by Terry Morgan
He tried on one of the shirts, the underwear and socks and finally the trouser half of one of the suits, tried to remember how to tie a knot in the tie but gave up. Finally, he bit off a few sales labels with his teeth, pulled on the new shoes, tied his hair back with an elastic band and looked at himself in the full-length mirror.
"Hah! Lek! Sawadee Kap! Recognize me? It's Jim. How's the business?"
The clothes felt heavy, cumbersome, restrictive and itchy and he knew the shoes would cause trouble. He took them off, sat on the bed cross-legged and made the third phone call. Jonathan had been expecting the call for most of the day.
Meeting fixed for Saturday, Jim pulled the new shoes back on, tied them loosely and walked painfully down to the bar to find Tom with an opinion.
"Well, I suppose we’re part way there, Jim, but frankly I prefer you in your shorts and sandals. Ah well. Never mind. It's alright. It'll help to serve a purpose so it will."
Chapter Forty-Seven
SEEING AN ELDERLY man with a noticeable limp and a walking stick standing, trying to find his glasses, Jim wandered over, left a large brown envelope next to his pint glass of beer and tapped him on the shoulder. "Douglas—I'm in the corner, over there."
Douglas Creighton disengaged the stick and glasses and took Jim's hand. "Hello, Jim. My God. You look…ah, different…very brown, I suppose. Long hair as well."
"And you look much the same, Douglas,” Jim lied. “Take a seat. Beer? Gin? Whiskey? Coffee? Tea? The Cumberland serves everything—at a huge profit."
"A cup of tea, I suppose. Oh my goodness, what a shock. Such long hair."
Jim beckoned the waiter, ordered a pot of tea and another pint of draft beer.
"So where have you been, Jim? Somewhere sunny I suppose. And you're still not shaving very often I see." Douglas was trying to prop his stick against his chair.
"I'm living not far from where I finally managed to lose the posse of threatening pursuers."
"The press followed you, Jim?"
"I don't think they were from the press, Douglas. Someone somewhere seemed to think I was getting rather too close to the truth for comfort. And, if someone suggests that all is not as it should be within the corridors of power, naturally it requires money to be spent to make sure things are stopped firmly in their tracks."
"Oh dear. Well it all died down pretty quickly after you left. You know how it is. People get on with their lives. Newspapers find another topic. But you know how I sympathized, Jim. I tried to help as much as I could, but sometimes the pressures make it impossible to change fixed opinions."
Jim was not sure how to take the last comment. Who was the one with the fixed opinions? He didn't ask, but watched as his fresh beer and a pot of English tea with milk, sugar, a little cup and saucer and a plate with three square biscuits was laid on the table.
Douglas then talked—about Amberley, the new local Member of Parliament, Jim's replacement—"Unlikely to survive the next election." About arthritis—"Never thought it could get as bad." About the weather—"Gone a bit autumnal."
Jim listened, intrigued by Douglas's manner of speaking when nervous, a manner enhanced by a skill of picking on a subject and twisting it so that it fell more comfortably on the ear of his listener. It was a talent Jim admired, but only because it had evaded him all his life. Finally, even Douglas seemed to run out of topics. His listener was, after all, not talking but, instead, taking in large mouthfuls of beer through a long, gray beard. There was a moment's silence.
"It's in here," Jim said, pointing to his brown envelope.
"In there, Jim? What is in there?"
"Evidence. I picked it up from my solicitor on the way here. Evidence of tampering with economic aid bids in favor of specific contractors. It's not enough of course, but it'll help the growing case. My problem was always one of presentation, Douglas. Sometimes I regret my mannerisms and my methods but they had always been effective—until, that is, I went into politics. But there was far more to it than that. I touched some tender nerves. To some it looked as if I was about to tread very heavily on some very big toes. That's why the heavy mob moved in with their—what shall we call them—their alternative methods.
