by David Nobbs
His widow said last night that her husband had ‘made enemies. He drove a hard bargain, and inevitably will have upset some people in his career. But I don’t know of anyone who disliked him enough to take his life.’
Mr Winterburn’s company, Braemar and Kettlewell, is believed to have financial problems, and suicide has not been ruled out.
James sighed deeply. It wasn’t a matter that really affected him, but it was one more source of tension, however slight.
He flung the newspaper into the waste bin, as if he blamed it for spoiling his coffee, and stepped out into the cool warmth of a perfect summer’s morning.
Deborah would never see, never feel, never smell another summer’s morning. He gasped at the wound this thought opened in his heart.
‘I don’t like burkas,’ said the taxi driver, as they saw a woman wearing one outside King’s Cross Station. ‘It’s not right, isn’t women covering their faces. It’s not British.’
James had a great respect for London taxi drivers, but he feared that this morning of all mornings he’d been unlucky. He hardly ever went on the underground, and never in heatwaves, when it stank. But now he wished that he had. A great weariness came over him. He felt that he was no longer capable of facing up to the world. If only the taxi driver was a radio, incapable of answering back. If only he could lean forward, grab his neck, and twist him to a music channel.
There was so much wrong in the world of immigration, yet it sounded awful to be against it. He didn’t really believe in multiculturalism, didn’t believe it was working, had serious doubts whether it ever could work, yet he believed passionately that all men (and women, oh, heavens, yes) were equal. He thought that in an ideal world the richer nations would help the people of every poorer country to become well-off-enough never to need to move from their homelands to the gloomy streets of places like Bradford and Peterborough. These issues were far too complicated to discuss with a taxi driver at twenty to eight in the morning. If he made the attempt there was a serious danger that he would sound like an ally. He was no ally. But if he argued against him he would be tied up in rings and get nowhere. He would never meet the taxi driver again. He would achieve nothing by arguing. And he didn’t much like burkas either, on security grounds, aesthetic grounds and sexist grounds. Sometimes the politically correct genes in his body ached when racism clashed with sexism.
No, there was no point. But he felt he had to say something. He decided to steer the driver into calmer waters.
‘Do you have much trouble with cyclists?’ he asked.
‘Do I have much trouble with cyclists? Them bastards. I hate ’em,’ said the taxi driver.
He felt that steering the driver into calmer waters had not been a success.
‘Don’t talk to me about cyclists. Go through red lights, they do. Cut across in front when you’ve got the right of way, they do. Slip through on the inside where you can’t see ’em.’
These weren’t calmer waters, but they were safer waters. James realised with a wry internal smile that while he would have hated to be thought of as racist or sexist, he wouldn’t much mind being thought of as cyclist. No, that would have to be cyclistist.
‘Think they’re above the law,’ he said.
‘Absolutely right,’ agreed the taxi driver. ‘And they don’t pay no sodding road tax neither. No, don’t talk to me about cyclists.’
There were a few seconds of blessed peace, while James didn’t talk to him about cyclists.
‘Half of them are women,’ resumed the taxi driver in a tone which suggested that this too was a criticism. ‘Half of them are bloody women. Have you seen ’em? Weather like this, what they’re wearing. Or rather what they’re not wearing. Flimsy little skirts riding up in the wind. Flimsy little tops sliding down to meet them. Long legs and arms like what they have these days, and if we takes so much as one peep it’s, “What are you looking at, you dirty old man?” Don’t tell me there’s a God.’
James hadn’t any intention of telling the driver that there was a God, but he did wonder what that had to do with it.
Keep quiet, James. You’ll find out.
‘I mean, I know God’s supposed to test us with temptation, but he wouldn’t be human if he gave us that much bleeding temptation, would he? And … one little lapse of concentration, and we lose our licence. It’s not fair. It is not fair.’
At this point James made a very serious tactical error, such as he would not have made if he hadn’t been in a state of considerable nervous tension as the taxi drew nearer to Helen’s corner of London.
‘You’re complaining about women showing too much flesh,’ he said. ‘A few minutes ago you were complaining that they were covering themselves up too much.’
‘Them burkas, oh, yes. You just wait till we go past Harrods. You’ll see hundreds of them. No, don’t talk to me about burkas.’
But I just have. Oh, God, I just have. And it’s set him off again.
‘I’ll tell you something else that’s wrong with this country.’
Please don’t. I’m so tired. So confused.
How wonderful it was to step out of that taxi. The air smelt of roses and motorbikes. James approached his Subaru and stopped, tempted to put an hour’s worth of coins into the parking meter and call on Helen. She’d still be coated in sleepiness. She looked pale and frail and other-worldly in the mornings, so unlike Deborah, who had jumped into each new day with vigour.
James willed his prick to respond to the thought of Helen in the early morning. But answer came there none. He shook his head. His shoulders sagged slightly. He couldn’t not phone her. He couldn’t leave yesterday’s failure just hanging there limply. As it were. She sounded sleepy. He felt a tinge of desire. He must see her, put things right. He consulted the mental diary in his head. ‘I could see you Tuesday evening,’ he said.
