by David Evered
‘Don’t be ridiculous and I’m not.’
‘Was Peter a virgin?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he told me.’
‘Oh, did you ask him? What a wonderful conversation to have had: “Peter, have you had experience with women or are you pure and virginal?”’ Jenny mimicked her sister with an easy and disconcerting skill.
‘Oh, do shut up or go away or even better do both.’
‘No, seriously, Ann – I really do want your advice. There’s this guy who was on my course, Simon, and I’m reasonably serious about him. We sleep together.’ She giggled. ‘Actually, we don’t do a lot of sleeping when we’re in bed, and don’t look like that – I’m on the pill. The trouble is I’m quite fond of him. He’s fun socially and in bed but he’s now suggesting that we live together and I’m just not sure that I really want to make that sort of commitment.’
‘Well, do you want to? Do you love him?’
‘Frankly, I’m not sure. I really don’t know how to answer that question.’
‘Then I should be pretty confident that you don’t, but that’s a question you’ll have to answer for yourself sooner or later.’
‘I guess so. I’d be happy to continue as we are for a time but I suspect it will come to an end if I say no to him.’
To Ann’s relief, the dialogue was terminated by the arrival of Peter’s parents. They lived in a solid red-brick double-fronted house in Wimbledon which was discreetly shielded from the road by a high privet hedge. The house was surrounded by a meticulously kept lawn and flower beds laid out with an obsessive regard for geometry. Peter could readily visualise the horticultural transformation which would have taken place, as spring gave way to summer, with the planting of regimented rows of annuals which would now be regularly dead-headed before the beds were cleared for winter. His father, Geoffrey, was a retired accountant. He was a slim grey-haired man who walked with a slight limp, the consequence of a car accident many years previously. Molly Bowman was a tall woman whom he might have described as handsome if he had been more certain of the implications of that particular adjective when applied to a woman. Good-natured and voluble, her conversation was generally quite inconsequential and she could leap with the agility of a mountain goat from topic to topic. Her husband affected not to notice her non-sequiturs and frequently appeared to be conversing quite independently of his wife. Peter had long suspected that his parents had perfected the art of conducting lengthy conversations without the inconvenience of a thought passing through the mind of either of them.
They had just concluded dinner when the discussion was interrupted by the doorbell. Peter opened the door to find Andrew outside clearly drunk.
‘Andrew, what are you doing here?’ he asked lamely and without enthusiasm.
‘Wanted to talk,’ said Andrew somewhat incoherently and, before Peter could protest or stop him, he made his way to the lounge. Peter followed and found his father on his feet waiting to be introduced. Peter completed the formalities as Andrew sank heavily into a chair. Before he could say anything further his father, with the predictability of a character in a melodrama, suggested that Peter should get Andrew a drink. He accepted the inevitable as Andrew asked for a whisky.
Peter took the burden of conversation on himself in an attempt to avoid any verbal outrages. Mundane and neutral topics were introduced with unusual speed by Peter and by Ann who had also recognised the need for verbal diversion. All might have been well if Molly Bowman had not at that moment discovered that Andrew was a lecturer and chosen to make one of her more banal interventions.
‘I think it’s wonderful that you have chosen such a worthwhile profession.’ This was the sort of patronising remark which, at best, would make Peter feel uncomfortable and, at worst, could evoke the most vigorous expression of views from Andrew. No more than an honest and simple appreciation of traditional standards, it could have been accepted with some non-committal response. However, Andrew was not in the mood to show much forbearance in his present state.
‘Crap,’ he said indistinctly.
‘I beg your pardon!’ said Molly.
‘Crap.’ This time it was repeated with sufficient clarity and volume for the word and the sentiment which belied it to be evident to everyone in the room. Jenny giggled.
‘Really, I don’t think there is any need for that sort of language,’ began Geoffrey in mild reproof.
‘Come on, Andrew, it’s time for you to be getting back to your flat,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll walk you down there.’
Andrew showed no inclination to move. ‘I said crap and I meant crap. Is my profession worthwhile? Is yours or yours?’ he asked looking first at Geoffrey and then at Peter who knew from experience that a drunken rant was likely to follow. He made a further but unsuccessful attempt to encourage him to leave.
Andrew was now sitting forward on the edge of his chair facing Peter but also challenging the others. ‘I spend my days trying to teach recalcitrant A level students, most of whom are not remotely interested in the subject and don’t give a fuck. I do it because I’m not qualified to do anything else and it’s a living. Look at us all – we’re all too comfortable, physically and financially. We see ourselves as the salt of the earth. We are all incarcerated in our petty middle-class suburban culture – characterised by the Jaguar in the drive and the flowered hat to wear to a Tory garden party. We’ve all been born, schooled, learned to work, to fuck, to marry, to procreate and to die in this culture, adapting and fine-tuning the peripheries of life rather than attempting to take life by the scruff of the neck and make it different. We’re all smug and self-satisfied.’ Peter made another attempt to suggest that they should withdraw to the flat below but this was rebuffed and, short of manhandling him, he could see no way of quickly bringing this diatribe to an end.
