Arden

by Nick Corbett

  Poor Vernon. He spent last weekend visiting his indomitable mother. She says her home is in the foothills of the North Downs. Everyone else calls it Dorking. When Vernon revealed his troubles to his mother, including the fact that his work colleagues call him Flannel, she advised him not to let anyone see he was upset by it.

  “Just brush it off darling,” she said. “Remember, your father had to overcome great obstacles before he became the Deputy Chief Constable of Surrey. The name-calling will soon wear off.”

  “And if it doesn’t, what then mother?” the forty seven year old Vernon asked in a shrill voice.

  “Then evict the Pict!”

  Raised voices are heard from the other end of the open plan offices. Jock, Joe and Kylie turn to see what’s going on; they all look surprised.

  “That’s not really the point though, is it Muriel?” shrieks Vernon, “The very fact that a wasp’s gained entry proves the sealed ventilation system has been violated!”

  Muriel, a middle-aged administrative assistant, who’s been a loyal employee for twenty-two years, looks very upset. Her problem is that she likes fresh air. Window opening is strictly forbidden; it supposedly renders the air conditioning ineffective. Everyone in the office knows the air conditioning system doesn’t actually work, never has. Muriel is a covert window opener. Vernon is stamping down on what he sees as her belligerence. It’s all too much for Muriel. As she stomps off, she makes a sideways glance at old Jock, the only member of staff who’s served in the company longer than her. Muriel shakes her head, she gives Jock a miserable look, and then she marches through the door that leads into the gleaming white reception area. Muriel stands there for a moment, facing the seated guests, then she screams. “I’M SO SORRY WE’RE NO LONGER LIVING IN A BLOODY SEALED POD. IT’S ALL MY BLOODY FAULT!

  The shocked visitors in the reception area stare at Muriel aghast, but she quickly steps back into the private office area. Natasha, the receptionist, leaps up from her desk and rushes over, as fast as her snakeskin stilettos allow, to offer Muriel support. Muriel looks at Jock again.

  “It’s all my fault,” she says, breathing heavily now, lower lip wobbling. Jock looks petrified, he’s turning beetroot again.

  “Quite right Muriel,” he spurts out. “But remember your blood pressure now, my darling.”

  Muriel looks so grateful for this support, she gives a weak smile, and then bursts into tears. She rushes off towards the ladies toilet. Natasha runs after her. Jock scowls at Vernon.

  Joe wanders over to his desk, baffled but not surprised by the antics of his dysfunctional office. At least he’s got his new desk, and a view through the window.

  What a view and it’s all mine!

  He looks over leafy gardens, relishing the sight of fresh green leaves, luminous in the spring sunshine.

  “We only need one prima donna in this office,” shouts Jock from across the office, his voice still shaky. Jock has not been promoted since he joined the company in 1978. His is the worst workstation in the office, but he never complains. Joe smiles, places his briefcase on his new desk, and sits down on his new blue swivel chair. He chose the chair himself, from the office furniture catalogue. It’s got executive armrests. Joe turns his computer on. He’s still getting to grips with the new machine. He has a message, marked in red, from Vernon. The content is; “Very Important!” It’s a general circulation message, sent to everyone in the company. The heading is: Staff Privileges and Responsibilities. Joe opens it; there is a long list of new rules. He’s astounded to learn the company’s annual sports afternoon is cancelled. Ever since Joe’s been with the company they’ve enjoyed one afternoon off a year for a baseball game in the park, everyone joins in. They usually play against other companies and it’s a useful networking event. The older employees watch, chat and provide the picnic. For some reason, this is now on a list of benefits that have been terminated. Joe scans the other edicts. Christmas cards are no longer to be displayed. They are incompatible with the new decor.

