“Did you enjoy yourself?” I asked.
“Mmm,” he said. “It was fun, wasn’t it?” He wasn’t using a knife, but held a fork in his right hand like a child or an American. He smiled.
I considered asking whether he and Laura had danced again that evening, whether he’d escorted her home, but decided against it. It was none of my business, after all, and intrusive questions are very ill-mannered.
“Eh, so . . . did you decide about the promotion? Are you going to take it?”
I had, of course, been pondering this in spare moments throughout the preceding days. I had looked for signs, clues—none were forthcoming, however, except that, last Friday, twelve across had read: in favor of (upward) movement (9). I had taken this as an encouraging omen.
“I’m going to say yes,” I said.
He smiled, put down his fork and held up his hand. I realized I was meant to place mine against his in what I now recognized as a “high five.”
“Nice one,” he said, resuming his lunch. “Congratulations.”
I felt a flash of happiness, like a match being struck. I couldn’t recall ever having been congratulated on anything before. It was very pleasant indeed.
“How’s your mother, Raymond?” I asked him, having enjoyed the moment and the last of the scone. He talked about her for a while, told me she’d been asking after me. I felt slightly concerned about this, a default anxiety pertaining to maternal inquisitiveness, but he put my mind at rest.
“She really liked you—said to tell you to pop over anytime,” he said. “She’s lonely.”
I nodded. I had recognized that. He excused himself and plodded off to the bathroom, and I gazed around the café while I awaited his return. Two women around my age were seated at the table next to me, each with a brightly dressed baby. Both infants were in car seats; one was asleep, the other stared dreamily at a beam of sunlight as it danced on the wall. The coffee machine hissed into life behind us, and I watched alarm ripple in waves across his face. In slow motion, his sweet pink mouth puckered into a kiss and then opened wide to release a wail at quite momentous volume. His mother glanced down and, reassured that he was fine despite the noise, continued her conversation. The crying got louder. It made evolutionary sense, I supposed, that a baby’s cries of distress would be tuned to precisely the right pitch and volume to make them impossible for an adult human to ignore.
He was winding himself up now, fists balled furiously, his face getting redder by the minute. I closed my eyes, tried and failed to ignore the noise. Please stop crying, please stop crying. I don’t know why you are crying. What do I need to do to make you stop? I don’t know what to do. Are you hurt? Are you ill? Hungry. I don’t know what to do. Please don’t cry. There isn’t anything to eat. Mummy will be back soon. Where’s Mummy? My hand was shaking as I picked up my coffee cup, and I breathed as slowly as I could, staring at the tabletop.
The crying ceased. I looked up and saw the baby, lying quietly in his mother’s arms now as she covered his face with kisses. I breathed out. My heart soared for him.
When Raymond returned, I paid for lunch, since he had paid last time; I was really starting to get the hang of the concept of a payment schedule. He insisted on leaving the tip, however. Five pounds! All the man had done was carry our food from the kitchen to the table, a job for which he was already being recompensed by the café owner. Raymond was reckless and profligate—no wonder he couldn’t afford proper shoes or an iron.
We walked back slowly to the office, and Raymond told me in detail about some computer server issue that I did not understand (and didn’t particularly care to) that he would have to deal with that afternoon. In the lobby, he turned toward the stairs, where his office was located.
“See you soon, yeah?” he said. “Take care.”
He actually sounded like he meant both; that he would indeed see me soon, and that he wished me to take care of myself. I felt a warmth inside, a cozy, glowy feeling like hot tea on a cold morning.
“Take care yourself, Raymond,” I said, and I meant it.
That evening, I had planned to relax with a cup of Bovril and listen to a very interesting radio program about South American politics, after completing my usual checks on what Johnnie Lomond was up to. He’d sent a desultory tweet about a character in a television program and posted a photograph on Facebook of a new pair of boots he wanted. A slow news day, then. Hearing from Mummy on a Monday was an unexpected, unwelcome surprise.
