This is the Life

by Joseph O'Neill

  ‘Michael,’ I said, when we had come out into the corridor, ‘what –’

  ‘Arab,’ Donovan said, ‘please. Arab.’

  He was, I realized, talking to the woman who had sat next to me in the registrar’s room – the woman I had taken to be Philip Hughes’s assistant.

  She did not reply. She turned her back and began walking away with her solicitor.

  ‘Arab,’ Donovan said again, following her, knocking against shoulders in the corridor, ‘Arab, wait.’ People looked on curiously and the usher walked over to see what was happening. It was his job, after all, to make sure that no ruckuses broke out.

  Philip Hughes turned to face Donovan, blocking off the stairway which Arabella quickly walked down.

  ‘Now then,’ the usher said, arriving on the scene. A whiff of alcohol came from his breath. ‘Now then.’

  ‘Mr Donovan, I think it’s clear that my client does not wish to talk to you,’ Hughes said.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the usher said. ‘Gentlemen. Could you please discuss this elsewhere, please? There’s people that want to use the stairs.’

  Hughes said, ‘For myself, I would be only too pleased to talk to you, Mr Donovan. We’re prepared to settle this matter in the most advantageous terms,’ he said. ‘I really think you ought to hear what we have to offer.’

  Donovan gave Hughes a faint smile and said lightly, ‘I know what you have in mind. I’m not interested. And I don’t think you’re serving your client well by advising her not to speak to me.’

  Hughes said, a don’t-blame-me tone in his voice, ‘It’s Mrs Donovan who does not wish to speak to you. Those are my instructions.’

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ the usher said firmly, ‘thank you now.’

  Donovan waited for a moment and then turned to me with a smile. ‘Come on,’ he said.

  I accompanied Donovan back to his chambers. I had business to attend in the Temple, I told him. It was a sharp, breezy morning with blocks of sky-blue sky overhead. The Strand was ringing with pneumatic drills and tumultuous lorries, and the air reeked with gases. Workers yelled and hammered on the scaffolding that covered the buildings. Everything was strangely clear, and I walked along in Donovan’s slipstream like a vivid dreamer. His gait had not changed. Long, fast strides, eyes front. Struggling to keep up with him, my arms full of flapping papers, trying to catch what it was he was saying before the wind took hold of his words, I could have been back in my pupillage.

  We walked through the Temple past Fountain Court and into Essex Court. We stopped at number six.

  To my surprise (he had never extended such an invitation to me before), Donovan said vaguely, ‘Well … Are you sure you don’t have time for a coffee?’

  I hesitated. I had time. Time was not the problem.

  I was about to say, No, no thank you, when I thought, Why not. Yes, why not, I thought suddenly.

  I said, ‘Thank you, I will if that’s all right. Just a quick cup.’

  For the first time in a decade I climbed the stone steps into chambers and when I got up I felt a slight wooziness, as though I had just reached some mountain-top. I followed Donovan to the clerks’ room and waited by the door as he checked his pigeon-hole and his diary. The clerks’ room was the same as ever: the briefs piled up against the windows, the telephones dinning, the barristers rushing in and out. I recognized several of them but decided against offering any greetings. What would have been the use?

  Armed with coffees, up we went to Donovan’s room, and while he leafed through his mail I looked out of his windows, a briefcase in one hand and a coffee-cup in the other. I still wore my overcoat, unbuttoned. Down in the courtyard the cars were huddled tightly, like metal cattle at a water-hole, around a young tree with a fence around it.

  ‘Well, that was my first appearance in a matrimonial case,’ Donovan said. When I turned round I saw that he was sitting back in his leather armchair, still looking at his papers.

  I did not want to reply to this. I knew it was his way of making light of the situation and that he did not expect a response. But I felt I should say something.

  ‘Was it?’ I said.

  I put my coffee on the window-sill and stayed where I was. Apart from a chair right at the other end of the room, there was nowhere for me to sit down. I did not feel comfortable about pulling that chair all that way across the room. At the same time it occurred to me that I could not remain standing by the window indefinitely.

