by Robert Ward
She lit a cigarette. I’m hastening my death, she thought as she exhaled the smoke. But we only really understand the immediate. Perhaps that’s why we’ve survived and conquered the planet? I want it and I want it now. Maybe it was the opposite, and forbearance was the answer. Preferring the greater but distant to the lesser but immediate? What am I thinking about? Internal gibbering. Can one think without language?
I wish I could switch myself off sometimes. Kill time. I wonder how much of our lives we wish away? That’s all we have, isn’t it, time. Tick tock, tick tock. Every fraction and beyond fraction of time I age and then I’ll be dead, forever, beyond when the Sun dies. Unimaginable. The only point is to be happy, like Koo Koo said. But how? Jesus, what a question that is. What is happy? Liz, you’re rambling again.
When I die, I want to be buried so I’ll rot. I must leave a will, or instructions or whatever. I wonder who’ll come to my funeral? What the hell does it matter anyway? I won’t be there. I remember reading about a man on death row in America who was to be executed the next day. He was asked what he wanted for his last meal. He told them and then asked if he would be brought back to the same cell after he was executed. He couldn’t understand that he’d be dead. I think he must have been retarded and that’s why a lot of people objected to the death penalty for him. Why? Surely it’s more acceptable to execute a retard rather than a normal person? Life at any cost? I think not. Some people needed aborting. I wonder if I’m a fascist at heart? It has been said.
She sat in the gathering darkness as the weak grey winter light failed, with her head and legs resting on the arms of the chair. She had blanked her mind and when she became aware of herself again she realised that it was possible to switch oneself off. Though it was impossible to do it at will. It just sort of happened when one wasn’t expecting it. She got up from the chair and switched two lamp lights on and drew the blinds. It was a large room but the two lights were enough as she didn’t want it too bright. She decided it was time for a drink and opened another bottle of Jim Beam. She liked bourbon because it was sort of smoky and sweet and grainy and had a kick to it. She didn’t like ice with it though, though she did like the way the ice cubes tinkled in American films.
“Here’s to you, Liz,” she said. “Merry Christmas. Jesus fucking Christ, what a sad bitch? This is the last one here, right?”
For the last couple of years she’d just been treading water and going nowhere it seemed. She’d had lots of short meaningless affairs and kept herself from a total descent into pointless indolence by keeping her job. She was on sabbatical she’d convinced herself, though what would come of it she had no idea. She had no plans and no notion of what it was she wanted or was capable of doing. It would come to her she’d convinced herself. But the idea that she wasn’t really capable of doing anything other than being herself was always with her, somewhere deep.
She could do what so many others did of course and marry and have children and it wasn’t as though she hadn’t had enough opportunities to do that, but the prospect appalled her. She was too selfish to devote herself to anyone or anything other than herself. She might die a bitter old maid, who’d been known in her later years for her eccentricity, living alone in the house. That was why she hadn’t got another cat after Tom had been run over. One cat would lead to dozens and she would be found dead and half-eaten by the cats having expired without being discovered for days. She shuddered and smiled at the same time.
Her tumbler full of bourbon seemed to last no time and she found herself refilling it to the top before she sat down again.
Alcoholism is a good excuse for failure, she considered as the whiskey caught the back of her throat and made her gasp. But it is too commonplace. Becoming a bag lady would be far too uncomfortable anyway. If I am going to exist at all it must be in physical comfort, she thought. Drugs were interesting and she still indulged occasionally but the lifestyle was squalid rather than romantic and she had no great talent to waste through them, which was the only real reason for becoming an addict anyway. The world simply did not distress her enough.
She drank and ate peanuts from a little silver bowl and thought about what else she needed but couldn’t decide what it was. She was getting frustrated and restless and thought about being with people but realised that she didn’t want to be. What did they have to offer? She thought. Talk and maybe later, feeling. And people only ever really talked about themselves. And feeling could be done at anytime, with anyone. She felt like screaming but didn’t because there was no one to hear her. There’s got to be more to it than this, she said to herself. There’s just got to be. There’s got to be more to me.
CHAPTER NINE
Charles drove through the flat countryside on a cold January morning, travelling from his home to the university. He was starting his second term as a history teacher there and was in quite a bright mood as he didn’t hate his job. That was something to be grateful for he thought, as millions could not say that. He was even whistling a nameless tune to himself.
He’d been lucky enough to find a small former farm cottage a few miles out of town which was in decent condition but not too expensive. It did need a lot doing to it however. The roof leaked and there was damp in the kitchen but on the whole he was rather pleased with it and even enjoyed the prospect of repairing and decorating and furnishing it. It was the first place that was really his own and having a mortgage made him feel like a proper grown-up at last. He was thirty one.
He didn’t have any lectures or tutorials that day, it being the first day of term after New Year, but he had many things to do. He prided himself on being a conscientious teacher as he loved his subject and cared for his students. He thought he might have a satisfying and comfortable future.
