Lamplight in the Shadows

by Robert Jaggs-Fowler

  Her voice had risen to a shrill shout, leaving behind a faint, high-pitched ringing from the nearby piano. Grabbing a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the floor next to her chair, she stormed out into the garden, slamming the backdoor behind her. The piano rang even louder as the bass strings joined in.

  He watched her go, wincing at the blaspheming and swearing, but not having the strength, the willpower or even the inclination to try to reason with her. She was in no mood to accept that her own behaviour towards him for the past few years had resulted in what she now proclaimed to be a problem.

  It was because of that outburst that James had spent the Thursday afternoon alone in his flat in Bishopsworth rather than returning to Barminster. It was also the reason for him being the last to arrive at the surgery to board the coach, which he did with a gloomy heart and in no mood to party.

  * * *

  In truth, the venue for the party was not in Hull but just outside, in a small village called Willerton, three miles to the west. Willerton, however, was in danger of fast becoming just a suburb of the city as the local policy of only building on brown-field sites gave way to the ever-increasing demand for housing and offices. Extending into the green belt, which connected the various satellite villages, was the local planners’ easiest solution.

  Willerton Grange was an old, largely Georgian manor house that had long since succumbed to market forces and was now a hotel and restaurant with an attached function room that catered ‘for weddings, parties and conferences’, as the banner slung along the edge of the car park proclaimed.

  The coach stopped outside the door grandly designated the Ballroom Entrance and discharged the thirty or so assorted nurses, receptionists, dispensers, secretaries and domestic staff; all female with the exception of the five doctors. As the eager rush of chattering bodies passed him, James hung back in his seat, observing the various familiar faces.

  ‘Quite intriguing how a dab of lipstick and a touch of mascara changes them all into ravishing beauties, don’t you think, James?’

  James turned to see the pale, gaunt face of Charles Hawkins peering between the headrests from his seat behind. The chemotherapy had taken its toll on his appearance, making him look considerably older than his sixty-one years. Faint wisps of silvery-coloured hair were just beginning to grow back in two patches on the areas of scalp just above his ears, making him, as Tom Slater had earlier wickedly proclaimed, look remarkably like an owl wearing a bow tie.

  ‘I was just thinking how different everyone looks when they’re not dressed in the surgery uniform,’ replied James, grinning at the recollection of Tom’s words regarding Charles. He did look like an owl, especially with his round, rimless spectacles moving from side to side within the narrow view afforded by the gap between the seats. James half-expected him to start hooting at any moment. He chuckled silently at the somewhat uncharitable joke at the expense of his ill colleague. Charles remained oblivious to it all.

  ‘Just take a look at those two over there,’ he said, gesticulating with his eyebrows and a tilt of the head.

  James turned to look through the nearside window and spotted Richard Carey and Ian McGarva, the latter resplendent in dinner jacket complete with battered trilby hat, moving in on the group of receptionists and clerical assistants. As he watched, McGarva slid his arm around Jane’s waist, pulling her to his side. On reaching the door of the ballroom he stopped to let her go through first, allowing, as he did so, his hand to drop from her waist, pausing long enough to give her left buttock a quick squeeze.

  ‘She doesn’t seem to mind his attention,’ said James, more as a statement than a question.

  ‘Jane is well used to his antics. He is harmless enough. Doesn’t have any intentions, if you take my meaning. However, his wandering hands will get him a slap from someone before the evening is out.’

  ‘Doesn’t his wife object? Surely she must know his reputation after all these years?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mary knows him very well. She also knows that the whisky will ensure that he doesn’t get any further, even in the unlikely event of the opportunity presenting itself! Unlike Tricky Ricky there.’

  James turned his attention to Richard Carey, who was walking past the coach alongside Jackie, a second member of the secretarial team.

  ‘Leaving a gap between you both doesn’t fool anyone, Tricky. We all know that Jackie’s in your stable,’ continued Charles to the unhearing Dr Carey, alluding to Richard Carey’s penchant for horses as well as women. ‘Just be careful you don’t end up one day being made into fish-fingers along with a cargo of her husband’s fish,’ he warned.

  James grinned and looked again at the face of Charles Hawkins. It was strange hearing him speak of the partners like this, especially with his own reputation.

  ‘Is this not a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Charles?’ he ventured, not quite knowing how his older partner would take this rather sensitive teasing.

  ‘Oh, I dare say, James,’ replied Charles ruefully, ‘but having a maniacal farmer chasing you around half of Lincolnshire with a threshing machine does give you a certain new perspective on life.’

  James smiled at his honesty and was just about to reply when a gruff voice from the front of the coach interrupted him.

  ‘Are you two docs going to sit there all evening nattering? If you don’t get off now, I will be taking you back to Bishopsworth with me and you will miss the jelly and ice cream.’

  ‘Sorry, coming,’ James called back to the driver as he and Charles rose and walked down the coach towards the exit.

