Arden

by Nick Corbett

  Joe looks sideways as someone ruffles their broadsheet newspaper. There is a cartoon depicting the new Prime Minister as Walt Disney’s Bambi. Joe closes his eyes, hoping for an update on the Bounty girl on the beach, but she’s nowhere to be found. Instead, a small ship sails into view. Joe’s thoughts drift back to when he was on an all night booze cruise.

  Oh, never again!Even this train is better than that.

  Joe was with Archie and a load of Archie’s media colleagues, on the election special all-night booze cruise on the River Thames. The voyage began at Kingston-upon-Thames and went all the way to Southend-on-Sea, before returning back to London. In the very early hours, Joe and Archie had stood on the prow of the barge looking across the black, cold water. Large mobile phones, as big as bricks, had been ringing all night. Word got around ship that the election was a landslide. Joe drank a lot of beer that night but he still had his senses about him, unlike Archie who was totally wasted. As the ship chugged towards the Royal Festival Hall on London’s South Bank, it was clear to Joe that something significant was going on. Lots of small vessels were appearing on the river. Police officers were lining the embankment. Two helicopters hovered noisily. Then a police launch came alongside them, a police officer was shouting instructions to the crew. When they were almost opposite the Royal Festival Hall, Joe saw a crowd of people gathering around a stage. It was decorated with flashing disco lights. On the stage were a drum kit, other musical instruments and a rostrum.

  A man in a suit climbed on stage with a woman. “That’s the new Prime Minister!” someone yelled. “They’ve flown back to London already!”

  The Prime Minister began speaking to the crowd through a microphone. It was very difficult for Joe to make out what he was saying. He just about heard the words, “A new dawn has broken…” and then the sun rose, immersing the river and the crowd in light. It was a never-to-be-forgotten sight. The ecstatic crowd roared. The band, D:Ream, got on stage and played Things can only get better! They kept playing the song over and over as people celebrated.

  Eventually, the little ship began chugging up the Thames again, Joe feeling a renewed sense of vigour. Whilst Joe appreciated the historic moment, it all seemed to go over Archie’s head. He’d had too much to drink, again. When Archie disembarked at Kingston, he missed his footing. He hit his head on the side of the barge and knocked himself out. There was a lot of blood. Joe tried to stem the flow with his shirt. He borrowed someone’s mobile phone, the first time he’d used one, and dialled 999 for an ambulance. Joe travelled with Archie in the ambulance and they spent five hours waiting in casualty. Never again!

  Joe finds London life intriguing. He spent the first year looking like a rabbit caught in headlights. He’d say “good morning” to complete strangers on the tube, and people looked terrified, as if they were being mugged. When Joe first started work, the novelty of earning a good wage was wonderful. He put fivers in the top of homeless people’s sleeping bags. Now Joe is more sophisticated, a man about town. He likes to wander around the museums and art galleries, examining the treasures of the world. He partakes in Soho’s café society and enjoys meeting his cosmopolitan friends in Hoxton. He delights in London’s architecture, its squares and parks. But Joe has also been feeling a bit tired of late. The pace of London life is so fast, it has been getting to him. The very pavements are alive, but someone always wants the bit of pavement he’s standing on.

  In fact, Joe longs for peace and quiet, big skies, wild places. His hopes for travel are dashed by insufficient funds or limited annual leave. He regularly pops into the travel agents on Kensington High Street, searching for glimmers of hope. On one visit, Joe asked if it was possible to visit the Sahara Desert for a long weekend. He explained he wanted to experience silence, to reconnect with his inner-self. The young lady behind the desk was intrigued. She asked if he’d considered Benidorm, out of season, as the pensioners are all in bed by nine. Joe surmised she must be on some kind of commission to sell Benidorm.

  “That would be my idea of hell,” he asserted.

  The sales assistant returned to her theme.

  “If you do go to Benidorm, there are coach trips to the mountains.”

  Joe slightly raised an eyebrow at the word mountains, but then he reiterated that his heart was really set on the desert. He wanted to see the wild flowers after the rains. The sales assistant concentrated hard and then, to Joe’s amazement, she revealed a brochure showing a desert near Benidorm. He booked immediately. A few days later, Joe was flagging down a car on a remote desert track, disorientated and distressed. He’d run out of water after traversing Spain’s deepest gorge, but that’s another story.

