by Pat Jourdan
He searched for paper and a biro and had to dash into a corner shop and buy a reporter’s notebook and a cheap biro because the briefcase was totally empty. In future he would make sure to take a notebook every day. Back at the house he wrote a longhand version first, then fed it through the computer, making adjustments.
Rhona, ever sensitive to marital changes, now realised that the centre of gravity had shifted from breakfast to lunch-time. Hugh was eating only a scratchy breakfast and was preoccupied, going out before nine and coming back later and later. They no longer spent any time together before the boys came back from school. Power lunches appeared now. Strange meats marinated from the night before, complex mixtures with foreign names. Recipes from school-gate mothers were tried out and improved upon.
Hugh roved further. So far he had treated everything as scenery – he was the observer, noticing passers-by and interesting facades or street-scenes. But treating the streets as channels was not enough. He dodged into the nearest pub, The Argyle Arms, in search of characters. This was his job, after all.
An old man sat reading The Sun, while two younger men sat in silent companionship up at the bar, swirling smoke. Hugh was served his beer in almost-silence, and went to sit by the door. Already he was planning his exit. Pubs at this time of the morning were supposed to be places of quiet chat, of intimacy without noise. Perhaps his timing was wrong. Even half an hour could make a great difference in the life of a pub. The reporter’s pad was there, packed in the briefcase, ready for note-taking. He sauntered out. At least he had made one dent in his isolation. On the way back home he bought some peppermints to disguise the smell of beer from Rhona.
It was a week later that he found the Butterfly Café. A nondescript window, the sort of place that most people would have walked past, it was still a workmen’s café. Here was all the conversation he had been missing. He would cut out the entire café and forklift it into his novel. Not wanting to bring out a notebook, he tried to memorise the words and descriptions of each person. It was an enjoyable panic. Good bits might get lost. Worn out with observation, Hugh dashed into a children’s playground nearby, and getting out his notebook, jotted down incoherent pages of half-heard conversations. A woman eyed him suspiciously – a man sitting on a cold winter afternoon, alone in a children’s playground? At least most children would be safe at school, but she would keep a watch out for him and inform the police if necessary.
As it was so crowded at lunchtime, he went to the Butterfly Café later and later. His pattern now was to type after breakfast (or not) and go out, returning after 3p.m. Rhona tactfully shifted the food drama to dinner at night, 6p.m. with the boys.
In the café, Hugh found other men. Starting off with a cup of coffee he had graduated to real greasy spoon tea, deep brown as gravy, with two spoonfuls of sugar each time. This did not fill up enough time, so Hugh added a pastry or two.
Then he took the plunge – it was a particularly grim February day – and had sausage and chips. With this he passed into the café’s regulars and started to belong. There was almost a place reserved for him. He listened. He was hearing things about women that he had not thought physically possible, scraps of these men’s well-thumbed experience. Two men who were obviously lorry-drivers discussed betting at another table. By reading up on horses Hugh could begin to join in their racing chat. He started to buy The Sun daily, even taking it home in his briefcase for further study. Rhona naturally noticed the stack of newspapers.
“What are you doing, reading this?” she protested.
“It’s research. I’m doing a novel about an entire district, working class and all that. Betting shops are so important, you’d never guess how fascinating they are.” He had begun going into a betting shop now and then. He won nothing, but had stolen one of the little pencils as a souvenir. It was an excuse to study faces and overhear more conversations. In the café they talked brilliantly, not worrying about where they stopped or started, if it was grammatical, or even if it made any sense. Fuckin’ this and fuckin’ that sped their talk along at breakneck speed. If he ever won the Booker, no, when, he would advocate a prize for working-class language. Hauliers would get up to the podium and describe near-crashes on by-passes; bus-drivers would tell about cornering on a sixpence with an overloaded bus on icy roads; window cleaners would describe what it was like up on those cradles when one rope was suddenly let down unevenly. To be fair, Hugh would allow women shop assistants, taxi-drivers and hospital cleaners to give their accounts too of horrors and comicalities.
