Ideas Above Our Station

by M Y Alam

  His father sparked at that, thrusting his shoulders back and clearing his throat before delivering his opinion upon the matter. ‘Discipline. They are just allowed to roam the streets at all hours of the night. It’s not as if they have nowhere to go: parks, roller-parks, youth clubs and the like. But, do you see them there? No, they’re too busy tormenting pensioners or getting into drugs or vandalism. I thought if you made the right environment, you made the right man. The houses, the estates, the playing fields and utilities that these youngsters have are –’

  ‘Joe’s nothing like that.’

  ‘Do you always interrupt?’ said Mr Malcolm Taylor. Karl was stunned. He looked down at the picture of his wife and his sons. There was that other picture too, but he wouldn’t look at that just yet, not now.

  ‘I suppose I should say sorry. I forget how rude I sound. But, so far you haven’t answered my question. Why this? Why do you want to see me? How can I help?’ said Mr Malcolm Taylor, politely.

  ‘I…I want to know why?’

  ‘What, precisely?’

  Karl looked up, faced his father, some of his words were there, at last. ‘Why did you and your wife give me up for adoption? You were not hard up. You had your own house. Lower middle class, said the social worker. You could have afforded me. Why did you give me up?’ said Karl. There was a certain redness to his face. It could have been pain. It could have been anger. Karl might have been ready to blurt it all out.

  ‘You think you have a right to know that? That the secrets between a man and wife concern you? You are someone whom I do not even know, yet you demand to pry into my wife’s and mine’s deepest secrets.’

  The red had gone from Karl’s cheeks. This was not how it was supposed to be. This was not how he had imagined meeting his father. Gene, the social worker, they had done a lot of work preparing him for this, but this was not how it should go. Some cold prick giving him grief for wanting…for finally wanting to know why?

  ‘That’s exactly what I want. Tell me, since you’ve come all this way and not here five minutes and eager to leave. Tell me before you go just why you gave me up, when you could have been my father instead.’

  ‘I see that I have hurt you. Never my intention, but merely so as you know the gravity of what you are asking. Worse, you ask this of someone who freely admits that they are somewhat cold; a cold-fish – do people still say that?’

  ‘They say that.’

  Brief silence, a slurp of tea. ‘My wife and I did not want children. I was indifferent. I blame my upbringing; raised in an orphanage run by the Poor Clares.’

  ‘You were an orphan too!’ This again was not how any of this should have been. He began to wonder about his father now, wonder in ways that he had never dreamt. Hopefully, there were some things that were not shared in common.

  ‘Yes, I was raised by nuns. They were disciplined. If not exactly cruel, they were emotionally indifferent, too caught up with their otherworldly mumbo jumbo to bother about this world and its inhabitants. What is it that Marx says, the philosophers have interpreted the world, but the point is to change it – something like that? Well, these nuns didn’t even see this world, too busy on their knees looking up trying to find another one. What is it that Marx says, religion is the opium of the people.’

  ‘Stuff what Marx said. What do you have to say, about anything?’ said Karl, his voice at first quick and angry, before becoming quieter, softer, as if speaking to himself.

  ‘I’m sorry if I seem to be straying off the point, but, please, try not to interrupt, as I am, quite genuinely, trying to tell you something.’ Mr Malcolm Taylor, stopped, coughed dryly and pensively looked down at the table. Perhaps, he too was searching for words, the right thing to say, or, even, just to speak.

  ‘Sorry…go on. It’s only that –’

  ‘I know. I can understand. I too have wondered how I came to be adopted. The most credible story that I was given was that a young catholic girl from Roscommon came over here to work, and fell pregnant. She had me, then returned to Ireland – that was it really.’ The man absentmindedly reached down for his drink. The cup was empty.

  ‘Would you like another?’ said Karl.