  Joe sighs heavily. In a way he’s relieved; the writing is on the wall. He’s been thinking about moving on for a while. This e-mail will speed the process up. He reflects for a moment upon the things he’s done with the Regeneration Company. He’s been involved with some exciting projects all over the country, and in Europe too. He’s particularly pleased with the Kensington High Street project. The vision behind it grabbed his attention. There was something about the approach that struck a chord. The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea took the view that public space should be well cared for, as the space in private homes and gardens is cared for. After all, public space provides the stage for public life. If you build better high streets and squares, people feel they belong and they participate. A stronger society is built. Joe seized the opportunity to work on the project because of this vision. Now the council is applying the lessons learnt across the rest of the borough. This means a lot more work for Joe’s company.

  Joe has published articles about his company’s successful projects. A few weeks ago, a very prestigious client, the Features Editor of The Times, approached him. She wants Joe to write a piece about Kensington High Street. There is a tight deadline. Joe is excited about taking his ideas on to a much bigger stage. Now that he’s decided to look for a new job, he needs to get his name better known.

  More of Joe’s colleagues arrive in the office. Joe’s trying to work on his half-finished article, but there are too many distractions. Grunts of “Morning” are followed by expletives and cries of alarm as the workers discover their “red” message from Vernon. Angry words ricochet around the office. Joe is pulled between his article and joining a rebellion.

  Suddenly, the office is still. A dark shadow descends. Joe is aware of a sinister presence. It’s behind him. He swivels around on his chair, tightly clutching his executive armrests. Vernon is looming over him, running his fingers through a flop of greasy, dyed black hair. He produces a ticket out of a corduroy cap. He waves it in front of Joe’s nose. Joe’s pulse quickens. One of the edicts in Vernon’s email referred to attendance at corporate hospitality events. It stated that when an invite is received, it’s to go into a hat and there will be a lottery to determine who attends.

  Vernon stares at Joe.

  “There you go Jake…oh, no, sorry, it’s Joe isn’t it? Well, you’re the lucky winner! It’s the invite to attend the preview of Stacey McCall’s new exhibition in North Kensington! This is the best jolly of the year so far!” Vernon’s loud voice is for the benefit of the whole office. Joe is silent, unsure how to respond. Vernon does a strange movement, a bit like a curtsy, then he turns on his heels and walks back to his partitioned-off cubicle. No one is looking at their computer screens now, all faces switch between Joe and Vernon. The door to the cubicle clicks shut.

  Then, there is the flight of a heavy, substantial item of office stationery. It’s a hole-punch, accelerating through the air towards the door of Vernon’s office. Joe calculates the trajectory; it’s been launched from Jock’s desk. Jock feigns concentration on his drawing board, but he’s thrown it. Thump! The hole-punch impacts the wall just above Vernon’s door. A lesser thump as it hits the ground. Gasps, shocked whispers. A large chunk of plaster falls off the wall, white debris all over the carpet in front of Vernon’s cubicle. Muffled laughter, across the office. Vernon must have heard the noise, but he doesn’t appear; he’s gone to ground.

  Joe is unsure about what to do with his invitation. At one level, he’s repulsed by the theatrical way Vernon gave it to him, but then Stacey McCall is the latest edition to the “Britpack”, the young British artists causing such a stir in the media. Joe thinks her work is weird, but what does he know? It’s still worth a look, isn’t it? Jock walks over and places an arm on Joe’s shoulder.

  “You’re not going to go are you, son?”

  “Probably not…” Joe lies. He’s already decided he’ll go.

  5 Archie’s Waterloo

  It is five thirty in the evening.
It’s been a busy day at the Regeneration Company. Jock makes his way out of the office, shouting over his shoulder to Joe.

  “Don’t stay too late young man, you can have too much of a good thing!”

  Joe has been working late over the last week due to a demanding workload. Half an hour later, his eyes are so strained he can’t concentrate anymore. It’s time to go home. He arranges his papers into bundles, pauses, stares out of the window. Houses are lighting up. He can see into the kitchen of a town house. A couple are preparing their evening meal as their children sit at a table. Joe sighs, he’s tired. He wants to see new things, to live more adventurously, to get a girlfriend. He picks up his brown leather briefcase and makes his way across the office floor. His shoulders are slumped like a hunchback because of the weight of his case. His heart lifts momentarily; he’s spotted Kylie, she’s still working at her drawing board.