Wally and Ben had ended up at his table one over-crowded afternoon.
“All right, mate?” Wally said, sitting down at the same time. Ben produced that day’s paper and they went on with their conversation.
“Well, it stands to reason, dunnit? Those skivers don’t know the obvious way to operate it. Mess it up every time.”
“They’re members of the club, that’s what. Insiders, outsiders. Could they be bothered to tell us when they’re going to contact a proper organisation? You must be joking! That’ll be the day!” They knew Hugh was listening but went on.
“Send out another statement? Not to that lot! Arrears isn’t in it! They’ve let it creep up for years!” Then the dark-hared one nodded at Hugh and spoke directly.
“The name’s Wally, but I’m not one of those stupid wallys,” he joked. Seeing Hugh’s slight smile, he commandeered him into their circle, shoving the ashtray at him. “Work round here?” he asked. Hugh guessed that truth was probably the best option.
“I’m a writer. I do novels.”
“Detective stories?” asked Ben, suddenly interested, “I like them – d’yuh do them at all?”
Wally laughed. “That’s what Ben likes, who-dunnits!”
“No,” Hugh said, “I do literary fiction.”
“You’re an educated man, then,” said Wally seriously. “Glad to meet you,” he shook hands firmly, with Ben doing the same. Hugh was accepted. Gradually he told them of his plan, and seemingly flattered, they started to include him in their visits to the betting shop.
“Not much profit for the punters, but it’s a good laugh in there at times.”
***
“Want a trip in the lorry, like?” Background stuff, learn about the routine?” Wally or Ben or another new friend, Dave, started to include him in their rota. Hugh became like a child, sitting up high in the cab seat, rumbling out to the suburbs, getting dropped off near underground stations on far ends of lines, Theydon Bois or Roding Valley. He went further and further away.
“D’you want to know about night-runs?” Wally said one day. “If you’re going to write all about lorry drivers you’ll need to experience it. All the drawbacks. All that bloody tachograph system and the all-night caffs, murder on the innards. Meet you at the pub, the Argyle Arms, no, wait a min, what about us picking you up at the old Beacon Warehouse, you know, near the bus stop. Shelter from the rain and all that, 8p.m.,sharpish.”
The briefcase dangled from his fingers, as Hugh began to whistle quietly and his step became jaunty as he walked round the corner homewards.
“I’ve got to go out later, Rhona,” he told her at dinner. “Won’t be back until quite late. It’s research. I’ve got an appointment up near the trading estate, it’s all about imports and exports, some haulier’s company.”
***
Hugh could not figure out how he came to be stranded in the car-park of a Watford all-night transport café. Nor could he work out how police suddenly arrived, as if looking especially for him. He could not describe the lorry adequately and Wally and Ben looked, well, just normal for middle-aged lorry drivers. He gratefully got into the police car – it was after one o’clock in the morning, but this was no casual lift. They took him into the police station
“For questioning, sir. Just need to straighten out some details.”
He was led politely to a small interview room. It had a special ordinariness that he could not have made up. A floor that was som
e kind of composition between lino and stone, the walls cream, the door brown hardwood. There was a muffed-glass window high in the wall and a small characterless table at one side, with three stack-up grey chairs. At one a.m. it was an existential exercise.
“Well, sir, we would like to discuss your –er – situation in all this.” They began politely, one chatty and encouraging, the other detective sitting watching, interrupting occasionally, bringing it back to where he thought the interview should be going.
“These words, then,” he waved the sheet about, “These are your own. You say this is the only thing of your own in this briefcase.”
“I have published two novels already. I am working on another one, this was research.”
The officer read out slowly, “cembalo . enthymeme . . demantoid …jointress …meltwater …melic…phoresy…”
“No,” Hugh admitted, “ I don’t know what they mean, exactly, that is. That will come later, in context.”
The man gave him a sad, accusing look. “It could be some code or mnemonic. Tell us more about it then.”
