Chosen

by Paddy Bostock

“And I cannot stand idly by and watch on while my world is turned on its head. Both personally and professionally, I take it as my duty to do whatever I can, if not totally to reverse these trends but at the very least to plant a few bombs in their path. As for the practicality of my plan, I have no idea if it will work. But then nothing ventured, nothing gained, eh? No E equals MC squared, no General Theory of Relativity, for example. And Einstein himself wasn’t absolutely sure he was right even then.”

  Barry chuckled and scrubbed harder at his frying plan.

  “So all I can suggest is that we trust our analysis and have a bash. If we make just the tiniest inroad, that would be a bonus. If we don’t, we don’t, but at least we will have tried. I say ‘we.’ Are you prepared to join in, despite the preposterousness? Need time to think it over perhaps?”

  Barry shook his head. “No, no. I’m persuaded. But I’m no computer whizz, Maurice. Quite what skills I could offer, I…”

  “You would leave all that to me, Prof. As I said, I have the equipment and I know how to use it. But a second pair of eyes to look over the final product would be invaluable. The way you once corrected my essays with those little pencilled comments in the margins?”

  Barry nodded and smiled. “And such essays they were, a pleasure to read. Much like the argument you have just prosecuted.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, and by the by, improbable though it may sound, I used rather to like John Lennon. My favourite of his songs was ‘Imagine.’”

  Maurice laughed. “Just like the old guy in St Petersburg. And who knows what the fallout might be once we dress Jeremy up as John returned from the dead and send the image virally with a suitable text? Russia would be the primary target, of course, but who knows what other spin-off effects there might be? We might even be able to resurrect in the US and the UK echoes of bygone better days and whip up a backlash against the unreason of these times. So you are with me?”

  “Every step of the way,” said Barry. “But there remains the problem of persuading Jeremy into his role in all of this.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him,” said Maurice. “But judging by the radical moves he’s recently made to change his life around, I have the feeling he’s the sort of chap ready for another adventure, albeit only a virtual one.”

  Nineteen

  Following the “triumph” of her grovelling last ditch offer of billions of pounds to Bastien Duchamps in exchange for his moving on Brexit negotiations from the tortuous issues surrounding the initial divorce to “serious discussions on trade,” PM Clarissa was pooped. Talking all the previous night on the phone to the Northern Irish and squabbling members of her own cabinet to “establish her authority” and then taking a pre-dawn flight back to Brussels to “lay her cards on the table” before Bastien were enough to poop anybody. But pooped though she was, she went on grinning gormlessly from the announcement podium the following morning even when, in front of the world’s media, Bastien reminded her from his lectern that in all divorces the first part was always the easiest. What came afterwards was harder to thrash out, much more complicated, and would certainly take longer to achieve than Clarissa apparently had in mind. If anything were achieved at all.

  “Nothing is agreed until everything is agreed,” said Bastien in summary.

  But on Clarissa went nonetheless, waving the flag for Britain. Not the whole of Britain, you understand. The 48% of EU Remainers from the 2016 referendum, for example, ridiculed her performance. As, paradoxically, did a large proportion of the 52% Leavers, who reckoned she was being conned by the very unelected European morons they wanted no more to do with, which was why they’d voted leave in the first place. A similar division was replicated within her cabinet back at 10 Downing Street, although to the media hacks with their cameras waiting outside, every minister struggling through the door produced toothy smirks and thumbs ups while muttering undying allegiance to their leader. The only one to produce any joined-up language was “Fat Slob,” the foreign secretary who, over his shoulder, said, “Finally we’ve got HMS Britain off the rocks and set her sailing again,” before waving perfunctorily at the cameras and hurrying off “On urgent business in Bongo Bongo Land.” No wonder, on her return to the sceptred isle, pooped Clarissa had scuttled through the doors of No 10 and headed straight upstairs to her bedroom, upon whose door she plastered the warning DO NOT DISTURB UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES WHATSOEVER.

