by David Nobbs
For just a fraction of a second the phone is ringing in the Acropolis. Then William, realising that there were no phones in Ancient Greece, gets up and wanders, not very fast, into the house. He’s too late. The phone stops just as he gets to it. He finishes his cup of tea, not hurrying – let the world wait – and only then does he check to see if there’s a message on his answerphone. There is. He doesn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry, but before he has heard twenty words he’s sorry.
‘Oh, hello, William. I hope you’re well. It’s Colin here. I’m…um…I’m afraid we’ve got a major problem with…um…with Naomi. Um…she’s…um…well, look, I just think you need to ring me. Sorry about this. I’m…I’m on my way to see her, in the…well, perhaps I’d better not tell you anything until we can talk. I mean, everything’s all right. I think. I’m…um…I’m on the platform at the station. I’m catching the train. I…um…I haven’t got the car, because…well, that’s sort of like part of the problem. Look, I’ll explain when you ring. Anyway, not to worry, don’t panic. It’s not…well, I mean, it is serious, but…you know…things are going to be all right, but I think I should be with her and…um…maybe you’ll think you should too, when you…when I’ve told you what…um…what it’s all about. I mean, I don’t know how you’re fixed, obviously, but if you could. Anyway, give me a ring on my mobile and I’ll explain, though I may not want to say too much if I’m on the train and people are listening, you know how it is on trains, and I mean, it is all a bit private. Anyway, this is much too long a message, so I’ll stop now. And, as I say, I’ll tell you more if you can ring me on my mobile, not my landline. Oh, heavens, you may not have the number. It’s…’
Colin has given the number and rung off. William realises that he should have written the number down. He presses to save the message, then has an awful moment when he wonders if he’s actually pressed to delete it. He dials the number again.
‘Oh, hello, William. I…’
Thank goodness. He presses to save it again, goes upstairs to get a piece of paper and a pen, comes downstairs again, dials the answerphone again, and realises with a sinking heart that he has to listen to the whole ruddy message again. It encapsulates everything he dislikes about Colin, his lack of organisation, his long-windedness, his repetitious nature, the extraordinary lack of clarity and quality in his speech patterns. During the long reaches of that interminable message he takes refuge in his prejudice against Colin. It saves him from worrying about Naomi.
He writes down the number, hangs up, and hesitates. He doesn’t want to ring Colin’s number. He dreads what might have happened to Naomi. Then he plucks up his courage and dials. He is desperately nervous. His heart is racing. What on earth has happened to his darling?
His darling. How he has neglected her.
‘Hello.’
‘It’s me, Colin.’
‘Oh, thank goodness. Listen, William, don’t worry—’
‘You’ve said that. What’s happened?’
‘Naomi is in…it’s not as bad as it sounds…hospital.’
‘What? Why?’
‘The police…’
‘Police?’
‘…brought her home last night.’
Colin tells him the story of the events of the previous evening, how Naomi had driven off in his car, how he and Emily had heard nothing all night.
‘I managed to persuade her to go to school, I thought she’d be better off with her friends than just hanging around in the house waiting, and I honestly think she was glad to get away from me, quite honestly, and then half an hour or so ago I got a call from Clodsbury District Hospital.’
‘Clodsbury?’
‘I know. I know. She’d collapsed in the market area. Don’t panic. She’s going to be all right. As I say, she’d collapsed in the market area. There’s a very big Muslim population in Clodsbury.’
‘I know. I know. But what was she doing there?’
‘It’s this anti-God thing again. She was shouting at them not to believe in Muhammad.’
‘Oh, my God. Well, no, that’s not quite appropriate.’
‘Apparently she was telling them that it’s all nonsense that terrorists will be rewarded with unlimited virgins when they get to heaven.’
‘Oh, my…’
‘Exactly. She said that if it was true the people who were telling them this would be off to heaven themselves like a shot.’