  At last, the train jolts into action. This time, to the great relief of the passengers, it quickly picks up a reassuring speed. After a few minutes, they arrive at High Street Kensington. Through the windows, people look as if they are about to pounce on the train. The doors thunder open. A solid wall of cruel humanity elbows its way forward. A London Underground operative barks instructions like a lion tamer at the circus.

  “Get back! Get back! Let the people off the train first!”

  Joe feels his body being lifted involuntarily by the wave of smartly dressed commuters exiting the train. Before he takes one step of his own volition, he’s halfway down the platform, clutching his brown leather briefcase to his chest. It’s fortunate for Joe that this is his stop; he can allow himself to go with the flow. He’s never quite got used to this morning ritual, even though he’s been doing it for several years.

  The wave of humanity crashes on to the steps, amid shouting and a spray of human limbs. The steps lead up to an airy shopping arcade and the light of Kensington High Street, but down here it’s the stampede of the wildebeest in the Serengeti. Joe is at the point where he crosses the river, he needs to climb the steep bank before he’s free from snapping crocodiles. It’s no place for the weak or the old. Joe approaches the first step, scowls as he’s shoved in the back. He wants to turn around, to remonstrate with whoever shoved him, but he might miss his purchase on that first step; he’d be trampled. Announcements are bleating out,

  “Move forward! Keep Moving!”

  Joe must climb the steps. He reaches the summit, passes through a turnstile and enters the vaulted shopping arcade. A little further on, there’s a cool breeze; at last, the real world. The sun is shining above the pleasantly proportioned canyon of Kensington High Street, and it feels warm on his face. Joe breathes deeply. After that long, hot tube journey, the spring air is fresh. For a moment, he rests, leaning back against a shop-front. He runs his fingers through his short-cropped hair, looks around. Rushing commuters are everywhere. Joe is often on Kensington High Street. He’s been involved with the improvements that have been made to it. It is looking smart.

  Hordes of people are climbing up from the underground station, flowing out on to the street. These are the workers being ferried in, mostly aged in their twenties or thirties, walking in pairs, chatting, laughing, others stride more purposefully. They form a tributary, merging into the main flow along the street. Everyone is smart, dressed for action. The people coming in the opposite direction, flowing into the shopping arcade, are different. They are Kensington’s wealthy residents, heading down to their local underground station. They have a short commute to swanky offices in the City and West End. They’re older, more varied, exotic. A few younger women are scattered amongst them, physically stunning. From his shop-front perch, Joe notes the quality of the gene pool.

  Two heavily made-up elderly ladies chat to each other as they approach Joe. Aged, stooped bodies belie perfectly sculpted faces. One of them has a tall, manicured bouffant hairdo, in purple, and she wears a tartan mini-skirt. The ladies walk past Joe, swinging tiny handbags. The one in the tartan skirt looks Joe up and down as she passes. An elderly gentleman follows in their wake, his wrinkled tortoise neck cranes out of an Armani suit. Old age is just another little hurdle to jump over. The appetite for life is infectious. Joe
pushes himself up from the shop windowsill and walks over to the pedestrian crossing. His office is on the other side of the road, just around the corner.

  Suddenly, Joe hears whistle-blowing. He turns around and, through the crowd, sees flashing blue lights. There’s a break in the traffic; Joe leans forward over the kerb, getting a better view up the street. He sees police motorcycle outriders, clearing the heavy rush hour traffic to the sides. A clear swathe of grey tarmac is revealed. Some car drivers are reluctant to move over. There is fiercer whistle blowing from the police, and then their knuckles are bashed on windscreens. Some drivers are confused about what they are supposed to be doing. Some are so hyped up for London’s rush hour they just can’t give in. A policeman screams at a florist in a Mini Metro van. “Pull over! Pull over!” The poor woman behind the wheel looks terrified. Then, at the far end of the high street, a whole wall of police motorcycle outriders approaches, fast, blue lights flashing. A wide, clear road stands before them. It’s a bizarre sight.

