Beyond the Arch

by David Evered

  He hesitated for a further ten or fifteen minutes before leaving the office, uncertain what he hoped to achieve. He finally left saying to himself that he could identify the apartment block and then turn tail if his resolve failed. He also thought it possible that she might not be at home or even that there might be another S Dunham in the city and that she was indeed ex-directory. As he travelled to Kensington on the tube in the evening rush hour he thought he would be sorry not to see her again. He recognised that in trying to locate her address he had set in train a process which might develop its own momentum or might lead absolutely nowhere. She had intrigued him.

  He emerged from the station in the dusk and slowly started to walk up the High Street. Turning between two of the stores, he located the building on the corner of a street and a garden square. He stood back and examined the dark red brick Victorian Gothic building. The windows set into half-hexagonal bays were mainly dark. Peter hesitated for some minutes before he went across to the entrance and pressed the appropriate bell. He felt apprehensive and was conscious of his heart beat as he waited. He watched the second hand of his watch and, after two minutes with the near certainty that nobody was at home, he pressed again more firmly. He turned away after a further minute and decided he would return to the West End and have dinner or go to a theatre. He was starting to retrace his steps to the station when he was startled by a voice from very close behind him.

  ‘I don’t think either of us can attribute this to chance.’ He turned and looked at Sally who, looking at his face, suddenly burst into laughter. ‘Considering you must have taken a fair amount of time and trouble to hunt me down, you don’t look so very pleased to see me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry but I thought that you were out.’

  She laughed again. ‘It must be unusual to have a visitor, other than one with nefarious intent, who calls expecting one to be out.’

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t mean that,’ he said hastily. ‘I did want you to be in but when there was no reply it all seemed much better.’ He paused. ‘That really wasn’t an improvement, was it? But I’m certainly pleased to see you. I wanted to see you.’

  ‘That sounds very serious and portentous. Perhaps one of us should take the other for a drink in the pub before we are both overtaken by an acute attack of gravity. I’m sure that a quiet drink won’t trouble your conscience too much. Wait while I drop my shopping and work stuff in the flat. I shall be with you again in a moment.’

  She returned with unusual speed and kissed him on the cheek. ‘It was good of you to call. Now, not another word until we are in the pub and I will buy you a drink in recognition of your exceptional services as a chauffeur and guide in Northumberland.’

  They sat in a corner and he was very silent. Sally turned to him, ‘I assume that your life has moved on over the last few months,’ she looked closely at him, ‘or perhaps it has been moved on for you? So why is it that you have hunted me down?’

  ‘It didn’t quite happen like that. I just didn’t want to be on my own this evening. I thought I would try and find your address and come and walk around and then simply go away somewhere. I didn’t really expect to be able to find it and then I thought I wouldn’t have the courage to ring the bell and, even if I did, I was certain you would be out and that might be for the best. It just seemed that the whole process once it was under way was unstoppable.’

  Sally laughed. ‘That’s the most extraordinary example of negative thinking I’ve come across for years. And now you’re not sure whether you should be feeling pleased or guilty.’

  ‘I suppose so – but that makes me feel stupid.’

  ‘No, not stupid, but tell me, what has been happening to you since last summer? I sense that there may be much to tell.’

  ‘There certainly seems so.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. I had no fixed plans for this evening; I was not even planning to wash my hair. Even if I had, I should have cancelled that! So just go ahead and I shall listen.’

  Peter refilled their glasses. ‘First of all, Ann has left me – she moved out three weeks ago. She says that she has fallen in love with someone else. I had no inkling of this at all, although in retrospect I can see that we had slipped into a routine. We had, I suppose, drifted apart to a degree. I feel betrayed to some extent but no longer resentful, if that makes any sense. I can understand her reasons and we have parted amicably. I still have a sense of guilt and perhaps also of inadequacy.’ He recounted the series of events which had started the evening his parents had come for dinner, how it had been enlivened by Andrew’s outburst and then ended disastrously with the accident and its tragic sequel on the night of their chance encounter at the hospital. The narrative was interwoven with accounts of the funeral of his father-in-law and his discussions with Michael. Finally he described the surreal events of the bizarre day which he had spent in the company of Stefan and Cass. ‘I seem to have been involved closely but accidentally in a series of events which I don’t understand and now everything that Andrew said that evening and my discussions with Michael seem to have a greater depth and meaning. I just feel I need to change my life in some way but am uncertain how and where to start.’

  ‘Well, that is quite a narrative!’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Peter, I’m not quite sure what I can say and I really don’t know what it is you want me to say or were hoping that I might offer. I understand your feelings and I sympathise with your uncertainties, but I really cannot determine the ways in which you might change your life – or even advise if you should or should not do so. Only you can make those decisions. I scarcely know you! It’s only the equivalent of a snake-oil salesman who would be prepared to hand you an instant remedy off the shelf.’

  ‘I think the main problem is… no, I cannot burden you with my problems and uncertainties.’

