This is the Life (4 page)

‘What’s all this I read about Michael collapsing? Is he all right?’

Oliver laughed. ‘Collapse? Where did you read that? Collapse isn’t how I would describe it.’

‘Oh?’

‘Do you want to know what really happened? It’s not a bad story, I suppose.’ Oliver paused as he shaped the anecdote in his mind. He was still a gregarious man, a natural for company. ‘OK, here it is. Michael’s in big trouble. For twelve days he has to listen to Laurence Bowen putting the European Commission’s dreary little case that we’re not complying with their regulations about the ozone layer. Can you think of anything more boring than refrigerators and their relationship with the stratosphere? No, neither can I. Day after day, detail after boring bloody detail. Each day, each minute even, is a struggle with sleep, with madness.’ Oliver swallowed some more bloody mary, pleased with his phraseology. ‘Anyway,
by the time it’s poor old Michael’s turn to say something, his case is about as intact as the ozone layer. Those points made by Bowen have been eating away at his ground like bloody CFCs. In short,’ Oliver summarized, ‘the UK’s in big, big shit. We need a bloody miracle. The only consolation for the government is that if anyone can do it, it’s Michael. All eyes turn to him as he stands up. What’s he going to say? everybody’s asking. How’s he going to play it?’ Oliver stopped. He saw my expression and grinned.

‘And?’ I said eagerly. ‘Go on.’

‘Only if you get me another,’ Oliver said. ‘Same again please.’

Smiling, I ordered two more of the same. Oliver had not changed.

‘Go on,’ I said, when I got back. ‘Get on with it. Michael stands up to reply: what does he say?’

Oliver grinned again. ‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Not a squeak. All they get is a leaden, ungolden silence. He moves his lips and waggles his tongue but not a word comes out. Not a syllable. He’s speechless, he’s mouthing like a bloody goldfish.’

‘You’re joking,’ I said encouragingly. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

Oliver laughed. ‘James, I swear to God, it’s like something out of Harold Pinter. Michael’s just standing there shuffling his papers, completely dumbstruck.’

I shook my head. ‘Michael? Lost for words? I don’t believe it.’

‘He’s not lost for words,’ Oliver corrected me, ‘he’s lost for a voice. You can imagine it: the judges are looking at each other, baffled as hell. They’ve never seen anything like it in their bloody lives. “Professor Donovan, is there anything the matter?” Donovan points at his throat. “Usher, fetch the professor a glass of water.” Enter water bearer. Donovan drinks. He opens his mouth to speak: still nothing. My God, you can imagine the embarrassment all round.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, they adjourned of course. Sent everybody home. What else could they do?’

‘Well, how strange,’ I said. ‘What an odd thing to happen. It sounds quite serious, actually. What was it, do we know? You don’t just conk out for no reason.’

Oliver saw some blemish in the sheen of his left shoe and awkwardly rubbed the toecap on his trousers. You could tell that he was right-footed. ‘James, sometimes I despair at your naivety,’ he said with an exaggerated casualness. He looked up from his shining feet and gazed straight into my eyes, without expression.

I gasped. ‘You don’t mean … Are you saying that Michael …?’

Oliver leaned forward to murmur. ‘I’m not saying anything, James, ‘I’m saying nothing at all. But let me put it this way: the government is not exactly prejudiced by the adjournment, is it? All that extra time to reconsider the points against it? Handy, I’d call it.’

This was typical Oliver, scurrilous, slanderous and entertaining.

‘That I don’t believe,’ I said. ‘Michael would never stoop to such a thing.’

Oliver leaned his back against the bar, looking to see who was around. He raised his faint eyebrows at a passing friend and turned his face towards me once more. ‘You believe what you want to, James.’ Then a thought seemed to strike him. ‘How about another?’ He gestured at Joe.

‘I mean, what’s he been like since he got back?’ I asked.

‘Well, he came back to chambers straight away and sat down to work as though nothing had happened. This is about three weeks ago. The only problem was, he found that he couldn’t write either. As a counsel, he was completely kaput.’

‘Couldn’t write as well as couldn’t speak?’