  “Lookz zerious mate, dun it?” says a youngish businessman in a sharp South African accent, turning towards Joe.

  “Yeah.”

  They stand together at the kerbside, watching. The line of police motorcycles and flashing blue lights get closer and closer. Other people on the pavement jockey for position, trying to get the best view of what’s going on. For the younger commuters and tourists, this is a breaking news story, which they aren’t going to miss. Kensington’s older ladies and gentleman continue bobbing up and down; they’ve seen it all before.

  Kensington High Street is all crowds and gleaming Art Deco department stores and, now, this strange empty highway. Then, whoosh - a long convoy of black limousines and vintage Rolls Royce’s go whizzing by. The scene is strangely timeless. Joe stands at the front of the crowd, beside the pedestrian crossing. He has to be careful as people are pushing from behind. The fleet of limousines is travelling too fast for Joe to see who is inside. He likes the flags waving on their bonnets and roofs.

  “Now zat’s power!” says the South African, “You cin cross if you want to mate. Tha green manz flashing for ya.”

  The green man is indeed flashing to say it’s safe to cross, but people are stuck on the pavement and precariously on the little island in the middle of the road. Nothing’s going to stop that motorcade, certainly not a flashing green man. Joe marvels at the easy passage of the people in their limousines, straight through the cleared rush hour traffic. At the end of the motorcade is an ordinary black family saloon, a security car, incongruous behind a Phantom Rolls Royce. It has a neon sign in the rear window, flashing the words - STAY BACK!

  “Zee yah mate” says the South African. Joe nods back and smiles. Within seconds of the convoy passing, the normal rush hour rhythm resumes. The green man flashes again, Joe crosses over the road. As he strolls into his place of employment, the Regeneration Company, he wonders if what just happened might have been a figment of his imagination.

  The refurbished reception area gleams in white light. Joe greets the glamorous fifty-something receptionist. She is wearing almost theatrical make-up, which doesn’t seem to fit in with the minimalist surroundings. Her name is Natasha; she greets Joe in a forced posh accent. When she realises they are alone, Natasha’s smile turns into a frown. She reverts to her native cockney accent, speaking out of the corner of her narrow mouth.

  “I’m sorry lovey, there’s trauble brewing round ‘ere.”

  “What d’ya mean, Tash? What kind of trouble?”

  “New rules and regs from Gaffer Flannel.”

  “Oh, no, what now?”

  Natasha looks beyond Joe, she smiles graciously as a group of businessmen enter the reception area. One of the men speaks up.

  “Good morning, we’re here to see Mr Flannel.”

  “Ah, good morning,” says Natasha, resuming her posh accent. “I think you mean Mr Flemel.”

  She invites them to take a seat. Natasha turns to Joe. Back in her cockney accent.

  “I don’t like speaking about anyone behind their back, but somefing’s got to be done about Flannel. I’ll clobber him meself, if he ever speaks to me again the way he did earlier.”

  “Look, Tash, I’ve got to go, I’m busting for the loo,” says Joe, anxious to avoid one of Natasha’s long monologues.

  Natasha isn’t ready to let him go yet. “Everyfing he does is designed to impress the board, he down’t give a flying fig about the team.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know what you mean, but look…”

  “Alright lovey, I can’t natter on, I’d better get his nibs for this lot, tatta for now sweetie pie.”

  Vernon Flemel, alias Flannel, is a senior partner in the company; nobody likes him.

  Joe walks through a doorway off the gleaming reception area. He enters the slightly shabby open-plan office, where there are about fifty workstations. Over the last five years, Joe has received three promotions and each one has meant a new desk, closer to the coveted windows. Last week was his most recent promotion. He has finally achieved the heady accolade of a desk beside a window, with a beautiful view. Joe’s shoulders are forcibly grabbed from behind. He turns around. Two piercing Celtic blue eyes are fixed upon him. It’s Jock, a large, boisterous, Scot, over six feet tall, sixty years of age, with long unkempt, grey hair. Nobody uses his real name, which is Bartholomew.