  “Hey Kylie! Fancy a beer?” he asks hopefully.

  “Ah, Joe, you’re still here. I’d love to, but I’ve got to get something finished for my boyfriend. He’s doing a gig, I’m making a poster to promote it.”

  “Oh, okay, no worries.” Joe tries not to look disappointed. Kylie returns to her extra-curricular activity. Vernon would do his nut if he found out what the office computers were really used for. As Joe walks out of the office he muses,

  What is it with attractive Australian women and the name Kylie?

  There is still a glimmer of light in the sky over Kensington. Joe decides to take the bus home for a change. Even though he’s in the middle of London, the evening air is fresh and pleasant; he wants to enjoy it. The journey home by bus will be a lot longer than by tube, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t feel like being underground.

  A couple of minutes of waiting, then a friendly, old red London bus sails up the high street, displaying the right number. It’ll take Joe all the way home. The bus pulls up, rattling like a tin can with an angry bee in it. Joe jumps aboard, elderly inspector grunts, engine roars. It isn’t quite full and Joe gets his favourite seat at the front of the upper deck. He’s got the best seat in the house. This’ll be a nice little tour. For a while, Kensington passes by, a citadel of cool. Then it’s the encampment of the ordinary. The bus is passing through a less-cherished environment; massive advertisement hoardings, showy messages about cat food and bleach.

  The bus pulls over at a stop, people jostle to get on board. Joe’s snug and warm. He looks out of the window, it’s a confusing, unloved scene; busy traffic junction, traffic signs, redundant poles, rusting guardrail and lots of fly-posters. Millions of pounds have gone into creating this hideous junction. Joe’s feeling the strain of big city life, he breathes out deeply. He hasn’t been beyond the M25 for ages. He’s become incarcerated in its ring of carbon monoxide. Joe’s attention is drawn to a young couple, a man and a woman, wrapped up in sleeping bags in the entrance of a boarded-up shop. There’s a Staffordshire bull terrier curled up beside them, on a dirty blanket. Joe sees similar scenes every day. When he first arrived in London, he couldn’t pass homeless people without giving them a fiver and a reassuring smile, but now he hardly even registers them. And yet, seeing this couple huddled together in the doorway makes him feel sad.

  Joe presses his nose against the bus window. He has to wipe away the condensation caused by his breath. A group of people, three men and two women, all about Joe’s age, walk up to the homeless couple. One of the men squats down, starts talking to the homeless guy. The others carry plastic food containers and blankets. They set up a little food station. Joe’s neck strains, he is trying to see what’s going on, the window steams up again. He wants to get a better look at the guy squatting down, there’s something familiar about him, but another man is in the way. The man steps aside. Joe realises why the guy is familiar. It’s Luke. “Luke!” Joe shouts out loud. The engine of the bus is revved-up, there’s no way Joe’s going to be heard over it. He tries frantically to unwind the little window but the handle won’t budge. The bus pulls off, gaining speed quickly. Joe grabs his brown leather briefcase, flies down the steps. The elderly ticket inspector and several standing passengers are pushed out of the way.

  “Stop the bus!” Joe shouts frantically, rings the bell repeatedly. The bus slows down. Joe jumps out from the open back.

  Joe’s feet land on the pavement, the rest of his body follows, toppling over, into the path of an elderly black lady in big glasses. She gasps. “Oh! Sweetheart, you alright?” The lady tries to help Joe back to his feet. He sits for a moment on the pavement, dazed, disorientated, breathing heavily. The lady retrieves his briefcase, which landed a few metres away, and hands it back to him.

  “You okay darlin?”

  “Yeah, I’m alright, thanks.”

  “You sure now?”

  The woman keeps an eye on Joe as he walks off, a little shakily, towards Luke, who’s still speaking to the homeless guy. Luke retains his youthful good looks. He’s got short, spikey hair and an out-of-doors glow. He wears a reddish-brown leather jacket and blue jeans. He looks like an off-duty pop star.

