Whistle Blower (41 page)

Margaret had then sighed, noisily as if bored. 

“But I lost it, Margaret. Her name was Noy. Her beautiful daughter was Oy but they were both killed in a bus crash a few weeks after I met them. But I coped. I cope now. I may not shave or cut my hair but I cope. But I cannot forget you. Despite everything, and despite the passage of time. I never could and I never will. Yet you told me once, towards the end, to my face, that you were ashamed of me. Do you remember that, Margaret? For me, it just compounded that deep sense of shame and incompetence I felt. It was another mark of disgrace, of shame, of dishonor, like a stain on my character. 

“And what about the nonsense of that affair at the nightclub. Did you really believe that absolute trash? How could I live with the knowledge that you had lost so much trust and faith in me to that, most sordid, extent? Why Margaret? Why?"

Jim knew at that point that he had nearly cried.

"But I cannot think badly of you. I never will."

He had stopped then, exhausted, out of breath, flushed and sweating with eyes and a throat that hurt. And he had then apologized.

"Sorry, I'm so very sorry but…"

He knew Margaret had begun to stare at him with eyes that never blinked. He had watched through his own unfocused eyes as she twisted the cuff of her blouse and curled and uncurled the seam. But he had not been looking at her face. It was as if the only route through to her understanding was her hands and her fingers. And he also knew he was no longer in full control of himself. Once he'd started, the words had just flowed. At times he thought he had hissed them, noisily. Bottled and pickled for too long they had poured like a lava flow of sadness and love. And, already, he regretted it.

At last he looked at her face to find she was looking directly at him. Her face was lined and pale, perhaps a little make-up, the eyebrows thin, the eyes still that transparent blue. But it was her hair that affected him. It was so much grayer now.

"You look older, too, Margaret," he had told her with eyes that were red and wet.

Margaret had sighed again, then looked away as though mildly embarrassed. But she turned back. "Other than your face you haven't changed much as far as I can see. Still on your bandwagon."

"Bandwagon!"

Jim, his eyes firmly shut, lying on the bed in his room at the Holiday Inn shouted the word.

It was one of her old, familiar expressions and one he had not remembered. Bandwagon. He remembered it now. It was totally meaningless without a better explanation—but so full of suggestive innuendo.

"Bandwagon, Margaret?" he had exclaimed. "Is a man not allowed to express his feelings, his emotions?"

"What is the point, Jim? Don't you see things have gone on far too long now?"

"Yes, but can we not discuss things so that we understand one another at long last?"

"Discuss, Jim. Is that what you were doing just now?" She paused. "I understand you perfectly well, Jim. You have not changed one bit."

A long silence had then descended before: "Do you really want lunch, Jim? Before they shut the restaurant?"

He remembered looking at her, half hoping she might be smiling, but he was disappointed. Instead, she was looking at him as if to speed up their meeting.

"No," he had said, "my appetite has gone. I would much prefer to walk. Perhaps we could just walk across the bridge. Will you come with me?"

"Yes, alright, but I mustn't be long."

Jim struggled to remember the next few minutes. His memory started again when Margaret said: "And you Jim, do you receive your state pension out there, wherever you are?"

"No," he had admitted. "My needs are fairly rudimentary."

"Yes, I seem to remember that. But you always set such high standards for others."

"And I set them for myself. I was successful at what I did, Margaret. Appearances are unimportant. Setting high standards does not require money."

"It's a pity you failed to notice me, though, isn't it? Your standards let you down a bit there."

"Notice you, Margaret? You were always there. I know I kept myself busy but you were my life."

His memory stopped again there. He hazily remembered strolling slowly across the bridge. The wind that was blowing up the Avon Gorge was blowing his hair and he knew it probably looked untidy. And then Margaret turned and started to walk back. "I need to go now." 

They had walked slowly back towards the hotel. To Jim it was a long, long walk. He still had so much he wanted to say, so many questions to ask, so many things to tell her and so much of his life that he still wanted to share. But there was too much and so he said nothing until they had almost arrived back at the hotel.

"Margaret. Please tell me something."

She had looked up at him but kept walking.

"The night club incident. You know I was in the flat all that night, don't you? You knew I was there after midnight. You called me, didn't you? It was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she said.

"Why?"

"Sorry. They were out to fix you up good and proper, but you just could not see it, could you?"

"You knew about it?"

"A reporter told me."

"How could you let them do it and not tell me or warn me or do something?"

"Me, Jim? Tell you something? Advise you? At that time? With you at the height of one of your 'I know best' moods no one could tell you anything. Least of all me."

Jim had stopped walking but Margaret hadn't. He had caught her up, then grabbed her arm and she had turned. "Why, Margaret? You could have tried. Why?"

"Because I was sick of it all. Sick to death of business and politics and your ways and… and everything. I was sick of you ignoring me. I wanted a life, Jim. I didn't want to follow you through all that nonsense. Visits to your few ghastly friends like George and his overbearing wife Catherine. Sick to death. But you just did not notice did you?"

"You could have tried telling me, Margaret."

"Telling you, Jim? Impossible! I tried. I loved you once."

And then she had suddenly burst into tears. He had held her hand and almost put his arm around her shoulders, but it was a busy pavement. He had not noticed until then but other people were using it. So he did nothing, except hold her cold hand. And the outburst only lasted seconds anyway before she sniffed, took a deep breath and removed her hand. "I'm OK. Don't fuss. You must go now, Jim."

"Go, Margaret. Where?"

"Back where you have come from, wherever that is."

"But, I have so many things to say."

"Jim," she had said, calmly. The tears had already gone. "Go now. Try to live your life without me. I am sorry. So should you be sorry. But we cannot live by being sorry. Go now and live your life the way you have chosen. I need to live mine. Try to find some peace of mind."

