The New Leaf

by Hugh Canham

  ‘Will they accept that the accountants made a mistake?’

  ‘I shall do my damndest to make sure they do!’ she said fiercely. ‘I shall be in touch again soon, Mr Bannister.’

  And she was. She telephoned two days later and said she’d got a date for the meeting in a week’s time and would like me to be available to attend. She explained that she needed to come and make copies of various letters and documents on my files and had I a photocopier? Well, yes I had. It was one of the things I brought from Toy Boy’s office – a small portable one I kept in a cupboard that proved very useful from time to time.

  So, Mrs Bostock visited again, on her own this time. Unfortunately (or fortunately) the electric cable to the photocopier wouldn’t reach my desk or the table so it had to be used on the floor. I apologised about this to Mrs Bostock for whom I felt a great deal of warmth – apart from her physical attributes - as she was going to try to get the Revenue to change its mind and I was very grateful.

  ‘Look,’ I said as she arrived, ‘I can’t go on calling you Mrs Bostock. What’s your first name? Mine’s Gregory.’

  ‘Mrs Bostock is just fine.’

  ‘But you must have a first name. What does your husband call you?’

  ‘He doesn’t call me anything any longer. He died a year ago of a heart attack while playing squash. And don’t commiserate too much. We weren’t getting on at all well and if he’d lived, I suspect we’d be divorced by now! But if you must, you can call me Elizabeth.’

  ‘What a tough nut!’ I thought, but said, ‘I’m sorry… I’ve put the files on the table again but I’m afraid you have to kneel on the floor to use the photocopier as the flex won’t reach the table. I’ll do the copying if you like.’

  ‘No problem… I’ll do it myself. Your solicitors fortunately sent you copies of all the contracts so I can copy them and various other relevant letters and the tax return.’

  And with that she kicked off her high heels, hitched up her skirt and knelt down by the photocopier.

  Elizabeth kneeling by the photocopier with her skirt hitched up was almost irresistible. For the first time since I’d been ill, I felt a surge of my old lustful feelings. What I had felt for Cristabel had been different. This was an urgent and base need. I had always been fortunate to have a willing girlfriend but I could understand why men needed to seek relief from prostitutes when overcome with this sort of desire.

  ‘I want to be a bit theatrical about this,’ she said once she’d finished the photocopying. ‘I’ll go into the meeting with the photocopies, but I want you to be waiting outside with these three files I’ve put on the floor just in case they want to read all through them and question you. And would you please be smartly dressed for the meeting. I have to say you look a little scruffy today. I’ll see myself out.’

  After she’d gone I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Yes, I saw what she meant. I had ‘let myself go’ a bit. I hadn’t had a haircut for some time and I’d taken to wearing an open-necked shirt and a cardigan with a pair of old flannel trousers as I worked from the flat.

  I would hardly appeal to her looking like that.

  Although I had boldly asserted to Jane that I must stand on my own two feet, I was very anxious most of the time. So I fortified myself with anti-anxiety pills before the meeting with the tax man. But I still felt nervous and was sweating slightly as I sat beside Elizabeth in the same awful waiting room. I was suitably dressed with my hair cut and my files in my best leather briefcase. Elizabeth looked stunning; a trifle more make-up than usual and emanating a heavy perfume. I wondered if that might set the dour Welsh inspector against her.

  We didn’t have to wait too long before Elizabeth was asked to come in. So I sat and hoped, whilst Elizabeth’s perfume lingered in the air. I tried to doze off but the chair was so uncomfortable that it was impossible. I had intended to bring a newspaper to read, but had forgotten. The waiting room didn’t have any magazines. The meeting seemed to be going on for ever. Then there was the turning of the tax man’s door handle – he was actually showing Elizabeth out of his office.

  ‘So nice to meet you, Mrs Bostock. Many thanks for your help in resolving all this.’

  Elizabeth arrived by my side with a broad smile.

  ‘It’s okay?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve accepted it. You will be repaid that part of your tax bill ASAP. It will be about £700,000.’