‘Tomorrow evening.’
Oh, God, so soon.
‘Oh, good. So soon.’
He pinged the key of his Subaru, watched the welcoming flash of the lights, stepped into the car, and switched on the engine and the radio.
He’d hardly set off towards Hammersmith when he received his first injection of irritation. A pompous male voice was in the middle of a blanket condemnation of the young people of Britain. It seemed that they were almost universally lazy and violent. This was music to James’s ears.
‘Come on,’ he shouted. ‘How can they be both couch potatoes and violent? Who ever heard of a violent potato? There are some splendid young people around.’ He thought of Max and what he was. He thought of Charlotte and what she might have been and – oh, God, the pain, the hope – might still be. The pain was like lava, always there but only occasionally erupting. Oh, God, how much longer could he stand the situation? Think of something else, James. Back to your rant. Oh, blessed rant.
‘Do you know what young people have to put up with? They have to put up with the prospect of our civilisation imploding before they reach the age of fifty because of the complacency and inactivity, the mental laziness and corruption of your generation, you ode to pomposity. They get exams and tests every thirty-five minutes, their school trips get cancelled due to Health and Safety in case they fall over, and if they do fall over the teacher doesn’t dare to pick them up because he or she …’ James was careful not to sound sexist even in the privacy of his Subaru, ‘… will end up on the sex offenders’ register and be charged by the European Court of Human Rights so they’re left there crying. There’s at least one paedophile on every double-decker bus because the human race is sick, sick, sick, there are drug pushers in every street, there’s cheap alcohol in every supermarket, they’re bombarded by adverts telling them to spend, spend, spend, and anyone who is clever enough and strong enough to avoid all these pitfalls and get decent A levels finds that the A levels have been made so easy that half of them can’t get a place at university and the other half come out with a debt of thirty thousand pounds before they start their first day’s work.’
Oh, how much better he felt. He just wished that the taxi driver could have heard him.
Marcia was ten minutes late, and very embarrassed by the fact.
‘It’s not deliberate,’ she said. ‘I’m not playing you up because of what’s happened.’
He had a sudden desire to bend down and kiss her rather large knees. He resisted it.
‘I’m sure you aren’t,’ he said.
The desire passed as quickly as it had arrived, and was succeeded by a spasm of pity. She was actually looking at her lumpiest this morning.
‘Maybe I don’t need to say this, Mr Hollinghurst, but I want to,’ she said. ‘I intend to work out my month as diligently as I can.’
‘Thank you. I wouldn’t have doubted it.’
‘Thank you.’ The beginning of a blush spread over her innocent face. ‘I think you’ve been a fantastic boss, actually, James. I think I’ve been very lucky.’
This was terrible. If only she’d not just stand there at the door of his office, blushing and shifting from one foot to the other. If only she’d go to her desk and start sorting his mail.
‘Also, I have to say this, maybe you’ll think I’m saying more than I should …’
Yes.
‘… but I really admire you coming to work like this after what’s happened.’
So much blood was rushing to Marcia’s face that James began to worry that there wouldn’t be enough left for the rest of her body.
‘I’m only in today,’ he said. ‘I’ve a very important meeting.’
‘I know. Eleven-thirty in the Small Conference Room.’
‘Well remembered, Marcia.’
She smiled with shy pride.
‘There are things I just have to set in motion. Then I’m taking the rest of the week off.’
‘I’ll keep the ship afloat.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
‘You aren’t anyway. You’ve got your speech on Wednesday.’
‘That’s not work. That’s showing off.’
‘I would love to hear you, but I’m not invited.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help there.’
‘Oh, no, I wasn’t …’ She blushed at the thought. ‘Mr Hollinghurst? There’s something else I want to say.’
Please don’t say you long for my body. His hand snaked out and touched the Philippe Starck telephone on his large desk, as if willing it to ring.
‘Yes?’ he prompted cautiously.
‘You’ve done me a favour, forcing me to give up this job.’
‘How come?’
‘It’s woken me up. You know I told you I wanted to be a writer. I never would have been. I’d have drifted on here for ever. Well, I’ve started. I’ve written eight pages.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How did it go?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe authors …’ Her voice rose slightly on the word ‘authors’. She was an author already, in her mind. ‘… never do.’
He wanted her to go, but he didn’t know how to break the conversation off without hurting her feelings, and he heard himself asking a question he might deeply regret.
‘What’s it about?’
She didn’t reply for a moment, and he added, hopefully, ‘Or perhaps you don’t want to tell me.’
‘No, I don’t mind. I’m going to have to learn to pitch, if I’m to get anywhere. I’ve read all about that. It’s …’
He could see her courage beginning to fail her. He smiled encouragingly.
‘It’s about a wombat.’
‘A wombat?’
‘It’s a children’s book. That’s my ambition – children’s books.’
‘Oh, great. Good.’
‘I love children,’ she said wistfully. ‘It’s called Willy Wombat. Or possibly Willy the Wombat. I’m not sure yet. Titles are difficult.’
She spoke as if from long experience.
‘And what happens to … Willy Wombat? Or Willy the Wombat?’
