, as nobody is called ‘Sir’ these days, unless by a shop assistant who is unlikely to hold their customers in any sincere esteem, and addressing someone as a ‘Madam’ is preposterously formal to the point of stageyness, there is little of the phrase that is above criticism. Even ‘Dear’ suggests a letter between two darlings about to open their hearts in an epistolary confession; such a scenario is unlikely to have ever been common between affiliates of the Chamber of Commerce.

  The real problem is a common perplexity and awkwardness around how to sign-off emails. In formal letters, ‘yours faithfully’ has been used by the Chamber of Commerce whenever the addressee is not identified, although some members feel that its suggestion of fidelity is somewhat at odds with the anonymous salutation: in effect they have been saying, ‘You have my undying loyalty, whoever you are.’ It was already amended once during the 1950s, when ‘I remain, yours faithfully’ was shortened because of complaints about its toady flirtatiousness. ‘Yours sincerely’ was also a problem for some members who felt that an express statement of sincerity implied that they were the type of correspondent who was routinely disbelieved.

  Emails, with their aspiration of chatty informality, have allowed local businesses to use more light-hearted sign-offs, none of which has made the leap from acceptability to satisfactoriness as far as the Chamber of Commerce is concerned.

  ‘Regards’ is the most common one, but some feel that it is a limp-wristed, lukewarm ‘this’ll do’ type of sign-off. The phrase had actually started out as ‘Regards to the wife and kids’ but this was shortened by the Chamber many years ago as it moved with the times.

  By way of international comparison, it is worth pointing out that in the United States of America, where they like their business correspondence to be snappy and rude, they have abandoned stuffy sign-offs altogether. Most letters and emails over there now end with the phrase ‘Am I right or am I right?’

  According to the article, all of this had the Chamber of Commerce in such a state that it had decided to throw it open to the public to see if they had any better ideas. In fact, they were holding a competition to identify a new sign-off that would be used by its members nationwide in all business correspondence. There was a cheque for ten grand and a statuette up for grabs. Hungry Paul, who had never had either, immediately recognised what was an almost vocational voice saying that he should enter.

  Given that all good ideas have a natural buoyancy that forces them to the surface, he couldn’t help raising it when Leonard was over later that evening for a four-player game of Scrabble with Helen and Peter, which had become something of a Sunday night ritual that helped to lighten that night-before-school feeling. Helen and Peter had played Scrabble for years, going back to when they first bought a house together and had no money to go out. They used to play high stakes games of Scrabble, with the loser providing carnal favours to the victor, a system which allowed them to explore both their vocabulary and their marriage at the same time. Naturally, this led to a certain sauciness in the choice of words played, with the result that triple word scores were sometimes foregone in favour of lower-scoring but more titillating alternatives. Once they became parents, this charming in-joke fell into abeyance, though they continued to keep board games (in their intended form) and the playing of them as a part of their household family routine.

  The game on this particular evening, however, was somewhat frustrating, as four-player games often are, owing to the inability to plan more than one move at a time. Helen complained bitterly that Peter kept taking the spaces she had her eye on. Peter kept asking ‘Is it my go?’ unable to follow the complex sequence of turns among the four players, which went neither clockwise nor anti-clockwise, but was based on when players’ birthdays occurred in a calendar year—a contrivance put in place years before to stop family rows about seating arrangements. Leonard seemed to get nothing but vowels all evening, which was neither good for him nor for anyone who needed them. Hungry Paul, as ever, was the referee with the battered Scrabble word book and a dictionary at his side. Some years ago, in response to what became known as the ‘Za incident’, they had introduced a house rule that you had to be able to explain the word you were using. Hungry Paul operated this rule with iron inflexibility, even though he himself was its most frequent victim, which surely speaks to his innate sense of fairness.

  At one stage, following a controversial toilet break, Hungry Paul broached the topical issue of the day regarding the Chamber of Commerce, igniting the interest of all those present. Straight away there began an outpouring of spuriously relevant ideas. While Helen confessed to using such banalities as ‘Take Care’ and ‘Talk to you soon,’ Peter said he was more austere in his habits and signed off simply as ‘Peter,’ in the style of such single-name legends as Morrissey and Prince. Peter and Helen then disappeared into their own married little wormhole about the length of his sign-off, making each other laugh with in-jokes that Hungry Paul was sure were only superficially clean. Leonard, ever the deep thinker, was provoked into a moment of reflection about how he signed off his own emails. He usually used ‘Regards’ but could immediately see its shortcomings. As he seemed to be the only one still taking the game of Scrabble seriously, a game he was losing, he took up the topic with some keenness.

  ‘I think you’re on to something there. I mean, technology has moved on so much and is now ubiquitous, so there must be a whole galaxy of communication conventions that need to be updated. Greetings, salutations, sign-offs, auto-replies, the lot. You don’t even need a phrase that makes sense, you just need something that sounds right; after all, that is how it has worked up to now.’