  ‘I’m very, very grateful for what you’ve done for me,’ I said touching her arm.

  ‘Gregory, I’m pleased at the outcome but you must remember that I was doing it to save my clients money and not for you.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’m greatly in your debt and as now it’s nearly half-past twelve, will you let me take you out to lunch?’

  She looked at her watch. ‘Okay. But it will have to be a quick one. I’m very busy.’

  During the lunch she told me she was only twenty-eight and hoping to be made a partner in her firm very soon. That was why she was so keen to get a good result, and obviously was very pleased with the success of the interview with the tax man.

  ‘That was not the sort of splendid meal I should buy you for what you’ve done,’ I said. ‘Can we organise something better in due course?’

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely. Give me a ring on my mobile – here’s the number on my business card. I must go now.’

  When I got back to my flat, there was an email from the estate agents to say they had now agreed terms with the prospective purchasers but they wanted a quick exchange of contracts and completion to catch the pre-Christmas trade. They would also want vacant possession of my flat!

  The relief of getting the tax back and selling the properties was immense but a quick calculation showed me that because of the low price I would receive for the properties and the long period of paying interest to my bank, I would only make a very small profit out of Toy Boy.

  One is never satisfied!

  I walked round the streets of Wood Green trying to come to terms with it all – the end of the Toy Boy affair and me moving on to a new phase in my life. I resolved that I must try to put all my troubles behind me insofar as I could. The bank would be happy now and I would be solvent again but there was something stopping me from feeling as relieved, or even jubilant, as I should have done.

  While I was in the turmoil of trying to move, Cristabel phoned. She said she was sorry not to have answered any of my messages but she had been frantically busy reorganising her life. She suggested we should meet for lunch at a small French restaurant we both knew in the West End, so that she could explain everything.

  She was sitting at the table when I arrived. If I had not seen her so ill after the abortion, I would never have known what she’d been through. She looked as lovely as ever and I wanted to kiss her, but as I bent down towards her face she put the back of her hand up so that I had to kiss that instead.

  ‘Gregory, please. You know our relationship isn’t like that. I shall always be so grateful to you for the way you looked after me and I’ve bought you a little present. I suppose it’s a keepsake.’ She put down a small parcel on the place mat where I would be sitting.

  ‘Don’t open it now. Take it home and open it there.’

  I asked her how she felt.

  ‘I think I’m fully recovered,’ she said, ‘as much as I ever shall be. The reason I haven’t been in touch before is because Mummy is divorcing Daddy. He stayed with the twenty-year-old and Mummy and I are going to live together. We’ve found a nice house in Barnes by the river with a big attic room which I can use as a studio. Daddy is being very generous about money. I suppose he feels guilty, and so he should!’

  I told her about my own good fortune; the tax refund and selling the properties.

  ‘There you are, you see!’ she said. ‘I told you God would reward you.’

  At the end of the lunch Cristabel said, ‘Look Gregory, we’ve helped one another in the past but I think this meal should be the end of things between us. I
want to make a fresh start and I think you should, too.’

  When I got home, I opened the parcel and found it contained a small paperweight made of Perspex; inside the paperweight in small gold letters were the words ‘Look Forward Not Back’ with some sort of misty horizon behind the lettering.

  It made me feel very sad, but I didn’t like it very much and put it in a drawer. It must have been taken out with the junk furniture when I moved because I never saw it again.

  George managed to get the contracts for the sale of all of the properties exchanged and completed in five days. My bank account was at last in credit as the Revenue repaid the tax with amazing speed. The only outstanding thing was how much more tax I actually owed the Revenue and if they would be repaying anything more.

  I had a strong desire to have a meeting with McGinger at the bank and tell him what a prick I thought he was – but I decided against it. It might relieve my feelings but it wouldn’t get me anywhere. Maybe he’d even done me a good turn by being so fierce with me and making me reduce my debt, although he made me feel horribly paranoid at the time. I quietly made arrangements to move my accounts to another bank, which gave me a great sense of satisfaction.