“And their first target, of course, was Margaret. And then… well, you know what I’m talking about. That finally put paid to our marriage. It destroyed all that was left of a relationship that was already being torn apart by outside interference, press speculation and the pressures of my job. I denied that one, particularly sordid accusations then. I deny it now and I believe it, too, was part of a deliberate ploy. I also think there were other reasons behind my final marriage problems, but those were private and personal matters, not to be raked over, speculated on and minutely examined by groups of seedy, raincoat-clad press reporters and cameramen and whoever was paying them for their stories."
And then Jim really got going. In ten minutes he managed to cover standards of reporting, freedom of the press, phone hacking, the Royal family, the European Union, trouble in the Middle East, Islamic extremism, religious intolerance, democratic deficits and the lack of spiritual leadership. But throughout, Jim carefully watched Douglas sipping tea from his cup that he held between his thumb and first finger and, at one point, saw him check his watch. "Can't he even give me ten minutes after all this time?" he thought as he talked.
“Am I out of touch, Douglas?" he then concluded. "Is my view distorted by just one or two bad experiences or do I see things with much greater clarity than most? Has anything really changed for the better in the last fifty years?"
Douglas placed his cup daintily in its saucer, bit on a biscuit and sighed. "No, Jim, I cannot tell you it has improved. I understand your feelings. I think I always did. The problem is that people just get on with their lives. They are not so critical and analytical as you. Perhaps they don't have quite the same vision. They shrug, you see. Their attention span is short. They move on to the next page."
Jim sat back, tried looking around at other hotel guests getting on with their lives—a young couple side by side, two pairs of serious businessmen facing each other across their coffee cups, a young man alone with his mobile phone, a group of giggling women in smart suits, drinking white wine. "So was it just my style, my manner?" he asked.
"Yes, I suppose so. Biscuit?"
Jim felt like laughing. "Well, that's reassuring—I suppose," he said.
"So why come back, Jim?"
It was a good question. Perhaps Douglas was concentrating at last, Jim thought. Because there is no tea left and he's eaten the last biscuit. Jim wanted to say more about why he'd come back, but, for some reason, he didn't trust Douglas. There was something odd about Douglas that disturbed him. Perhaps he just hadn't noticed it before and three years was a long time.
For all Jim suddenly cared, Douglas could go away from here saying he'd met Jim Smith at the Cumberland. He imagined stories told over cups of Earl Grey tea and biscuits or with white wine and cucumber sandwiches. Yes, he's back from somewhere sunny—still looking a bit of an oddity—aged a lot and hair all over the place with a long beard—but just as opinionated as ever—quite clear the man should never have gone into politics in the first place.
"Oh, I just needed a break, Douglas, that's all," he said with unnatural flippancy. "Thought I'd look up a few old friends. Buy a few things to take home. I won't be staying long."
"And Margaret?" Douglas asked.
"Yes," he said, returning instantly to his natural seriousness. "I want to see her, talk to her. I need to know she is well and not lacking for anything. She will be sixty-five now." Jim knew he probably sounded vague and disinterested. In fact, he was both desperately longing to see Margaret and, at the same time, dreading the moment. There was also a side telling him he might be making a terrible mistake. "But, Douglas, I don't know where she is now."
"Ah, yes," Douglas said. "Ah, she ah, she moved—to Bristol about two years ago. She sold The Rookery to a family from Birmingham. You transferred pretty m
uch everything—property, pension, the lot, to her I understand, before you ah, disappeared—or just after. Am I right?"
"Yes," Jim confirmed , wondering how Douglas knew.
"But what did that leave you, Jim? What do you live on? Fresh air?"
"I get by. My daily needs are rudimentary."
"So where are you living, Jim?"
"South East Asia."
"Where exactly?"
Jim had waited so long to say it. He'd practiced it many times as he sat on the veranda in the morning sunshine or up on the hillside on his rock. "Oh, it's just a small place in the countryside, backing onto the hills. Nice spot. Lovely views. All mod cons. It's really quite cool as they say. You should come and see it some time. Nice garden. Not too many neighbors to spoil things."