“Eleanor, darling. Not our usual time to talk, I know, but I was thinking about you. Just wanted to say hello, see how you were getting on, you know the sort of thing.”
I was silent, shocked by the unscheduled intrusion into my evening.
“Well?” she said. “I’m waiting, darling . . .”
I cleared my throat.
“I, er . . . I’m fine, Mummy. You were—thinking about me?” This was a first.
“Mmm. Two things really: first of all, do you want me to see if I can give you a hand with your project? I can’t do much from where I am, obviously, but I might be able to, I don’t know, pull some strings? Might there perhaps be some way I could engineer a little visit, come and help you? I mean, I know it sounds impossible, but one never knows . . . mountains can always be moved and so on—”
“No, Mummy, oh no, no, no . . .” I said, gabbling. I heard her take in a breath, and forced my words into order. “What I mean, Mummy”—I heard the hiss as she released the air trapped in her lungs—“is that it’s very kind of you to offer, but I think I’m going to decline.”
“Might one ask why?” she said, sounding somewhat put out.
“It’s just . . . I really do think I’ve got everything under control here,” I said. “I think it’d be better if you . . . stayed put, as it were. I’m not sure there’s anything more you can do at this point.”
“Well, darling . . . if you’re sure. But I’m very efficient, you know? And, to be frank, you’re a bit of a bumbling idiot at times.”
I sighed, as quietly as I could.
“And furthermore,” she went on, “I’m getting rather impatient now. Things need to move forward with this man, you know? A bit more action, Eleanor—that’s what’s needed, darling.” She was starting to sound calmer now.
“Yes, Mummy. Yes, you’re absolutely right of course.” It was true that, since the time when I’d first seen the musician, my interest and therefore my progress had been subsumed by more pressing matters over the last few weeks. There were so many other things to be getting on with—Raymond, the new job, Sammy and his family . . . But she was right.
“I’ll try to move things along a bit faster,” I said. That had placated her, I hoped, and she started to say her good-byes.
“Oh wait, Mummy—hang on a second. You said there were two things—what was the second thing you were thinking about?”
“Oh yes,” she said, and I heard her dismissive sideways hiss of cigarette smoke. “It was just that I wanted to tell you that you’re a pointless waste of human tissue. That was all. Bye then, darling!” she said, bright as a knife.
Silence.
@johnnieLrocks
Newsflash! Am leaving Pilgrim Pioneers. No hard feelings TOTALLY respect those guys #soloartist #astarisborn (1/2)
@johnnieLrocks
I’m going solo in a different, strongermusical direction. More soon. Peace out #iconoclast (2/2)
22
Mummy got in touch again on Wednesday as usual, the interval between our conversations all too brief.
“What ho!” she said. “Me again! Anything new to share with Mummy?”
In the absence of any other salient news since Monday, I told her about Keith’s birthday party.
“Quite the social butterfly these days, aren’t you, Eleanor?” she said, her voice unpleasantly sweet.
I said nothing; it’s usually th
e safest course of action.
“What did you wear? I bet you looked ridiculous. For the love of God, please tell me you didn’t attempt to dance, daughter mine.” She somehow intuited the answer from my tense silence.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Dancing’s for the beautiful people, Eleanor. The thought of you, lumbering about like a walrus . . .” She laughed long and hard. “Oh, thank you, thanks very much, darling. That’s made my night, it really has.” She laughed again. “Eleanor, dancing!”
“How are you, Mummy?” I said quietly.
“Fine, darling, just fine. It’s chili night tonight, always a treat. We’re going to watch a film later. The wonder of Wednesdays!” Her tone was breezy, cheerful—it had a borderline manic quality that I recognized.
“I got promoted, Mummy,” I said, unable to keep a little flash of pride from my voice. She snorted.
“Promoted! How incredibly impressive, darling. What does that mean—an extra five pounds a month?”