He found a space in the arts and humanities complex car park and walked with a lively pace to his office carrying his briefcase and an armful of files. Having greeted everyone he met on his way, sensing the feeling of excitement and camaraderie that people feel when returning to work if they’re happy there, he entered his office and after placing his case and files on top of his large metal desk he sat back in his swivel chair. He clasped his hands at the back of his head and did a three hundred and sixty degree turn.
He telephoned the library and asked how many copies of Tawney’s Religion and the Rise of Capitalism they had and held on while they checked the computer. It would be heavily used this term and they would need at least a dozen copies, maybe more, he thought. They only had eight and he wondered if it was possible to get more.
Elizabeth told him he’d have to speak to the librarian but that he wasn’t there at the moment and asked if he could phone back later. Charles said he’d come over after lunch. She made a note of his name, Charles Turner, history, and said she’d tell the librarian. He thanked her and rang off.
For lunch he went to the common room and bought a smoked turkey and salad sandwich and a coffee from Molly the canteen lady. She spoke with the broadest cockney accent he’d ever heard, but everyone loved Molly, and that was just part of what she was. Indeed, she simply wouldn’t have been the same without it.
He preferred not to go back to his office but instead spoke to a few of the students in the common room while had ate his sandwich. He liked their company and still considered himself to be young, like them. Some of the other teachers at the university wouldn’t have been seen dead in the common room, mixing with the students, at any cost. For him, it was a part of the university life he enjoyed.
At just after two o’clock he climbed the steps to the library building. He went to the reception desk and told the girl there his name and asked to the see the librarian. He’d phoned earlier, he said.
The girl was beautiful. There was no other word to describe her. She had long dark hair, dark brown, with a sheen to it where the light caught it. Her eyes were a deep blue and her skin was like alabaster. The arrangement of her features seemed perfect but at the same time interesting and full of character. She smiled at
him and he felt something which could only be described as desire rising within him. It was a definite physical sensation.
“Yes, it was me you spoke to,” Elizabeth said. “I’m afraid the librarian isn’t back yet. He’s still in a meeting. I don’t know how to help you really. I’ll tell him you need more copies of the Tawney book, but I think you’ll have to speak to him yourself. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.”
“It wasn’t wasted,” he heard himself saying. “I mean, it was hardly a journey. I can come back another time. Later today, or maybe tomorrow. I’ll need the extra copies as soon as possible though.”
“I’ll tell him,” she said.
“Thanks for your help.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need.”
She watched him as he patted the top of the desk and then turned to go. He’d seemed awkward somehow, but he was nice. He was quite ordinary looking she thought, with short dark hair and quite a sallow complexion, but his eyes were attractive, green or hazel, and he had a pleasant expression and bearing. She thought she might have seen him once or twice before around the university but hadn’t really taken any notice of him. Charles Turner, history.
Charles went back into his office and noted in his diary a call to the librarian the following morning and then thought about the girl. He hadn’t asked her name.
He’d been on his own now for nearly a year and he didn’t like it. He enjoyed sharing things with people. Alison, his last girlfriend who he thought was in love with him had decided to leave quite suddenly in March of the previous year. She had gone to find herself as she put it, answering an advertisement in a magazine for a companion on a round the world trip. It had knocked him sideways at the time and it was only his new job and new home that had distracted him from the loss of her. He still missed her though. The human contact. The girl in the library would suit him just fine he thought, and for the first time since Alison he seriously considered plucking up the courage to ask someone out. At least he knew where he could find her if ever he did have the courage. He would, soon, he hoped.
He left the university just after five o’clock and drove through the town before reaching the flat countryside on the way to his house. As the first fields appeared he saw walking ahead on the right side of the road the figure of the girl from the library. She was unmistakable even from a distant back view in the almost darkness. Her hair was blowing in the gentle breeze and she walked like a model with that subtle yet exaggerated slink of the hips. She was wearing flat white shoes and a royal blue full length coat that hugged her figure. She had a light brown leather bag slung over her shoulder.
He drove to a little ahead of her and then pulled over to the side, waiting for her to walk past.
“Hello, again,” he said, having wound down the window as she approached.
She peered into the car for a moment, not recognising him.
“Oh, hello,” she then said. “What are you doing out here? Do you live out this way?”
“Yes, I’m on my way home now,” he said. “Can I give you a lift?”
“Oh, no. It’s okay. If I cut across the fields here,” she said, pointing to a path leading to the big houses at the edge of the town, “I’ll be home.”
“Let me give you a lift anyway,” he said, without allowing himself to think.
“There’s really no point,” she said. “It’ll take longer than it would take me to walk.”
“Let me take you somewhere,” he said.
“What?”
“Let me take you somewhere. How about a drink? Or something to eat? Anything?”
She looked at him, bending down to see through the open car window and she liked the way he pleaded with his eyes.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go for something to eat.”
