by L. C. Tyler
26
London
I am halfway through my first pint before Dave finally shows his face. I hate it when people keep you waiting.
‘My round,’ he says, without prompting. ‘Same again? Pint of Shires?’
‘Shires is a fictitious brewery, whose products are available only in the equally fictitious village of Ambridge,’ I point out.
‘All tastes the same to me,’ says Dave. ‘I’ll just get whatever bitter they serve here.’
He bustles off to the bar and returns with two foaming pint glasses. Even so I’m thinking: All tastes the same to me? This is not the way Dave normally talks.
‘What do you mean – it all tastes the same?’ I enquire politely. ‘Have you suddenly turned into some sort of effete, Babycham-drinking Spurs supporter, Birtwistle?’
He shrugs. ‘How’s Virginia? It must be tough on her with her father suddenly dying like that. Tough on you too. How old was he?’
‘Early sixties.’
‘No age,’ says Dave with a shake of the head.
‘I thought you reckoned anyone over fifty must be senile,’ I say.
‘No, just you,’ says Dave.
‘I’m not over fifty,’ I say.
Dave gives a grin and takes a long pull on the pint glass. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth in his usual slobbish manner. Some things are still reassuringly the same then.
‘What was the trip north all about?’ he asks.
I give him a quick résumé of the past few days, omitting items such as my sobbing on Virginia’s shoulder and Hugh’s links with the Mafia, but playing up my role in the pursuit of Malcolm through Grasmere and excellent detective work generally.
He nods appreciatively. ‘And how are things between you and Virginia now?’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘I think we might just be about to get married.’
‘Congratulations,’ he says, without any hint of irony. ‘How’s Lucy going to take that?’
‘I’m sure she’ll be very brave,’ I say.
‘Dumped you, did she?’
‘Not in so many words.’
‘Whatever,’ he says. ‘Still, well done. I’m really pleased for both of you. You and Virginia, that is; though Lucy seems to have made a sound choice too.’ He looks for a moment as though he is about to shake my hand in a vigorous and manly fashion, but I offer no encouragement.
‘And how has your week been?’ I ask slightly patronizingly, as you do when you’ve had the sort of time I’ve had.
‘Quite eventful too,’ he says.
There is one of those deliberate pauses. I’m supposed to ask what has happened, but I have a feeling of foreboding.
‘Well, since you ask so eagerly,’ he continues, ‘I’m getting married to Megan.’
‘Married to Megan?’
‘If Virginia will put up with you, why not Megan and me?’
‘Good point,’ I concede, though frankly I see no comparison of any sort. ‘So are you going to let me have a date so I can get working on my best man speech? I’ve got a few anecdotes I’ve been saving up for just such an occasion. I might just tell the one about you in the bar in Corfu . . .’
I stop because I am not getting any of the reactions I expect. ‘OK, not the Corfu story then,’ I say. ‘What? Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘I’ve asked Pete to be best man,’ he says.
‘Pete?’
‘My brother Pete.’
‘I know who Pete is,’ I say. ‘That clearly isn’t what I meant.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s your funeral,’ I say.
‘Wedding,’ he says.
‘Same thing.’
We both drink for a bit, then he says: ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t keep saying it,’ I say. ‘It’s fine. It’s all fine. We’re still mates.’
Actually, it is fine, but Dave feels the need still to explain and make it even better than that. This is usually a bad plan.
‘It’s just . . .’ he begins. ‘It’s just that Megan doesn’t see you as a very good influence on me.’
‘Me? On you?’ You’ll have to agree it seems a bit rich. But didn’t somebody else say the same thing to me recently?
‘She says I’m quite normal when I’m with her, but that when I’m with you we seem to be trying to outdo each other in coarseness and male chauvinism. Don’t blame me: it’s just that’s what she says.’
This too seems to be something I have heard before. It’s untrue; I’m simply conceding I might have heard it before.
‘Well, obviously,’ I say. ‘It’s what us lads do.’
‘Not at your age,’ he says.
I say nothing.
‘How old are you, Chris?’
I say nothing.
‘Forty-three?’
I say nothing.
‘You and Pete were already in the sixth form when I was in the first form, and I’m thirty-six. So you’re forty-three? Forty-four?’
‘Forty-two,’ I say indignantly. ‘I’m hardly out of my thirties. Call it thirty-twelve.’
‘Good old Chris,’ he says.
‘Meaning what?’ I say.
‘Never face up to reality unless you have to.’
‘And your point is?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘I’ll come to the wedding even if I’m not best man.’
There is another pause.
‘You are inviting me to the wedding?’ I say.
‘I’m sure she’ll come round to it,’ he says.
‘She doesn’t even want me at the wedding? How often has she even met me? Once? Twice?’
‘Often enough,’ he says with an awkward smile. He’d like to make a joke of it, but I’m not going to let him.
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ I say. ‘This isn’t happening.’
‘Good old Chris,’ he says uncertainly.
‘Well, you’ll be best man at my wedding anyway . . .’ Then I see from Dave’s expression that this too is not a foregone conclusion.
‘One day at a time, eh?’ he says.
‘Dave, we’re supposed to be mates.’
