by David Evered
It was not possible for Peter to totally avoid the question implicit in that statement. ‘I just wanted to sit somewhere quietly and think through some problems,’ he said.
‘Oh, you think away. I won’t overtax my brain by thinking, I’ll just sit.’
Peter resolved to sit for a further five minutes and then walk on, but he was disturbed after a minute or so by a sharp monotone whistle from his companion. Looking up, he saw that his companion was beckoning to a young woman who was crossing the grass towards them. She was of less than medium height with pitch black hair, just short of shoulder length, wearing a coat of a startling shade of purple. She stood directly in front of his neighbour on the bench.
‘Were you summoning me?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I thought it would be great if we all got to know one another.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m in no hurry today.’ She sat between them.
‘I’m Stefan,’ he announced, ‘five foot ten when I stand, which I rarely do, and I weigh one hundred and fifty-six pounds.’
‘I’m Cass and Irish, my height and weight like my parentage are a mystery but I am permanently optimistic and my personality belies my full name. I work at the V & A – the pre-Raphaelites.’
He turned towards Peter. ‘Ah, she enjoys the mysterious pleasures of medievalism and mysticism. I work with eternal hope but for modest rewards in a music shop.’ He turned back to Cass. ‘This is my friend,’ he said waving his hand towards Peter at the end of the bench.
‘Good to meet you,’ said Cass, ‘but who are you?’ she added looking at Peter. ‘This man clearly has no manners and appears to be unable to introduce his friends in a courteous manner.’
‘Would have introduced him properly but the guy who introduced him to me spoke so indistinctly that I never caught his name properly.’
‘Oh er – it’s Peter, er Peter Bowman.’
‘Pete – this is Cass. Cass meet Pete, one of my oldest friends. He’s looking very sad today.’
She stood up, turned round and kissed him on the cheek saying, ‘If Stefan is your friend then I shall also be your friend,’ and once more sat between them.
‘That’s fine,’ said Stefan, ‘but you haven’t said good morning properly to me.’
‘Sorry, Stefan.’ She leant across and embraced him.
‘That’s much better – now the day can really start. Where are you lunching today, old boy?’ he asked looking at Peter, ‘the Café Royal?’
‘Oh no, no,’ said Peter confused. ‘I must go to my office.’
‘No, you must call and say that you’ve been delayed or, better still, tell them that you’ve met with a fatal accident and that they should leave you in peace for a few days – or at least until you’ve been cremated.’
‘No,’ said Peter firmly, alarmed by the surreal turn of the conversation. ‘I must be off.’
‘No, don’t go. We’re only just getting to know one another,’ said Cass gently putting an arm around him. Peter looked around nervously expecting their companions or others to close in on him. The pedestrian traffic continued to criss-cross the square quite unaware of his discomfiture. ‘This bum doesn’t know where the Café Royal is, but we could go and have a beer and a sandwich. I should be sad if you left us now. A little company might distract you.’
‘I really have to go to work now.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a solicitor.’
‘Give up soliciting for the day. Join us.’
He was conscious that he might be being set up but curiosity overwhelmed him and he agreed to go along with them. He insisted, however, that he should telephone his office to offer some pretext for his unexplained absence. He dialled the number from a call box while the others stood holding the door open. As soon as the connection was made he pressed the coin home but, as he did so, Stefan quickly took the receiver from him and placed his hand over the mouthpiece as Peter expostulated and tried to retrieve the instrument.
Stefan turned away and said quickly into the mouthpiece, ‘Hold on, do not drop ze instrument, ve haf ze international call for you.’ He pushed Peter gently out of the call box making a sharp clicking noise into the receiver before continuing. ‘This is an intercontinental call from Eastern Anatolia, routed through Istanbul, Southern Belgrade and Oberhellandam.’ Then changing the timbre of his voice he intoned, ‘We have your partner Peter in isolation in Eastern Anatolia. He has bubonic plague, fortunately only a mild case, and will be back at work in a few days after treatment with the new wonder drug – Godamycin.’ The receiver was replaced as Peter looked on with resignation. His plea to recall the office was ignored and with Cass and Stefan each taking an arm he was led back across the square to a pub.
