A Very Persistent Illusion

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘And you think he’s going to stitch me – Magwitch, that is – up.’

  Jon is looking at me oddly. ‘Is there something I need to know?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ I say, giving him the reassuring smile, ‘I just wanted to make sure we were both saying the same thing if he tried again.’

  ‘He won’t contact you. He knows that I deal with the press.’

  ‘I dealt with him over the faked research.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Jon, ‘but that was a while ago, before I arrived. I deal with the press now. With respect, the last thing I need is you or somebody else here trying to do my job for me. It’s fine as it is.’

  ‘Maybe I should give him a call though?’

  ‘No,’ says Jon. ‘That’s the one thing you should not do.’

  * * *

  ‘Spain,’ says a bored voice.

  ‘Hi, Digby, my old friend. Chris here,’ I say. ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘Chris Sorensen.’

  ‘Ah, Christian . . . yes, of course, how can I help you?’

  ‘I just wondered how your chat with George had gone.’

  ‘Professor Magwitch? Fine. Thank you very much for arranging it. I am eternally grateful.’

  ‘I just need to check what George told you.’

  ‘He told me what I needed to know.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘His side of the story.’

  Not giving much away then, our Digby. I try a preemptive strike.

  ‘Look,’ I say, in my most honeyed tones, ‘old George can be fairly outspoken. That’s why they like having him as a panellist on Question Time – you know how he likes to wind people up. He can say some pretty stupid things. A lot of his colleagues hate his guts for obvious reasons. I mean, he’s not exactly politically correct, is he? But, Digby, he’s a decent sort of guy. That’s the real story. He’s the sort of doctor they don’t make any more. A man of principle and integrity. Plenty of people care about kids. He cares about everyone. Think of him as a Cumbrian Mother Teresa. Do you know how many lives he has saved? Do you?’

  ‘No, he didn’t say. How many? It would be useful to have that.’

  I realize that I actually don’t know either, so I quickly say: ‘So, you mustn’t take his views about Dan Smith too seriously.’

  ‘Which views?’

  ‘About his being a wife beater or a benefit cheat.’

  ‘I don’t think he said either of those things. Is that his view then? He thinks Dan Smith is a benefit cheat?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Not at all.’ I say it fast, but there is of course no way that I can say it quite fast enough at this stage.

  ‘So,’ says Digby, like somebody with all the time in the world, ‘let me get this right – were you calling him a benefit cheat then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sure I heard somebody say it,’ says Digby Spain with what can only be described as mock-puzzlement. Smug git. ‘Now, you said that Professor Magwitch often said stupid things. What did you mean by that?’

  ‘I didn’t say that exactly.’

  There is a pause. ‘According to my notes, you did.’

  ‘Are you taking notes?’ I say, out of more than mild curiosity.

  ‘I always take notes. You’d be surprised how easy it is to forget things if you don’t.’

  This is true. I try to remember, not having taken notes myself, exactly what I’ve said so far. Did I, for example, imply that George Magwitch was the last remaining doctor on the planet with any sort of integrity? That may not play too well with doctors generally, such as our President, our Vice-Presidents, our chairs of committees and indeed the entire paying membership of the Society. So it may be better if Digby doesn’t quote me on that either.

  ‘Obviously this is off the record,’ I suggest. Even to myself, I do not sound that confident.

  ‘In what sense do you mean: obviously?’ Digby enquires. I think he may be smiling, but possibly not in a good way.

  ‘Press Office briefings usually are.’

  ‘Not in my experience. In any case, Jon is your press man, isn’t he?’

  I wonder if it would be possible to rewind this conversation back to the beginning and start all over again, either with me not making the phone call at all or possibly introducing myself as ‘Narinder’.

  ‘So, why do Professor Magwitch’s colleagues hate him?’ asks Digby.

  ‘Did I say that?’ Did I say that?

  ‘Well, you actually said that they hated his guts, but I take it they hate the rest of him as well.’ Digby’s enjoying this.

