I sit and eat my solitary meal on the terrace, and hope that Alexis hasn’t thought me rude for refusing his invitation. I just need a night alone to gather my thoughts and my strength for tomorrow.
Then I pull the diary back towards me, thinking that actually, writing it all down might just help.
ALEX’S MEMOIR
‘Me’ Continued
I spent half of my gap year saving up the money to go travelling by pulling pints of beer in the local pub, and the second half conquering my phobias of possibly every single thing I could imagine.
And developing some more – e.g. foreign travel.
Then I began my philosophy degree at Oxford, in Dad and Genetic Dad’s old college. Three years later, when Dad came to see me graduate, there were genuine tears of pride in his eyes as we did the man-hug thing afterwards.
I read in my ten-year-old diary only last night that I couldn’t imagine him crying – well, sadly he has cried rather a lot since then.
I continued for another year at Oxford doing an MA (more of that year later). And then – just as I had given up on just about everything, and was about to settle for the academic life and turn myself into a ‘Dr’ and eventually a professor of philosophy – I had an email forwarded on to me, from my own professor.
It was sent from a government department in Millbank, which I knew was a street slap-bang next door to the Houses of Parliament. In essence, the email was offering me an interview for a job in a government policy think-tank.
I admit that after I’d read it I lay on my narrow bed in my shabby Oxford lodgings and had a laughing fit of humongous proportions. Apparently the year-old government wanted, and I quote, ‘to include the brightest young minds on subsequent policy decisions taken for the future of Britain’.
On the agenda was the EU referendum, what to do about Scotland, the NHS, immigration . . .
In other words, THE LOT.
Well!
To be honest, I went along for a laugh, just to say I had, so I could put it on Facebook and Twitter and impress my friends. Especially certain female friends, who just might be looking, even if I didn’t know they were.
After all, it was what we’d both dreamt of . . .
I sat there in the swish offices – the very nerve-centre of British government – and looked around excitedly for the red button that would start World War III. Then I craned my neck to the right to see if it was possible to signal directly across from here to the MI6 building just over the Thames.
They asked me lots of questions, which may have been trick ones, as they were incredibly easy to answer. Admittedly, I found it harder than normal to concentrate, as I kept imagining Daniel Craig bursting in to tell me I was giving away highly confidential information to a set of Russian spies. And the shoot-out that would follow as he saved my sad backside.
Sadly, Mark and Andrew – ‘Call me Andy’ – were a couple of rather dull middle-aged civil servants, who plodded through my hastily-put-together CV, then asked me to give my views on how I thought the ‘yoof’ of today felt about the Tories being back in power. And what I would do to change their (apparently negative) opinion.
I didn’t use many of the fine Kantian quotes I could have trotted out. Instead, I spouted the pocket philosophy I’d understood instinctively as a child, feeling that Mark and ‘Andy’ might appreciate a man of the people more than a boffin full of psychobabble.
Afterwards, I walked away chuckling at the ridiculousness of it. Having always been a Liberal Democrat voter, then swerving to the left with the rest of the Philosophy Department, here I was being asked to bat for the other side.
Having taken a Snapchat video outside on Millbank proclaiming where I was and what I was doing (probably immediately putting myself out of the running, given how one must surely behave with discretion if one wishes to work for the government; but who cared?), I then walked away past the Palace of Westminster towards the tube station, knowing there wasn’t a hope in hell of me being offered the job. If there is one area in which I can’t be swayed, it’s in my fundamental beliefs:
Equality, Egalitarianism and Economy . . .
Interestingly, I do remember thinking as I walked down the steps to the tube that the last ‘E’ was the one thing that fitted with the current government manifesto. Fact: If you work hard, you should be rewarded. Fact: The capitalist nations of the world become the richest. Fact: They can then feed, educate and care for the most vulnerable amongst us.
Or they should do, anyway. In Utopia, and in my dreams.