"It sounds delightful, Jim. Uh, you live…alone?"
"Oh yes. I live quietly."
"So, what do you do with your time?"
"I paint."
"My goodness. I had no idea you were good with a brush, Jim."
"I was quite good at school, but I've now had time to practice. In fact I've brought a few pieces of my work along with me. I thought I'd show them to a gallery, perhaps even put on a small exhibition one day. I'll keep you posted."
"So you're planning on coming back again—at regular intervals? Perhaps permanently?" Once again, Jim saw that Douglas seemed far more concerned about this possibility than the joy of having an old friend around once again.
"Perhaps," Jim replied, deliberately deciding to leave the possibility wide open. Douglas wiped his mouth, nervously.
"So what else do you do, Jim?" Douglas asked as if trying to get a firmer fix on Jim's plans.
"I think a lot," he said. “I suppose you might call it meditation.”
"My goodness. Where did you learn that, Jim?"
"I didn't learn it, Douglas. No one taught me. I designed it to suit my needs. But I received some deep insight into the Buddhist philosophy of living. It appeals, Douglas. It appeals to my own natural instincts and my scientific training. I feel comfortable with it. Christianity is dying as a form of spiritual guidance. Islamic teaching, whilst tougher on discipline, has become too entrenched in outdated history and infighting. Islamic fundamentalism is filling the vacuum left by bewildered and disillusioned Christians and it is doing so by exploiting mass unemployment, deprivation and gross disparities in wealth.
“How many go to church on Sundays now? Christenings, weddings, funerals, yes, but there has to be a stronger reason for going to church than that. They go only because they feel it is socially right to be seen to go, not because they derive any real benefit or enlightenment from it or because they know it will help them become better, more responsible and understanding people. Instead, of worshipping the wonder of life itself they are being taught to worship money and possessions."
Jim felt himself moving into heavy territory once again—an outpouring of deeply felt opinion was likely unless he could stop himself. But—what the hell. He went for it. Douglas needed to hear it and he, Jim, wanted to say it.
“I detect a deeply worrying moral and spiritual vacuum. People must be encouraged to contemplate far more on their own lives and their contribution to the lives of others. Death is still not understood and has become a taboo subject. Just look at the hysteria, the bunches of flowers and soft toys you see these days when someone dies. There is no dignity in such public displays because they are shallow demonstrations of a society that has become too brash and obsessed with materialism.
“The living are barely understood either because no one thinks deeply enough about life’s origins or its destiny. Life to me is a mere function of matter but that does not mean it is to be dismissed as an irrelevance.
“I believe the world needs a new form of spiritual leadership. It needs valid explanations to the real questions that educated people ask. But there are no strong and influential spiritual leaders left. Christianity is a relic of the past, unfit for a modern way of life. What's more it is guarded by an army of bigots who seem to be as much at sea as the rest of us when it comes to explaining real issues about life and death.
“People need guidance and advice, explanations and new, constructive ideas to toy with. They want leadership by example. They don’t want to be further disillusioned by confused and fanatical religious committees who fight and argue amongst themselves about such shallow issues as wealth and status. It is shameful. People need warmth and vision, wisdom and fresh ideas, not weird stories about resurrections, angels, holy ghosts, miracles and fresh virgins waiting in a field. They don’t need outdated regulations on how you conduct the most personal sides of your life or edicts to wage war on non-believers. I ask you, Douglas. Who would you rather listen to? The Archbishop of Canterbury, the Pope, an Imam, an Ayatollah or the Dalai Lama? I know who wins, hands down."
Delivered at a symposium on modern religion it might have gone down well, but Douglas, Jim noticed, was looking around the bar that was becoming busier by the minute. Jim also saw him glance at his watch again. He heard him mutter, "Mmm." Enough was enough, it seemed.
"Do you want more tea, Douglas?"
"No thank you."
"And do you know where Margaret lives?" Jim asked.
Douglas now shifted in his chair. He grabbed at his walking stick as if it were about to fall, which it wasn't.