‘Oh, my…’
‘Exactly.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I’ve spoken to the police. They were called to the market. They found she’d collapsed and they…they said they had reason to believe that the state of her mind was disturbed…’
‘I’ll say. Oh, Colin.’
‘I know. I know. I’m really sorry to have to tell you all this. I realise that it’s all been coming on. But I didn’t notice. Anyway, the police got her straight into an ambulance…’
‘You mean, they were sensible?’
‘I know. I know. Hard to believe.’
‘So what’s wrong with her? Physically.’
‘They aren’t sure, but not a lot, they think. I mean, it doesn’t look as if she’d slept and she was very weak and very dehydrated so she probably hasn’t eaten or drunk anything.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘Um…the thing is, the police are worried about…well, her mental state.’
‘What?’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll come up.’
‘Will you? Oh, thank you, William.’
‘Well, of course I will. I’m her bloody father.’
Colin has never heard William swear before.
‘Oh, thank you, William. I’d be very grateful. I think she’s going to need us both.’
‘I’m sure. I’m sure. What about Emily?’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve forgotten to do anything about her.’
‘You’ve forgotten?’
‘It’s been a shock, William.’
‘You forgot your daughter?’
‘I know. Well, stepdaughter. Daughter-in-law. Stepdaughter-in-law. God, I can’t work out quite what she is.’
Imbecile.
‘For Christ’s sake, don’t split hairs at a time like this. Ring that number at the school. They’ll be able to arrange somebody for her to go and stay with, I’m sure.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure they will. Thanks. Oh, William, I’m really sorry about that. You can tell what sort of a panic I’ve been in.’
‘Yes, yes. Get off and ring them.’
‘Will do. William, do you know where Clodsbury District Hospital is?’
‘Is the name a bit of a hint? Could it possibly be in Clodsbury?’
No, William. Wrong time. Besides, you’re not a schoolmaster any more. You’ve retired from sarcasm.
‘No, what I mean is…do you have this new sat nav thing?’
No sense of humour. Bit of a drawback in a comedy writer.
‘Of course I don’t.’
‘Will you drive?’
‘Have to. The trains are diabolical in East Anglia. The roads, too. I’ll be ages.’
‘I’ll phone you on your mobile with directions when I get to the hospital.’
‘I don’t have a mobile.’
‘What?’
‘I know. I know. Naomi tried to persuade me to have one. Julian bought me one. I couldn’t make it work. I lost my temper with it and threw it into the Deben.’
‘Into the what?’
Ignoramus.
‘It’s a river. Look, forget all this. Ring off and phone the school. I’ll find my way to the hospital. I’m not senile, and I’ll see you there.’
‘Fine. I won’t leave till you arrive.’
‘Good. Thanks, Colin, for letting me know.’
‘That’s all right. See you, then.’
‘Yep.’
‘Oh. Bring some ID.’
‘Well, I always do, but why?’
‘They’ve got a police guard on her.’
‘Haven’t they got any serious crime to go to?’
‘I know. Probably serious crime frightens them more than an unemployed sitcom artiste.’
‘Right. I must get started.’
‘Yes. Oh, and William?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, shut up and let me get started.’
‘Sorry. Bye. And William?’
‘What?’
‘Thanks.’
Pillock.
William looks at the map and calculates that it’s just over two hundred miles from front door to pillock. He makes himself another cheese sandwich for the journey – Wensleydale, his favourite – stuffs a few overnight things into a bag, and sets off.
When he returns home, Timothy soaks in a hot bath. He’s rather addicted to hot baths, although it is a bit of a lovehate relationship.
As he soaps himself, he reflects on his momentous day on the moors. He feels a sense of power that is quite new to him. It began, he thinks, on his visit to the Cadogan, when he suddenly found that he was no longer embarrassed in front of all those blind people. He visits his father regularly, and on subsequent visits he has again felt free, or at least almost entirely free, from the inhibitions he has suffered throughout his life.