I said nothing.
“Still,” she said, her voice dripping with patronizing sweetness, “good for you, darling. I mean it, really, well done.” I looked at the floor, felt tears come.
She spoke to someone else, a semi-snarl; “Naw, ah fucking didnae! Ah said Sex and the City 2! Aye, I did! I thought we were taking a vote. Eh? Again? Oh, for fuck’s . . .” She spoke directly to me again.
“My fellow residents have elected to watch the Shawshank Redemption yet again, if you can believe it; it’s only been, oooh, twenty consecutive Wednesdays now . . .
“Listen—don’t go getting sidetracked from your project with all this new job and birthday party nonsense. There’s a task in hand, and you need to remain focused on it. Faint heart never won fair chap, you know. Imagine if you were to provide me with a handsome, appropriate son-in-law, Eleanor. That would be normal, darling, wouldn’t it? We’d be a normal family then.”
She laughed, and I did too—the concept was just too bizarre to contemplate.
“I was cursed with daughters,” she said sadly, “and yet I always wanted a son. A son-in-law will do at a push—so long as he’s suitable. You know: polite, thoughtful, considerate, well behaved. He is all of those things, isn’t he, this project of yours, Eleanor? A well-dressed man? Well spoken? You know I’ve always tried to impress upon you how appropriate it is to talk properly and look the part.”
“He seems very nice, Mummy,” I said. “Very suitable. Handsome and talented and successful. Glamorous!” I said, warming to my theme. Obviously, I knew next to nothing about him, so I was embellishing the scant information I’d gleaned about Johnnie Lomond from my research. It was quite fun.
Her tone was dismissive, with an undercurrent of menace. The default tone.
“Oh God, I’m bored now. I’m bored of this conversation, and I’m bored of waiting for you to complete this project. Off you trot, Eleanor. For heaven’s sake, please don’t trouble yourself by being proactive and pushing forward with it. Oh no, heaven forfend. Please—continue to do nothing. Go and sit in your empty little flat and watch television on your own, just like you do Every. Single. Night.”
I heard her shout, “I’m coming! Dinnae start without me!” The click of a lighter, an intake of breath.
“Must dash, Eleanor. Toodle-oo!”
Dead air.
I sat down and watched television alone, like I do Every. Single. Night.
I suppose one of the reasons we’re all able to continue to exist for our allotted span in this green and blue vale of tears is that there is always, however remote it might seem, the possibility of change. I never thought, in my strangest imaginings, that I would find my job anything other than eight hours of drudgery. It was a source of astonishment to me that, on many days of the week now, I’d check my watch and see that hours had gone by without my noticing. The office manager role involved numerous new tasks that I had to learn and perfect. None of them was beyond the wit of man, obviously, but some were reasonably complex, and I was surprised at how enthusiastically my brain responded to the new challenges placed before it. My colleagues had appeared somewhat underwhelmed upon hearing the news that I would be managing them, but, thus far at least, there had been no sign of mutiny or insubordination. I kept myself to myself, as always, and allowed them to get on with their jobs (or what passed for doing their jobs, insofar as they never actually did very much, and tended to make a mess of the few tasks they actually attempted). For the time being, at least, the status quo prevailed, and they were, so far, no more ineffectual than they’d been prior to my installation.
The new role meant interacting with Bob more frequently, and I discovered that he was actually quite an amusing interlocutor. He shared a lot of details about the day-to-day running of the business with me, and was delightfully indiscreet about clients. Clients, I soon learned, could be very demanding; I still had limited direct contact with them, which suited me just fine.
From what I could gather, they would routinely be completely unable to articulate their requirements, at which point, in desperation, the designers would create some artwork for them based on the few vague hints they had managed to elicit. After many hours of work, involving a full team of staff, the work would be submitted to the client for approval. At that point, the client would say, “No. That’s exactly what I don’t want.”