"Ah, yes. But are you sure about this, Jim?"
"Yes, of course. She's my wife. I know it's a long time and we are both getting older now."
Douglas fidgeted again and his facial expression changed. "But you are divorced, Jim."
The words hit Jim—hard. The shock showed on his face as a sudden widening of his eyes and a lowering of his jaw as his mouth opened. He looked at Douglas across the table. "Divorced?"
"Yes, a year or so ago."
Jim leaned forwards. Douglas leaned backwards, away from him, as if in need of a safe distance. "You left her, Jim. You disappeared. It was separation or desertion, or so I understand."
Jim sat, his mouth open, the need of dentistry on show. He tugged at his beard, looked at Douglas and then down at the table. It was not that the possibility had not occurred to him. The thought that he might now be a divorced man had, like all things, been given his normal, deep and analytical consideration. Even on the plane he had wondered what he would think and how he would react if he knew the answer. But as he did not know the answer, the impact on him could not be imagined. He had not allowed the likely effect to penetrate deeply enough to worry him and had fought it back. In fact he had not considered how he would feel or how he would live his life under such circumstances. It was as though his inner conscience had been trying to protect him and that it had decided that it was easier and less bothersome to remain in a state of not knowing.
But he now knew the truth and it was so sudden in coming. He was a divorced man, a divorcee and for Jim that meant the stigma and shame attached to the word. Divorced was a title conferred on those who had failed. The fact that more than one in three marriages ended in such a way was in no way comforting. The word was ugly. It was a word that meant mistakes had been made, relationships soured, that there had been unresolved differences and an incompatibility and it said that the legal profession, an intruding outside body of professionals, had been brought in for a fee to apply their cold, bureaucratic wisdom to a highly personal matter and had, after due consideration, pronounced the relationship finished and, irretrievably, broken down. Documents had been drawn up and signed, at least by one party.
"Have you seen her, Douglas?" Again, he noticed the delay in Douglas’s reply. Despite the distraction of the sudden news, Jim saw the look that appeared on Douglas’s face and how he looked away. Douglas was embarrassed. Why?
"Yes,” Douglas said nervously. “Megan used to talk to her. Woman to woman chats. Megan was ill at the time, you see."
"And since Megan died?"
"She's, ah, well."
"So where is she living. Can you
tell me?"
"Are you sure you know what you are doing, Jim?"
Jim disliked the suggestion and his irritation showed. "Yes, damn it. Of course."
"I see. Then I suppose I must give you a phone number."
"I need to see her, Douglas, not speak on the telephone. She might refuse to see me and I could not stand that."
"Call her first, Jim. It would be better." He put his hand inside his jacket and withdrew a small black address book, scribbled something and tore a page out. "There," he said, "though I am not sure it's a good idea."
"Why do you say that, Douglas?"
"It's dredging up the past, Jim. Sometimes it is best to put things aside and move on. Shrug and turn the page as I said earlier."
There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute. But then:
"Douglas," Jim said abruptly. Douglas almost jumped. "Do you remember Anne?"
"Anne? Anne who?"
"Anne McAllister, a Parliamentary researcher. I had been an MP for a few months and suddenly it was suggested I might benefit from a research assistant. Up crops Anne McAllister, Scottish, fairly recently married to an art dealer. She'd worked in Brussels for a while. Degree in sociology I think."
"Ah, yes," said Douglas. "I think I remember."
"What did you think of her?"
Douglas looked confused. "I probably only met her once—you introduced me because she came into your office. Why do you ask?"
"It doesn't matter. Forget I asked."
Chapter Forty-Eight
TOM WAS NOT in the hotel when Jim returned to the hotel in Windsor and so Jim went to his room, looked at himself in the mirror, didn't much like what he saw and lay on the bed. Margaret was on his mind, but so were Jonathan and Jan. He decided to go for a walk around Windsor, breathe some fresh air, find a distraction, then go back to check if Tom had turned up.