  But I was homeless! Giving vacant possession of the flat meant that I had to move all the furniture. I hired a skip and threw most of it in there. I had brought one or two pieces with me from Brook Street, which I put into storage. I booked into a hotel and spent several days searching for a temporary home. All the suitable places wanted a year’s tenancy, but I eventually found a nice one-bedroomed flat just off Sloane Square which was fully furnished and equipped. The owner only wanted to let it for three months while he ‘wintered abroad’, as his agents put it.

  9

  My time living in that flat near Sloane Square I remember as a sort of twilight period. The days were dark and the flat, although perfectly comfortable, was in a red brick Victorian building with small windows – probably rather gloomy even in midsummer. In December I had to keep the lights on all day. The building had originally been one rather grand house in the Edwardian era, no doubt with a butler and maids. Now it was divided (quite nicely) into five flats. Living there I felt completely anonymous – more so even than in the flat in Wood Green. I think you could have died one night and it might have been some months before your body was found.

  I somehow knew my life would never be the same again. Although I was now solvent, there would be no return to the sort of days I’d spent with Zoë in New York and Los Angeles a year previously. I didn’t feel exactly ill any more, but I certainly didn’t feel very well. I really didn’t know what to do with myself or how to pass the time. I had cleared up all the loose ends of my previous deals and I had no desire to try to embark on anything else. Maybe because I had nothing much to keep me occupied, I felt very anxious most of the time. I tried going to the races but just felt cold and miserable. I visited my club occasionally but came to the conclusion I didn’t like it any more. A few members approached me to make mild enquiries about my health as they hadn’t seen me for some time, but I didn’t feel any of them were really that interested.

  And I had great difficulty in stopping myself drinking.

  I had of course, as expected, never heard anything from Cristabel. And more surprisingly, nothing from Jane, although she had my mobile number. I still couldn’t bring myself to phone her. I don’t quite know why. And so much time was passing that I wondered if I should ever speak to her again.

  But I did call Elizabeth frequently to see how she was getting on dealing with the rest of my tax problems. But she obviously thought I was a nuisance and was steadfast about my taking her out to dinner. She said she was far too busy and working till late at night and at the weekends.

  I suppose trying to meet Elizabeth became almost an obsession. I found myself thinking of her most of the time. But then I had nothing much else to think about, apart from what I was going to do in the future – and I had no answer to that.

  I roamed around the streets hoping inspiration might come to me. The Christmas decorations were wonderful once darkness fell at around four o’clock. I often wandered up and down the Kings Road and Sloane Street hoping that I might meet somebody I knew, but I never did. I sat for hours in the numerous cafés in the area, drinking coffee that I didn’t really want and reading newspapers.

  I resolved that I must learn to cook for myself, as most of the eating places in the area seemed very expensive after the kebab houses of Wood Green. I bought a copy of a cookery book aimed at novices such as myself, but I couldn’t summon up any enthusiasm for it and ended up buying expensive meals in the local restaurants.

  Eventually, on the 18th December, Elizabeth phoned and said that if I was free I could take her out to dinner on Christmas Eve. She was going to spend Christmas Day with her divorcée sister and the sister’s two children in Surbiton. Unfortunately for her, the sister and children were vegetarians so she would appreciate what she called a ‘proper meal’ on Christmas Eve.

  I became ridiculously excited about the dinner. I was spending Christmas on my own, apart from an invitation from George (who was obviously taking pity on me) to have lunch on Boxing Day with him and his family in Finchley. Having once met George’s wife, this was not an exhilarating prospect.

  I had arranged with Elizabeth that I should take her to the Ritz in Piccadilly and that I would meet her outside the front entrance at eight. In view of her remarks about my appearance, I dressed in my best suit with a Hermes tie, and my smartest overcoat. I took two anti-anxiety pills. I had no idea what might happen after a lavish dinner on Christmas Eve!