He smiled as she rounded the car to get into the passenger seat and he watched her closely as she sat down and closed the car door and put on her seat belt. She then looked at him and asked with her eyes where they were going. He drove off, having a place in mind.
She smelled of faint scent, something dry and exclusive and he kept looking at her beautiful legs which she had pressed together below her opened coat. She asked if he minded if she smoked and he said that he didn’t. She noticed however that the ashtray in his car was empty and had clearly hardly ever been used.
“I normally drive to work,” she said. “But the bugger wouldn’t start this morning. It isn’t far for me to walk though. And sometimes I quite enjoy it, if it isn’t too bad a day.”
“How long have you worked at the university?” he asked.
“A couple of years.”
“Longer than me, then.”
“Yes, I don’t really remember you being there for very long. I mean, I think I’ve seen you a couple of times, but that’s all.”
“I only started in the autumn,” he said, trying to keep his eyes off her and on the road.
“My name’s Elizabeth, by the way,” she said.
“I’m Charles.”
“Yes, I know.”
The flat dark countryside slipped past them and the lingering snow in corners of fields reminded them that it was still midwinter. Otherwise they were warm in their new found company and felt at ease with each other, which was unusual, especially for Charles.
He drove to a country house hotel and parked in the forecourt. Elizabeth looked at the front of the building, which was illuminated by green spotlights, and gave out a little gasp. As they got out of the car she stood back and looked at it again as though reluctant to enter.
“What’s the matter?” Charles asked. “If you don’t like it we can go somewhere else.”
“No, no, it isn’t that,” she said. “It’s… I’ve been somewhere like this before, and something terrible happened afterwards. But I’m just being stupid. Let’s go in.”
They sat in the dining room, which was empty except for two other people sitting on the far side of the room near a large stone fireplace. Elizabeth and Charles sat near the window.
“All of these places look the same, don’t they,” she said. “There must be thousands of them all over the country. They even smell the same. But I’m not sure that I don’t like it. They’re supposed to make people feel that they live here, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I think that’s the idea,” he said, looking from his menu to her.
“You know, I’m really not very hungry. It’s rather early yet. I think I’ll have a blackberry pancake. Are you hungry?”
“Not especially,” he said.
“It was my idea to come for something to eat as well wasn’t it? But you go ahead, if you are I mean, hungry, that is. You have what you want. Don’t think that you can’t just because I’m only having a pancake.”
He smiled at her and folded his menu.
“Would you like to go for a drink first? We can always eat later if you like.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” she said. “I feel in need of a scotch.”
“You seem nervous,” he said.
“Yes, weird isn’t it. I don’t know why.”
They found a secluded spot in one of the bars and sat opposite each other at a small table. They were both drinking whisky.
“What was it you were saying before?” he asked. “About something awful happening in a place like this? Maybe that’s what’s making you nervous?”
She looked into his eyes. He had a kind expression and seemed genuinely interested. She had known he was interested from the beginning of course.
“It didn’t happen in a place like this,” she said. “It was afterwards. And I’ve been to dozens of places like this since, but something tonight made me think of it. I stayed in a similar hotel with someone and shortly afterwards he killed himself. It isn’t that I feel responsible or anything like that, I mean, being honest, I hardly knew him, and it isn’t something I think about much. I don’t know why I mentioned it really.”
“It must have been upsetting for
you, even so,” he said.
“I suppose it was. But it was a long time ago now. And anyway, let’s not be so depressing. I’m all right, really. I was just in a strange mood, that’s all. I’m feeling much better now. Let’s have another drink. Why are bar measures so ridiculously small?”
Charles had already decided he liked her, not just how she looked, but from what she’d said. He felt that anxious panicky sensation of excitement rising within him that comes with meeting someone new who you think could change your life. He just knew that he wanted to be with her, perhaps always. He swallowed hard and frowned. It wasn’t what she’d said but the way that she’d said it. After all, she’d hardly said anything.
The particular bar of the hotel they were in had the heads of dead animals mounted on the walls with little brass plates underneath them giving the name of each particular beast. From where she was sitting Elizabeth could read, Red Deer and Wildcat. The red deer simply looked shocked but the wildcat looked distinctly annoyed with its teeth bared and ears pressed back close to its head. The walls were draped occasionally with different patterned tartans and there were basket-hilted swords crossed behind round buckler shields mounted between them.
“Why are there Scottish things here?” she asked.
“It’s the Caledonia Hotel,” he said, amused.
“But what’s it doing here?”
“I think a Scottish person probably owns or owned it”
She thought for a moment. “Probably,” she then said. “Grotesque, though, aren’t they? The dead animals I mean.”
“Different sensibilities from a different age,” he said.
“Do you think people were crueller, or more indifferent to suffering in past times?”
“No, I don’t think human nature has changed since we emerged from the primeval slime. Our capacity for cruelty and indifference hasn’t diminished. There are plenty of examples in our own time.”