  ‘Why not, but please let me get them.’ Mr Malcolm Taylor patiently queued, bought two teas and a small cellophane packet containing biscuits that were sold under the name of cookies. Americanisms. It wouldn’t be long before the whole world would be speaking some dialect of American English. Why not? They had won. The West had won and the East was no more than some bankrupt cul-de-sac of history. He was thankful that Judith had died before the final collapse. She still hoped, hoped for a better this world, right to the end, never once looked upwards or inwards, fierce in her atheism. What fireworks, what vitriol there would have been had she lived on to see Blair’s Britain and his New Labour. The temper. She was so passionate. The boy seemed a bit emotional, perhaps he had inherited that from Judith.

  ‘There you go, Karl,’ he said, putting the drink and the cookies on the table by his son. His bones, his old bones, cracked a little as he returned to his seat. For a while they sipped at their teas, then Mr Malcolm Taylor talked, tried to explain more about the decision reached back then.

  ‘As you can see, I am somewhat detached. I do not naturally warm to my fellow man, which is ironic really, as we, that is to say my wife and I, always tried to work towards the good of our fellow man.’

  ‘All the Marx stuff.’

  ‘Very committed Marxists. It wasn’t a dirty word back then, or rather to some it was, while to others it was a cry to freedom. Two sergeants opened my eyes when I did my national service. They’d seen what Capitalism had done first hand –’

  ‘The Nazis…surely?’ Karl did a strange thing, he blushed, his face was trying to say sorry for interrupting yet again.

  ‘The Nazis did not drop the atom bomb. But let us not get sidetracked, though it does have a bearing on the way your mother, in particular, thought it a crime to bring a child into this world…You want to know why we gave you up. Simply put, your mother never wanted children. You were a rare mistake.’

  Karl thought he had flinched. He wanted to have flinched, but he had just sat there as stark words were so spoken.

  ‘Judith did not want to bring life into a world of the atom bomb, the Cold War and human injustice. You were a late slip-up, despite the precautions we took, not that our marriage was particularly passionate. That sort of thing wasn’t so important in our day, and, besides, ours was a marriage of ideals and ideas really. Yet come along you did and we did bring life into such a world.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Listen, I shall try.’ Mr Malcolm Taylor, looked at the stranger. He couldn’t tell if what he was saying was helping this person or not. He couldn’t really read faces, intuit tones of voice or body language. He had been known in the office as a person who had no sense of humour. They were wrong. He had no sense of the human. But even he seemed to sense some desperation in the young man seated opposite him. He didn’t think what he was saying was helping and he couldn’t think of anything else to say that would. The facts, just the facts would have to do, the young man would have to make of that what he will. There was nothing more, after all.

  ‘Go on, please.’

  ‘We tried to do what was right, our duty and more than duty. We tried to love you. Maybe, you were even the new hope for the world. But we failed. I didn’t really feel anything, not for you. I’m sorry. I am genuinely sorry, but my feelings, such as they were, were for your mother. Things were not as they are now. Medicine, mental health, was not what it is today, not by a long chalk. And it carried so much more of a stigma. Your mother was admitted to hospital with what is now termed, so I believe, post-natal depression. Tried to kill herself. Was given tablets, crude electric treatment, and was heavily sedated for almost a year. I had a job, I had an ill wife and I had you.’

  Karl wasn’t listening. He was sorry for the woman, but he couldn’t understand, not this. The children
, children had been the best thing in his life, in both their lives. He looked down at the boys, their mother – love and pride. The man was still jabbering on.

  ‘…In the end, it became a question of priorities. We, mainly I, gave you up for adoption in the hope that you would have a better life, be adopted by people who could give you a stable home. I divided my time between my work and visiting. Judith eventually got better, more by her own efforts than anything else. After a while, our lives resumed. We would, on occasions, talk about you, but less so as the years went by. We hoped that you were a part of a nice family, given a good foundation in life, and we felt certain that we had done the right thing. And, I made it known that if you ever wished to contact me, then that would be quite in order.’ Mr Malcolm Taylor gave a weak smile, glanced ever so briefly at his watch.

  This man was a fool. Karl looked across the table. This man with his Marx said this and Marx said that and dropped bombs and better worlds – this man was a joke. You never give your children up – not like that. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel her tiny body against his cheek, burping her, getting her wind up, looking down seeing Gene there, her breast swollen with milk, the veins standing out, and the milky burps, baby burps, breaking against him…The small Polaroid photograph that made his eyes ache.

