To Heaven by Water

by Justin Cartwright

  ‘Tell him not to rush round. He shouldn’t feel he has to be involved. We are just part of the general madness to the police.’

  She was right. Somehow, once the police are involved, you are conscripted into the ranks of the Untermenschen, who cause trouble, not necessarily by any specific crime, but by their generally anarchic life or because of their fractured personalities. And Ed knows that lawyers are complicit in this process.

  When he got home, Rosalie told him that her Boots pregnancy test looked positive. They are going together to see Mr Smythson for confirmation. He can’t help wondering if ‘looked positive’ was clutching at straws.

  Now he is waiting for Robin. He has asked to see him, to tell him that he is resigning. As usual he has to go through the rigmarole of waiting to be admitted to the presence by Mandy, his satrap, who passes the message to Gloria; it’s as if Robin is too busy, too much in demand to be available on request to an underling. In fact Robin is giving off the whiff of obsolescence: a lot of his time is devoted to legal committees and charitable causes which allow him a platform. It seems that people like Robin, as they are diminished, need these opportunities to boost themselves; by speaking portentously to captive audiences they convince themselves that they retain the vital spark. The twice-weekly meetings of the partners are so tedious, as Robin holds the floor, that Ed has begun to dread them. He calls Lucy. She’s with Nick. She asks if he has heard from Dad.

  ‘I haven’t heard from him since the day he got there. He just sent me a text from Cape Town saying he and Uncle Guy were heading into the Kalahari Desert. But that was ten or twelve days ago.’

  ‘Yes, I had a text, too. The same.’

  ‘I’ve looked the Kalahari up on Google Maps. It’s big. Are you OK, Luce?’

  ‘I’m fine, and Nick has been great.’

  Ed hears him in the background: ‘I have, haven’t I?’

  ‘He’s such a bighead. You were great, too. We spent the night at Nick’s place. How’s Rosie?’

  ‘Oh she’s in great form. We’re off to see the gynae today. She had a Boots test and it looks positive and she wants confirmation.’

  ‘You’re going, too. Oh that’s so great. Give her my love.’

  The old female solidarity, often less generous than it appears, he thinks.

  ‘Well, one way or another she’s going to need me. Oops, got to go. The big man wants me. Today’s the day.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  He walks over in the direction of Robin’s office, past the antique maps and pictures of Robin’s Cambridge college – much easier to get in then – along the hessian corridor. It’s like living in a brown sack. Gloria holds him up at reception.

  ‘Sorry, Mandy says Mr Robin says can you wait here for a moment. He’s got to take a call from Moscow.’

  Her eyebrows speak eloquently of a subplot.

  ‘Those fucking oligarchs, eh, what a nuisance.’

  ‘Mr Cross! What sort of language is that for a partner?’

  She’s smiling, however, because women of her age are susceptible to signs of intimacy from young men, and Ed has shared a joke with her. Human relations – he’s in philosophical mood – are full of these tiny exchanges, which serve to strengthen, and sometimes to weaken, the ties between people.

  ‘Did I say how lovely that suit looks, Gloria?’

  ‘Now you’re flattering me. I’m not a total muppet, you know. It’s only M&S.’

  ‘Looks great. Quiet elegance.’

  ‘Ooops, it’s Mandy. Yes. He’s here. In you go, Mr Smoothie.’

  Ed feels a kind of heaviness as he sees Robin, half-moon glasses on his nose, his paunch in a mustard shirt touching the edge of the mahogany or teak or whatever wood of his desk; while still holding the phone to his ear, he motions Ed to take a seat and swings away at forty-five degrees. In the Geneva offices of Zwingli, Robinson, Foubert et Cie, there is no brown furniture. There is no Gloria in her manky suit. Instead, there is glass, and multilingual young women, framed by views of Lake Geneva. Most important, there is no Robin. Today Robin is wearing the Garrick Club tie, the egg and cress or whatever they call it. What is it about this generation that it is so acutely taken by ties and cufflinks and test-match cricket?

