She hardly noticed him sit down. So inwardly focused had she become that he presented only a vague shape, a darkening in the unseen field of vision, which offered a polite gesturing question about the chair opposite. She had even completed her confirmation that it was vacant before she recognised him.
“Gerry! Well I never. How are…?” Presented with the bent double stoop of a man she only just recognised, she clipped the question short, in case its intended platitude was interpreted as a genuine request.
“It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Smythe,” he said, offering his right hand with exaggerated clearance above the level of his pint and her tall glass. His hand and arm shook gently, steadying only as she grasped to shake and began again on her release. “It’s my local. I knew you lived down the road, but I’ve never seen you in here before.”
She knew his exact age. He was thirty-nine and looked seventy. About seven years ago, soon after her ‘mere’ teacher gaff had faded into memory, one of the toughest decisions she had ever made as a head related to Gerald Knight’s career. She had pursued early retirement on health grounds on his behalf, having to stick her neck out some distance to secure a deal for him at the time. Newly diagnosed with a debilitating and ultimately fatal disease of the spine, he had been a small man, but very solid, a well-built rugby halfback, as he always used to describe himself. A real ale type, bearded, always conventionally dressed in non-matching jacket and trousers, never jeans, he had given St. Mary’s ten years of service, having joined the school as a probationer, straight from college. She had been sad to see him go, not sad on his behalf because of his illness, but perhaps sad for herself and her school, because he was a good teacher whom she knew would be hard to replace.
“Would you like another?” she asked, nodding at his near empty glass.
“I’d love one. Ordinary, please.”
Back in her seat, their drinks refilled, she took a moment of silence to compare the then and now. He had lost weight, disastrously. His spine was a complete curve and he had developed a pronounced hump a third of the way down from the neck, which he held almost horizontal. It needed only a glance at the shape to know that it was not a result of stooping, or of occupation. The full beard she recalled was now wispy, long at the sides but almost bald on the point of the chin. His jacket and trousers were as she remembered, perhaps even the same ones, but now they were sizes too large and hung in surprising folds and gathers.
“I should have bought that for you,” he said. “I’ve never said thank you for what you did.”
“At the time you thought I was pushing you out.”
“I know. Judgment was never my strong point. Had I not at least taken leave of absence for treatment, I would have been dead within a year.”
“So what’s the prognosis now?” They were already speaking as head teacher and staff member, colleague for want of a better word, if it were not too pejorative a term, as if seven years of non-relationship had never existed.
“I’ve not got long left. I wake each morning and thank God for just one more day. I have a routine where I try to move all the bits, a checklist of exercises and, touch wood, everything is still there, but not very comfortable. I’m not in pain. Whether it’s the drugs I take or the nature of the condition, I don’t know. Sometimes I just can’t do something, like lift my arm or grasp, but up to now, it has always come back. I am very lucky. I don’t function too well overall, but I can keep going. I’m clumsy and I can’t walk very far, but at least I can make it here and have a few pints of nectar.”
And it was then that image of Munyasya hit her, a decrepit old man with a beard confronting her in a public place. A nightmare she had never fully relived gripped her gut. She turned white and lost her breath and, momentarily, felt herself faint.
He stood, in pain. “Mrs. Smythe… are you all right?”
And the moment passed, leaving its taint as a ponderous hesitancy in her speech, as if the memory of that cursing old man had its finger in her mouth, tugging. As he sat again, she stroked her hair and sighed a little. “Goodness, I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry. I felt a little unwell for a moment.”
“That is your fourth gin and tonic and I have never seen you smoke.” His eyes were the same. Piercing green with brown flecks at the rim. She remembered them penetrating her honesty on the day she told him she was seeking severance on his behalf. He hadn’t completely trusted her then, and the eyes had cut through the message. Today their penetration was different. He was on her side, and, though their concern questioned her integrity again, this time it was on her behalf, not his. “You acted on principle on my behalf, made a decision I was not capable of and, as a result, have probably given me years of life I had no right to expect. I wanted to carry on as if nothing had changed and I was wrong. Whatever is troubling you now, Mrs. Smythe, think it through and, like you did for me, make your judgment. You will be right.”
She left the fourth drink untouched, but took the cigarettes after bidding Gerry Knight a fond farewell and, against all odds, wishing him the best of luck. But she did not go home. She walked for an hour around the quiet triangle of streets between New North Road, City Road and Essex Road, the simple repetition of low London-brick terraces not intruding into her thoughts. She smoked a few more cigarettes and paused occasionally on benches installed by the council in places no one else would ever think of using and then she went home, close to the time she would normally arrive from south London. Rosita had cooked the meal and had left a note on the kitchen pin-board. It said that she had left food in the oven, that she had gone to visit friends and would be back by ten. David arrived home from the office just before seven, after which they spent a normal evening.