  ‘I like something friendly. Emails and texts are all so cold and impersonal. You need something to brighten the whole thing up,’ said Helen.

  ‘Darling, these are business people. You can’t go suggesting emojis, smiley faces and the like. Why not go the whole hog and just wipe jam on the letters and write your age including half years at the end?’ said Peter, joking recklessly and, in doing so, unwittingly exiting the good books he had just flirted his way into.

  ‘If you won you could copyright the phrase and then earn some cash every time it was used. Even a small royalty per letter would add up if everyone uses it,’ suggested Leonard.

  ‘I’m not looking to make money from this. I want to contribute to society. Make a difference. That sort of thing.’ Hungry Paul’s pious clarification sent a shiver around the room.

  ‘You could just give the money to charity,’ suggested Leonard, not giving up on his idea easily.

  At this Hungry Paul almost dropped his consonants. ‘That’s fundraising, not charity. Totally separate things. Charity transforms both giver and receiver for the better. It is rightly described as a virtue. Fundraising or donating to charity and all the other variations on that theme are something else: a tangle of mixed motivations and results, some good, some questionable. I want to make a clean, straight contribution to the world. Nothing sullied. Nothing that takes explaining. So no fundraising.’

  During his working day Leonard was perennially in the role of unrequited suggester but found this negative feedback surprisingly hurtful, coming as it did from his dear friend and outside of business hours. P
eter gave him a little look of support as if to say that he agreed with him even if Hungry Paul didn’t, though he meant it more as an endorsement of the concept of market forces generally than of Leonard’s idea specifically.

  Just as the conversation was in danger of descending to the standard of a daytime phone-in show, where people outdo each other to come up with ever more banal angles on the topic, the landline rang with what everyone correctly assumed was Grace’s latest round of updates and indecisions. Helen answered it and settled into the couch with her legs folded under herself, very much with the look of someone who was going to be occupied for some time to come. While it is theoretically possible to convert a four-player game into a three-player game, it is something that is just not done in the Scrabble world, and so the game was quietly abandoned without any attempt to tally who had been ahead.

  There was a round of yawns and stretches, checking of watches and all those other unconscious preambles to the announcement of the evening’s conclusion. Leonard cited the busyness of the day ahead of him tomorrow, which was neither true nor untrue, but as the visitor among the group he felt a greater onus to justify his exit. Hungry Paul would be up early the next morning on the off-chance of a call from the Post Office to do the Monday morning shift. Peter had no particular plans, but was used to feeling widowed by these regular calls from Grace and was keen to do something worthwhile with the balance of the evening.

  Hungry Paul let Leonard out, joining him in the driveway for a brief scan of the universe to see if Jupiter and Mercury were visible that evening, which they were. They left each other with an understated goodbye, which is typical for friends who see each other regularly, as not all friends do.

  Hungry Paul went in and filled himself a pint glass of water for his bedside, his stockinged feet cold on the tiles, and climbed the stairs to his room. Lying in bed, with one leg outside the sheets for coolness, Hungry Paul felt the ghost of inspiration enter the room. As he lay there on the threshold between reflection and sleep, an idea came to him from that special place that ideas come from. Swivelling to his left, he reached for the stumpy pencil on his bedside table and wrote out his competition entry in one perfect draft.

  Chapter 6: Grace before meals

  Grace had taken a midweek half day off work to meet her parents for lunch and a walk. Now that they were ‘getting on in life’ she had started carving out portions of her calendar to make time for them, in compensation for her inattentive twenties and the many times she had squeezed them in rather than giving them the time they deserved. While they wouldn’t exactly appreciate the ‘getting on’ bit, Peter and Helen were happy to spend time with their daughter on any premise.

  Grace had a little time beforehand and popped in to a bookshop to pick up something for her dad. Peter was a heavy reader, but it was all newspapers, journals and magazines these days and not enough novels or improving books. She browsed the tables and saw books that she had read or wanted to read and almost bought one as an evangelical gift, wanting him to like what she liked. There was a section at the back of the shop full of books about history and other deadly serious subjects. It seemed to be some sort of crèche for older men who had been left there while their wives had gone off shopping elsewhere. Grace lifted up a whopper about Stalingrad and thought about how nothing says ‘gift’ quite like a great big hardback. Of course, she could always gamble on something exotic: short stories by an up-and-coming South American writer, or a debut novel by a young woman that had a bit of sex in it. In the end, she settled for a novel by an established middle-aged American writer, which was signed by the author, meaning that the purchaser was guaranteed millionaire status within a few short years. Still showing the born fairness of an eldest child, she also picked up something for Helen, which was easy: a cook book or something about the garden would do, books that she didn’t realise Helen was sick of. She checked her phone briefly as she queued: a few emails she was copied in on, but nothing she needed to get involved in, she hoped.

  She got to the restaurant early and sat upstairs. It was an Italian, chosen as a safe middle ground for everybody. Helen would try anything, but Peter was very much a man of his generation and was terrified of leaving a restaurant hungry. It was nicely busy, having just survived a period of buzz-driven fashionability. She waved across the room when they arrived.