Today, he also feels free from the constraints of religion, and he doesn’t feel it as a loss. He will not become a wicked person overnight.
He washes his hair, and lies there, steaming, thinking. It’s only a few hours since he was watching, and listening to, that magnificent skylark. Magnificent, yes, but no more magnificent than every other skylark, whereas you would be lucky to meet two magnificent people in a year.
Timothy has decided what he wants to do with the rest of his working life. He wants to work with birds. He has no idea how to go about this, but the obvious thing to do is to approach the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.
The window of the bathroom is open, letting in the warm, slightly oily air of the town on this lovely late afternoon.
He decides to be just a little bit naughty. Instead of rinsing his hair with clean water through the mobile shower attachment, he ducks his head into the bathwater and moves it from side to side until all the shampoo has gone out of it. Well, almost all, because there will now be diluted shampoo in the bathwater. Hannah had caught him doing this once.
‘That is so filthy,’ she had said. ‘That is so disgusting. Why do you do these things when you know they upset me?’
His reply of, ‘I didn’t know you were going to come in at that moment,’ hadn’t appeased her.
‘The bathwater’s dirty. Now your hair’s all dirty again,’ she had said.
‘Not as dirty as it was before,’ he had argued. ‘There was a whole bathtub of clean water there, so it’s only a little dirty.’
‘Oh, Timothy, you’re incorrigible,’ she had said.
He had known it was silly, but a reign of hygiene can do that to a man.
Anyway, Hannah isn’t home yet, and he no longer believes that there is a God to witness his little foible. And, had there been, what arrogance, what hubris to believe that the God of all mankind would have time to turn away from war, famine, pestilence and poverty to frown at the sight of Timothy rinsing his hair by ducking his head into the bathwater rather than spraying it with clean water from the mobile shower attachment. Hannah won’t be back for another hour at least. An hour of peace before…before he has to tell her.
She isn’t a bad person. She hasn’t stopped his father from coming to the house. It’s just that he doesn’t like the house as it is. She didn’t intend that. Or did she? He doesn’t know her any more. Did he ever?
He thinks of all the services they have been to together, with Coningsfield’s mighty church dwarfing the congregation. He realises that for years he has prayed without really believing in the efficacy of prayer. And the sermons he has endured in his life. A few months ago, during a particularly dreary homily from a visiting parson, he had calculated, in his head, how much of his life he had spent listening to sermons. Say on average forty sermons a year from the age of five, that’s thirty-four years, forty times thirty-four is…forty times thirty is four hundred plus four hundred plus four hundred, equals twelve hundred, plus four forties because it was thirty-four years, not thirty, so that makes it one thousand, three hundred and sixty. One thousand three hundred and sixty sermons of average length fifteen minutes, four sermons an hour, one thousand three hundred and sixty divided by four is…three hundred and forty. Three hundred and forty hours of his life listening to sermons. Well, some were longer, a few much longer. (The Rev. E.V.Wilmot!) Throw in the odd homily at christenings, weddings and funerals. Say three hundred and fifty. Three hundred and fifty hours of his life spent listening to men, mostly of advanced age and not excessive intellect, telling him how he should lead his life. He couldn’t pretend that he regarded it as an economical use of time. Only the hymns still moved him. Oh, those hymns. So beguiling, so addictive. Some of them ought to have a certificate banning the under-fifteens from hearing them. Christian soldiers moving onward into a world where everything was bright and beautiful. Too, too simplistic and persuasive.
He soaks a little bit longer. He knows that he will regret it, but it’s so wonderful to lie in hot water with the window open and hear the sounds of cars, buses, angry horns, lawnmowers, strimmers, people being busy while he does nothing. And he can continue to do nothing for…well, almost an hour. And then, this new Timothy, this man who has cast off embarrassment, this man who has come to terms with the fact that he is in the wrong career and is determined to do something about it, this strong man in early middle age, this man who does not need the crutch of faith to find life a worthwhile, even a joyous experience, this man will have no trouble in making a strong, simple, moving, generous, elegant speech, a speech of which any great political leader would be proud.