She looked up at him with a slight look of pity. "Are you keeping well, Jimmy? You've lost weight but you look fit and tanned. Plenty of exercise, I hope."

"Yes."

"Good. So, look after yourself. Take care. But have a haircut. When you were stood in the wind on the bridge I could hardly see your face for looking."

On the hotel bed, Jim opened his weary eyes.

He had watched her go. He had watched her walk away, without turning and without hesitating. Her skirt, her pretty, billowing blouse, her gray hair, her gently swinging handbag, her short dark shadow. She had walked as she always did but perhaps more stiffly. He saw her move her free hand to her face. It stayed a moment. She seemed to shake her head just a little, almost imperceptibly, and then the arm swung down to her side. She seemed to shrug but she had been too far away for him to be certain.

He had watched until she reached the corner in case she turned around to return. He hoped, at least, she would cross, perhaps continue in a straight line so that he could continue just to watch, but she turned quickly. Perhaps she glanced back, he was not sure. But then she was gone. Out of his life.

Jim had stood, without moving, his eyes glistening and wet. He had felt weak and his arms ached as if he had been carrying heavy bags all afternoon. His heart was pounding and seemed to be struggling. Other people, strangers, walked past but he barely saw them. Then, still looking at the corner to his left he stepped off the curb and started across the road.

It was the screech of tires from a skidding car that frightened him out of his thoughts. The small, red car stopped just a yard from him and two yards into the road. He turned to look at the windscreen and its driver but the young woman driver was quicker. She stretched her blonde head from the open side window and waved an arm. "Watch it, old man. Yer wanna get killed or somethin'. Stupid bugger." She had glared at him, angry and impatient, and then driven off as Jim stood sadly in the middle of the road, his mouth slightly open, his hair in his eyes. He had felt old and vulnerable.

He remembered, too, the slope of freshly mown grass that separated one road from the higher, busier road on the side that led to the Bridge. This was where he had then slumped down to recover. A sudden dizziness had overcome him, so he lay backwards looking up into the bright afternoon sky. He wiped his sticky forehead and then loosened the tie that he had worn to impress and stared upwards. The dizziness was intense. His eyes felt sore, his head throbbed and he covered his eyes with his arm and waited.

Slowly, inch by inch, he withdrew the arm and looked backwards and upwards where the sun was shining through the bare branches of a horse chestnut tree. Around him on the grass lay a cluster of spiky green conkers that had split ready to release the shiny brown nuts inside. The big tree might eventually die, but there continuity was ensured. New life from death.

Jim sat up, on the edge of the bed, his eyes open still remembering that day. He hadn't told anyone what happened, but who was there to tell? Tom, perhaps, but he'd only known Tom a few weeks. He thought about his rock up on the hillside behind the house. Did it matter if he was alone? Not at all. Was it not better that way? It was certainly less stressful. Alone, unencumbered, there was more time to think and contemplate. He supposed he had become a sort of hermit—a solitary monk who lived frugally and spent his time contemplating on life. The horse chestnut tree had reminded him he was like a leaf in autumn, hanging on. But the time would, eventually, come for him to fall off the tree, his function fulfilled. Life, his own included, was just a function of matter. But there were still a few functions left for this old and yellowing leaf to perform.

He stood up, went to the window to look out but it was dark with only a floodlit car park to inspire. "Come on Jim, buck up. Hang on to your twig for just a while longer."

He turned away.

"Yes, Mother, I remember what you used to say. 'You're a long time dead.' You should know, Mother, but I don't want to last too long. I can't see anyone helping this grumpy old farang to get up in the morning, to wash him, dress him, push him around in a wheelchair, help him to sit, see, hear, eat his rice and deal with his double incontinence. And if I can't see how can I paint? No, I don't want to last too long, Mother. Better to go quietly, function fulfilled. Quality of life not longevity.

"Surely that is the only civilized choice. There are far too many of us anyway. But it needs saying, out loud—someone needs to spell it out, no beating about the bush, just say it as it is in black and white. That, surely, is the job of politicians and of religious leaders. But they are weak, Mother. They are too scared. But I'd say it.

"You went when you were still at the top, Mother. Job done, mission accomplished. I remember you as I know you would want me to remember you. You'd hate what happens here now, Mother. You can almost live forever as long as you don't mind being incarcerated with other incapacitated old folks playing catch the beach ball every morning after your Weetabix and if you don't mind living with dozens of complete strangers. And many of these strangers are empty shells, sick, immobile, unthinking, contributing nothing, just sitting putting off the final day, delaying the inevitable, and all because the technology allows and the law insists."

Jim lay back on the bed once more and stared at the ceiling. Then his eyes closed, the drowsiness overcame him and he half dreamed of what had happened next as he lay on that grassy mound beneath the tree surrounded by roads and busy traffic in Bristol.

The dizziness had gone and he was starting to feel better so he had sat up and tucked his hair behind his ears. It was then he heard the voice.

"You, all righ', mate?"

He had turned round to see an elderly man wearing glasses and a cloth cap propped on a wooden stick. On a long lead hooked over the stick was a small black and white dog that was sniffing amongst the conkers in the grass a yard or so away. It then cocked its leg over a tuft of dock leaves that the municipal mowers had failed to remove from around the tree trunk. "Yes. Thank you," Jim had replied.

"Nice day."

"Yes. Indeed."

"You all righ'? Saw you lying ther'. Thought you might be dead or somethin' for a minute. Fair worried me for a sec."

"Thank you. I'm fine."

"Nice walking 'round yer. Specially this time o' yer. You from 'round yer?"