  Not that Clarissa slept easy. Normally she went out like a light once her head hit the pillow and, being a person devoid of imagination, never dreamed. But not so on this occasion. Toss and turn, turn and toss she went in her prime ministerial four poster, alongside which, on a bedside table, sat her hotline phone to the madman in the White House, which never rang because the madman in the White House was too busy tweeting and re-tweeting he was a “stable genius” against the charge he was an unbalanced baby too much in need of perpetual instant gratification to be bothered with the “special relationship.” And, during this tossing and turning, in semi-sleep, Clarissa uncharacteristically experienced what she assumed to be a vision. Terrible it was too: Clarissa being stabbed in the back while breast-stroking across the ladies’ swimming pond on Hampstead Heath by Fat Slob who was abetted by Lurch, aka the chancellor of the exchequer, Jiggle Jaws the home secretary, the rest of the cabinet, and a significant number of the Nazi/Tory members in the Houses of Commons and Lords, all of them in black wetsuits and goggles treading water beneath her. And then came the coup de grâce administered by the Bowie knife thrust up her thorax by Bastien Duchamps. His wetsuit was blue with twelve gold stars on it.

  Unsurprisingly, Clarissa emerged from this novel experience gagging and clutching at her throat, but, as she’d been taught on the playing fields of Roedean and Cambridge after being hit in the face by a hockey stick, one did not cry. Unlike her Roedean and Cambridge days, however, now she kept two bottles of spirits—vodka and gin—in the cupboard beneath her bedside table, and from them she took hefty swigs before calling Sir Hubert Humphreys and Dame Muriel Eggleshaw on her hotline phone to demand progress on the search for Jeremy Crawford, the guy she now realised she needed more radically than ever to re-focus the narrative on the UK’s—and her—fate.

  ~ * ~

  The man in question was currently back in the bluebell woods abutting Barry’s Shepherd’s Hut, but this time accompanied by only Maurice Moffat, who had invited him out for “a little chat.” The dying sun cast oblique shadows on the pair as they ambled along through the trees before deciding to take a rest on the trunk of a fallen oak, which offered convenient indentations for both their bottoms.

  “You cannot be serious,” said Jeremy in the manner of John McEnroe querying an umpire’s line call decision.

  “Such was more or less the view of your new friend Barry,” Maurice said, taking from his coat pocket a well-chewed rosewood briar and a pouch of St Bruno. “I think in the end, however, even he was persuaded,” he added, tamping the tobacco into the pipe.

  “That I should dress up as John Lennon, and…”

  “Only a lookalike, old chap,” said Maurice, using one hand to fire up the briar with a Zippo Pipe Master and the other to ensure no lit embers fell to the forest floor.

  “And then have it fed all around Russia to upset Ripurpantzov? C’mon…”

  “Stranger things have happened in the USA, Jeremy. But, before we go any further, may I be sure as to the root of your disquiet? Personal or political, which is it?”

  Jeremy took a deep breath of the forest air and stared off at the setting sun, its shadows now longer.

  “It’s just…” he eventually said.

  “That?” Maurice said, puffing at his briar.

  “Many things have happened to me in recent times, things I could never have foreseen, and…”

  “Things you chose, Jeremy, however. As I understand it, at least. Rather in the manner in which Barry chose to be a gardener instead of continuing to be an Oxford professor.”

&n
bsp; “True.” Jeremy smiled. “Choosing for once, rather than being chosen.”

  “Exactly. And, let us be clear that with choice comes responsibility. It’s not just a question of freeloading like the hippies all those years ago. We cannot merely opt out of systems. Which was the great thing about Lennon. The way he laid bare his weaknesses then tried to encourage others to do the same, even though everybody in those days thought he was crazy. ‘Come together over me,’ right?”

  Jeremy nodded. “The personal and the political equal parts of the same thing?”

  “Quite. And by ‘political,’ we’re not talking party politics. We’re talking everyday life.”

  “Mmm. And what exactly is your part in that, Maurice? From the super-spook perspective. You must be risking your neck a bit with this Ripurpantzov plan. Tricky selling it to the top brass, I should have thought.”

  “There are times, Jeremy, such as now, when the balance of global affairs has shifted so drastically that one senses the imperative to do something about it without asking anyone’s permission and let the devil take the hindmost. You chose to leave your past life behind in silence and without a clue of what was up ahead. Such a choice is also open to me.”

  Maurice shrugged and fiddled with his pipe.