  ‘…adopted? A good family was it?’ The fool was talking to him again, perhaps he hadn’t stopped, though he hadn’t noticed. The man had nothing to say anyway. He couldn’t help. Spite. He wanted to say something for spite – the truth, about the home, about what some of the carers got up to, just what they did. The man looked at his watch again. Karl couldn’t tell him. What was the point? Karl knew that Mr Malcolm Taylor could never really understand such things – what really happened. How human evil could look, close up.

  ‘Yes, very nice, very nice indeed. It was a nice home, front and back garden, a golden retriever called Rex, and Dad and I built our own model railway in the attic. Mother was forever buying gadgets for the kitchen – such a good cook. Yes, it all worked out for the best, as planned.’

  ‘Oh good, pleased to hear it.’ Mr Malcolm Taylor drained his cup. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I think I shall leave shortly. It is such a long drive back to Southampton. You don’t mind do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Unless you have any more questions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have my address now and I am in the telephone directory.’

  ‘Yes, and you have ours. You would be most welcome to call in, stop or…’ Karl’s words failed him. His real father, the man still in his head, had broken down and wept, overjoyed at meeting his son at last. This kindly old man in his last years repaired the damage, became the dad he never had; oh, and how his grandchildren did miss Granddad when he finally passed away – an empty place at Christmas…Aye, even in death his dad was there for him, waiting in his head soon. Dad would talk to him man to man; his dad would know just what to say. Dad was waiting…Mr Malcolm Taylor was back from the toilet, saying farewell, walking to the door. The man stopped by a table, said, ‘I was sitting there.’ Then he was gone.

  Karl turned his last photograph. Ruby. A curiously old-fashioned name that had suited their daughter, a tuft of red hair shewing. Beautiful, even in death. He looked at the photograph. Alone, he could ask his question now. How do you say goodbye to your child, Dad? Say goodbye to your own flesh, your own…How could you manage that, Father? There was a hand on his shoulder, his father was with him, holding him against his shoulder, his dad’s words, a soft whisper in his head, ‘Never give them up, really, Karl. You never give up.’

  ‘Damn right, Dad!’ Karl shouted out aloud. Quickly, he clasped a hand to his mouth. For a moment, he became an object of curiosity, a lone man shouting aloud, then the rest of the diners returned to their cokes, cookies and fries.

  Karl put the photographs away, walked to the door. It was the wrong door. Someone pointed out the sign. Karl made it home through the side-exit.

  The Temptation of Pogo

  Guy Ware

  Before I got this job, I was an Imaginary Friend. I was fat and wore a sailor suit. I hated it. I’m pink and round and the suit was too tight. The shorts cut into my thighs, making crimson welts in my podgy flesh. I had a bar of chocolate in my hand at all times, brown smudges around my mouth. One of the Psychos used to say I had self-esteem issues, and maybe she was right, but I think it pretty much went with the job.

  Most of all I hated my name: Pogo.

  Pogo’s a stupid name. It’s so old-fashioned, so upper class twat.

  One of my clients said she was sorry, but Pogo had just come to her. I said I didn’t blame her, and it’s true, I didn’t. I blamed the whole set-up, the system: Friends, Psychos, Saints: everything.

  When she said the name just came to her, she was more right than she knew. She hadn’t imagined me from scratch; I was assigned to her. She was brighter than most of our clients, but she still thought her imagination was unique. Sweet, really. If she were right, how come Imaginary Friends were so, well, unimaginative? Because there was basically just your fat, ugly, ridiculous, reassuring type – that was me – and your staggeringly pretty/handsome but not very clever type. Then there were a few clever ones, some witty ones and a handful who could beat the shit out of anybody’s dad. Boiled down, there were just two models, really: the ones who could do things the clients couldn’t, and the ones who made the clients look good by comparison. And if you wanted to look good, you could have done a lot worse than stand next to me.