  When the five friends were teenagers and generally inseparable, Luke had a tendency to drift off, to be alone. He wouldn’t be seen for days, and then he’d reappear in the middle of their social circle, without explanation. His independent spirit annoyed the others, who liked to be in daily contact with each other. This time Luke hasn’t been in touch with any of the others for a very long time. Joe had just about given up on him.

  Luke’s attention is focused upon the homeless guy, it’s an intense conversation, not an appropriate time for Joe to butt in. He waits, awkwardly, watching the slow-moving traffic go by. There’s an attractive blonde young woman beside Luke. She speaks to the homeless girl, who’s still tucked up in her sleeping bag, even though it’s not particularly cold. The other helpers prepare food, one of them looks over to Joe with a curious smile. Joe nods back, clutching his briefcase defensively to his chest. He points at Luke.

  “I know him,” he says, exaggerating each syllable, hoping they can read his lips.

  “Okay,” the guy mouths back in similar fashion.

  Joe feels very out of place, standing there alone, in his business suit. The fact that Luke is talking so easily and for so long to a homeless person strikes Joe as bizarre. Luke and the homeless guy retain direct eye contact as they talk. Joe wonders if he looks into people’s eyes like that; he’s pretty sure he doesn’t. He strains to hear what’s being said, but it’s impossible to hear over the noise of the traffic. Joe scratches his head. The only organisation he can imagine being on the streets, feeding the homeless, is the church. He feels a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. There is a gulf between him and anything to do with religion. The thought of Luke being on the other side of that gulf is appalling. Joe looks at the homeless guy again; he’s so young, perhaps sixteen, and very unkempt. Joe can smell him from several metres away, and yet he looks quite content, smiling serenely. The Staffordshire bull terrier looks up at his master, as if to ask if everything is okay.

  At last, Luke stops speaking, he stands up, turns around. Another man comes forward with a bowl of food for the homeless lad. For a split second, Joe thinks about walking off, but it’s too late - Luke’s recognised him, he’s walking over, he looks overjoyed. Joe smiles back, all doubts blown away. Joe offers Luke a handshake, but Luke hugs him. It’s an awkward embrace. Joe’s arm is pressed into Luke’s chest and Luke’s shoulder catches Joe in the jaw, causing him to bite his tongue. Joe reveals none of the pain, but expects to see blood.

  “It’s so great to see you Joe!”

  “It’s good to see you too Luke,” says Joe as best he can, through his numbed jaw.

  “It’s been too long. How’s everything with you?”

  “Okay. What about you? You’re looking good.”

  “I’m alright mate. You’re looking good too.”

  Joe finds it hard to believe the compliment, especially after he’s fallen off the back of a bus and be
en elbowed in the jaw.

  “Well, you know, I’m basically okay, just a bit knackered after a rough day at the office,” he says, trying to regain some of his composure. He glances at the homeless couple and then looks back at Luke, with a puzzled expression. He explains his surprise at seeing Luke with homeless people. He adopts a more concerned tone.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Luke, but you aren’t getting a bit too… serious are you? I mean, I’m not sure what you were saying there, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, you were always good fun you know, pretty wild too, you won’t lose that will you? Old friends can be honest with each other, can’t they?”

  There is an awkward silence. Luke scratches the back of his head, unsure how to respond. The homeless couple are enjoying their food. The lad passes morsels to his dog. The other helpers sit beside them. Joe, embarrassed by the silence, turns away. He looks up the road; a long line of glimmering red tail lights, commuters leaving the city for comfortable, suburban homes.

  In his own mind, Joe tries to assess the situation. Has a chasm opened between us? Have I lost Luke? Maybe I can build a bridge to him?

  “Luke, look, I’m really sorry,” he says. “I’ve had a long day. Like I say, I’m pretty knackered. I’m just a bit, you know, cautious about religion and that sort of thing. I thought you were too. I have enough trouble with Archie, the weird spiritual things he gets into!”

  “What’s Archie involved with now?” Luke asks, apprehensively.

  “What, at the moment? Something to do with Red Indians and peyote, it seems to change every month.”