There would be several tortuous iterations of this process before the client finally declared his or herself satisfied with the end results. Inevitably, Bob said, the artwork that was signed off on at the end of the process was virtually identical to the first piece of work submitted, which the client had immediately dismissed as unsuitable. It was no wonder, I thought, that he kept the staff room well stocked with beer, wine and chocolate, and that the art team availed themselves of it quite so frequently.
I’d started planning the Christmas lunch too. I had only vague ideas at the moment, but, like our clients, I was very clear as to what I didn’t want. No chain restaurants or hotels, no turkey, no Santa; nowhere that said “corporate entertainment” or “office party” on their website. It would take time to track down the perfect venue and plan the perfect event, but I had months yet.
Raymond and I continued to meet for lunch, roughly once per week. It was always on a different day, which annoyed me, but he was a man who was extremely resistant to routine (something that shouldn’t have surprised me). One day, he e-mailed me less than twenty-four hours after we’d met, to invite me for lunch again the very next day. I could almost believe that someone might enjoy, or at least tolerate, my company over the duration of a brief luncheon, but it stretched credibility to think that it could happen twice in one week.
Dear R, I’d be delighted to meet you for lunch again, but am somewhat perplexed due to the proximity to our previous meeting. Is everything in order? Regards, E
He replied thus:
Got something I need to tell you. See you at 1230 R
We were so habituated to our lunchtime meetings that he did not even need to specify the venue.
When I arrived, he wasn’t there, so I perused a newspaper that was lying on the chair next to me. Strangely, I’d come to like this shabby place; the staff, whilst off-putting in appearance, were uniformly pleasant and friendly, and now more than one of them was able to say “The usual, is it?” to me, and then bring my coffee and cheese scone without my having to request it. It’s very vain and superficial of me, I know, but it made me feel like someone in an American situation comedy, being a “regular,” having a “usual.” The next step would have been effortlessly witty badinage, but unfortunately we were still some way away from that. One of the staff—Mikey—came over with a glass of water.
“Do you want yours now, or are you waiting for Raymond?” he said.
I told him I was expecting Raymond imminently, and Mikey began wiping down the table next to me.
“How’s tricks, anyway?” h
e asked.
“I’m fine,” I said. “It feels like we’re getting toward the last days of summer.” This was something I had been thinking as I walked to the café, feeling gentle rays on my face, seeing a few red and gold leaves among the green. Mikey nodded.
“I’m finishing up here at the end of the month,” he said.
“Oh!” I said. “That’s a pity.” Mikey was kind and gentle, and always brought truffles with the coffees, without being asked or seeking additional payment.
“Have you found a new position somewhere else?” I said.
“No,” he said, perching on a chair beside me. “Hazel’s really poorly again.” Hazel, I knew, was his girlfriend, and they lived nearby with their bichon frise and their baby, Lois.
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mikey,” I said. He nodded.
“They thought they’d got rid of it all the last time, but it’s come back, spread to the lymph nodes and the liver. I just wanted to, you know . . .”
“You wanted to spend the time she has left with Hazel and Lois, rather than serving cheese scones to strange women,” I said, and, gratifyingly, he laughed.
“That’s about the size of it,” he said. I braced myself, then put my hand on his arm. I was going to say something, but then I couldn’t think what was the right thing to say, so I just kept silent, and looked at him, hoping he’d intuit what I meant—that I was desperately sorry, that I admired him for caring so much about Hazel and Lois and looking after them, that I understood, perhaps more than most, about loss, about how difficult things must be, and would continue to be. However much you loved someone, it wasn’t always enough. Love alone couldn’t keep them safe . . .
“Thanks, Eleanor,” he said gently. He thanked me!
Raymond arrived and threw himself into his seat.
“All right, mate?” he asked Mikey. “How’s Hazel doing?”
“Not bad, Raymond, not bad. I’ll get you a menu.” After he’d left, I leaned forward. “You knew already about Hazel?” I said. He nodded.