Andrew drew breath and resumed, ignoring the interruption, looking directly at Peter. ‘Can you not remember those nights when we were much younger when we raged at the injustices of the world? The massacre at Sharpeville and the war in Vietnam? We had passions and missions. I cannot recall that we wept, but we felt for people and causes and life – perhaps transiently and superficially but we did feel. We were certain we could instigate action and change. We believed in a music of reason and perhaps of revolution. Our words and thoughts matured us but now our spirits and pusillanimity betray us. Our protests are now purely verbal; elegant and articulate maybe, but our emotions have been emasculated. They are now protests which appeal only to reason and these are nothing without substance or conviction.’
Peter managed to intrude. ‘Come on, Andrew, you’re being pompous and melodramatic – I think you’ve said enough.’
‘I’ve scarcely started. Perhaps our jobs do have some value, but have you recently compared your achievements to your aspirations? I don’t believe that you’ve audited your performance in life. You’ve grown old and forgotten your youth. I speak as if your youth is past but you’re only in your mid-thirties. I wonder now that you had a youth. You have migrated seamlessly from your nappies to a three-piece suit.’
Andrew rose slowly and unsteadily and then, in a slow and portentous voice, he intoned, ‘I am your God, omnipresent and omniscient but sadly not omnipotent. I may have failed, as you have, to weep for some of my lost causes but I can at least weep for the silence. The music of reason and passion has died.’ He concluded by raising his hands in a pontifical manner.
There was a momentary pause. Peter rose to his feet and put out a hand to lead Andrew gently away.
Andrew turned and slipped. He tried to save himself by grasping at the heavy glass top of the coffee table and the audience watched as he fell to the floor followed by coffee cups, whisky glasses and After Eight mints. Jenny and Peter moved forward and helped him to his feet as he turned and announced his departure for bed. Peter walked him down the stairs to the
flat below to guard against further accidents and handed him over to Sue who, disturbed by the noises from above, was already at the door of their flat.
‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I heard a lot of noise upstairs. I do hope he was not too disruptive to your evening.’
‘Don’t worry about it. He just needs to get to bed.’
Peter returned upstairs. ‘I can’t think what you are laughing at, Jenny,’ Ann was saying irritably. ‘Come and help clear up this mess. Thank God nothing’s broken – but look at that coffee stain.’ She glared at the stain on the fashionably hirsute off-white rug. ‘Why did you let him in, Peter? You should have seen that he was drunk.’
‘It’s difficult to bar the door to a neighbour,’ he said peaceably.
‘That was quite disgraceful – he was quite drunk…’
‘Really shouldn’t use such language…’
‘Trouble is, these chaps are too young to have been in the war – that would have instilled some discipline.’
‘Yes – we were taught self-control then…’
‘You say he’s a lecturer, presumably economics or sociology or something leftie …’
‘Well, as a matter of fact…’
‘Oh bugger – this stain will never come out…’
‘Really, Ann – your language.’
‘Can’t think what he was trying to say…’
‘Oh, straight out of one of those socialist pamphlets…’
‘Probably teaches economics…’
‘I guess there are reds at the LSE…’
‘Just too blind to see it…’
‘Well, I thought that was magnificent, futile but magnificent,’ and Jenny started to mimic Andrew’s pontifical voice.
‘Don’t be so immature, Jenny. It was just a load of pompous rubbish. A lot of it due to jealousy.’
‘He must be touched – what does he mean by “I am your God”? – it’s so irreverent.’
‘Peter, can’t you say something?’ Ann looked at him with exasperation. ‘Come and help clear this mess up.’
‘Yes, we should get it cleared up.’
‘I think it’s time we were going,’ said Geoffrey. ‘That’s quite enough excitement for us for one evening.’
‘I know,’ said Peter. ‘I am sorry about what’s happened – but he really is a very genuine and caring person generally.’
‘Surely, you’re not going to make excuses for him after that disgraceful display?’
‘No, not excuses – just explaining.’
‘Oh, what’s the difference?’
‘Quite a lot.’
Finally the evening was over. Peter’s parents had left; Jenny had gone to bed and Ann had withdrawn declaring that she felt a migraine coming on. Peter was about to follow when the doorbell rang again. He was just heading towards the front door when Ann appeared from their bedroom.
‘If that’s Andrew, I don’t want to see him and don’t let him in.’
‘No, of course not – go back to bed.’
Peter opened the door to find Sue standing outside. ‘Have you seen Andrew recently?’
‘No, not for some time now.’
‘I know that when he was with you earlier he made something of a fuss. It was kind of you to steer him back. I generally manoeuvre him quietly into bed when he gets like that. It doesn’t happen very often and he just wakes up with a sore head in the morning. But this time I heard the crash above and realised that there had been some sort of an accident so, stupidly, I had words with him and he shouted and went out again. That was over an hour ago and I wondered if he had come back to you.’
‘No. We haven’t seen him since I handed him over to you at your door.’
‘I’m worried, Peter.’
‘Where else could he have gone?’
‘I really don’t know. That’s what’s worrying me.’
‘Could he be just wandering around somewhere?’
‘I suppose so – but he wasn’t in a state to wander very far or do very much else.’