She left early for work the next morning and took extra time to stroll a little further across Clapham Common on her roundabout way to school. Usually, this was her way of finalising any outstanding decision to be made that day, a few minutes of undisturbed contemplation of the issues, the strategy, the final decision and the possible consequences. She hardly ever changed anything, but sometimes in that open humming quiet a nuance had emerged which later transformed her intended action into complete, rather than partial, success. But on this morning she stopped to sit on a bench near the bowling green and smoked the last of her cigarettes as, for once, she contemplated her private dilemmas, not someone else’s demand. Seeing Gerry had put things into a different, larger context. She had so much to be thankful for and so much to lose with a rash decision. His thanks for what she had done had been profoundly moving, despite her recollection of only being half confident that it was the right course. The summer term, and with it another school year, was nearly over. There would be a summer break, that frantic time of planning, recruitment, initiatives and exam results, passing and failing, smiles and tears, a space to think things over. It was time to move, time to reclaim that chair behind that desk, time to attend to those things that others presented. She had finished the last cigarette a few minutes earlier and, like the previous two, had stubbed it out inside the packet she had prematurely emptied for that purpose, just like she used to do when you could still smoke on the upstairs of a bus, when there was that one car on each underground train where the atmosphere was pea soup. But as she stood, she forgot about the packet, which lay now closed on her thigh, charged with its smoker’s trash. She had remained seated on that bench for several minutes after the last stub and now, with horror, she realised she might be in danger of being late. A glance at her watch confirmed the possibility and prompted her to rise and walk in a single hurried movement. She had already taken several steps, her mind on the new tasks ahead, before the hollow clatter of the flip top box on the macadam path registered and caused her to look back. As if by divine intervention, a maintenance worker with fluorescent green strip across his jacket and trousers was already preparing to sweep it into his pan with a long-handled brush. She watched him empty the pan into his dustbin on
wheels, balance his tools across the contraption and then move on, pulling his cap further down at the front as he stooped to inspect the ground for more of his prey. It was his job.
***
Having scanned the table and declared nothing broken, Janet glanced towards Marie and indicated with the slightest nod that she should clear up. Then she left the room, turning right to follow Rosita back to the basement, her boots giving clatter on the uncarpeted stairs. Marie stood immediately and walked around the table, her utterly awake two-year-old’s eyes following her hawk like, the mind clearly deciding if this might be a moment to cry. She stayed quiet, deferring the intervention to a time of greater potential profit. As Marie righted the glasses and mopped the spilt wine with her mother’s discarded napkin, David fussily positioned the pasta bowl exactly in its appointed space and announced he would serve, inviting the guests to pass their plates. Distracted, the guests complied, but slowly, as if reluctantly. When Marie announced that she would take the merely damp napkins downstairs, Karl sensed his opportunity and took it. Silent until then, he began to speak as soon as his wife was out of sight.
“Just a thought, David. Must catch up with you sometime this evening for a word. Slight problem to clear up before Monday and tonight’s as good as any …”
David placed a liberal helping of farfalle with their indeterminate clinging red coat on Father Bernard’s plate and set it down to his left. He accepted Michael’s plate and began filling it. As he replied to Karl, various forms of “Oh Jaysus that’s enough” issued from his left. “Problem, Karl? Did something crop up after I left? Can’t it wait?”
“It’s a little sensitive,” said Karl, the speed of delivery and false stress suggesting rehearsal. “Let’s chat after dinner.”
“Now is fine by me,” said David confidently and insistently, “if our guests would excuse the imposition of our talking shop at table.” David pivoted and turned stiffly to pose an expression of silent question to Bernard and Michael, to whom he also handed a plate of pasta. As the guests grumbled personal varieties of assent without actually saying anything, David reached over the table to take Karl’s plate and, with raised eyebrows and the slightest angle of the head commanded him to speak.
Outmanoeuvred, Karl had to respond or perhaps let the matter drop, possibly to fester again as it had done for months. His voice communicated both acknowledgement and acceptance of challenge. “I spoke with Sanjit Singh of LCN this afternoon. He told me they were getting pretty miffed with our failure to deliver. We promised…”
“Karl, with all due respect,” interrupted David, his voice now displaying none of the hesitancy it always bore when dealing with merely personal issues, “I have been dealing with LCN for years. I’ve known Sanjit’s father ever since he established the company. I’ve seen it grow from a sweatshop with two sewing machines to a multi-million pound business. Believe me, there is no problem with our relations with LCN.”