‘Your round,’ said Cass firmly pushing Stefan towards the bar. She led Peter to a table in the corner of the saloon. Uncertain, bewildered and acutely embarrassed, Peter looked at her. ‘Well?’ she said.
‘Did you really not know Stefan before this morning?’ he asked after searching for something to say. He felt rather stupid, like the butt of a practical joke who is not sure of the nature of the joke and concerned that he might be the victim of a deception.
‘No, of course not; but how would one get to know anyone if we all just walked on and avoided chance encounters?’
‘Weren’t you concerned that you might be being picked up by undesirable characters?’
‘Now you’re talking like a lawyer,’ she said. ‘If I hadn’t liked the look of him, then I would have just walked on. Risk-taking is part of life. Anyhow, the risk was trivial. Although I didn’t know him personally, I recognised him and I know who he is. He works in a little music shop off Fleet Street and he’s making a name for himself as a violinist. I read an article once saying that his parents named him Stefan after Stephane Grappelli in the hope that he would become a violinist – an experiment in nominative determinism which seems to have been successful even if they managed to spell the name incorrectly. Now we can spend the day together. You haven’t told us why you are so low.’
‘Mainly because a friend of mine died recently in rather sad circumstances after visiting our flat.’ Peter recounted the tale.
‘But you couldn’t be held responsible for such a tragic sequence of events.’
‘No, but I find myself unable to dismiss the things he said that evening as the ramblings of a man who had just had too much to drink. Quite irrationally, they seem to be of much greater significance because of subsequent events.’
‘But what did he say that has so discombobulated you?’
‘He provoked me – in fact he provoked all of us but perhaps me more than the others. He questioned our middle-class pretensions and preoccupations and challenged us all to break free of our bourgeois shackles and pursue our dreams and fantasies.’
‘And do you have dreams and fantasies?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they decent or are they salacious?’
Peter laughed. ‘No, they’re not in the least improper. I have an aspiration to write fiction – but have absolutely no idea whether I have the necessary talent or commitment.’
‘Well, you must spend the day with us now and free your mind for a few hours.’
‘Oh no, I must get back to the office.’
Stefan had brought drinks back to the table and looked directly at Peter. ‘Will you be in trouble with Miss Prism when you get back to work?’
‘Miss who?’
‘The cock-freezing receptionist at your office.’
Peter smiled at this description of their Sloaney receptionist – the daughter of a disgraced Tory MP. ‘I shall simply tell her that it was an old friend playing a practical joke.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not?’ said Cass. ‘He is becoming an old friend.’
‘Yes – me and sweetie Petey here
are about to be the oldest of friends.’
‘I’ll just get us all another drink and then push off,’ said Peter rising when he had finished his first.
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s Cassandra’s round, of course.’
‘That’s it,’ she said pushing him back into his seat. ‘You can’t go yet. I don’t have to be anywhere until 4.30 and that is a long time away.’
Peter sat back and tried to relax. The inconsequential discussion flowed back and forth haphazardly as he attempted unsuccessfully to detect any links in the topics as they merged into one another. Any attempt to buy further drinks was firmly rebuffed by the statement that it was Stefan’s round or Cass’s round. Finally, resigned and partly drunk, he started to join in the game shouting out randomly ‘Stefan’s round’ or ‘Cass’s round’ with what he regarded as a magnificent degree of impartiality. The noise he was making began to draw looks of disapproval as the pub filled with dark-suited men gathering in small clusters around the bar. The clock was approaching 1.30 when Cass got up and, taking his arm, led them out onto the pavement where she hailed a taxi.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Peter.