  It was the same with the Psychos, who were mostly pretty limited. At the Institute of Imaginary Friends, Psychos was short for Psychoses – what we were supposed to call Adult Hallucinations, but never did. They mostly hadn’t got the brains to care. There’s nothing less original than a drunk: pink elephants were popular, and the insects got everywhere. Our place was crummy enough, what with all the ashtrays, the empties, the pizza boxes and the filth – benign neglect, Management called it – without the beetles from the School of Adult Hallucinations coming through the walls. Not that they ever came of their own accord, unless they were lost. It was the Saints who brought them over.

  The client – she was a bright kid – once asked what happened when she stopped imagining me. I gave her the script. I told her when she didn’t think about me, I didn’t exist. I’m nothing without you, babe. But to tell the truth, there was a lot of downtime in the job.

  When the client switched off, we’d head back to the Institute, catch up on the news, stick each other’s heads down the toilets and play some cards. As the client got older, the downtime increased until, in the end, we’d get recycled to a new one. There’d been some talk of hot-braining – getting us to service more than one client at a time. But they’d have had to rewrite our contracts and the union guys were on to it, so I couldn’t see it happening any time soon. Management pointed to the Saints, but that cut both ways. True, most of them patronised more than one type of client. But, if the Saints were heroes to us Friends, it wasn’t for their piety or their appetite for work. It was because they liked to party.

  Saints had a kind of dual citizenship: part-hallucination, part-Imaginary Friend, but way, way cooler than either. The Saints were real. They’d been alive and they’d died – often horribly – and we weren’t going to forget it. They’d been there, done that, most of them had got the scars. They’d come and go as they pleased, mixing things up, creating a stir wherever they pitched their tents.

  Of all the cool Saints, Julian was the coolest. He was patron of all sorts of groovy things that made him fun to be around, including circus workers, jugglers, clowns and pilgrims, wandering musicians, fiddlers, hotelkeepers and murderers. The murderers thing was not as strange or unusual as it might sound: they have half a dozen patron saints. Which makes sense if you think about it, murder being rather more of a participatory sport in mediaeval Europe than it is today. Trade was slacking, though, and circuses were not the draw they’d once been,
so Julian had plenty of time on his hands. Time to make mayhem, to relive the glory days.

  So: Julian the Hospitaller, aka Julian the Poor – which was a misnomer for starters. Julian had the genes: son of a duke, married a countess, poor in parts, but basically the right sort. Which, it turned out, was pretty much par for the course. You say saint, you think poor. Weird, but poor, like Francis: into feeding birds and flagellation. The truth was, though, the aristocracy had muscled in. The canon was stuffed with nobs: kings, dukes, countesses, lords and ladies of obscure German principalities and their unmarriageable offspring, and they often had some pretty wild tales to tell.

  Julian, for one, had led what you might call a rich, full life. He’d murdered both his parents by mistake – he thought he was killing his wife at the time – thus fulfilling the prophecy of a talking boar he’d met in his teens, a prophecy he’d spent a lifetime of adventure and Turk-bashing trying to avoid. When I first heard the story, hovering on the fringes of a gaggle of Friends and Psychos, I thought it didn’t sound like a great way into the canon. But what did a fat boy in a sailor suit know?

  Julian’s wife, Clarice, certainly didn’t hold it against him, despite his attempt to do her in. Together they pilgrimed off, stopped for a chat with the Pope and, at His Holiness’s suggestion, set up a hostel for waifs and strays in the least promising spot they could find. They didn’t get too many customers. Then, one dark and stormy night, they heard calls for help. Julian set off in his little boat, crossed the river and found a naked leper. He sailed the leper back, through the storm, and they took him in. The leper was very ill, and, being naked, rather chilly. Pushing his luck a bit, he asked Julian to lend him his wife. He suggested that she might strip off and cuddle him all night, so that her naked flesh could warm his. Julian, understandably, was a bit iffy about this, but Clarice was ready to roll. At this point the leper disappeared and – after a bit of mutual recrimination between husband and wife – reappeared as an angel and pardoned Julian’s crimes.