  ‘That was definitely off the record,’ I say.

  ‘Christian, could I give you some advice?’

  ‘Of course, Digby, of course.’ Is he offering me a lifeline?

  ‘If you want something to be off the record, tell the journalist before you open your big mouth. Or better still, don’t open it at all.’ Well, that’s cleared that one up: he’s not offering me a lifeline.

  ‘If you write that George Magwitch is hated by his colleagues, I’ll deny ever having said anything of the sort.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ says Digby genially. ‘It has the ring of truth, though. I can see why he would be a rather abrasive and difficult colleague. Thanks, Christian. That is very insightful.’

  Even I can see this is not going well. Of course, that doesn’t mean I can’t make things worse.

  ‘Look, Digby, you’ll treat this whole conversation as off the record or there’ll be trouble,’ I say.

  Digby Spain is laughing so much that there is, I am delighted to say, a genuine chance he will choke to death. ‘Can I quote you on that?’ he asks.

  * * *

  I check my mail and immediately call Jon into my office.

  ‘What’s this new email from Passmore?’ I say, once he has closed the door.

  ‘The one about staff relationships?’ he says. Like Digby Spain, he’s smiling.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. Or possibly I hiss it. My voice is doing all sorts of things this morning without checking with my brain first. Maybe after the Digby Spain conversation it reckons it’s safer making the decisions on its own.

  ‘The email’s nothing new,’ says Jon, ‘just a reminder about what it says in the Staff Handbook. Senior staff are not supposed to have close personal relationships – and absolutely zero sexual relationships – with staff working for them. You and Lucy, for example.’ Jon is smirking from ear to ear as he says this last bit.

  ‘What business is it of bloody Passmore’s?’ I demand.

  ‘Technically, none at all. You will see that he has signed himself Deputy Secretary – a promotion as yet unannounced. Roger will not be too pleased about that. I fear, however, that this is the shape of things to come. We’ll be seeing a lot of these little edicts once Brindley Passmore really gets his feet under the table as deputy führer.’

  ‘And it’s aimed at me?’

  ‘And Lucy,’ he says. ‘But mainly at you.’

  ‘How does he know about that?’

  ‘The two of you have been a bit obvious, don’t you think? You might try going off to lunch at slightly different times. Also I can’t remember when I last had a three-hour discussion with you with the door closed.’

  ‘The door’s closed now. I am nevertheless not ravishing you on Society premises. Nor do I plan to.’

  ‘I’m not a twenty-two-year-old girl wearing a purely token attempt at a skirt.’

  ‘We’re just friends,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I have never imagined for a moment that there was anything going on at all. I mean, you and Lucy . . .’ His smile dismisses the very idea of it.

  I am a bit put out that he is so certain but I just say: ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘You’re much too old for her.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I do my best to make it sound as if I am joking, but am aware that I may not have entirely succeeded. Anyway, I scarcely think Jon is in a position to accuse a
nyone of being too old.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ he says, ‘is why you both seem to be doing everything possible to confirm everyone’s worst suspicions.’

  ‘Like I say – it’s our business.’

  There is a nominal knock on the door and Susan, the Society’s Archivist and thus one of Passmore’s myrmidons, is suddenly in our midst, clutching a bundle of papers to her chest. She is dressed entirely in black as usual. Her red lipstick (Clinique – Current Plum) is the one flash of colour.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything important?’ she enquires sweetly. I wonder how much of the conversation she has already heard.

  Jon is now looking out of the window so it’s down to me to grade the importance of the discussion we have been having.

  ‘As you are aware, Susan, I don’t do anything important,’ I say. ‘E fortiori our middle-aged colleague on my left.’

  ‘Do you know? That’s exactly what Brindley tells everyone,’ she says, looking from Jon to me and then back again. ‘I’ll go away and let you get on with your inconsequential conversation then, but first I need to check if you have a copy of the June 1998 Society Newsletter; Brindley thought you might, and I need one to complete the run in the archives.’