There was no one who knew more philosophical theorems than me – the incredibly irritating (and endlessly fascinating) thing was that there was always another viewpoint or opinion; one contradicting the other. Sadly, I’d also realised during my four long years of theorising about humanity and the world that knowing as much on paper as a person my age probably could about how people ticked hadn’t helped me one iota in my personal life. Which was at that point – to put it mildly – a car crash.
I also wasn’t convinced that in practice, it helped anyone else either. In rereading this diary I realise that, despite having called myself a right pain in the backside at thirteen, I haven’t changed very much at all. I’ve simply learnt how to frame my childhood thoughts and feelings in an academic manner.
A week later, a letter arrived on the doormat and told me I’d been offered the job.
And again, I lay on my narrow bed and laughed hysterically. I then read the letter again more carefully, and resorted to language I do not approve of when I looked at the salary they were offering me.
Well. Er . . . blow . . . ME!
And then I cried. Loudly and indulgently and messily, wiping snot from my nose for a good ten minutes.
Pathetic really, but understandable under the circumstances.
Because there was someone I was desperate to share the moment with. But who wasn’t with me, and would probably never be again.
I’m sitting here now, a few weeks on, thinking about the fact I will probably have to wear a suit – or at least a smart jacket and chinos – when I begin my new job in under a month’s time. It’s not in the City, but it’s still an office job.
I hope I can use my voice for good when I’m there – I want to, at least. But my study of humans tells me that politicians – and all people for that matter – believe they will do good, and then get corrupted by power. I’ve actually no idea if you can get corrupted in a think-tank, but I also think anything is possible. Only last week, I received another envelope – this one thick, cream vellum, inviting me to No. 10 Downing Street for a ‘cup of tea’ with the man himself. Like, the Prime Minister! Apparently, he wants to get to know all his new young think-tankers personally.
He wants to know me.
λγ
Thirty-three
I am still chuckling as I put the pen down and wend my way inside the house, closing shutters and switching off light bulbs, which seem to have spawned considerably in number since this afternoon. Finally satisfied that I won’t blow up with the house tonight due to the overloading of Pandora’s already ancient electrics, I shut myself in my Broom Cupboard, then switch on the fan and sit on the bed. Then I reach down into my rucksack for the remnants of Bee.
‘Can you believe I’m going to meet the Prime Minister of Great-Britain-slash-the-United-Kingdom? Or in fact, dear rabbit of mine, Not-so-Great Britain and the Disunited Kingdom, given the Scotland situation,’ I add soberly. ‘Still, it’s pretty bloody impressive at the age of twenty-three.’
Then I stick him under my armpit.
Tonight I need his comfort to face tomorrow.
I am just dozing off when I hear my mobile. I’ve become used to the missed heartbeat, the sense of dread I feel every time it rings.
‘Hello?’ I bark.
‘Alex, it’s me.’
‘Oh, hi, Immy. How is everything at home?’ I ask nervously, as I always do these days.
‘Fine. I mean, Fred and I are here by our
selves at the moment, but Dad knows the arrangements for tomorrow.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, I’m okay. Is it all cool at Pandora?’
‘I wouldn’t say it’s cool, as it’s bloody boiling. But yes, everything’s organised.’
‘Cool,’ she repeats, and I take heart that at least one word in the English language – however naff – has managed to stand the test of time with fifteen-year-old girls.
‘Is the taxi going to be waiting for us when we arrive?’ she asks.
‘It should be, yes. At least, I’ve booked it,’ I say. ‘Has Fred packed?’
‘Sort of. You know what he’s like – he’ll probably forget to bring any clean underwear, but I’m fed up of reminding him. Anyway,’ Immy let out a small sigh, ‘we’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘You will. And Immy?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s going to be a great night.’
‘I hope so, Alex, I really do. Night.’
‘Night.’
I lie back then, with my head resting on my hands, thinking that this has been so hard for both of them. I’ve done my best, and so has Chloë, and Dad, but we can never make up for the difficult years. Chloë and I even took them to counselling – we’d all been told that whatever was happening with Mum, we couldn’t feel guilty about living our own lives and worrying about our own problems. However irrelevant they might seem in comparison.