  ‘Moscow, Moscow,’ Robin says sadly, putting the phone down. It is his lot to have to talk to the Slavic peasants who have no idea what the Garrick stands for. They do have money, and luckily they aren’t yet aware that Robin Fennell is really a bottom-feeder.

  ‘Now, young Edward, you wanted to see me. How’s the first term been?’

  ‘I’m deeply grateful.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad you’ve come round. I thought it best to get Alice out of here. A young man’s fancy and so on.’

  ‘Actually, Robin, I wasn’t talking about Alice.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I was grateful that thanks to my father and to—’

  ‘Where is he? I tried to ring him the other night to ask him to club night.’

  ‘He’s in the Kalahari.’

  ‘Kalahari. Doing what?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He’s with his brother. Anyway, what I wanted to say was that I have felt the pressure, as if Dad’s help and your kindness to me – even in trying to extricate me from a situation – made me think I should stand on my own two feet more.’

  ‘You’re doing very well. As to Alice, she might at this stage have too many issues to be a serious lawyer. You can’t have that sort of thing. I have no doubt at all that going forward she will have learned by the experience and at some later date she will have understood that what I did was for her benefit, as much as ours, and yours, Eddie, my boy.’

  ‘Actually, I want to leave the firm.’

  ‘When?’

  For a moment, Ed feels sorry: Robin looks elderly and utterly confused.

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Robin, it’s not so much a question of where I am going, although I do have an offer from Switzerland, it’s really that I think this set-up is too claustrophobic. You may have had, in fact I am sure you did have, the best possible motives, but I don’t think I can stay in a place where I am not only suspected of shagging a – of having an inappropriate relationship with a trainee – but she is dismissed because, as you said, you had Rosalie’s interests at heart.’

  ‘Is it Foubert?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your job offer?’

  ‘Laurent has offered me a job, yes.’

  ‘And you have taken it?’

  ‘I have agreed in principle. Yes.’

  ‘He’s a greasy little crook, operating dodgy trusts.’

  ‘I thought he was one of our best associated firms?’

  ‘Standards have slipped since Foubert père popped his clogs.’

  ‘You said he was the sharpest lawyer in Geneva.’

  ‘Sharp is a double-edged sword. Have you discussed this with your father?’

  ‘No. Firstly, as I said, because he is in the Kalahari Desert and secondly the whole point is that I don’t want to be discussing my career with him. I was grateful – I am still grateful – that you gave me a job, but it was to do him a favour.’

  ‘And you proved yourself. More than. Let’s look at this hypothetically. Worst-case scenario: you leave after a very short time as a partner, word gets out that you were having a dalliance, Rosalie gets to hear of it. It wouldn’t be good, would it?’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude – or ungrateful – but this is exactly the kind of conversation I don’t want to have. It’s better I go now before I become a full equity partner, if that is still on the cards, and move to Geneva, with Rosalie.’

  ‘What do you want me to say to your father?’

  ‘Please don’t say anything to my father. It’s not his business. Robin, I am very sorry, but I have to move on. When Dad appears from the wilderness, I will tell him I got an offer I just couldn’t pass up.’

  He stands up. Robin’s
round, reddish face is peering up at him. He looks – I am going mad – like his namesake in the avian world, reaching up for a worm from its mother.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. And there could only be one possible source for any talk of my so-called dalliance, couldn’t there?’

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘No, you.’

  ‘Perhaps you had better go. Clear your desk by close of play tomorrow. I’ll tell the staff simply that you are going to Geneva. I have to say that your disloyalty and opportunism are a disappointment to me but because of my long friendship with your father and my affection for Rosalie we’ll keep it very businesslike, going forward.’

  ‘I’m very grateful.’

  Robin swivels away towards the window. He is trying to summon his dignity and Ed now realises for the first time just how isolated he is, and he realises with a pang that Robin sets a lot of store by Dad and Rosalie: we have become his family in a way, and perhaps he really was trying to protect us by sacking Alice. His implied threat, to suggest that he has left because of an impropriety, is hollow. As in his whole life so far, his father’s aura still protects him. Ed goes back to his office to write his letter of resignation, which he gives to Gloria for onward transmission, like the Pony Express, to Robin and the managing partner. Then he leaves the office to get some of those clear plastic crates for his personal files.