‘I don’t know really. It’s a bit early to say yet.’
‘Of course. So what are your eight pages about?’
‘Well … you know … setting the scene. Mum. Dad. Wendy Wombat.’
‘Or Wendy the Wombat.’
‘Quite.’
Oh, dear. It’s hardly JK. Rowling.
‘It’s hardly JK. Rowling, is it?’ she said.
He felt impelled to phone Jane. He didn’t know what he would say, but he must say something.
‘Hello, Jane. I’ve seen the paper,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Well, at least you know.’
‘Yes.’
‘They suspect foul play?’
‘That’s all bollocks. Everything they say is bollocks. They don’t suspect foul play. They know it’s foul play.’
‘Not suicide?’
‘Not unless he plonked a carving knife into the bed of the river – which wasn’t the Ouse, incidentally, just about everything’s inaccurate – at a very shallow point in the river, and then jumped off the bank onto the knife with such precision that it plunged right into the centre of his heart.’
‘Good God.’
‘Yes. I bet the journalist from the news agency who’s spread that story about Braemar and Kettlewell being in trouble is hoping the shares will plummet and he’ll buy lots of them at the bottom and make a fortune.’
‘What a suspicious mind you have, Jane.’
‘I work in that sort of world. I must say I’m relieved it wasn’t suicide. I don’t think I’ve been a very good wife to him, and I certainly haven’t liked him much for a decade or two, but I wouldn’t want to think I helped to drive him to that.’
James noticed that he had begun to stroke his right nipple with his free left hand. He removed the hand. He didn’t know what was going on this morning. First, Marcia’s knees. Now, Jane’s nipple. Because that’s what his nipple had become, in his mind, as he stroked it. He didn’t usually have sudden sexual feelings of this sort.
‘So … how are you?’ he asked. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m disturbingly calm, James. I … the awful thing is … well, I suppose it’s not that surprising really … I just don’t seem to be able to cry.’
‘Jane, I was wondering …’
Marcia lumbered in with bad timing and his ten o’clock coffee. She always made the coffee herself, proudly, saying that the coffee from the machine was terrible. It was, but so was the coffee she made. He had failed to tell her right at the beginning, out of his natural kindness and good manners, and then it had been too late, and he had drunk an unpleasant cup of coffee almost every weekday morning for eight and a half years. He often wondered whether any other Managing Directors behaved like that, and what was wrong with him. He didn’t wonder this now, because he was more concerned that, with a talent worthy of a professional waiter, Marcia had arrived at the very worst moment.
‘Are you still there, James?’
‘Yes, I’m still here. Marcia – she’s my PA – she’s just arrived with my coffee. Thank you, Marcia. Lovely.’
‘There’s a—’ began Marcia.
‘Later, Marcia. Thank you.’
‘Sorry.’
Marcia walked out, inelegantly, and flustered.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said to Jane.
‘You didn’t mention my name.’
‘What?’
‘You said your PA had arrived with your coffee. You didn’t mention my name. You didn’t want Marion to know you were talking to a woman.’
‘Marcia. What a lot you read into things. You always did, I remember.’
‘Anyway, before you were so rudely interrupted, you were wondering.’
‘Yes. Yes. I was wondering, Jane …’ He’d had time, during the interruption, to wonder if he should have been wondering what he’d been wondering. The thought had surprised him very much, but, also somewhat to his surprise, he had decided to go through with it. �
�I was wondering …’ He felt as if he was nineteen again, plucking up courage. ‘… I mean, here we are … you were, you know, my first real girlfriend … OK, very briefly …’
‘Yes, sorry about that.’
‘Here we are, both losing our partner violently in the same week … odd, really.’
‘Not particularly. I did a paper on probability at Cambridge. I had a theory which I called Event Batch Syndrome. I explored the phenomenon whereby similar types of happening tend to occur in clutches.’
‘You always were clever. You’d have been too clever for me. Anyway, here we are, in the same boat …’ Neither of us able to cry, though I’m not going to admit to that. ‘I … I just wondered … I’m taking the rest of the week off … and the family hordes aren’t beginning to muster until Wednesday, the funeral’s Thursday, I wondered if you … fancied lunch tomorrow.’
‘That sounds like an extraordinarily good idea, James.’
The moment he’d put the phone down, he thought that perhaps it wasn’t. He thought that perhaps it was a very bad idea indeed. He’d had no intention of suggesting any such thing. It had come out of left field … and right nipple. He was seeing Helen in the evening. What on earth was he doing arranging lunch with Jane?
He picked up the phone, to ring her and cancel.
He put the phone down again.
The man who had decided never to wear his white linen suit again picked up the phone and rang the number he had been told to ring by the person at the number he’d been told to ring by the person whom he had first rung. God, you needed patience.
‘Oh, hello, this is a little awkward, and I don’t know if I’m ringing the right place, but I’ve been told that you’re the person to ring.’
‘How can I help you, sir?’
The voice sounded polite and not impatient. Promising.
‘Yes. It’s a little embarrassing. My name’s … well, no, it isn’t, that’s the problem.’
‘I don’t understand.’