  “Ah, morning Jock, how are you?”

  “Oho! I’m glad to be alive on such a fine morning.”

  Jock is in the middle of showing Kylie, their attractive trainee from Australia, how to do a Scottish fling.

  “We’ll show you what we’ve learnt,” he says, grabbing Joe’s arm and swinging him around as he sings. Joe drops his brown leather briefcase to the floor, laughing, as he’s forced to do a couple of turns with Jock. Then Jock grabs Kylie again, he turns her around skilfully. Joe and Kylie step back, they watch with open mouths. Some tribal calling has taken hold of the old Scot. He is standing with his arms arced above his head, waiting, motionless. There’s silence, then Jock taps his right foot three times, as if in response to an imaginary piper. The atmosphere is charged. Jock begins to dance. His ungainly old body somehow leaps through the air like a deer. He embraced the space around him with his outstretched arms, like a ballerina. His bright eyes are dancing. He’s back in the Scottish Highlands of his childhood. His dance lasts only a few seconds, but it’s quite remarkable. He returns to earth with a thud, very heavy breathing, and a face that’s as red as a beetroot. He is so breathless he can’t speak. Joe and Kylie stare at each other, wide-eyed. Kylie pats Jock on the back, hard, to help his breathing;

  “Are you okay, sport?”

  “Could you give me a drop of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?”

  “Nah!”

  At last old Jock can mutter a few more words.

  “I haven’t done that for a long time!” he gasps.

  He still looks a little shaky. Kylie says his dancing is brilliant. Joe agrees. Jock is still gasping for breath. Joe looks at him with some concern. After a while, Jock stands up straight and he addresses Joe and Kylie; this time, in a serious tone.

  “Now, look you two, we’ve got to remain cheerful! Got it?”

  He doesn’t say why they’ve got to remain cheerful. Joe wonders what’s going on.

  “Has this got something to do with Flannel?”

  Jock looks worried.

  “I’m not saying anything more. I’m not getting into trouble with him again. I nearly hit him last Friday.”

  Jock mutters something under his breath about a red email from Flannel; it’s been sent to everyone. He wants Joe to stay cheerful when he reads it. Joe is intrigued. Jock is still a little unsteady and he moves over to support himself against his drawing board. Joe follows him and puts a hand on his shoulder for support.

  “Hey Jock, did you see that motorcade going down the high street earlier?”

  Jock looks blank, he is still concentrating on breathing, but Kylie nods.

  �
��Yeah, I saw it. It was the Emperor of Japan going to Windsor Castle, from Buck House.”

  “Blimey, you Aussies know everything. I don’t think much of the Emperor’s timing. He’s caused havoc with the rush hour traffic.”

  Jock looks indignant. He places one hand on his hip and he wags a finger at Joe.

  “It’s Her Majesty’s highway, she’ll do with it as she pleases.”

  “I’m not sure the highways engineers would agree with that.”

  Jock looks thoughtful. “Yes, the highway engineers must be a higher power.”

  Jock, a good listener, always lets Joe share his innermost thoughts, no matter how bizarre they seem to everyone else. Joe feels a thought welling up now and he decides to share it.

  “Jock, you know they’ve got a neon sign at the back of police security cars saying STAY BACK! Just think, two thousand years ago, the same message was being shouted from the back of Roman chariots, travelling along the very same road, keeping the plebs back.”

  Jock looks stern, he wags his finger at Joe.

  “You’re very deep, young Joe. Just try to be cheerful, okay?”

  Jock is the one who christened Vernon Flemel, Flannel. It happened during Vernon’s first week at work, when he said, in front of Jock, the Scots were tight-fisted. Everyone thought Vernon was joking at first, but then he backed up his statement with statistical evidence. He was serious; this upset Jock. If Vernon was going to make an enemy in the office, Jock was a bad choice. Jock has been with the company since it was set up in 1978, he’s still good friends with most of the Board members who own it. They played rugby together in their younger days. The Board would never get rid of Jock. Added to this, everyone else in the office loves the old Scot, not least because he keeps their spirits up. Jock always calls Vernon, Flannel. It makes Vernon’s blood boil.