‘To the zoo, of course. Where else would we go to play games in the afternoon?’ They reached the turnstiles as the sun came out and then both turned to Peter. ‘Your round,’ they said simultaneously. Stefan invited them to talk to the animals and in turn each approached a cage to ‘converse’ with the animals within. Peter found that he was repeatedly led to the more silent creatures in the zoo and after being instructed to speak to the giraffes in sign language, he retired petulantly to a bench with an ice cream.
* * *
He didn’t know how long he had been asleep when he awoke with a jolt as a young child started playing round his legs. He looked at his watch and saw that it was approaching 5pm. His erstwhile companions were nowhere to be seen. He felt anxiously for his wallet and found that it was still in place. He stood and shook himself and as he did so a slip of paper fell to the ground. He picked it up and looked at it. ‘Flat 8, 23 Bedford Street. Your oldest and your newest friends. See you there sometime. S & C.’ He looked at it for a moment and then crumpled it up and threw it into a bin. Immediately regretting the action, he retrieved it and flattening it out placed it in an inner compartment in his wallet.
Still feeling light-headed from the alcohol he had consumed, he took a taxi to his office, arriving as most of the staff were leaving for the evening. He apologised for the earlier call and went and sat in his office where he reflected on the surreal events of the day. Half an hour later Ann telephoned from Newcastle. Her father’s condition had not changed through the day. He told her that he was in the office later than usual and would not be home until late. The prospect of an evening alone seemed particularly uninviting so, half an hour later, he called his old Cambridge friend, Michael, and invited himself for a meal in his flat.
7
Michael, like Peter, was a lawyer. He had a strong social conscience and radical views. He worked in a legal aid centre in Islington. His early life had been spent in Liverpool where his father had worked in the docks and been a trade union official. They had met as freshmen at Cambridge. Both had elected to do National Service before university and thus were a couple of years older than many of their contemporaries. They were also two of a small number of law students in their college which was largely dominated by scientists. Both had found adapting to university life a challenge. In Peter’s case this resulted from a degree of innate shyness. Michael’s uncertainties arose from finding himself in an environment so remote from that of his upbringing. Peter had been drawn to Michael by his intellectual ability and by his preparedness to challenge lecturers and tutors on points of law with a fluency and cogency that he himself was unable to command. This was matched by the ease with which he would enliven small social occasions, although he was less comfortable at larger or formal events. He had graduated with a first.
Michael lived alone surrounded by books in a small flat in Hammersmith and he frequently worked at home to a background of classical music. He greeted Peter at the door, informing him that he would order a takeaway to have with the bottle of wine he already had chilled. Looking at Peter’s slightly dishevelled state he said, ‘Methinks you have already had a few or maybe more than a few. Is this really the sober solicitor that I’ve known for so long? In other words, what the hell have you been up to?’
Peter looked at him and collapsed into a chair. ‘I really don’t know where to begin. It has been a strange and disconcerting few weeks and I’ve simply no idea about what went on today. It might be simplest to start with today and then go back to the beginning.’
‘OK, as you wish. This sounds as if this might be a long tale. I suggest we order our takeaways and I shall fortify myself with a glass of wine before you start. It’s water only for you. I wouldn’t wish to be held responsible for returning you to your home half cut, or fully cut if that’s a phrase that would be understood. I know I’m not the flavour of the month or even an occasional flavour of the day with your dearly beloved. I might require a signed affidavit from you before you leave that I’m in no way responsible for your present condition.’
‘You’re right. I’ll settle for a glass of water and maybe have a glass of wine when the food arrives.’
They settled comfortably and Peter recounted the events of the day. At the end of his account he said, ‘I simply don’t know what to make of it. Was it real, unreal or surreal? I felt at times that I had wandered inadvertently into a parallel universe. Why did Stefan and Cass pick each other up and, more bizarrely, why did they pick up someone like me? At times I thought it was an elaborate scam but it turned out not to be that. We wandered, talked, laughed and, once I had relaxed, I enjoyed the sense of freedom and abandon which came over me. We talked earnestly and passionately of things which I know absolutely nothing about – the pre-Raphaelites and the merits of various violin sonatas. I really don’t have a clue what it was all about.’