“Well, you see, I always put about seven really recherché words in each novel. It’s a sort of trademark and also – er - it marks it out as an upmarket book. At the opposite pole from Catherine Cookson or Jeffrey Archer.” He knew that this would hit home.
“That’s interesting,” the first policeman said, closing the subject like a bulldog clip. “Now, let’s move on to all these other papers.” He pointed at the loading chits and the receipts and invoices.” What do you say about all these? And you knew nothing about the items being transported?”
Hugh tried to look honest. “They are nothing to do with me, I was just given the envelope to look after, as I had a brief-case. I always carry a briefcase. It’s part of my job.”
“With seven strange long words on a piece of paper?”
The second policeman smiled at this.
“And what about the twenty thousand pounds in cash? Do you always carry that as well? Were you aware these notes are all forgeries, or is that a surprise too?”
“I didn’t know it was all there, honestly. They just gave me the lot of papers in one clump, the money must have been hidden in the middle. I didn’t see it, I didn’t open the envelope.” Hugh wished he could talk intelligently and not in these clichés. Both officers looked at him in silence. A person who could not notice twenty thousand pounds when it was given to him.
“Two hundred of a hundred notes,” the quieter officer butted in. “About the thickness of a paperback book.”
***
“This cab is a bit of a tip,” Wally had rooted round the dashboard, a mess of crisp packets, cigarette cartons, papers and empty bottles, “Just one thing, here, put this envelope in your briefcase, I don’t want to lose it, special loading chits and so on.” Hugh had stuffed the bulging envelope carefully between the blank pages of his notebook, feeling important and necessary.
***
“I need to make one phone call, I don’t have a mobile – my wife is expecting me home.” Like most normal people, Hugh did not have a solicitor’s phone-number memorised or written in biro on the back of his hand. He did not trust a tired duty solicitor. “Rhona?” he asked plaintively, as if, now that everything else in his life was tip-tilted, she might not be at home. “Rhona, I might be held up some time. I’m at Watford Police Station.” She began to splutter about accidents.
“No, dear, there hasn’t been an accident, as such, that is. More a misunderstanding. Could you get me a solicitor at all? Do Greaneys that did the conveyancing about the house do other law stuff as well? Can you ring them, dear? See you as soon as possible. I might be a while here.” With his new life the desire for roll-up cigarettes, strong tea and a plate of chips welled up. Only the tea seemed possible in these surroundings.
Police-station tea would be special. Rhona put down the phone absent-mindedly, making for the phone directory – solicitors and police stations. She could not disturb anyone from Greaneys at this time of night.
The evening casserole had perfumed the house with bay leaf, basil and rabbit. Perhaps they should go vegetarian, she wondered. She eyed the phone, ruminating. It had all begun with her suggesting that Hugh should walk round the block at nine in the mornings; now it was the small hours and he was past Watford Junction in a police station.
***
At the Butterfly Café, Gloria had said that they were just ordinary customers, like, three of them were usually sitting with Hugh, if that was his name, sometimes he sat and talked with other passing builders or lorry drivers or whoever.
“Rather strange for someone of his type, rather la-de-dah, to be sitting round here day after day, if you ask me.”
Gloria had not known their names. “I don’t get too friendly,” she stopped and looked at the detective closely, “But he, he was sitting with them lunchtime after lunchtime, wasn’t he, and he left with them a couple of times too. But there was a strange feeling I got, just an inkling, like, a sort of a hunch. It was as if they were always waiting for him.”
Two Days in May
There was no question of getting the status of a proper Post Office, although Norah sold stamps and even had a collection-box close by. The rival village of Ballydoragh had cornered everything official and even Ballydoragh was merely a staging-post on the way to the city past their townlands, almost at the edge of the county. She had not been out of the county since last year to buy a good winter coat and some new underclothes. Beyond the county was Dublin, where she had never been.
Orders for the small general stores were done on repeats or whatever the van-driver recommended; her house at the back used the crockery and kitchenware that she sold at the front. It was an entirely self-contained system.