  Outside they were joined by Tom Slater who, making no allowances for the fact that it was optional black-tie, was wearing the same crumpled brown jacket he had worn all day. He stubbed out the remnants of a cigarette with the toe of a scuffed shoe and pushed on the door to the building. ‘I hope they have a good barrel of Theakston’s on tap. I can’t be doing with any of this fancy bottled stuff all these Yuppies drink these days,’ he muttered as he walked through.

  * * *

  Inside, the function room was packed to capacity with two hundred or so people; some dressed in dinner jackets, some in suits, and others in casual attire, but all seemingly set on enjoying the debauchery of a corporate Christmas at the expense of their employers. The atmosphere, already hot and noisy, was rapidly deteriorating with the cigarette smoke that could be seen swirling upwards in blue-grey plumes to join the sparse tinsel decorations on the ceiling and around the occasional pillar.

  For a moment, James paused by the table plan just within the door. Subconsciously he noted the surgery was allocated tables 15 and 16. Consciously, he had to make a serious effort to quell the rising sense of foreboding that often affected him at times like this. It was not so much a sense of panic or anxiety, but a strong feeling of repulsion. A sense of really not wanting to be there. He had frequently voted with his feet under such circumstances, returning to his car and simply driving off to the peace and tranquillity of his own company. However desirable such action might be, it was not an optional course of action tonight. He was stuck for the duration.

  Pushing his way through the crowded area in front of the tables, he reached the bar and set about waving a £20 note in an attempt to attract one of the two barmen.

  ‘Always the same. There’s never enough staff at these events,’ grumbled the man standing next to him, sporting a winter tan, a gold Rolex and an expensive pinstriped suit complete with musical Christmas tie. On his head he wore a set of reindeer antlers that, rather aptly, thought James, rhythmically flashed like a pair of hazard warning lights. He nodded in agreement but was spared the search for a suitable reply by his success in catching the attention of a barman.

  ‘Hey tosser, are you blind? I’ve been standing here for at least ten minutes,’ Rudolph directed to the back of the barman. ‘Bloody university students, that’s what they all are. Not really trained to do this. Wouldn’t last five minutes in a job in the real world.’ His angry tirade was acco
mpanied by the faint strains of ‘Jingle Bells’ as his tie pressed up against the bar.

  The season of goodwill towards all men, thought James, accepting his change with a smile of thanks. Armed with a large gin and tonic and a bottle of house claret, he turned and set about pushing his way through the crowd, leaving Rudolph remonstrating with the barman.

  Tables 15 and 16 were located to the left of the dance floor. Arranged as two long tables, they very much reminded James of the setting for school meals. Most seats were already occupied, with the surgery staff being true to form and keeping within their departmental groups; the exception being that the secretaries had Drs McGarva and Carey to keep them company. Drs Hawkins and Slater sat at the far end of table 16, deep in conversation and ignoring everyone else around them. As he approached, James scanned the length of the tables for a suitable place to sit. The only spare seats were two on the end of table 15, in the heart of the receptionists’ domain.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ he asked, his voice trying to take on a jocular quality. Not that he minded being with the receptionists. He was simply aware that he was now expected to perform; to live up to a certain undefined expectation. The staff were there for an entertaining night out and wouldn’t be pleased to have it spoilt by the disgruntled behaviour of a peevish junior partner.

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Sandy, one of the more senior receptionists, removing her handbag from the spare place setting to her left as she responded. ‘I was reserving it for Anna, but she won’t mind budging up one.’

  ‘Are you sure? I’d hate to be a nuisance and upset anyone,’ James paused, backing off from placing his bottle on the table.

  ‘Dr Armstrong, all men are nuisances and male doctors even more so. However, we women are genetically programmed to cope with such adversity. Besides, we can keep you under better control if you sit between us.’

  The soft voice came from behind James. He half-turned to his left. It was Anna who had spoken. Without thinking, he found himself spontaneously absorbing the detail of her black cocktail dress – simple but elegant in the way it outlined the gentle curve of her body, the black lace shawl slung around her shoulders only partially covering her décolletage, the slimness of her legs… ‘Of course, I mean, if you are sure? I’d hate to be a nuisance,’ he flustered, not wanting to seem impolite.

  ‘I think you have already said that – and been given the answer,’ Anna responded. ‘Typical man,’ she continued, turning towards her colleagues. ‘They never listen to what they are being told.’

  Sandy laughed, joined in the process by Christine, the newest of the reception staff, sitting on the opposite side of the table. They leant across to each other, shared a joke that James could not quite hear and then burst out laughing again. He grinned nervously, feeling sure that the joke was at his expense. He was beginning to understand the nature of the evening he was in for.

  Anna placed her handbag on the floor, two places to the left of Sandy and made to sit down.

  ‘Ah, here, let me help you,’ said James, gesturing towards her chair in an attempt to regain the upper ground.

  ‘Thank you. But I think I am better placed to help you at this particular moment.’ Anna’s gaze moved from the bottle of claret in James’ right hand to the gin and tonic in his left. She removed the latter from his grasp, letting her fingers lightly brush against his hand in the process. For the second time he felt the electric sensation of her touch.

  ‘This is most kind of you. How did you know to get me a G&T?’ She took a sip of the drink, her blue eyes holding his gaze for a moment across the top of the glass.