I think it helped me far more than it helped them, to be honest. I’m always a sucker for that kind of thing.
So now I turn my mind to my own personal relationship issues. And as I do, every muscle in my body tenses as I wince in pain at the thought of her not appearing tomorrow night. I’ve made sure she got the invitation, of course, but I haven’t heard a word from her since.
And who could blame her if she didn’t come?
Christ! Why is life so bloody complicated?
Yes, we were related on a technicality, and yes, it was complex, but we loved each other, for God’s sake!
Well. Here I was, in the same bloody house, in the same bed where it had all begun. And surely, despite everything, it had to continue?
Just because . . .
It did.
Again, I sleep the sleep of the dead (perhaps not an expression I should currently be using, one way or another) and wake to another glorious morning at Pandora.
At least, I think, as I shower and then find Angelina in the kitchen already hard at work and indicating the cafetière she’s prepared for me, I don’t need to look up at the skies and ponder whether there’ll be rain later.
The rain that seems to be the personification of the Vindictive English God of Outside Events. Every ‘happy’ photograph I’ve seen of English people, taken at weddings, fêtes, concerts and the like, does not necessarily mean they are smiling at the camera because they have just married their one true love, or won ‘guess the name of the guinea pig’. They are smiling in relief because the entire event hasn’t been a total washout.
Maybe I’ll get married in Cyprus, which would at least rule out one question mark which always hangs over such a day . . .
Meanwhile, out on the terrace, all is in full swing. Dimitrios and Michel are setting up trestle tables on which to place the beer, wine and glasses. Under the pergola, the long iron table has been covered in a freshly laundered tablecloth ready for Angelina’s feast to be laid out.
‘Good morning, Alex.’ Alexis appears out of nowhere and slaps me hard on the back. ‘What time are the first guests arriving?’
‘Mid-afternoon, I think. Let’s hope everyone makes it.’
‘Yes. Let’s hope they do.’
From that point on I’m kept busy, and in between I find I am checking my mobile, Facebook, Twitter – would she seriously have tweeted me?! – for news of her impending arrival. I know switching on data roaming will later bankrupt me, and I don’t care. But there are no messages. Not even an automated voicemail to tell me I’m owed compensation from an accident I’ve never had.
I take a quick swim to cool down from the effort it takes to make a party. Checking my watch as I get out, I realise there’s less than an hour to go before the first guests arrive. I then recall that my pink shirt – indeed a girly colour and reminiscent of Rupes, but a colour I have surmised makes most women find you irresistible – is screwed up in a ball at the bottom of my rucksack. I search desperately around the house for an iron and ironing board, pieces of equipment I have battled with for years.
Eventually I find a rusting, creaky version in the pantry and, thank God, Angelina sees the screwed-up bit of rag in my hand and takes pity on me, so I leave the shirt in her capable hands.
Then I start to pace around the house like some kind of weird patrolman. Everything is ready. I know it’s ready. But, like checking my mobile, the pacing has become a nervous twitch. The pounding of my feet gives me something to concentrate on, because I can’t bear to concentrate on who may or may not be here tonight.
In this very house. Within a few hours.
I am beside myself – another ridiculous turn of phrase, I think randomly – and decide that I will continue to write the final chapter of my memoir to take my mind off the situation. Even though I will not know the denouement until later tonight.
The first taxi pulls up and, just (or almost) like ten years ago, Jules and Sadie emerge onto the drive. Then Rupes, and little Peaches, Sadie’s daughter. My heart catches suddenly as I walk towards them, but I paste a smile onto my face. Three of the passengers look almost exactly the same as they did: Jules hot and cross, Sadie inappropriately dressed, and Rupes as bullish and florid as ever.
At least this time I’m prepared for his handshake, and even pull my stomach in and flex my shoulder muscles to steel myself against having my arm torn off.