  “That word ‘choice’ yet again,” said Jeremy.

  “Indeed. But, as Jean-Paul Sartre remarked, ‘Commitment is an act, not a word.’ According to him, if we are truly to be, first we must use our freedom to choose, then we must act in accordance with that choice.”

  In Jeremy’s mind distant bells rang, reminders of the philosophy bit of his PPE programme all those years ago. “So we don’t just exist like the other animals.”

  “Quite. In Sartre’s view, human essence is supposedly beyond mere existence.” Maurice chuckled while sucking at his pipe. “Mind you, a proper cock-up we’ve made of our superior powers so far, have we not? By wrecking the very planet we live on, just for starters.”

  “Maybe that’s why Barry became a gardener,” said Jeremy. “To save the last patches he could. Like this bluebell wood.”

  “And more power to his elbow. I wish him well. Meanwhile, there remains this little favour I was asking of you. Any further thoughts?”

  “I’ll think it over. If I’ve come this far, I could go a little further, right?”

  “Up to you, old chap,” said Maurice, tapping out the ashes of his pipe on the heel of his shoe and making sure they didn’t set fire to any undergrowth. “Your choice. Now should we make our way back home? People will be wondering where we’ve been for so long.”

  ~ * ~

  Back at the Shepherd’s Hut, Dennis and Julie had asked Barry why Jeremy and Maurice had gone off on their own, to which Barry replied, “Oh, you know just a little ramble. Some project Maurice has in mind. You’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure. Meanwhile cups of tea all round perhaps? I also have some rather good Hobnobs we could chew on.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Dennis, mussing Colin’s ruff with one hand and Hans’s with the other from his armchair while Shirley lay curled at Julie’s feet. Pete had opted to sit outside awaiting his master’s return.

  “Want a hand with the tea and biccies?” said Julie.

  “Many thanks,” said Barry. “Tell you what, I’ll brew and you can carry. How would that be?”

  Julie grinned. “So it’s the girl that gets to be the waitress?”

  “Oops, sorry, no offence intended, I promise you. So, to remedy matters, how about you brew and I’ll carry. How would that be?”

  “Perfect. But no bags okay. When I make tea, I need leaves and a pot.”

  “Follow me, Julie. A pot you shall have and access to leaves of many varieties from builders’ to lap sang su chong. I shall leave the blend to you while I prepare my tray.”

  So off the pair went into the kitchen, leaving ex-copper Dennis/Betty to wonder what all the fuss was about. Where Dennis was concerned, girls were just girls and tea was just tea.

  Mind you, when Barry returned ten minutes later toting the tray from which Dennis took his mug and sipped, even he was obliged to hoist his eyebrows and declare it the brew the best he’d ever tasted.

  “Mmm,” he said, licking his lips. “Perfect.”

  “My old dad’s recipe. Glad you like it,” said Julie. “Goes nicely with Hobnobs.”

  Colin, Hans and Shirley agreed as they were given pre-dunked biscuits to try.

  “Raaf, raaf,” they chorused, each sitting dutifully on their bottoms in the hope of more.

  It was once everybody was seated again, happily sipping and dunking while offering the dogs the odd snack that Julie asked Barry for further elucidation of the question which had been nagging at her ever since her arrival at the Shepherd’s Hut, namely: what exactly was it, this choosing and being chosen business. Okay, she could see why Jeremy might have wanted to change his life around, as indeed Dennis/Betty had. But…

  “How might that also apply to you?” said Barry.

  “Mmm, yes.”

  Normally Julie Mackintosh refused all questions about herself but now was not a normal time and Barry was a bloke—one of the very few apart from her father—she was starting to trust.

  “Well,” said Barry, “Given my recent faux pas on the waitress issue, you would be forgiven for not believing me, but I am and always have been a feminist.”

  Julie raised both eyebrows, Dennis blinked, and Barry nodded.

  “Yes, I am,” he confirmed. “I was never much impressed by the bra-burning and such antics, and was even more underwhelmed by their latterday little sister postfeminism because both rendered women easy prey to male mockery. But I believed and still believe in the vital issue of consciousness-raising, which to my mind was always the nub of the matter. And, interestingly, where it coincides with the ‘choosing and chosen business’ you asked about, Julie.”