‘James, you’ve hit the nail on the head.’ Oliver patted me on the back by way of congratulation.

‘Well, what did he do?’

‘Not much. He just sat at his desk, hunched over his papers, good for nothing – he wasn’t even able to answer the phone. Completely incommunicado. After a day or two he went home, presumably to look for his tongue.’

‘So he wasn’t faking it, after all?’

‘I never said he was. But before you make up your mind, don’t forget it would have looked rather odd if it had been business as usual as soon as he got back, wouldn’t it?’

I said, ‘So you think it’s all an act, do you? You think Michael’s having everyone on?’

‘James, whatever gave you that idea?’

‘Well, I don’t agree. It all sounds incredibly far-fetched to me. If anyone found out, he would be disbarred. Besides,’ I said, ‘it’s not his style. It’s not like him at all.’

Oliver made a tolerant face. ‘With respect, James, how well do you know Michael? When was the last time you spoke to him, or saw him in court? Things have moved on since you were his pupil.’

Reddening, I said, ‘Michael would not have done such a thing. He’s got too much intellectual integrity – he has standards.’ I put my lips to my glass to drink and then stopped to speak. I was whispering, in case anyone overheard the content of the conversation. ‘With his brains he doesn’t need to resort to that kind of trick. Michael? Going through a charade like that? Are you mad? We’re talking about one of the best lawyers in the world, for heaven’s sake, not some under-prepared hack.’

Oliver laughed loudly, as if I had said something funny.

‘What is it,’ I said, beginning to laugh myself. ‘What have I said?’

‘Nothing, James, nothing,’ Oliver said, still tittering.

I smiled. I still could not see what was laughable. ‘So what’s the situation now?’ I said.

‘Funnily enough, he came back to chambers today, singing like a nightingale.’ Oliver read the time on the clock. It was half-past seven. ‘On the subject of birds, I’ve got to go back to my cage, before I get into big trouble. James,’ he said, reaching
for my hand, ‘we’ve got to do this again.’ With that he swallowed what remained of his drink, thudded his glass against the surface of the bar, winked, and strode off with his bouncing, light-filled head of hair.

Outside it was drizzling. I decided that the best thing to do about food was to go to eat a quarter-pounder and fries at the McDonald’s in the Strand, near Charing Cross. I tramped up Middle Temple Lane and past 6 Essex Court, my hands in my pockets. There was Oliver’s name, about half-way up the tenants’ blackboard. I walked on. There was no need for me to look. I knew that blackboard by heart, especially those names daubed on it after I had left the chambers: David Buries, Neil Johnson, John Tolley, Robert Bright, Alastair Ross-Russell, Paul St John Mackintosh and Michael Diss glowed in my head in big mental capitals like the neon names of the theatre stars illuminating the Strand on my walk to McDonald’s. There was a time when I would have wondered why I, James Jones, went incognito while these people, on the whole no more able than I, enjoyed this billing – but those sentiments were far behind me, and in any case I was relishing the meal ahead. When it comes to food I am not very choosy. I rarely cook – unless you count heating up tinfuls of mushroom soup or making salami and tomato sandwiches as culinary activities. Usually I dine at some cheap eatery or takeaway, not because I cannot afford anything better, but because I feel a little self-conscious, sitting in a good restaurant by myself, under the scrutiny of the waiters. Other nights I ring up for a curry or pizza to be delivered at my door: I eat with a tray on my lap and the television remote control by my side, and sometimes finish off a bottle of wine opened the previous night. My diet, then, basically revolves around cheeseburgers, shish kebabs, fried chicken, vinegared fish and chips, spring rolls, jacket potatoes and fillets o’fish.

A friend of mine of around this time, a girl called Susan Northey, used to lecture me on the deficiencies of my eating habits, drawing particular attention to the amount of saturated
fats I consumed. According to her – and she was armed with all sorts of figures to support her case – I was on the way to a massive heart attack. Occasionally Susan would cook for me, but her efforts rarely met with success. The idea of preparing my food depressed her, especially if I arrived at her flat slightly late.