  ‘So, James …’ Donovan said, continuing to open envelopes and unknot brief ribbons. Twenty seconds must have passed before I understood that he was not going to follow up on what he had said. He was fully absorbed by what he was reading.

  I began to feel an uneasiness. I had never been in this position before. It was the first time that I found myself alone with Donovan in a purely social situation – for that is what coffee is, after all, a social situation. It would have been out of place for me to mention the case, or the hearing that had just taken place. On the other hand, Donovan himself had referred to it, so maybe it was a proper subject of conversation. But then that was his prerogative, I reflected: it was his divorce, not mine. He could bring it up whenever he chose to.

  ‘Busy at the moment?’ I asked finally.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, after a pause.

  I drank up my coffee. Donovan continued reading.

  ‘Doing any books?’ I said. I spoke casually. I did not want to betray my snooping at his desk, or my unduly rapid heart.

  Donovan groaned at what he was reading and picked up the telephone. ‘Sort of,’ he said abruptly. ‘Hello, Rodney, what’s all this about the Amoco arbitration?’

  While Donovan talked to Rodney I thought, Why should Donovan divulge the details of his new book to me? My opinion did not matter. Doing up the buttons of my coat, I thought about how little Donovan revealed about his private self to me. His feelings about Arabella, his ambitions, his political views, I knew nothing about these things. Indeed, I received the impression that he would positively obstruct any inquiries that I might make in these areas. I did not resent this – how could I? What grounds would I have for such feelings? – but nor did I find it entirely to my liking. I would have liked a closer involvement with him … Not friendship, no – nothing so intimate, one had to face facts! – but maybe something else; maybe a fellowship of sorts.

  Donovan continued to talk to Rodney and I waited, buttoned up and ready to go. Still he talked. Then he was put through to someone else. A fresh dialogue began and again I waited where I was, standing by his desk in my done-up coat, my case in my hand. After a few minutes he was still talking so I walked to the door, attracting his attention with a wave and a mimed Goodbye. As he waved back, a kindly expression on his face, I saw that his cup still held a full pool of coffee.

  I walked straight back to the office, reproaching myself a little for the unsatisfactory episode in Donovan’s room. It had not gone well, and I did not feel that I had done myself justice. An opportunity had slipped through my fingers. (The question which I ask myself now is this: Opportunity? What opportunity? Opportunity for what?) Then, as I stepped along the engine-loud pavements, something dawned on me, something which should have sunk in years ago: Donovan was a poor conversationalist. He had no small talk or chit-chat in him at all. It was ironic, because he was one of the most fluent speakers I knew. I could think of no one more articulate.

  I stopped at my sandwich bar for prawn and mayonnaise and tuna and mozzarella sandwiches and another coffee. I sat down at a table and contemplated my recent insight into Donovan. As I have said, I am unused to making discoveries of this kind for myself; usually it takes someone else to point these things out to me. I decided that it went down against him as a minus point – a weakness. It was a forgivable weakness, of course, an understandable one, but it was a weakness nevertheless. And then I thought about it a little more and began backtracking. Why should he be a great conversationalist? I thought. He did not make any claims in that direction. He
set out his stall as a lawyer, not a patterer. No, I had momentarily fallen into the same trap as Arabella; I had entertained mundane expectations of the man.

  Arabella. I slurped at my coffee and considered my first glimpse of her that morning. Somehow the name had lost its lustre and its magical ring. I could no longer imagine it belonging to a little mermaid, to one who might love her prince so much as to give up her fishtail for tender, excruciating feet. No, she was not as I had imagined her at all. As far as I could recollect, she had worn a practical, brownish suit – not a suit, actually, so much as an ensemble. Her short hair was dark, wiry in texture and greying. She gave a capable, sturdy impression, which was why I had mistaken her for a solicitor. Her figure was trim but unremarkable. She looked like a perfectly ordinary woman in her mid-thirties – the sort of woman, dare I say it, with whom even someone like myself might hope to succeed.

  What did Donovan see in her?