  Dennis excused himself saying this was all a bit above his head and anyway he needed a pee.

  Julie was interested though. “How?” she said, all ears.

  “Well, in both cases what we are concerned with is ‘know thyself,’ as both Socrates and Plato pointed out. How can we understand other people if we don’t understand ourselves, they asked. Sadly for many people such a question is relegated to the very depths of their psyches because they are so preoccupied with erecting an impenetrable self-image that to ask it would be inviting disaster. They are what they seem and that image needs to be constantly reinforced. Am I making any sense?”

  Julie nodded. “Lots of it.”

  “This is true for both men and women,” Barry continued. “But it seems to me that it’s women whose façades are the hardest to maintain. Call it a glass ceiling, call it anything you want, but even in these supposedly liberated days, it is still they who are the most exposed to the unexamined, predominantly male, assumptions of family, social class, race, religion, etcetera. The age old myths die hard.”

  “In other words, we are always already chosen,” said Julie, reflecting ruefully on Sir Magnus’s view of what he still referred to as the gentle sex. “Still moving to the rhythms of others.”

  “I couldn’t have put it more neatly myself. It seems you have just answered your own question.”

  “Well, that kind of a life is not for this girl. Not anymore.”

  Barry laughed. “I’m glad to hear it. Mind you, not all of us men are the blighters I describe. Some of us have done a little of the necessary thinking,” he was saying as Pete took to oinking and there came the knock on the door announcing the return of Jeremy and Maurice.

  Julie ran to open it and took Jeremy by the hand.

  Twenty

  Sir Magnus Montague had taken even more steps towards becoming a new man and to honouring his promise before magistrate Dame Sally Swinburne to become more socially aware. He had, for example, written to PM Clarissa saying he didn’t want to be a knight of the realm anymore and she could give his gong to anyone else she fancied, although his recommendation w
ould be a deserving overworked person in the National Health Service. Nurse Angeles Rodriguez and Professor Doctor Hugo Printemps would be excellent candidates, in his view.

  He had also radically reviewed his position at the bank. The initial temptation had been, like Jeremy, to quit altogether and run away. But on reflection he had opted to stay, albeit in the newly created role of the “facilitator” of an operation in which all employees, male and female, were equals, paid the same wages for the same work, and all of whom were granted both free shares in the business and votes at all board meetings. Amazed at this volte face were the employees, but also enthusiastic, grateful, and according to all indices, more productive than ever before. Ex-colleagues in the shrinking City of London were astonished, some of its luminaries even themselves considering similar moves in order to counter the threat of extinction as the Brexit negotiations continued to flounder.

  Magnus, now known as “Maggie,” was pleased. He hadn’t transgendered or anything, you understand, just changed his name. But he had grown what was left of his hair into something vaguely resembling Elvis’s—sideburns and a quiff—lost weight, and taken to wearing skinny black leather jeans, black T-shirts with logos such as PEACE AT ANY PRICE, and black brothel creepers specially crafted by a retro outfit called Old Shoes in Balham, South London. He had also sold his midnight blue Bentley—with a new battery—and donated the proceeds to charities for the homeless. These days, permanently sober and nicotine-free on doctor’s orders, he travelled by Lambretta motor scooter wearing a white crash hat from which sprouted a little flag bearing in red letters the message FREEDOM. A new man indeed was (Sir) Magnus Montague but, as noted, a near-death experience can have that sort of effect on a person.

  His desire to discover the whereabouts of Jeremy Crawford, however, remained un-diminished, although now for quite different reasons. No longer did he wish to punish the “little blighter” for having gone bonkers and deserted his post at the bank, no siree. Instead he wanted to shake him by the hand and congratulate him on the wisdom of his decision to get out of the game while he was still young enough to make a new start, unlike (Sir) Magnus/Maggie who, despite his recent lucky escape, was nonetheless in what he thought of a life’s departure lounge. No spring chicken was he, despite his Elvis makeover. But he’d had no luck so far. Julie Mackintosh/Jackie Lamur was still as lost to the world as Jeremy himself, so hopes of finding him were fading fast on that front.