  She smiled. ‘Why not go on? You’ve gone to considerable trouble to find me. Your problems will not be a burden for me. I cannot carry them for you or alleviate them but I am interested to hear them and be a sounding board, if that’s what you’re looking for. I shan’t offer advice since any solution I could devise to resolve your dilemmas would be considerably more ill-informed and arbitrary than your own.’ He looked at her with despondency and disappointment. ‘Don’t look so crestfallen. I am interested to hear and to talk. I’m a professional spectator and observer of life, hence my profession. But it doesn’t follow that I’m uninterested,’ she paused and smiled before adding, ‘nor am I wholly disinterested. I try to put issues into perspective. One thing I’ve learnt by trying to examine life dispassionately is that almost all personal decisions are arbitrary and frequently based on wholly inadequate information. They are driven as much by instinct and emotion as by reason and calculation. Observers lose their objectivity if they try and involve themselves in the process of problem-solving for others. I’m also aware that much of our lives is shaped by wholly random events. In this, perhaps, we are mirroring the impact of evolution on the development of our species.’

  ‘I guess you’re right.’

  ‘Peter, I’m sure that you will, over time, come to resolve your dilemmas in your own mind and if you are still serious in your intention to write then that is possibly what you will choose to do.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps that remark is a little mischievous as it could be looked upon as a stimulus or a challenge. I also feel there’s a grave risk of you taking me too seriously and that should be avoided at all costs. Now I’m going to buy you another drink and leave you to muse while I go back to my flat and change. Then we can go out to dinner somewhere, split the costs and talk some more.’ Peter nodded his assent. Thirty minutes later they were seated in a restaurant in the High Street.

  ‘I think that this has been growing in me for some time but it was brought to a head by Andrew’s outburst and death and then by the events which followed and perhaps also by my first meeting with you.’

  ‘I
understand, but remember, it’s not just events that mould our lives. The way we choose to analyse them and react to them is also significant and our interpretations and responses reflect our own ambitions, desires and prejudices.’

  ‘I suppose that must be right. For a long time, I’ve been uneasy and uncertain and, when I compare my ambitions from years ago with my achievements, I’m depressed by the disparity. I’m now starting to feel that if I don’t achieve anything of significance in the near future then I can do no more than resign myself to following the life that I’m leading for another thirty years or so.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps this acute attack of existential angst has been exacerbated because I’ve had a little too much to drink!’

  ‘Or perhaps you’ve had just sufficient – in vino veritas!’

  ‘Possibly, but I still feel hesitant and reluctant to say that I’m going to write, that I’m going to detach myself from my present life – no, I don’t mean that or perhaps I do. I shouldn’t be saying all this to you. I wouldn’t have said anything when we first met if you hadn’t been a writer or if I had thought that there was any chance that we might meet again. No, that’s not entirely true. Perhaps I did want to meet you at least once more. I am sorry for these incoherent and inarticulate ramblings. What should I do?’

  ‘Peter, I repeat, I’m not going to dispense advice. You have to choose your own paths. I sense you’ve reached a point where neither course will be easy for you. You can continue your present life which I suspect is more valuable and more fulfilling than you assume in your gloomier moments. You would probably become reconciled to living with a failure to attempt to achieve other ambitions. It’s a course which accepts the non-fulfilment of some dreams and is one which is accepted by many and probably most of us. It’s a pragmatic acceptance of the realities of life. The alternative involves a journey to a destination which you cannot identify with certainty in order to fulfil objectives which have been poorly articulated and are incompletely understood – a journey which may end in disaster or failure or as a triumphant success.’

  ‘That would seem a rather stark choice.’

  ‘And so it is. Fundamentally, such choices expose our preparedness to take risks. As we all pass from childhood to adult life most of us tend to choose courses which minimise risk. Most of us do little more than act out those modest aspirations which are straightforward to realise but which, nevertheless, are reasonably satisfying and we learn to live with a sense of non-fulfilment in relation to those which are more ambitious. That’s all part of the game of life.’

  ‘You seem to be telling me that I must choose either – to follow my current life or select an alternative, hazardous and ill-defined route.’

  ‘Peter, I’m not telling you that – I’m not telling you anything. That just seems to me to be a summary of your current dilemma. The choice is important to you but it’s your choice. It’s also important to recognise that it’s part of the game of life. That is not to say that the game is not serious. We not only become more adept at game-playing as we grow older but it also becomes easier to delude ourselves that life is not a game. Life has all the possible components of a sport intermixed – farce, comedy, drama and tragedy.’

  ‘Now you’re talking in riddles or is it just me, now that I’ve definitely had too much to drink?’

  ‘Quite possibly both of us have at this stage in the evening. Perhaps it’s time we should go home.’ The meal was over but they lingered over coffee. Peter had no desire to go until he was certain that he was sufficiently tired and sedated with alcohol not to feel the oppressive emptiness of the flat.

  ‘May I see you again?’

  ‘You seem to have achieved that very competently on two occasions now without asking permission,’ she said smiling, ‘but the answer is yes. You have my telephone number now as a result of your sleuthing but don’t leave it too long as I shall be going to my cottage in France for the summer at the end of April.’