  I signalled to the waiter to bring me some more coffee. He knows my face, that waiter, from my innumerable visits, so I receive fairly prompt service from him. It was not a minute before I had my drink and a complimentary biscuit in front of me while others vainly waved their hands. I do not set great store by receiving preferential treatment, but sometimes it can be nice.

  Yes, I thought again, Arabella. Then I thought, perhaps a little cruelly, If I were a rich and famous barrister I would hope to do better than Arabella.

  I hasten to add that in thinking this I was not seeking to denigrate Arabella. Most certainly not. There was no doubt in my mind that she was an estimable woman, a woman of many valuable qualities, and doubtless, too, she possessed many attributes of personality which made her an acceptable, and indeed desirable, spouse. No, what I had in mind was something else. It simply occurred to me that, in Donovan’s shoes, I would seek out someone truly exceptional; I would not settle, if that is not too harsh an expression, for a woman of straightforward and widely available charms: I would try to scoop up the best there was. In other words (I shall be blunt), I would go for a beauty. Arabella, whatever else could be said for her, was no beauty.

  It is not difficult to imagine certain responses to what I have just said. Pig! or Brute! might well be among them, and it would not surprise me to hear Sexist! ring out. But can I help my sentiments? And even if I could, can I be blamed? For a start, there are my personal circumstances. Look at me: look at my bald head, at my upside-down face and my small, plump figure: I am not an attractive man. There is very little about me to arouse the interest of a woman full stop, let alone that of a beautiful woman. That is a disheartening state of affairs, because I find beautiful women as attractive as the next man. I hanker after them just like everybody else; my head, too, has turned to lovely strollers during these last, heatwavy, weeks. The difficulty is, I am never going to be in a position to do something about this hankering. My face will always be pressed steaming against the window. Can I be blamed, therefore, for making beauty a particular priority if I suddenly found myself with Donovan’s options?

  I returned to the office. It was not long before I received a call that I had expected. It was from Fergus Donovan. He wanted to know how it had gone.

  ‘How what has gone?’ I said.

  ‘The pre-trial hearing,’ he said. ‘How did it go? Tell me.’

  I sighed. Mr Donovan tired me out. ‘Why don’t you ask Michael,’ I said. ‘He’ll know all there is to know. It’s not for me to tell you what happened this morning.’

  It was all right, Mr Donovan said. He had checked it with his son, and he had said that it was all right for us to talk.

  ‘Nothing much happened, Mr Donovan,’ I said. I tersely described the morning’s events.

  Mr Donovan said accusingly, ‘You didn’t speak to Arab? Jim, I told you to speak to her.’ Before I had the chance to reply he was off on another tack. ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘it can’t be helped now. Jim, how would you feel about a game of golf?’

  I said, ‘Golf?’

  ‘Saturday morning, at Highgate. How about it? I’ve booked a tee,’ he said. ‘Eight-thirty, Saturday morning.’

  It had been a long time since I had played, I told him. I doubted very much that I would be any good, I said.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘You just bring a set of clubs and we’ll take it from there. I’ll give you shots,’ he said generously. ‘You can have a shot a hole if you like.’

  I did not want to play golf with Mr Donovan. That was the truth.

  ‘All right, Mr Donovan,’ I said.

  THIRTEEN

  The night before the golf game I was attacked by nerves. It was three years since I had last played and, as I tramped around my living-room, I saw with great vividness the disasters that awaited me the following day, and actually tasted the humiliation that would follow: the chagrin and mortification shuddered through me as if I were already on the fairway, not at home, in front of the fire. And there was not just the golf to worry about: Mr Donovan’s company for four hours would be no breeze, either.

  Nevertheless, when I began polishing my clubs and when I caught the whiff of boiled sweets from the sweet-tin that contained my tees and markers, I began to grow excited (it is ridiculous, really, this excitability of mine). Kitted out with clean clubs and a newly furled umbrella, I began my mental preparation for the day ahead. I opened a manual – Play Golf With John Greenan – and refreshed myself about the essentials of the game, intently studying the photographs of the coach’s famous swing. Inspired and fired-up by this literature, I drew open the curtain in the living-room, took out a nine-iron and began rehearsing my swing, studying all the while my reflection in the window. I stopped almost immediately. I looked terrible. My round, awkward, contorted body looked terrible.