‘I’ll come and help you look,’ said Peter. He went back to the bedroom to explain the situation to Ann, overriding her objections that Andrew had already caused enough trouble for one evening. He set out for the street accompanied by Sue and Jenny who had been disturbed by the noise and elected to join them in the search.
Sue searched the streets methodically close to the flat returning every quarter of an hour to see if Andrew had returned. She was uncertain where he might have gone and was unable to give the others any guidance to help in their quest. Peter, by common consent, had agreed to search the Common but soon realised that this was an almost impossible task, even with the aid of a flashlight. He had no way of knowing if Andrew was walking, sitting or lying and it was impracticable to search the Common systematically alone. Footpaths and bridleways crossed it at irregular intervals and the trees and bushes threw monstrous shadows across the stunted and irregular tufts of grass from distant lights on the adjacent streets. Even at that time there were others abroad singly and in pairs, and Peter’s attempts to identify individuals with his flashlight were generating hostility from nocturnal walkers and accusations of voyeurism from those engaged in more intimate activities. Jenny, meanwhile, was searching the nearby shopping area which was still brightly lit from the window displays. They had agreed to return to the flat after forty-five minutes to see if Andrew had returned. They had had no success and were standing in the entrance to the flats when Andrew came around the corner walking slowly but steadily with his head down. Sue saw him first and waved and called his name. He came slowly up the opposite pavement seemingly unaware of their presence even though he was so near home. A taxi drove along the road and as it drew close to Andrew he turned and started to cross with his head still bowed. The scene slowed momentarily in Peter’s mind as Sue screamed and Jenny gasped, ‘Oh, God no!’ and then the sounds succeeded each other at ever-decreasing intervals – the strident note of the horn, the discordant scream of the tyres, the lifeless thud of metal striking flesh and for a moment absolute silence – and then there was movement again.
They all ran forward simultaneously as windows from the flats illuminated and the taxi-driver emerged white-faced and walked back slowly to the small group surrounding Andrew. Reluctantly, Peter knelt and felt uncertainly for a pulse, first for Andrew’s wrist and then inside his shirt. ‘He’s alright – he’s breathing alright’ and as if in confirmation Andrew turned his head and moaned gently.
‘Thank God – but look at his leg.’
‘There’s a lot of blood.’
‘Go and call for an ambulance, Jenny.’
‘Is he alright? Stepped straight out and didn’t look.’
‘Perhaps we should move him off the road.’
‘I never had a chance to stop.’
‘I don’t think we should move him.’
‘Has someone sent for an ambulance?’
‘You saw how he just stepped out.’
‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’
‘Look, he’s moving again.’
‘Andrew, darling, can you hear me?’
‘He’s going to get very cold there.’
‘I’m so sorry, Andrew.’
‘No – I’m sure he should stay where he is. We can cover him up.’
‘Isn’t that leg broken? It’s at a very strange angle.’
Despite the lateness of the hour, a small crowd gathered around Sue and Peter as they looked up anxiously and helplessly.
‘Surely, there’s a doctor who lives at the end house.’
‘It’s alright. I’m here.’ The spectators parted to admit the doctor with a coat pulled over his pyjamas. He passed his hands expertly over Andrew. ‘There’s not a lot I can do here,’ he said. ‘His pulse is good, he’s breathing alright and there’s no obvious chest
injury. Nasty compound fracture of that right leg; it should at least be splinted before he’s moved. We just need to wait for the ambulance, but no great danger by the look of it.’ He leaned forward and sniffed. ‘Had a drink or three, hasn’t he?’
Sue looked at Peter. ‘Thank God it’s not too bad. I should never have said anything this evening and this would never have happened.’
‘You couldn’t know that this was going to happen.’
‘Did that doctor say that he’d been drinking?’ asked the cabbie.
‘It’s alright, we know that it wasn’t your fault.’
‘You oughtn’t to let him out in that state, lady.’
‘Leave it,’ said Peter.
This unhappy dialogue was interrupted by the return of the doctor who gently manipulated the leg to splint it and then helped to transfer him into the ambulance. Peter sent Jenny back to the flat and joined Sue and Andrew for the short journey to the hospital.
* * *
‘I suppose it was to be expected.’
‘Possibly – though it was an unlikely sequence of events which brought Andrew and that taxi together. Poor old Andrew!’
‘I shouldn’t waste too much sympathy on him.’
‘Come on, that’s too harsh, Ann. The poor bugger’s got to cool his heels in hospital for at least three weeks now. It was a difficult compound fracture and the doctor said that it’s going to need surgery and internal fixation.’
‘Well, no more than he deserved.’
‘Don’t get so bloody puritanical! Anyhow let’s go to bed for the little that remains of the night. It’s nearly five o’clock and getting light and I’m dog-tired.’
‘I can’t think why you went on that wild-goose chase – and Jenny too.’
‘There was little else that I could do to help and Sue was beside herself. Now let’s get to bed.’
‘Well, it’s been a fine night and Andrew has been the cause of all the trouble! First that ludicrous scene and being so rude in front of your parents, and then falling like that, quite apart from the mess he’s made of the rug. Finally, he’s had us in and out of bed all night.’