This happened the night after I had spoken to Oliver. It was a Friday night, and after we had finished eating she started crying.

‘Why am I doing this? I feel like a housewife. Jimmy, look at you, you’ve come in and sat down and wolfed your plate clean without a word.’

I stared guiltily at my plate. ‘Here, I’ll do the washing up. Leave that to me,’ I said.

‘I’ve got a migraine, my head feels as though someone’s split it open with an axe.’ Then she suddenly snapped. ‘Don’t touch those dishes, I’ll do them tomorrow.’

I said, ‘No, let me …’ but Susan angrily barred my way to the sink, so I retreated. I said, That was delicious, Suzy, thank you very much.’

‘It was terrible, it made me feel sick.’

‘Perhaps it did need a little more olive oil …’

‘I don’t believe what I am hearing: I cook you dinner and all you can do is criticize?’ She was furious. ‘Why don’t you cook, if you’re so good at it?’

‘I wasn’t criticizing, Suzy, I was just trying to be constructive. That was delicious, my love, I swear it.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Jimmy, I can’t stand it. It was terrible, and you know it. You just ate it because you’re a pig. You’ll eat anything you find in your trough.’

At this point I should have kept quiet. ‘Well, all right then, I’ve tasted better tuna salads,’ I conceded. ‘But there’s no need to get so worried about it, it’s only a meal. Let’s put it behind us, shall we? I’ll do the cooking in the future, all right? It obviously upsets you if you do it. Suzy?’

Susan was not speaking. She pulled on yellow rubber washing-up gloves and began brushing down the knives and
forks that sprouted from her foaming left hand. I made a noise of protest but stopped when I saw her expression. Then I said something but received no reply. She just continued scrubbing down plates. I sighed: I hate scenes.

I decided to give it time and to wait quietly on the sofa. Hopefully things would blow over. Just as the programme on television caught my attention and I began concentrating on it, Susan spoke again. She said things were not working out and that perhaps it would be best if I went. I reflected for a minute and found that I agreed with her. There was little point in prolonging the evening. I collected my things and quietly left. I suppose that you could say that we broke up at that point. I walked to the tube station feeling – wonderful. Coasting along the buoyant pavements with a warm city breeze in my face and a navy blue, starred sky overhead, I felt I was being returned home on a yacht. I was breathing in and breathing out, and it elated me. It is a simple thing, my elation, but then again, is not quite as straightforwardly obtainable as it might sound. My life is so shot through with distractions, so plagued with interferences, that only rarely am I conscious of something as simple as the action of my lungs, of the fact that I, James Jones, am here, kicking around on this amazing planet. By avoiding the mazes of family life and the side-tracks of ambition, I have tried to take an undeflected, eventless route through the days, to dodge the clutter of incidents that bear down on me from every direction. There is only so much I like to have on my plate – too much at once, and everything begins to lose its flavour. When it comes to personal experiences, I prefer to eat like a bird.

It will be appreciated that, by my standards, this last year has been a complete blowout. On top of my usual diet of occurrences I have been forced to feed on the jumbled broth of Donovan, his father, Arabella, her lawyers, Susan and all their unpalatable, over-rich problems. It must be understood that I am not regurgitating all of these matters to indulge myself. It is not as if I am suffering from some kind of empirical bulimia. Despite the fact that, like most people, I enjoy the odd trip
down memory lane, I am not one of these people obsessed with bygone days, those who compulsively inhabit the past as though somehow it housed the real world, as though newly minted, uncirculated days rolled around at a dime a dozen. No, you would not catch me relegating the solid, wonderful here-and-now in favour of the olden times. The only reason that I am chewing over these last months is that I want them digested and over and done with, because at the moment they continue to spoil my stomach for everyday things. The office seems drab and unreal, and still I am numb and listless and fatigued. So much so that June is beginning to show signs of impatience, and rightly so. She has enough to do without worrying about me.

‘Come on now,’ she says. ‘Stop moping.’

‘I’m not moping. I’m thinking.’

‘Well then, stop thinking then,’ she says. June will take no nonsense. ‘Start working instead. I’m getting a little tired of fielding these complaining phone calls.’