  I turned in early, at a child’s bedtime, and like a child I fantasized about all the great shots I would play. In my mind I burned up that course. I did not sleep until half-past two.

  The next day, when I had driven slowly past the gates of Highgate Golf Club and was approaching the clubhouse, the gravel crackling and fizzing under my tyres, I caught sight of a man in shocking tartan trousers taking some practice swings in the net; my playing-partner, Fergus Donovan. I stopped the car and studied him. Even at his age he struck the ball sweetly, and plainly he was a gifted player. What was he doing playing with a duffer like me? He could not have asked me here just to keep him company. He was a foxy old customer and I suspected that, like the law, he did nothing in vain: what did he have up his sleeve?

  I drove on. Mr Donovan saw me opening the boot of my car and walked over. ‘Jim good to see you. I’m all set, so why don’t you go on and change and meet me on the first tee. Don’t worry about green fees,’ he said. ‘I’ve sorted it all out.’

  It happened then, when I was hanging up my blazer in the locker-room and eavesdropping on the conversation of two members; that was when I saw him. There he was, right in front of me, bending over to tie his shoe-laces.

  ‘Michael?’ I said out loud.

  He continued tying his shoes, as though he had not heard what I had said or had not recognized my voice. Maybe he thought that another Michael was being addressed.

  ‘Michael,’ I said again. This time he looked up. I had taken him by surprise, that was clear from his face.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘James. Well, well.’

  I waited for him to finish speaking as he began tying up his other shoe, the power of his burly shoulders showing through his jumper. A lock of his dark hair fell over his forehead and he emitted a soft grunt. Then I realized he had said his piece. He had nothing to add.

  I took off my tie and made some banal locker-room conversation. It was a good day for a round, I suggested. There was not much wind and judging by the car park, there would not be too many people on the course. I hoped that my voice sounded normal. I did not want Donovan to know about the emotions surging around inside me.

  Donovan agreed. ‘Yes,’ he said, stamping his feet, ‘you could we
ll be right.’ Then he said, ‘Well, have a good round,’ smiled and strode off.

  Surely he realized that I was going to play with him? Apprehensively I finished changing and shouldered my clubs. When I approached the tee Donovan looked at me and immediately began talking to his father in a whisper. I knew what he was saying: What the hell is he doing here? he was saying. What made you ask him along?

  Fergus Donovan brazened out the situation. ‘Jim,’ he said, ‘I was just telling Mikey here that we should play dog-eat-dog. You know dog-eat-dog? You played dog-eat-dog before?’

  Donovan probably did not even know that his father and I had met.

  ‘No,’ I said, almost inaudibly. He would probably kick me off the case. If he found out that I had made revelations about the case – if he thought that I had committed a breach of confidence – then he might even report me to the Law Society.

  ‘Well, here’s how it goes,’ Mr Donovan said, launching into an explanation of a mystifying scoring system. ‘You got that? If you haven’t, don’t worry. You’ll figure it out as we go along. You’ll see, it’s a great game.’

  He teed up and addressed the ball. ‘Now this is a dog-leg to the left,’ he commentated. ‘You want to be just to the right of that willow.’ Thwack! The ball went soaring down the hill, rolling into perfect position. ‘OK Jim, it’s you to play.’

  I set myself up and stared at the ball. Then, before I knew it, I found myself at the top of my backswing, thinking, Oh no, this is going all wrong, I’m going to lunge at the ball and end up topping it …

  I lunged at the ball, topping it. It ran miserably along the ground for thirty yards.

  ‘That’ll work,’ Fergus Donovan said encouragingly. ‘That’s safely down the middle.’

  Red-faced, I went back to my bag. Donovan smashed his ball to the heart of the fairway.

  ‘Shot, son,’ Mr Donovan said. ‘That’ll do nicely.’

  Father and son went off side by side down the green, birch-shadowed valley, I headed off in the other direction to look for my ball in the rough. We were off.