‘Well, I’m quite confident I can’t enlighten you other than to say welcome to the wacky hippy world of the sixties! But how did you, a conscientious 8.30am to 5.30pm solicitor, come to be walking halfway across London from a point nowhere near your home to your office in the first place? That’s quite out of character.’
‘True.’ Peter described the chain of circumstances which had followed from Andrew’s tirade in the flat to the accident, its sad sequel and his random wanderings which had brought him to the hospital where Andrew had died. He explained why he was alone that evening as Ann was in Newcastle having, to an extent, reconnected with her parents as a consequence of her father’s illness.
‘I see. I had never realised that Ann is also another authentic working class kid made good,’ said Michael with a wry smile. ‘But I sense that there is more behind this than you are letting on.’
The pizzas arrived at this point and Peter accepted the offer of a glass of wine. He glanced across at Michael. ‘May I ask you a question?’
‘I guess you’re going to, whatever I say – so go ahead!’
‘Are you happy and fulfilled in your work and life?’
Michael looked somewhat taken aback and paused before speaking. ‘Peter, I really wasn’t ready for an existential question of that profundity. Anyhow, that’s at least two questions and I’m not sure that either have simple or straightforward answers. I’m beginning to feel as I did at Cambridge when put on the spot in a tutorial.’ He paused before continuing, ‘Possibly the only escape route from that spot is through a detached and academic response. Both questions need some thought if I’m to answer them adequately or even inadequately. I sense this is important to you and I hope you’ll share the reasons why, but before saying anything I need to add a disclaimer. Nobody can be wholly objective about themselves and nobody can be expected to reveal all tha
t they feel. I also ask you to remember that what holds good for me may very well not hold good for you. We’ve been friends for a long time and I probably know you better than anyone outside your own family.’ He gave a slightly mischievous smile and added, ‘It may be much easier for me to open up, coming from a Catholic working class family in Liverpool, than it is for you with the inhibitions imposed on you by your upbringing. I was brought up to bare my soul weekly at confession!’
‘Alright, I accept the health warning – go on.’
‘It was partly delivered to give me time to think! I can only start by begging the question. I’m not certain how one would even start to define happiness. I can accept that there are events, occasions, meetings and friendships which make one happy – just as some occurrences might make one sad or angry. But happiness in life must be much more than simply a positive response to episodic events which one finds pleasurable. This is where I have difficulty and I believe I’m not alone in that. I understand that philosophers have tried to define the state of happiness without being able to reach a satisfactory or universally acceptable definition. In the absence of an acceptable definition or standard against which to measure my sense of happiness, I have to say that I just cannot answer the first part of your question. I am, in general, contented with life which is a somewhat neutral view of happiness. It implies that the progress of my life is relatively undisturbed by disagreeable occurrences and that the ratio of pleasurable activities and events significantly outweighs the distasteful ones. Thus, I prefer to say that I am contented although that makes me sound like a cow quietly chewing the cud. None of this is to say that changes in my life might not enhance my state of contentment – and I can think of possible developments in my life which might do just that.’
He paused before continuing. ‘Fulfilment as a concept seems to me to raise similar questions although it’s perhaps somewhat easier to define. The degree to which I or anyone might feel fulfilled can to an extent be calibrated against the objectives which we have set for ourselves or others have set for us. This applies in both our working and our personal lives. I’m doing the job which I’ve wanted to do since childhood. I enjoy the challenges of my day-to-day life. I enjoy it most and feel most fulfilled when I can chalk up successes and less so when I fail. I could, of course, theoretically increase my level of fulfilment by setting less challenging objectives but that would be inconsistent with my approach to life. The best answer I can give you is that I wouldn’t wish to be doing anything else.’ He paused. ‘This monologue has gone on for long enough. I’m sure your question though was not simply an idle one. Are you happy and fulfilled or, at a lower level, simply contented or are you discontented with your life at work or at home or both?’