  As he walks down towards Ryman he calls Alice’s number.

  To his surprise, she answers.

  ‘Hello, Ed.’

  ‘Alice, look, I need to speak to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘I think you want to speak to me because I told your lovely wife why that prick Robin had fired me.’

  ‘You spoke to Rosalie?’

  ‘Yes. Has she forgotten to mention it?’

  ‘Jesus, Alice, why did you do that?’

  ‘Why? Because I was treated like shit. As if I didn’t matter at all. I wanted to share the pain.’

  ‘You didn’t love me or anything.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand.’

  Blood is racing dangerously towards his head.

  ‘What don’t I understand? What?’

  ‘We were just shagging. It was fun. But Robin was insanely jealous. He fired me and gave me a miserable pay-off to get lost.’

  ‘So you told Rosalie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To get at me.’

  ‘No, not really. Just because I couldn’t bear to see all that hypocrisy. Did he tell you why he was firing me?’

  ‘No. I tried to ring you at least ten times when you went to your Scottish knees-up and also when you didn’t come back. I wondered where you were. He told me two or three days later. Now, just this minute, I’ve told him that I’m leaving the firm.’

  ‘Because of me?’

  ‘Yes. Not entirely, but yes.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I couldn’t stand the idea of Robin believing he had some hold over me.’

  ‘Ed, look, I’m sorry about Rosalie. I hope I haven’t caused you too much shit.’

  ‘So far she hasn’t mentioned it.’

  ‘She must be in denial.’

  ‘Alice, when the dust settles, let’s...’

  ‘Meet? I don’t think so. It’s all over. So over. I told her I didn’t fancy you, and that it was a one-night stand after too much drink, and that I was never ever going to see you again. And maybe that’s why she’s not mentioned it. You’re a lovely bloke and I am very, very sorry. I just felt the red mist descending: it seemed so, so unfair. But don’t call me ever again.’

  ‘I understand. You’re a wonderful girl.’

  ‘Bye. Look after Rosie. She’s special.’

  ‘Bye.’

  This strange and treacherous sisterhood. Now he sees that Rosalie is keeping quiet because she believes she’s pregnant. God help me if she’s not. He walks blindly around Ryman, forgetting what he’s looking for. As he finds himself looking at the latest model of home shredder, he remembers what Lucy said, ‘What have I done to get involved in something like this?’ It’s pretty damn obvious what I have done. But without Robin’s prurience it would have been something unremarkable in the grand scheme of things.

  A sales assistant comes over to him. He realises that he is wandering the aisles drunkenly.

  ‘All right, sir? Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for...’

  He can’t remember what it is.

  ‘No problem, sir, take your time.’

  He is possibly Indian, with a plump, compassionate look.

  ‘Oh so sorry, I was daydreaming. I want some of those plastic storage boxes. Six.’

  ‘That’s the Really Useful Box. They come in four sizes.’

  Six of the large size are heavier than he had expected and he is sweating within his suit by the time he reaches the office. He must work out. Dad’s leanness and asceticism are a reproach to him. It’s funny how messages are conveyed in families. Mum was an expert at coded messages, which included slipping new clothes into his cupboard, to indicate, although she never said it, that she thought he was scruffy. For a week or two he would resist these gifts – in the way that unknown Amazonian tribespeople resist pots and pans and mirrors hung in trees by explorers who want to contact them – but, like them, he would always weaken and take them into his wardrobe, and feel perversely elegant in his new clothes, as though he had chosen them himself.

  He struggles out of the lift, a light sheen on his face.

  ‘Moving house?’ Gloria asks.

  ‘I’m leaving the office tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, but you’ve only been a partner for a few weeks.’

  ‘Worse things happen at sea.’