  ‘I’ll see if I’ve got one and send it over later,’ I say. Then I add: ‘Were you listening outside the door a moment ago?’

  Susan flutters her mascaraed eyelashes (Maybelline – Sky-High Curves). ‘Of course not,’ she says with slightly too much sincerity. ‘And in any case, I have no interest in your lunchtime arrangements, Chris. Unless you want to invite me, of course. Brindley wondered, by the way, what you thought of the new Staff Suggestion Box.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘All staff are being invited to make suggestions for improving the efficiency of their departments. He thought all of you in External Relations would have masses of ways of being more efficient.’

  I decide not to rise to this one and just return her smile.

  ‘By the way, he’s thinking of introducing a dress code,’ she adds. ‘Suits and ties for all senior staff. Oh, and socks, I think, Chris.’

  ‘Very amusing,’ I say.

  It’s her turn to smile. I wonder if Passmore really thinks he can introduce a dress code in a twenty-first-century office. It’s the sort of thing he’d try to do.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you boys to it, then,’ Susan says. ‘Have a nice lunch, Chris. You and whoever the lucky girl is.’

  ‘You see,’ says Jon, after she has gone, ‘it’s obviously reached Brindley’s people. Even if nothing is going on, everyone seems to have heard about it.’

  ‘Stuff everyone,’ I say.

  ‘All the same, I wouldn’t annoy him,’ says Jon, in his capacity as the Oracle of Delphi.

  I am well aware what happens to people who disrespect the Oracles. ‘I’ll annoy Brindley Passmore every bit as much as I want to,’ I say. ‘It’s my right.’

  Even on days when I choose to believe in the material existence of most of the universe I shall, I decide, always find room to make an exception for Poxy Passmore.

  * * *

  Though my office lies on the highly prestigious first floor and though I am only one degree removed from the very biggest cheeses of the Society, I take my turn in minuting committee meetings. Even Humph condescends to act as secretary to some exalted Society board. It’s part of the job round here.

  Today is the External Affairs Committee, which was set up at some time in the past to allow one Vice-President to score off another Vice-President, and which continues to function because nobody has found a way to disband it. It overlaps with, and badly hinders, many other Society committees; but that was precisely what it was created to do. It is fit for purpose.

  My standard black and red A5 notebook is open in front of me. Occasionally I write something. Occasionally I look around the table. Occasionally I nod to the Chairman to show that I am awake and have noted some point on which action will need to be taken. Sometimes my views are sought, though often they are not.

  I scribble a couple of words on the lined page and then re-read the notes that I have already made. So far, I have written this:

  As desert sands roll on, where nothing lives,

  And, grain on sterile grain, rise up in dunes,

  As lifeless water plays across the stones

  And painted flow’rs in frames seek to deceive,

  As marvels of the taxidermist’s art

  Spring sightless, tongue-less from the plaster bough,

  With wings outstretched but stiff and useless now,

  Dry bones, dry skin, dry talons, all inert;

  Thus is the deadness of these living hours

  These barren days, these barren months, these years

  That drain our strength, our youth, our very powers

  And bring the silent stones themselves to tears.

  Where little’s done and nothing’s done in haste:

  All time spent in committees is misplaced.

  Well, it’s a sonnet, right enough. No doubt about that. Not exactly Petrarchan and not exactly Shakespearian and not exactly a hybrid of the two. ABBA CDDC EFEFDD. It is, I decide, a Sorensenian sonnet, and eminently permissible. I have to admire my daring in rhyming not only ‘stones’ with ‘dunes’ but also ‘lives’ with ‘deceive’ (awesome) in the very same quatrain. Eat your heart out, Spenser. But ‘powers’ is frankly only in there for the rhyme, and I’m still not sure about that final couplet. I’d like to get the word ‘waste’ into it. In which case, maybe I could change the last line to . . .

  ‘Did you get that action point, Chris?’ asks the chairman, from a long way away.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say, with a quick and confident smile.