  ‘Hi love, I hope you weren’t waiting long,’ said Helen.

  ‘Not at all. Great to see you both.’

  ‘Hey Gracie,’ said Peter with a gentle ‘my girl is all grown up’ smile. ‘You look nice.’

  Grace did look well. She still had a bright, natural complexion and was at a point in her career where the money was good and she knew which clothes suited her and she could afford them most of the time.

  ‘Before we start, I’ve bought you both a little something. Now Dad, I know you’re particular, but this one’s supposed to be good and I think you’ve read one of his previous ones, the one that won the award, and I read the back and thought you’d like it. Mam, I got you this—it’s Indian cooking, which I know you’re not that into, but you might find something.’

  ‘Ah thanks pet, you’re very good,’ said Helen. ‘So how is everything? All okay with the flowers and cake or are they still being sorted out?’ Grace had been let down with some of the wedding arrangements, which had taken several late evening phone calls with Helen to talk through.

  ‘I think it’s okay. I found this really nice florist. Now, he doesn’t really do weddings, but he has enough stock to put together the bouquets and the altar flowers and then I’ll just get some bows and stuff for the aisle ends. My cake man is still to get back to me. I must send him a quick text later on,’ said Grace, putting her phone on the table. ‘Sorry! I’m on a half day and they know not to call me unless it’s life or death, but you know.’

  ‘How’s Andrew?’ asked Peter, ‘Looking forward to it all I hope. You can tell him I got my suit. Dark blue, so he can go ahead and get the crushed purple velvet.’

  Grace smiled as she drank her water. ‘Thanks all the same Dad, but I think we’ll keep that for the honeymoon.’

  ‘The two of you should come over this weekend,’ said Peter, ‘It’s been ages since we all sat down together and had a chat. I was just saying to your mam that it would be good to see Andrew a bit more often now that he has negotiated your hand in marriage.’

  ‘He’s probably busy—all that travelling. When is he going to be home?’ asked Helen.

  ‘Not till next week. He’s in Amsterdam. He has a few free days but it’s not really worth it to fly home, so we just Skype in the evenings. I’ll find out when he’s back and we’ll get together with you ahead of the big day. I can’t believe it’s only two-and-a-bit weeks away. I’m pretty organised though. It’s really just the stuff that you can’t do until the last minute that’s left. How’s my favourite brother?’

  ‘He’s fine. Still chipping away. He’s entering a competition for the Chamber of Commerce. Trying to come up with a new way of signing emails. I’ll tell him you send your love. He needs to get his suit sorted, I keep telling him. He’s a funny size, so he mightn’t get it in Marks. I told him to make sure his shoes and belt match. And we’ve sorted out the whole plus one business with Leonard, by the way, so that’s all taken care of.’

  ‘Ah, great,’ said Grace, ‘I’m getting really tight for numbers. I was slightly hoping some of the work crowd wouldn’t come. I’ve never really mixed work and family before.’

  ‘We’ll do our best not to disappoint or be disappointed,’ said Peter. ‘Should we order some food? Are we having starters?’

  The menu had plenty of crowd-pleasing dishes, but no pizza or Spaghetti Bolognese or that sort of thing.

  ‘I’ll order from the set menu,’ said Grace, ‘I know what I’m having. Actually, they’ve been really good to me at work. I’ve been spending loads of time on the internet and on personal calls. They’
re letting me get away with it, so really I shouldn’t be saying I hope they won’t be there. Sorry, I’m rambling – back to the business at hand. I’m going to have the asparagus and bacon to start and then the truffle gnocchi thing.’

  ‘“Notchy”? I thought it was pronounced “G’knocky”?’ said Peter. ‘I think I’ll have the soup and some pasta—the chicken one.’

  ‘Same for me, except I’ll order the bruschetta to start and then the mushroom risotto,’ said Helen.

  ‘That’s not the same,’ said Peter.

  ‘I meant I’ll go for the set menu too, but thanks for your vigilance.’

  They ordered from an impossibly good-looking waiter, who poured on all the usual Italians-love-their-food stuff, recapping the order while looking into Grace’s eyes.

  ‘I think he liked you,’ said Peter after he had gone, ‘Might be a good catch—all those tips, tax free.’

  ‘Maybe Andrew would let me take a second husband for when he’s out of town.’

  ‘One husband is more than enough for anybody,’ said Helen, ‘I can’t believe you’re actually going to be married. We’re cautious marryers in our family. I had a good long look at the field before picking my man.’

  ‘I knew that if I waited, all the good-looking girls would eventually drop their standards until they reached my level,’ said Peter.

  ‘It was weird when we got engaged,’ said Grace, ‘I didn’t know what to call Andrew when I was talking about him. I couldn’t say boyfriend, and fiancé just sounds so contrived. I remember being in a pub and queuing in the toilet for a cubicle and seeing the sign saying “engaged” and thinking, “aw, that’s me.” So silly.’