Lately she had begun to feel a new sensation, of being trapped. A vague longing, for something as equally vague kept returning. No amount of cups of tea could rid her of it. She contained the village. They came to talk to her. All that could not be expanded or explained in confession (not that many went these days), was picked over casually as they bought sugar and tea and soap, stamps and envelopes. Great writers they were. So many left, so many to write to.
It grew gently, like all illnesses that eventually become stronger than their host. Norah began to want to get away, to go off and see what had been going on all these years in that outer land that was still her country. This was impossible; since her parents’ death Norah had run the shop on her own. The very impossibility made it into challenge. Abruptly, one May morning, she shut the shop door, put a notice in the window saying that it would re-open in two days and went off to Dublin. She was so shocked at her own audacity that she wanted no one else involved. Getting the morning bus to the nearest interchange and then taking a further bus to the only town with a railway station, she got on a train to Dublin.
Once out of the house life fell into looser patterns. It was easy to do it without any planning. A cup of tea here, some salad rolls in a snack-bar, a cup of coffee at the station. Arriving in the city itself was strangely calming. All her anxiety had disappeared. A couple of bed and breakfast phone numbers taken from the previous day’s Irish Times worked – the second place could take her, out in Clontarf, past the North Wall – but what was one more bus-ride in an escapade like this? After the phonecalls she had a quick wash in the marbled basement of the Busaras and went off for a wander.
Here was all that Norah had ever heard of – each time decisions were made, papers printed, money was settled, it was in these streets, by these people. She noticed how untidy it all was, crumpling yellowing newspapers scattered in the basement area of the Shelbourne Hotel. Amazing. Passing down Grafton Street in a daze, lost in the midst of such crowds, Norah bought a bag of scones and went on to St Stephen’s Green. Safer to stay at the edges near to the Ladies, just in case, not to take too many risks. Muggers, rapists and murderers, as every provincial knew, were lurking behind these bushes. Apart from that, though, it was restful to be h
ere. Right in the centre and utterly at peace. Some Dublin sparrows approached for crumbs. Office workers walked past briskly, their lunchtime almost over.
Trees, grass, sky – but all so different from home – here the trees were more sophisticated. Like the park benches they had witnessed fights and seductions and accumulated history. The trees at home merely grew and followed the seasons as accurately as they could. And here she was, Norah, sitting in St Stephen’s Green where the Volunteers had fought. The College of Surgeons was visible through the railings. Had it rained during the Easter Rising? There had never been any mention of it in the bits of history she had been taught. Strange,that. It always rained on Bank Holidays. Perhaps not for insurrections though.
The city called back. She wandered through street after street looking at shop fronts, too shy to go in, and at the passing rush-hour crowds lining up for their buses home. By early evening Norah was sidling past the bus queues and managed to walk to Loyola House, where she went upstairs as soon as it was polite, leaving the landlady still talking in the hall. The room was gently sliding out of light. From the window she could see clearly the tail-lights of cars meandering on the roads and far houselights over on the purple Wicklow mountains.
The next day, being a tourist meant following a fairly easy route picked out from a leaflet left on the bedside table. Missing out all the pubs and restaurants she settled on a tour of galleries and museums and famous buildings, mostly free of charge. From now on every time she opened the morning papers or heard or watched the news, she would be able to say “I’ve been there, I’ve walked past there, just round that corner.” She would be able to say this to herself; there was never anyone else in her living-room when the shop was closed at 6p.m. each evening.
By late afternoon Norah was hungry and tired, but there was still one more museum to visit. She had missed out the Municipal up past Parnell Square. The sun had shone all afternoon, her feet hurt. The gallery was white, cool, and almost empty. The woodwork was all good quality white paint, turning an expensive cream with time. A gentle clatter of cutlery and cups came from the restaurant but Norah could not have afforded their prices. She would buy a sandwich soon from a shop, an ordinary café or somesuch cheap place. Now she washed her hands at large old-fashioned white basins, the brass taps gleaming.