‘We’ll always be mates,’ he says. I just wish he sounded a bit more convinced.
‘Mates invite each other to their weddings,’ I point out.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he says with a sudden fierceness that I don’t remember seeing before. ‘Does it really matter? I had Megan on about it all last night. It looks as if I’ll have you on about it all tonight. Fine, have it your own way – we’re not mates. At least I won’t have to sit here and listen to your inane middle-aged ramblings all evening. At least I won’t have to listen to you trying to pretend to be twenty-five again. At least I won’t have to hear the stories about you chatting up girls half your age. At least I won’t have to buy your bloody beer for you all the time. If we’re not mates then that is perfectly in order.’
‘So that’s how you see me? A pathetic, balding, middle-aged bloke trying to be twenty and leching after teenage girls.’
‘You missed the bit about not buying your rounds.’
I ignore this slur and repeat the teenage girls stuff.
‘I said half your age – that wouldn’t make them teenagers by a couple of years,’ he says with a forced grin. He goes to punch me on the arm, but I pull back. He shrugs. ‘Oh, come on. I didn’t mean it. It’s just that Megan has been giving me grief about the guest list generally – not just about you. Too many of my friends, she says, and not enough of her family. Not enough of either set of friends, I say, and too many relations generally. It’s all a bit tense at the moment. I’ll sort it out. You’ll be at my wedding and Megan and I will be at yours. We’re mates, OK?’
‘But that is how you see me? That is how you’ve always perceived me?’
‘What does it matter how I perceive you?’
‘Esse est percipi,’ I observe.
‘Meaning?’
‘Meani
ng, if people see you as a pathetic fraud, then you are a pathetic fraud.’
‘OK, fine. You’re a pathetic fraud. You said it. Not me. But I’ll agree with you, if that’s what floats your boat. OK? Look, Chris, I don’t mind the crap jokes, but just spare me the self-pity. You’re old enough to know better.’
I realize that all I need to do is to say sorry for overreacting, to agree that it doesn’t matter if I go to the wedding or not, to offer to buy a round. In due course a gold-edged invitation will come my way. We’ll go and watch Southend lose to Colchester at Roots Hall. This need not be the end of a beautiful friendship.
‘Go to hell,’ I therefore suggest to him. ‘And take your stupid football team with you.’
‘Arsenal or Southend?’ He seems genuinely curious.
‘Stuff them both.’
‘Whatever,’ he says. He won’t even argue with me now.
But you can always find a new angle on a quarrel if you try hard enough.
‘So,’ I say, jabbing my finger at him, ‘I’m just this sad old bastard who makes crap jokes and . . . and . . .’ I’m not sure I do want to run though the entire list of my faults, even if I could put it together. Still, you have to admit, it’s a start. Sad bastard. Crap jokes. Old.
‘It would be a shame if we all aged gracefully,’ he says. ‘Come on, Chris, let’s have another beer. My round.’
‘I never asked to be forty-two,’ I say.
‘Nobody does.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Chris, who cares? Who gives a monkey’s? Do you want another sodding beer or not?’
‘No.’
‘Then go and sulk somewhere else.’
‘As you wish, David.’ I stand up.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that either.’ He shakes his head and looks down at the table.
I turn sharply on my heel and stride in the direction of the door. I open it and let it swing behind me as I step into the street. I do not look back.
27
A Bad Day at Work
Another Monday. Can’t believe it’s only a week since the last one.
As I leave the train at Great Portland Street I spot Narinder just ahead of me. I slow my pace just enough to allow a few people to pass me and act as a shield, then follow on, keeping my head well down. I still have a lot of thinking to do before I get to the office – for example, the precise wording of my resignation letter.
The brave thing, of course, would be to go straight to Humph’s office and own up. I am therefore just sneaking past his door when I hear him call my name. I stop and wait for the inevitable dressing down.
‘Welcome back,’ he says. ‘Good to see you, Chris. I trust you’ve managed to sort things out?’
I look at him, puzzled.
‘You said in your email that you had personal matters to sort out,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say cautiously. ‘All sorted.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll be busy on your first day back. I’ll catch you later.’
I am still standing there. This is not going according to plan. Hasn’t he forgotten to sack me?
He seems to realize that I am waiting for something else because he quickly adds: ‘Oh yes, sorry – well done on the George Magwitch story.’
There does not seem to be a note of heavy irony in his voice.
‘The story?’ I say.
‘Didn’t you see Digby Spain’s article?’
‘I haven’t looked at a paper for days.’
‘Then take a look at this,’ he says, passing me a well-thumbed press cutting. ‘I’m thinking of having it framed.’
I glance at the headline. ‘Former Care Worker Exposed as Benefit Cheat,’ it reads.
‘Very clever of you to feed that to Digby Spain,’ says Humph. ‘Once he’d run the piece and the authorities had decided there would have to be charges, Dan Smith’s other claims started to look a bit silly. There’s no real connection between the two things, of course, but there are plenty of people out there would think that if you can lie to the benefits agency then you probably beat up old people as well. It’s all a matter of perception. You are what people think you are. Now everyone’s giving him a good kicking.’