“On the contrary, David. Sanjit is as good as saying that our contract won’t be renewed. The father does very little these days. He’s hardly involved. Sanjit runs the place now and he’s a stickler for the letter of the law. If we say we’ll deliver by such and such a day, then that is precisely what he wants us to do, no more, no less. He’s not interested in why we are a week or two late, especially when members of our practice cancel meetings at the last minute…”
“Karl,” said David, his dismissive tone exaggerated for the name, “it’s not a problem. I have missed a couple of consultations but the work is done. I’ll ring the old man on Monday…”
“David,” said Karl, duelling names, “it’s Sanjit who runs the business now. He’s the MD. He’s not like his father. He’s got an MBA and wants things done according to an agreed plan. But that’s not the only problem. There have been other times when people have wanted to contact you while you were out of the office, especially in the afternoons, and when we’ve tried to contact you, your mobile has been off and you have not been at the appointment in your diary. People are losing confidence…”
Marie and Janet arrived together, Marie carrying the salad bowl that Rosita should have delivered after the pasta. Before either had begun to take their place at table, David spoke, addressing his words directly to the two women, his head turning from one to the other as they moved along adjacent sides of the room. “My son-in-law is putting the boot in again. Anyone would think he is trying to kick me out.”
Marie smiled ruefully, since for her this was not news. Janet merely ignored her husband and spoke to Michael as she sat down, unfolding a clean, but non-matching napkin onto her lap. “How long have you known Rosita?”
“Quite a while,” replied Michael after a short pause, during which he gave a long and direct stare towards David, noting his feigned disinterest. “She’s been coming to me for several months, close on a year in fact.”
“Bloody hell!” said Douglas, as if newly interested. In fact he had noted with care, and perhaps stored, every word that had been spoken. “Marxist worker priest stalks headmistress mother of two for twenty-five years before illicit liaison with family’s Filipina maid!”
“Shut up, you arsehole!” It was suddenly quiet. It was Karl speaking out of turn, his voice laden with frustration. Uncharacteristically, an omission noted immediately and simultaneously by both David and Janet, Marie did not scoff, did not admonish. She overtly ignored his comment and ate some pasta.
“Takes one to know one, darling,” replied Douglas, with heavy camp.
“Oh, the joys of family life,” said David, as he completed his allotted task of service with the loading of his own plate, which he set down with a light but noticeable and intentional bang on a picture of the Campo of Siena that adorned his placemat. It was Janet who spoke next. Ignoring the contests at table it was again to Michael she turned.
“So tell me about Rosita’s money problems.”
“The money?” He seemed genuinely surprised, so much so that with a subsequent little jerk of the head, wide-eyed, he repeated the question. When Janet did not respond, he continued. “OK.” Michael’s tone indicated the start of a story and prompted a temporary truce amongst the factions. “The money’s a problem. She’s a Filipina. Money is always a problem in the Philippines. There’s not much of it about. She’s a single mother with two kids. The husband worked in construction and died when a hoist full of concrete lintels got a bit too close, caught him on the arm and knocked him off the eighteenth floor of an apartment block in Dubai. The company paid no compensation, claiming that he had broken site rules by not wearing his hard hat. They gave Rosita a pay-off to keep her quiet, about five hundred US, I think. But she had two kids in school, one about eight and the other five, just ready to start in primary. She struggled on for a year doing any casual work she could get, but the Filipino middle classes generally don’t pay their domestics enough to cover school fees, so she used what was left of her five hundred to pay an agent who promised her domestic work overseas.”
“That would be Pacific People,” David interjected. Michael nodded confirmation. “I remember dealing with them. Have they been a problem?”
“No,” said Michael. “Strangely enough, since the agents are often the devils in these stories, this particular one seems to have been well paid, but also delivered exactly what she wanted, which was a secure domestic job overseas. She had wanted to go to the US, of course. All Filipinos do. But the UK was a fine second best and being based in London was a bonus.”
“And so she came to chez Smythe,” said Douglas, “and, don’t tell me, we aren’t paying her! We are unscrupulous capitalist bastards exploiting a poor and vulnerable Third World woman, thrashing the victim daily, raping her, selling her on the street, feeding her salt, and forcing her to sit in comfy chairs.”
“That’s some list,” said Michael, as the others, in their variety of ways, told the young man to keep his mouth shut. “And it’s partially cor
rect…”
“Don’t you think we should talk about this later? It is, after all, a family matter.” David inserted an impatience to quicken his words, the phrase thereby revealing his intent to place a full stop to end the discussion. Michael ignored the prompt and addressed the son.
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