  He has no idea why he has uttered that phrase. To the best of his knowledge he’s never said it before, and he’s not even sure what it means. It must indicate that he is troubled. He puts the boxes on the loathsome green carpet, opens the door of his office and pushes them in with his foot. Down below at the bins he thinks he sees a rat. The last rat in Switzerland was liquidated in about 1897. He is due in Harley Street in an hour, but he hasn’t the will to start packing. A lot is riding on Mr Smythson’s verdict. He tries to occupy himself with tidying up his files; he pauses at some notes in Alice’s childish handwriting. He reads them twice. He wonders if he should take the initiative by confessing to Rosalie, keeping the confession strictly in line with what Alice told her: a drunken mistake, deeply regretted by all, no human feelings of any sort involved, et cetera. But actually he thinks of Alice’s breasts receiving his libation and he is saddened that she didn’t love him and doesn’t ever want to hear from him again. He tells himself that there is an upside and that he is relieved it is all over.

  Rosalie’s mother has paid for the fertility investigations and consultations with Mr Smythson. She swears by him. The meeting is at his rooms in Harley Street. Ed finds Harley Street a little creepy, a sort of necropolis. There’s a steady traffic of the elderly and the decrepit, some in wheelchairs, and little groups of Arabs in full desert wear, exiting from taxis or shuffling out of the consulting rooms and clinics, often with a helper trailing suitcases on wheels. Rosalie has a look of glazed wonder as if she is at the gates of a shrine as they approach the heavily brassed front doors of the building, where Mr Smythson’s soothing presence spends a part of every day.

  ‘Don’t be too disappointed if it’s negative, darling,’ Ed says.

  She turns slowly towards him, not so much in anger as pity.

  ‘I’m pregnant, trust me.’

  ‘OK, way to go.’

  ‘Why are you speaking like that?’

  It would be too complicated, even impossible, to explain how he has arrived at this feverish state. He presses the heavy brass doorbell, worn by generations of nervous supplicants hoping for miracles, and holds Rosalie’s hand as they wait for the summons. Even her hand is light and poised. Mr Sm
ythson’s rooms are on the second floor, and the receptionist points them to the lift.

  In his waiting room, Mr Smythson’s own receptionist welcomes them.

  ‘He won’t be too long, but I am afraid he is always a little late.’

  She says this with an indulgent smile; in the tradition of middle-aged devotees, she is hopelessly in love with her boss.

  Ed and Rosalie sit beneath some botanical prints. Over on the facing wall are prints of parrots; one is clinging to the branch of an exotic flowering tree. Rosalie is humming. Perhaps it’s Turandot. She is serene and glances at him in a way that suggests – he fears – a new ambivalence towards him. They don’t speak. Rosalie hums on tunefully, almost inaudibly.

  When Mr Smythson’s call comes, they start. The receptionist announces that they may go in. They stand up, he rather laboured, Rosalie en pointe.

  Mr Smythson is standing in a closely cut grey suit. He waves at the seats. He has a convincing professional bonhomie. They all sit down.

  ‘Welcome, welcome. Right, the scan. Just let me get your notes.’

  He shuffles through some papers, and makes some squiggles with a chunky fountain pen.

  ‘Ed, I’m going to take Rosalie into the next room for the ultrasound, and then I will know for certain. It won’t take a moment.’

  Rosalie goes out after Mr Smythson. For a moment he can hear her deferential squeaks and his deep emollient voice, until a door closes. Ed wonders if these gynaecologists are utterly blasé about seeing young women in their underwear.

  He sits, redundant: the process is well past his competence. He looks out of the window at all the unglamorous pipes and waste disposal and air conditioning that hospitals need. After about ten minutes, they return. Rosie is in tears, but he can see immediately that they are the right sort of tears.

  ‘Very good news, Ed, Rosalie is pregnant. Three and a half weeks. I suspected it was just a matter of time and diligence. Congratulations.’

  Rosalie hugs Ed, and they are both in tears.

  Mr Smythson offers them his hand.

  ‘Well done. Now, Rosalie, a few routine tests, a few bloods, that sort of thing. Do you want to stay, Ed?’

  ‘No, I’ll go out. Rosie, it’s the most wonderful thing that has ever happened.’