  ‘Actually, I didn’t – I mean… it was meant for… but you’re most welcome to it,’ James stuttered.

  ‘Anna, you are a tease,’ called Christine. ‘Let the poor man alone before he completely turns to jelly.’ Anna smiled, her eyes still holding James’ gaze. He watched as, with her thumb, she deftly removed the trace of her red lipstick from the edge of the glass before placing the drink in front of his place at the table.

  ‘Now perhaps you can help a lady with her chair?’

  Quickly placing the bottle of claret on the table, James grasped the back of her chair and gently moved it forward as she sat down.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Am I also welcomed to a glass of that wine since you’re too stingy to share your G&T with me?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said James, sitting down and reaching for the bottle of claret. ‘Would anyone else like a glass?’ he asked, looking towards Sandy and Christine.

  ‘Gosh, for one moment I thought he had forgotten we existed!’ proclaimed Sandy, causing Christine to burst into laughter again. ‘Yes, please. If we’re to be gooseberries all evening then the only alternative is to get tipsy,’ she continued, pushing both her own and Christine’s glasses in his direction. Christine could only nod as she dabbed away tears from her eyes with the edge of a napkin.

  He poured each of the ladies a glass of wine and then drank the remainder of his gin and tonic before pouring some wine for himself.

  ‘Here, Dr Armstrong, let me pull your cracker before Anna offers to do that as well.’ Sandy, her face a contrived picture of innocence, waved a Christmas cracker in front of James as Christine dissolved once more into howls of laughter.

  ‘I, eh, think I ought to go and get a second bottle of wine,’ responded a red-faced James, excusing himself and making a hasty retreat to the safe haven of the bar. Behind him the three women huddled together across the table, their conversation interrupted by sporadic bursts of laughter that chased James across the floor.

  ‘God’s strength be with me tonight, I sure am going to need it,’ said James to nobody in particular.

  ‘I am sorry, sir?’ the barman leant across the beer taps in James’ direction. ‘I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘Just another bottle of the house claret, please,’ responded James, reaching for his wallet.

  * * *

  The meal itself passed as an almost anonymous succession of plates bearing the traditional seasonal offering of melon, roast turkey and Christmas pudding. On reflection much later, James could hardly remember a detail of the food. It was the pleasant and entertaining company that stood out most in his memory.

  Following the initial bout of verbal jousting, wherewith a few social barriers between employees and employer had been rather expertly broken down, the conversation settled to a more even round of good-humoured social banter. James took the opportunity to learn a little more about the families and interests of the women he now employed, whilst they dug away, trying to discover any interesting titbits about their new employer that could be repeated with interest in the staff room the following day. Despite having to procure a third, and subsequently a fourth, bottle of claret, James remained guarded about the information he was prepared to divulge. Whilst his medical school days, musical interests and desire to enter the Church were all fair game, his marital difficulties were strictly out of bounds and he left Janice out of the discussion as much as possible, deftly changing direction whenever the subject of his home life was probed.

  As usual at such events, all further attempts at conversation came to an abrupt halt with the start of the disco. Whilst Sandy, Anna and Christine set off on a joint expedition to the ladies’ cloakroom, James looked around for his medical colleagues. Richard Carey remained seated next to Jackie, apparently trying to continue their discussion by shouting close to each other’s ear, whilst Charles Hawkins had been abandoned by everyone, which was not surprising as he appeared to be fast asleep. Tom Slater, his style clearly cramped as Jane had predicted it would be, had slunk off and was now perched on a barstool, busy trying to render himself invisible in a fog of cigarette smoke. James took the opportunity to slip outside for some fresh air, deftly circumnavigating a group of dispensers and nurses who were trying to teach an inebriated Ian McGarva the dance steps to the song ‘YMCA’.

  The chill
December night air was refreshing following the fug of the function room. Few clouds obscured the sky and a scattering of stars could just be discerned despite the light pollution from the nearby city. With hands in his pockets, James stood gazing at the stars, as though recharging his batteries by tapping into the majestic power of the universe. Behind him the sound of two hundred revellers lending voice to Slade’s hit ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ percolated through the doors.

  James listened as people sang about having a merry Christmas and how much fun they were having. On the contrary, Christmas was always a difficult time for him. Each time, the emphasis seemed to be tipped in the wrong direction; it was far too commercial for his liking, with insufficient concentration on the spiritual meaning of Christmas and too much prominence given to it being a pagan festival. As a result, he always found it a lonely time of year; a time during which he found himself searching for the missing parts that would have made it magical for him as well as everyone else. That said, this particular evening had turned out better than he had initially feared and it certainly did not have any religious content to it. In fact, if he dared to admit it to himself, he had quite enjoyed it up to now.

  The revellers reached the part of the song about beholding the future, their voices sustaining the end of the lines with gusto.

  Has it? thought James. Has my future really only just started? Do I have any idea where it is going? He had only recently begun to think that he had at last arrived after all the years of studying and struggle. He shivered as the cold air began to overcome the effects of the function room.

  ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…’

  The song had changed, but the energy of the inebriated crooners was anything but diminished.