‘Hannah, darling, I’ve something to say to you. Sit down,’ says Timothy to the hot and cold taps and the unused mobile shower attachment which is draped round them, working the hot tap with his right foot as he does so, because the water is getting almost lukewarm. ‘You may have guessed something of how I feel. You may not have done. I’m very fond of you still, but I no longer love you and maybe I never did love you quite enough. I am therefore unable to offer you the kind of happiness that you need and deserve. I no longer believe in God, and this would become a source of friction between us. You are ambitious, and I have none of the kind of ambition that you have. I’m not going to expand my taxidermy business, as you would like. I’m not going to take on assistants, as you would like. Maybe I would if I was as good as my father, but I’m not. I’m going to sell the business, and I’m going to apply for a job with the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. My ambition is to do good work with birds, maybe become a warden at a bird reserve, maybe just be a helper.
‘You’re an attractive woman, and I have enjoyed making love to you, especially on those Tuesday nights when Dad was playing fives and threes. I suspect that you hold a candle, to use an old-fashioned phrase, for Mr Finch, who is up and coming. Maybe he has already upped and come. I think you are in love with him, though I don’t think that you have necessarily realised this yet. How you square that with your religious beliefs, since he’s a married man, is not for me to say. Let there be no critical thoughts at this difficult time. So, Hannah, our marriage will soon be over. I should not have married you, because I still love Naomi and always did, but I’m not sorry I did, we have had some good times, and I will always remember those. I hope that you and Mr Finch will be happy together, will eventually be free to marry, and will have a great life in which you will both be up and coming.’
Timothy knows, in his heart, that nobody speaks like that, and that he will never make that speech in that form. What he doesn’t know is that he isn’t going to make a speech at all, in any form.
At last he gets
out of the bath, carefully, water streaming onto the floor, his last act of defiance against a strict hygienic regime. He feels so hot. The moment he moves, he can feel himself beginning to break out into a gentle sweat. He’s going to need a bath. It’s always like this, it’s ridiculous, showers are so much better, especially in summer, but they are not for him; he doesn’t like their brevity, he doesn’t like having to wipe the shower down afterwards, he doesn’t like stepping out of the warm cubicle into a bathroom which seems cold by comparison.
He puts his feet into his slippers. That’s another act that would have made Hannah frown. ‘You should put socks on before you put your clean feet into slippers that aren’t as clean as them, otherwise you’ll soon need to wash your feet again.’ That must have been at least a year ago, but he can hear her voice as if it was yesterday.
He wanders, slowly, enjoying his nakedness, up the narrow stairs to his workroom. He looks around it, calculating how much time his remaining commitments will take, how long it will be before he can begin his new career.
He has to sit down. His bath has exhausted him. It’s knocked all the stuffing out of him. Suddenly he feels that he hasn’t the energy to tell Hannah that it’s over. But he must. He must.
He goes down to the bathroom, leans out of the window, feeling the cool onset of evening on his face and shoulders. Then he towels his hair, taking the edge off the wetness, and applies some leave-on conditioner.
He goes into their bedroom, looks a little sadly at the bed, and suddenly feels a surge of desire for Hannah. He glances at the alarm clock. He still just about has time to take advantage of his nakedness.
He leaps into the bed and starts to make love to Hannah for the last time. Oh, Hannah, Hannah, this is…it is a shame. I still…Oh, Hannah, you’re still lovely. And then suddenly it’s Naomi there in bed with him. No, no, Naomi. Not now. Go. Please go. Later. Please go. Your time will come. I hope. Oh, Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.
When it’s over he feels sad, slightly repelled, vaguely ashamed. It has been like this lately, even when she’s there in person.