  Foolishly, I arrived about ten minutes early and hadn’t realised how cold it would be waiting outside. Although the entrance is under a portico, an east wind was blowing down Piccadilly with a few flakes of snow in it. By eight-fifteen I was frozen. I didn’t want to go inside into the lobby in case I should miss Elizabeth. I tried calling her but I just got a recorded message. I waited for another ten minutes and then phoned the restaurant to see if by any chance she’d walked past me or gone in by the other entrance. But no, she wasn’t there. I was very upset. I explained my guest hadn’t arrived and asked would they please cancel the booking. I suppose I should have waited a few more minutes, but I didn’t. I remember shutting my mobile and putting it in my overcoat pocket, saying ‘Sod her!’ loudly and walking up Piccadilly in search of a pub. Before long I found what I was looking for; I had a double whisky and gradually started to thaw out. The bar was full of a strange assortment of people, some wearing paper party hats. A red-nosed man had one of those party blowers that makes a noise and uncurls, shoving it right into people’s faces. When he came towards me, I turned my back.

  ‘Okay, toff,’ he shouted. ‘Too posh for a lark are we?’ I suppose I was better dressed than most of the people around me.

  I left that pub, found another one nearby which was quieter, and had another large whisky. I didn’t finish it as I started to feel nauseous; I should have known not to drink on top of the anti-anxiety pills. I went out into the cold again, the nausea intensifying, and walked towards Piccadilly Circus. There was a church nearby with a choir and brass band around a large Christmas tree, singing carols in the churchyard. It looked like a picture on a Christmas card – I even looked up to see if there might be any angels hovering in the sky. The words of the carol were almost blown away by the cold wind, but I knew them anyhow:

  ‘God rest ye merry gentlemen.

  Let nothing you dismay

  Remember Christ our Saviour

  Was born on Christmas Day

  To save us all from Satan’s power

  When we were gone astray:

  O, tidings of comfort and joy

  Comfort and joy

  O, tidings of comfort and joy!’

  For some reason it reminded me of my mother and I felt like crying. Why had she so rarely bothered to come and see me? She obviously never loved me – and nor did anyone else.

  I
didn’t know what to do. Although the feeling of sickness was wearing off, I didn’t feel hungry. The sensible thing would have been to have hailed a taxi or hopped on a bus to Sloane Square. But perversely, I decided I would walk back to my flat. It wasn’t that far. I’d got in some groceries for the holiday period and I could have a snack when I got home.

  Nearing Hyde Park Corner, I remembered Jane had said I had staggered when she helped me home from the restaurant. How very odd it seemed that she’d taken me back to her flat; most women wouldn’t have considered it proper. I hadn’t really thought about that aspect of it before. I supposed I’d been so self-centred at the time, I’d assumed every woman would want to do anything for me. And now I was deserted by the only three I currently knew. Elizabeth had stood me up. Cristabel had dumped me and I had so upset Jane by refusing her kind offer of a loan that she hadn’t spoken to me since. I told her that I must stand on my own feet. Well, I had managed to pay off my debts, but I felt utterly alone and deserted.

  It was at that moment that I tripped and fell. I don’t know if it was the whiskies, the pills, a feeling of hopelessness or the very slight fall of snow. I put my right hand out to save myself as I went down and felt a sharp pain in my wrist and then the rest of my body came into contact with what seemed the hardest pavement in all London. Strangely, there was nobody nearby. When I managed to lever myself up with my left hand, I noticed that I’d torn my trousers and my right wrist was hurting like hell.

  ‘Yes, you’ve broken your wrist,’ I was told some time later when my arm was being put into a sling. ‘Could have been worse. Want to see the X-ray?’

  I was in the Accident and Emergency of the same hospital I’d been in after fainting in church. And thanks to the marvels of modern technology, the X-ray was flashed up onto a screen over my bed. What I’d done to my wrist looked horrible. A bit of bone had become half detached from whatever the bone at the top of the wrist is called.