This is the Life (26 page)

Yes, it was funny, I said.

Susan, I thought once more, this time tiredly. Susan.

‘I wonder what they’ll call the eighties? It won’t be easy, finding something to call the eighties,’ Susan said. We stopped to think about it but neither of us could come up with the word to encapsulate the decade. ‘It’s sad, isn’t it Jimmy,’ she said with a bright, dolorous smile: ‘Another ten years, gone.’

Yes, it is, Suzy, I said. What a pair we made, I thought.

Then, in a strangely matter-of-fact way, Suzy kicked off her shoes and moved over and took hold of me. She burrowed into my body, hooped her arms around my chest and awkwardly tucked her head under my chin. I was taken aback. We were in the middle of a normal conversation and suddenly here she was, embracing me. I had not seen it coming at all. I thought that she was leaning over to help herself to another beer.

For a while I reciprocated. I squeezed her lumpy little body against mine and let her nestle her face against my shoulder. And while she pressed her short arms around me I hugged her gently: you have to be careful with Susan, she has these collapsible shoulders, and when you hold her tightly it feels as though you are folding her in half. But then, after a little while, I let her go. To be truthful, I simply did not feel like
indulging in anything physical. This was not Susan’s fault – it was nothing personal – it was simply that that afternoon I was not in the mood for any kind of hanky-panky or for anything lovey-dovey. Can I be blamed? Here she was, uninvited, expecting me to pick up as though seven months ago was yesterday and nothing had happened in the interim. Also – this has to be said – she was making a spectacle of herself. What kind of woman would want to have anything to do with someone like me, in my state? It was all too desperate.

I slid out of her hands and cracked open a beer. I said nothing. Then I looked around at the squalid room, at the cloud of bugs hovering under the ceiling lamp and the trash of meals brimming from bin-liners and the beer mugs choked with ashy butts and Susan next to me with a hole in her brown tights and a susceptible expression, and I only just suppressed the urge to cry out, Get out! Get out of here!

Susan moved still closer to me on the sofa. I sensed her chunky knee resting against mine and her arm coming around again. ‘Jimmy Jones,’ she said.

I could take no more. She was a nice girl, but I just could not take any more. I gripped her and pushed her away. ‘Look, don’t do that,’ I said. I hissed the words, I did not want to raise my voice. ‘I’m not in the mood. Can you understand that? I don’t feel like it.’ I sat on the edge of the sofa and drank down some more beer.

She stiffened. I could feel her legs go taut as I looked down at the floor between my knees. After a moment of silence I threw her a quick, furtive glance. Her face was white.

She had flown into a rage. She got to her feet and stood back. ‘You bastard,’ she whispered. ‘You think you’re the only bloody person in the world. You haven’t changed one bit. Have you ever stopped to think about how I might feel? About why I’m here?’ Suddenly she shouted, ‘Have you?’

Then I shouted too. I shouted, ‘I don’t want to know! I didn’t bloody invite you here, did I! It’s over between us, Susan! Get that into your head!’

She screamed, as her face turned patchy with tears, ‘Over? Over? What’s that supposed to mean?’

I shouted. ‘Over! We’re finished!’

She began sobbing but she still managed to cry out, ‘You’re so stupid! I’m never going to speak to you again!’

Then she ran out of the house. She tried to slam the front door but it jammed on a pile of mail.

I stayed where I was, breathing heavily.

Then a draught made the curtain flap out of the window again and a door clacked shut and I remembered that the front door was still open. When I cleared away the post I saw that among it was a letter from Batstone Buckley Williams. I took it back into the living-room, took a slug of beer, and opened the envelope.

Dear James
,

It has been decided to call a meeting of the partners to discuss your recent departure from, and performance and conduct at, work. It is only fair to warn you that some of the partners are minded to question your future at the firm. We would be glad to hear any representations that you may wish to make on your behalf. You will appreciate that it is with great regret that we find ourselves in this position. The meeting will take place on 12 July at
2.30.
Yours sincerely
,

The Partners, Batstone Buckley Williams

I finished my beer and switched on the television. Then I rang for a curry and, stretched out on the sofa, opened another can. Afterwards I drank more beer and watched more television until the moment came to haul myself to bed.