  And we move on to the next item on the agenda.

  * * *

  I dial Virginia’s office number.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she says. ‘Is it important, because I’m just off to a meeting?’

  ‘No, I just haven’t heard from you for a day or two. Your father called last night. We both wondered what you were up to.’

  ‘Did you both? How sweet. I must ring Daddy this evening anyway. Thanks for the reminder.’

  ‘How did your work thing go?’

  ‘Work thing?’

  ‘At the weekend.’

  ‘Oh, that. Fine.’

  ‘What was it exactly?’

  ‘Oh, just people from work, getting together. Doing things.’

  ‘Yes, I’d gathered that much.’

  ‘Sorry, darling. I’d tell you if I thought you were interested, but honestly you’re not. Grown-ups’ stuff. Got to dash now. Love you!’

  ‘Love you,’ I say. But the line has already gone dead.

  * * *

  I dial Dave’s work number.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Chris,’ he says. ‘Haven’t spoken to you since . . . last night. What can I do for you, mate?’

  ‘Fancy a drink after work?’ I ask.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ says Dave. ‘Not tonight. I’m taking Megan to see the new Johnny Depp picture.’

  ‘Megan? Paul’s Megan?’

  ‘Megan,’ he says. ‘Just Megan.’

  ‘I could come too,’ I say, ‘I haven’t seen that one.’

  ‘We’re going straight after work,’ he says.

  I don’t see how that rules me out, but I can see that he might not want to expose Megan to competition like me. I point this out to him.

  ‘Take Virginia to see it,’ he says.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘We’ll do the drink tomorrow night.’

  ‘Not sure what I’m doing tomorrow. I’ll definitely catch up with you later this week. Sorry, Chris, I’ve got to dash.’

  Where, I wonder, is everyone dashing to this morning? It’s the pace of modern life, I guess. Soon they’ll all be having nervous breakdowns.

  * * *

  I dial Lucy’s work number and listen to the p
hone ring just outside my office door.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Chris? I’m right here. Why are you phoning me?’

  ‘Can’t be arsed to open the door,’ I say.

  I hear her giggling without the aid of the phone.

  ‘You can be so childish at times,’ she says.

  ‘Lunch, Villandry,’ I say. ‘I leave at twelve fifty. You leave at twelve fifty-five. Let nobody see you. You go down Great Portland Street. I’ll go down Portland Place. Rendezvous at the restaurant at thirteen hundred hours precisely. I’ve booked a table in the name of Percy Passmore to throw them all off the scent.’

  ‘Should I wear anything distinctive so that you can recognize me?’ she says.

  ‘Fancy dress optional,’ I say, ‘but I should warn you I am wearing no socks today.’

  ‘You’ll have to guess what I’m not wearing,’ she says.

  ‘Really?’ I say, with genuine interest.

  ‘In your dreams, Chris. In your dreams.’

  ‘Thirteen hundred hours,’ I repeat. ‘Let us synchronize watches.’

  * * *

  In my befuddled post-lunch state, the sound of my phone ringing confuses me for an instant. There are two ringing tones – one for internal calls and one for external. This one is external, I think. Wine at lunchtime is a bad idea.

  ‘Royal Society for Medical Education,’ I say, in my best external manner.

  ‘Now, Christian, what is the Society going to do about George Magwitch?’

  I do not need to ask who this is. The clipped delivery, the self-certainty, the stamina to lecture me for the next half-hour – it is Barbara Proudie.

  She runs an organisation set up, ostensibly, to fight for victims of medical negligence of all sorts. In practice it seems to exist mainly to provide grief for George Magwitch and a few close friends, of which I (in Barbara’s view) have the good fortune to be one.

  ‘When is the Society going to conduct a full inquiry into his research?’ she demands. ‘This is the medical establishment closing ranks again, Christian. I have evidence that he did not obtain proper consent, but you do nothing about it. People could have died just so that he could test some crackpot theory.’