  ‘Where is your cottage?’

  ‘In the Dordogne but not right beside the river. Have you ever been to the area?’

  ‘No, but it seems to be becoming very popular and fashionable.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I don’t do fashionable. I go there to work and, away from the tourist hot spots, it remains an essentially French part of France. There are English cars and tourists but I see very little of my compatriots during the time I’m there.’

  ‘Where exactly is it?’

  ‘The cottage is just outside a very well-preserved mediaeval town called Sarlat. That’s where I shall be writing during the summer.’

  The conversation drifted slowly away and Peter walked back to Sally’s flat where they parted on the pavement. ‘Perhaps we shall meet again.’

  ‘Perhaps we shall. As I said, judged by past performance the likelihood of our doing so would now seem to be very high!’ She smiled. ‘Yes, it would be good to see you again. Go on, it’s past your bedtime.’

  The emptiness of the flat suddenly seemed unimportant. He slept well that night for the first time for weeks.

  13

  The last weekend in March was cold but sunny and Peter decided to take himself out of London. On an impulse, he drove to Henley (in Dickens words “the mecca of the rowing man”) and set off to walk along the Thames Path in the direction of Marlow. He felt the need for exercise and sufficient time to focus his thinking. He had reached a point where he felt it was essential to make a choice; to continue in this state of indecision would ultimately have a corrosive effect which would pervade all aspects of his life. Stripped down to the essentials, his options were straightforward. One was to continue to follow his chosen career. He knew that he was regarded as competent by his colleagues and sympathetic by his clients. This would be a safe choice, one for which he had been prepared by upbringing and education. He would continue to make a comfortable living with sufficient resources to fill his leisure time in almost any way he chose. He would very probably meet another woman and possibly re-marry. The alternative would be to break free and attempt to fulfil his dream of writing. This would be a riskier but a more interesting choice. The events of the last few months and the final parting from Ann meant that this was an unusually opportune time to make such a break. He could mitigate the risk if his partners were prepared to agree that he might have a sabbatical and grant him leave of absence for a year. He recognised that to set up such an arrangement with an assured escape route would be regarded by some as timorous or even pusillanimous. There would be advantages in burning his bridges comprehensively behind him; a total break with his past would certainly provide a stimulus which would drive him to achieve. The knowledge that an exit was available might diminish his drive and take the edge off his ambitions. He also reflected on the impact that a decision to drop out would have on his parents. They were bound to disapprove and it was highly likely that they would deploy every conceivable argument to discourage him from doing so. They would take the view that he had developed a successful career and that this was a proper return on the monies spent on him over many years at Marlborough and Cambridge. They would certainly consider that he was squandering their investment and his education.

  The river glittered in the March sunshine, its surface shimmering in the current, highlighting the turbulence created by the oarsmen. The views across the river, unimpeded by foliage on the trees, revealed the classically styled buildings of Phyllis Court and the Management College, each brightly reflecting the sun as it reached its height and, between them, the Wren masterpiece of Fawley Court could be seen in all its magnificence. He reached Hambledon Lock and Mill and after crossing and re-crossing the river he took the track away from it and walked up the slight incline to the Flower Pot Inn. He bought himself a sandwich and a beer and sat in the garden enjoying the sunshine. He knew that the one person with whom he could discuss his options was Michael but he hesitated to do so. He recalled the various conversations of the last few mo
nths and decided that the time for agonising over possibilities was over. The time had come to decide and the decision had to be his and his alone. This was almost certainly a once in a lifetime opportunity that had been handed to him by events largely beyond his control. He knew he should take it. He finished his lunch and with a lighter step walked back down to the river and along the towpath to his car. An hour later, he was back in his flat where he sat down to make a list of the issues that he would have to address before he could abandon his present job and face up to the challenges ahead. The first of these was to discuss the possibility of leave of absence with his partners. The second was to inform his immediate family. He stopped at this stage suddenly realising that, apart from dealing with certain minor everyday practical issues, this was the limit to the key matters which needed to be resolved.

  Peter raised the possibility of a year’s leave of absence at the weekly partners meeting the following Wednesday, arguing that he needed time to pause and reflect following the breakdown of his marriage. His natural reticence held him back from outlining his particular ambitions to his colleagues. There was a certain amount of resistance and grumbling by two of the older partners who said that it would be an unsatisfactory precedent if others sought to take a year away following a personal crisis. They pointed out that everyone experienced critical periods in their lives. Peter was asked to leave the room while they considered his application. He was invited to re-join them twenty minutes later, to be informed that they would agree to a year’s leave of absence which would be unpaid although, as a partner, he would be entitled to a share of the profits for the year. The period would commence not less than three months from the date of that meeting and would be subject to his finding a satisfactory locum to cover his time away. Peter knew that this was the best he could have hoped for and accepted the conditions readily. One of the other younger partners told him subsequently that it had raised the possibility of a sabbatical in the minds of several of them and that they had been more than happy to argue that they should create a precedent.