In the morning, when I lay there under my duvet, I reviewed the situation. It did not look good; it looked as though everything was on the slide. Donovan and me, my thesis and me, Susan and me, Batstone Buckley Williams and me – it looked all over between all of us.

There was something else. The luminosity seemed to have
changed. Although a great beam of July daylight blazed down through the curtains like a spotlight, there was a terrible lack of illumination about the room. Later, outside, when I went to buy some beers and cigarettes, it was the same. This fierce gold was pouring down from every corner of the sky, yet nothing lit up.

I went back to bed. Surely this could not be it. Surely things could not really be like this. Surely the clouds would pass.

And yet the next day, Wednesday 12 July 1989, the day of the partners’ meeting, nothing had changed.

I caught the tube to the office. I used to like taking the tube, it made me feel like a Londoner. London is a world-class city and I liked to think that something of its status rubbed off on its citizens. Also, by catching the tube I was chipping in, doing my bit for the city. Without people like me, underground travellers, London would not work. If the subsoil did not seethe with trains, did not suck in and circulate a huge population of its own, the superficial metropolis – the landmarks, double-decker buses, skyscrapers and fountain-filled squares – would grind to a halt. London’s heart is under its earth, and some days catching that Northern Line made me feel essential, like blood. I think that those days are over.

Yesterday morning I was numb. I sat out the journey staring at the dark walls of the tunnel rushing by. I was not thinking of what lay ahead, and when I stepped from the elevator into the office it suddenly struck me where I was and I began shaking. But I walked steadily to my room, disregarding the looks I was getting from everybody. Thanks to June they probably thought that I had made a fool of myself over some woman. I did not care what they thought.

My room had not changed. I had half-expected to come back to a transformation of sorts, but, no, everything had stayed just the way it was. Only the calendar had changed. Now it showed Vancouver in July – breakwaters, a beautiful ring of mountains.

Then I heard the noise June makes on her computer
keyboard with her long, black, brilliantly nailed fingers. Tip-tap, tip-tip-tap. I began shaking all over again. I had this moment planned and I was all nerves. I stood up and walked slowly over to her. She could not see me coming, but she could hear my footsteps, and even if she had not been told of my return, she would know that that was me walking towards her. I stopped in front of her desk. She looked up, but at my stomach, not at my face. Then she tilted her head downwards so that I could see the back of her long, elegant neck.

I said, ‘June, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened.’ I paused and swallowed. ‘I’ve had some problems,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have let them affect me in the way they did. From now on, things will be back to the way they used to be,’ I said. I moved my hands from behind my back. I handed her a bouquet of roses.

(If I can just come in here: those flowers – they were not really my idea. I had bought them as a result of a tip I received years ago from Simon Myers, my first pupil-master. If ever you have woman-trouble, he told me, buy them flowers. It always works. They know it’s a trick, you know it’s a trick, but they love it all the same. So I bought June roses.)

June accepted the flowers in silence. I stood there for a moment with my hands in my pockets, but I received no response. Then, as I turned away, she spoke.

‘So,’ she said. ‘You’re back.’

I gestured by raising my arms, Here I am, as you can see. I gave her an apologetic smile.

June said, turning to look me in the eye, ‘Did you have a good time? I hope so, because it’s been a complete nightmare here. I’ve had the worst couple of weeks of my life.’

I felt bad about what I had put June through, but I was not ready for this kind of conversation. I said in a soft voice, ‘Don’t say any more, June. You don’t know what happened. Things have been difficult for me just recently.’

‘Well, they’re going to get even more difficult from now on,’ June said. ‘What are you going to tell the partners?’

‘I’m going to tell them the truth,’ I said.