‘My God, that journey hasn’t got any better!’ Jules puffs and pants. ‘And doubtless the house is in a worse state than it was before. It’s ten years older and bound to have deteriorated.’
‘We’re all ten years older, Jules,’ I say, hoping she gets the inference.
Sadie rolls her eyes at me and then gives me a hug. ‘Ignore her,’ she whispers into my ear. ‘She hasn’t changed a bit. Say hello to your godfather, Peaches darling,’ she says to the child standing by her side.
I sweep Peaches into my arms and hug her. ‘Hello, sweetheart, how are you?’
She giggles with pleasure. ‘I’m fine, Uncle Alex. How are you?’
‘I’m very well, thanks, Peaches.’
As I lie to her, Sadie taps me on the shoulder and indicates another person whom Jules is helping out of the taxi.
‘I’m warning you, Alex, if you think Jules is a pain in the bum, just wait until you meet her new boyfriend,’ she mutters under her breath.
I watch as a man with a scarily similar complexion to Rupes, but minus the hair and bedecked in a pair of bright red chinos and checked shirt, dislodges himself from the front seat of the car.
‘My God! He looks old enough to be her father!’ I whisper to Sadie, as he clings onto Jules’ arm and attempts to walk across the gravel towards us.
‘He probably is, but apparently he owns half of Rutland and has an entire stable of thoroughbreds. Jules is a tenant on his country estate and they met when he came to check out her, er, frozen pipes,’ Sadie smirks.
Jules introduces him to me as Bertie, while he looks up in horror at the accommodation.
‘You told me I should expect the worst, but I’m sure we’ll make the best of it,’ he says, with possibly one thousand plums in his mouth. ‘C’mon Jules, old girl, show me up to our suite!’ With that, he slaps her on the bottom and she giggles girlishly. Sadie and I, and even little Peaches, make quiet sick noises.
‘Isn’t he awful?’
I realise I have completely forgotten Rupes, and turn to find him standing behind us, hands in his pockets. None of us comment; we just turn as red as he is naturally.
‘I did tell Mum she should ask
if he could come. And she said she’d always slept in a double bed here anyway, so she was sure it would be fine. Anyway, how are you, Alex? Hear you’re doing rather well at the moment?’
‘I’m okay, thanks, Rupes. And I hear that you’re training to be a teacher?’
‘Yes.’ He laughs loudly and raises his eyebrows at me. ‘How ironic can you get, given the last time we were here at Pandora? Hardly Classics, as you know, but since I had to give up professional rugby because of my knee injury, I started coaching and I’ve really been enjoying it. So I thought, why not? Sadly there’s no family money to fall back on, as you know.’
‘Well, Rupes, I think you’ll make a perfect sports teacher,’ I say with feeling. Personally, mine were all trained by the Triads.
‘Thanks.’
‘Fancy a beer?’
‘Why not?’ he agrees.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Alex, but are we in the same room I was in last time?’ Sadie asks.
‘Yes. Angelina’s put in a camp bed for you, Peaches, just like the one I sleep on in my Broom Cupboard.’
‘You sleep in a cupboard?’ she asks me, fascinated.
‘Not really. It’s what you might call an affectionate term, because the room’s so small,’ I explain to her as we all traipse into the house.
‘You stay down here with Rupes, I know where we’re going,’ says Sadie as she heads towards the stairs.
‘Meester Rupes!’ Angelina appears in the corridor and I thank my lucky stars, as the last thing I wanted was a DMC with my half-brother, who doesn’t even know he is. ‘How are you?’
‘Good, thanks, Angelina,’ he says as he kisses her on both cheeks.
‘Come into my kitchen, Rupes. I have made you the cakes you like so much last time you was ’ere.’
I follow them into the kitchen, and whilst Angelina fires a barrage of questions at him, I furnish him with a beer. As I listen to him answer politely, I decide that Rupes has definitely calmed down since I last saw him. He’d been crying then, but that had probably been for himself, which happens a lot on such occasions.
The Olive Tree Page 39