‘Where one dog pisses, many dogs shall piss,’ I say.
‘Sorry?’ says Humph.
‘Just a saying.’
‘Is it? If you say so, Chris. Anyway, Barbara Proudie’s stuck by him. You have to admire her determination, I suppose. Most of Dan Smith’s other supporters have jumped ship though, including that MP. I saw Smith on television last night – doesn’t know what’s hit him, poor man. He should never have agreed to be interviewed, but he’s got nobody left to advise him on that sort of thing, I guess. Obviously his case against George Magwitch is exactly the same as it was before, but the bottom line is that Smith’s lost the will to pursue it. He certainly doesn’t have the stomach to take it to the GMC. You could call that a result.’
‘Thanks for letting me know,’ I say.
‘Take the cutting away and read it.’
I shake my head. ‘I’ve got the general drift,’ I say.
‘Well done, anyway,’ says Humph. ‘That was excellent work. It showed good judgement. One other thing, though . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Why did you tell everyone I was dying?’
‘I thought you said . . .’ I begin. But I can’t remember what it was that he did say. ‘I thought you were looking a bit . . . tired.’
‘Tired?’
‘A bit.’
‘And – let me get this straight – my looking a bit tired caused you to make a general announcement that I had weeks to live?’
Actually it was only Jon that I told, but that maybe isn’t the point, so I say: ‘You’re OK then?’
‘Fine. Just a bit tired, as you so rightly deduced.’
‘That’s good,’ I say, trying to stress the positives, though I still need a bit more explanation.
‘It was my wife, Mary, who was ill. She’s a lot better now, but it was tricky for a while, getting her to and from hospital and then trying to be here at nine, making up the time whenever I could.’
‘But you said you were leaving . . .’
‘Mary’s been pretty sick. At times like that you realize that you may not have as many years of good health as you’d hoped. So I’m retiring a year or two early. We’re going to spend a year travelling, then I might look for something part-time, but I’ve had enough of this place. That’s all. Nothing sinister.’
‘I’m sorry – but it was only Jon that I mentioned it to.’
‘You couldn’t expect him not to be concerned. He told Brindley and Brindley told . . . well, let’s just say it got around.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘No harm done, but if you’re not sure about something, then check. I think they were collecting for a wreath by the time I found out what was going on.’
As I enter my own little kingdom, Jon and Narinder both stand and applaud.
‘Welcome back,’ says Jon. ‘Well done on the Magwitch story. You should have let me in on it, but I forgive you.’
‘Welcome back,’ says Narinder.
Fatima, looking slightly puzzled as usual, stays seated and flashes me a quick smile. Lucy’s desk is empty. Doubtless somebody will fill me in on that one, but for the moment it’s fine by me.
This is the appropriate moment for the quick one-liner, and there is an expectant pause, but I just say: ‘It’s good to be back. I’ll check my emails and catch up with you later.’
Before I can switch the PC on, however, the phone rings.
‘Hello, Chris,’ says George Magwitch. ‘Am I catching you at a bad time?’
‘It’s fine,’ I say.
‘Well, Digby came up trumps in the end, eh? Where did you find out about the benefit fraud by the way?’
‘You told me.’
‘Did I? I don’t think so. Digby says you gave him the dirt. He checked it out like the good and tho
rough journalist that he is. Actually, he asked Smith a few not-too-searching questions and Dan Smith, not being the sharpest knife in the box, gave him decent, honest answers. And the rest, as they say, is history. Well done. Of course, the fact that Digby and I were at school together may also have helped.’
‘Were you?’
‘Well, not at the same time – he’s a bit younger than I am. That’s why I didn’t recognize the name when you first put us in touch. But, chatting to him the second time round, it turned out we had both been to the same place – same house, actually. Always useful, eh? Didn’t I mention it in my email?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe not. I’m always pretty careful what I put in emails. You never know whose hands they’ll fall into, don’t you think?’
‘Very true.’
‘Anyway, Chris, I’m sure you must be busy, but I just wanted to say thank you for all your help.’
‘My pleasure,’ I say.
When I put the phone down, Jon looks round the door.
‘Was that Barbara Proudie?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ he says. ‘I forgot to warn you she’s been phoning almost hourly. She is well hacked off. I’ve been fielding her calls while you were away. Where were you anyway?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I say.
‘Why didn’t you phone me or reply to any of my emails? There was one point where we were going crazy. Roger had heard a rumour that Digby Spain was going to dissect Magwitch. It was only when we saw the article that we realized you’d been a lot smarter than we thought. Even so, next time, tell me what you’re up to if you’re going to talk to the press. And at least keep your mobile switched on when you’re away, unless you’d like me to have a nervous breakdown.’
‘I’ll try to remember,’ I say. Then I pluck up courage and add: ‘Where’s Lucy?’
‘Sorry – I would have told you that too if you’d phoned me last week. She quit.’
‘Because of me?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself. She just got an offer of more money elsewhere. One day she was here, the next she’d gone. No apology. No notice. Kids these days, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Kids these days.’
In the office outside a phone rings. Fatima calls to me: ‘It’s Barbara Proudie. Should I put her through?’