In the middle of the conference room at Batstone Buckley Williams is a large egg-shaped table bearing four decanters filled with water. I was seated at one tip of the egg, the twelve partners were seated at the other. They were all looking down at the portion of the table in front of them and toying with pens and paper-clips. Directly in front of me, fourteen feet away, sat Edward Boag, the senior partner. Just above his left shoulder the sun shone straight in my eyes through a gap in the Venetian blinds. I was hot, and I knew that my damp forehead was glistening in the rays.

The meeting was called to order. Boag looked embarrassed. Mumbling anxiously and tugging at his big ears, he stated the purpose of the gathering: to hear and consider the explanations I had to offer in respect of certain complaints made against me.

Boag put three matters to me. The first matter was the complaints the firm had received from various clients – some of whom had long-standing connections with the firm – who alleged that I had neglected their cases. He read out the clients involved and the gist of their allegations (these complaints, I realized, related to the work I should have been doing when I was writing about Donovan). The second matter was the Lexden-Page incident. Tugging hard at his ear, the senior partner described the incident as he understood it. It was to be noted, Boag mumbled, that Lexden-Page had taken the matter to the Law Society, and they were demanding an explanation from us. Then he moved on to item three, my abrupt departure from work eleven days ago. Boag coughed delicately and asked me whether I agreed with the facts as he had stated them. I said I did. Then he coughed again and said that this was a most regrettable matter. Only once in his forty-two years at the firm did he recall a meeting of this nature. Unfortunately, the conduct in question was on its face so serious as to require immediate investigation and, if necessary, action of a disciplinary nature. In considering what action to take, the partners were keeping all options open. Did I understand the gravity of my situation?

I did, I said. Then I put my side of the story to the partners. I explained to them how my brother Charlie had been seriously ill with intestinal cancer, and how my inability to concentrate on my work came as a result of my worry for him. The perpetual hospital visits, the operations, the chemotherapy … (Here I asked the meeting to forgive me for a moment and paused to gather myself. I took a deep breath and continued.) The incident with Mr Lexden-Page, I said. Yes, that was truly unforgivable. All I could say about that was that I had received the news that morning that my brother had slipped into a coma. That said, there was no excuse for the way that I had spoken to Mr Lexden-Page. My departure from work was to visit Charlie. (I coughed before continuing.) I could reassure those present that I would not be seeing Charlie on the firm’s time any more. Charlie was dead, I said. Three days ago he had passed away.

I cleared my throat and stole a look up the table to see how the story had gone down. Pretty well, it seemed. No one was moving a muscle.

After a profound silence punctuated by the sounds of pens dropping, Edward Boag spoke up. To my surprise, he seemed irritated. ‘Yes, thank you, Jones. It’s a pity we didn’t hear all of this a bit earlier, though, isn’t it? Never mind,’ he said, not waiting for a reply, ‘it can’t be helped now.’ He picked at his ear. ‘Thank you, Jones, you can go now unless anybody has any questions.’

I went back to my office. Half an hour later I received notification from the partners that in view of my bereavement I should have some days off. A final decision about what action, if any, they would take would be made on my return.

I did not react to the news of my reprieve. I did not move from my chair. My body felt heavy, as though it had been leaded down for some underwater journey. I weighed a ton.

Then I thought: this time off that I had been given – what if it was to give the firm time to check up on my story? Any private eye worth his salt would find out inside a couple of hours that I had told a pack of lies, that my brother Charlie was as fit as a fiddle, working in a bank in Chester.

Of course they would check up on my story. They were not stupid.

I forced myself to my feet. An idea, a long shot, had occurred to me. I would look in my personnel file and see if there was any indication there of exactly how much trouble I was in. You may think it ridiculous, that the confidential deliberations and decisions of the partners should be placed in such a vulnerable place, but it is amazing how often bungles of this nature occur in organizations like Batstone Buckley Williams. There was always a chance that I would find out something.