by David Nobbs
'I don't know.'
'Exactly! Well done. You've avoided the trap.'
'The trap?'
'The trap is to answer "one". You don't know because you haven't been given enough information. All you've been told is that there are fifteen people there, and that altogether fourteen legs are missing. At one extreme there could be fourteen people with one leg missing, or at the other extreme there could be seven people with two legs missing. You haven't been told, so you are quite right to say, "I don't know." '
'I hate this party, Alan. It makes me want to cry. It's so sad. All them people with missing legs. It's horrid.'
'No, it isn't, Ange, because there is no party. It's hypothetical.'
'I know, but it's still sad. Although if they're handicapped like that I suppose it's nice that someone is giving them a party. Yeah, I can see that.'
'Ange, there is no party. There's no emotion in logic. There's no morality in logic. That's one of the reasons that I choose this example. So now let's change the figures. Let's say that there are fifteen people, eight of them have no left leg . . .'
'No!'
'Ange. There is no party. Nobody actually has a missing leg.'
'I know, but it's making me sad thinking about it.'
'Do you want to learn about logic or not?'
'Yes.'
'Then listen. There are fifteen people, eight have no left leg, eight have no right leg, do any of them have no legs? Think of it as a puzzle. Think of it as fun.'
'I can't do this.'
'You can. It isn't as difficult as it seems. Honestly.'
Ange thought long and hard. The process clearly hurt, and didn't seem like fun at all.
'One of them has no legs,' she said. 'Poor bastard!'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because he's got no legs, of course.'
'No. Why did you say, "One of them has no legs"?'
'Because there are sixteen missing legs and only fifteen people, this is killing me, I'm going to cry.'
'Yes!'
'What?'
'Well done.'
'I'm right?'
'Well almost. No, that was good. You thought logically.'
'Why did you say "almost", then?'
'Because you didn't think it through enough. The full answer is "at least one". You still didn't have enough information. There could be four people with two legs, four with one leg and six with no legs.'
'Have you got a tissue?'
I switched the light on, found a tissue – thin, weak, inferior to Townsends, and handed it to her without looking. She gave her nose a long blow.
'Sorry,' she said. 'I know it's not real, I do, but I know it's not real in the cinema too, and I cry there as well.'
'All right. I'll give you another example.'
'Not so sad?'
'Not sad at all.'
'Something that won't bring me out in goose-pimples?'
'Guaranteed no goose-pimples. Try this statement. "Everyone in Leipzig has red hair." '
'You said it wouldn't be sad.'
'Well what's sad about that?'
'I don't like red hair. A town with everyone with red hair would be horrid. It'd be bad enough being German with no sense of humour and all those sausages, but . . .'
'Please, Ange. It's just an example.'
'You're cross with me.'
'Not really, but please just listen. It's just an example. Now let's consider the possibility and impossibility. Is the statement "Everyone in Leipzig has red hair" a statement of the possible or the impossible? Note that I'm not asking you if it's likely. It isn't likely, in fact it's extremely unlikely, but it is possible. I would therefore argue that you cannot say that it is unbelievable. What is possible must be able to be believed. Are you awake?'
'Don't keep asking me if I'm awake. It pisses me off. It does my head in. I'm bloody awake, all right? I'm listening. You asked me to, and I don't know how to listen out loud.'
'Sorry. So now let's try to make an impossible, and therefore unbelievable, statement about Leipzig. "Everyone in Leipzig is in Didcot." No, not Didcot, that reminds me of that bloody man and his detective. Swindon. "Everyone in Leipzig is in Swindon" Is that possible? No, because it's utterly impossible for anyone to be in Leipzig and in Swindon at the same time, even with Easyjet. I hoped I might get a little titter there. Are you awake?'
She was asleep.
When we got up I wanted to tell her how beautiful she had looked with no clothes on, but instead I said, 'Would toast and marmalade be all right?'
After four slices and three cups of tea, she said that she'd have to set off home. I didn't want her to go. Life would be empty without her.
'I've got to go,' she said.
'You don't have to. You're a temp.'
It was silly of me to say this, because that afternoon I had to make my belated visit to my mother. I honestly did think, later, though, that if Ange had stayed I'd have been prepared to miss my visit to my mother again and fu . . . and to hell with the consequences.
'Exactly. I'm a temp, so if I don't turn up I don't earn any money.'
We walked to the station. I carried her bag. She was wearing the Townsend Tissues T-shirt. The weather was breezy, but sunny.
On the platform I said, 'I could come down at the weekend.'
'I've got a life, Alan. I've got friends. I'm going to a twenty-first, aren't I? I'm going to a football match. I'm taking my sister. I've got a busy weekend.'
'I didn't know so much happened in Gallows Corner.'
'Because it's not Oxford, you mean? It's not posh. People aren't clever.' She put on a phoney posh voice. 'Oh my God. Are there such places?' Well, I hoped the voice was phoney. I hoped I didn't sound like that.
'Ange!'
'Listen. You are coming to the World Championship darts. I am coming to the Frederick Rawnsley Memorial Lecture. We are going to Lawrence and Jane's to eat curry. We don't have to be in each other's pockets every day, Alan. We aren't husband and wife. We've never even had sex, for fuck's sake.'
I looked round to see if anybody was listening. A man in a dark suit was reading the Financial Times with suspicious concentration. The eyes of two mature women were popping out of their heads. They turned away hurriedly as soon as they saw me looking.
'Ange!' I hissed. 'People are listening. We're giving them a free show.'
'Sod them.'
'You said it didn't matter about the sex,' I said in a hissed whisper.
'It doesn't, but we aren't even a sodding item.'
'It was you wanted to talk last night.'
'Don't argue, Alan. I don't do arguments.' She had lowered her voice, for which I was grateful, although I suspected that she was doing it so as not to gratify the eavesdroppers, not to please me. 'I like you. I've really enjoyed meeting you. We're meeting next Wednesday. Don't rush me. Don't crowd me. We'll see how we go. We'll see how far we can go. I'm warning you, Alan, because I know me. You come on heavy, it's over. Finito. I don't do heavy. Not any more. Never again. All right?'
I agreed, albeit glumly.
'Bleedin' 'ell, Alan. I know more about life than you do. I'm beginning to wonder what you do know. No, I know the answer. Germanic Thought from Cunt to Frankenstein, that's what you know and that's all you know.'
'Kant to Wittgenstein.'
'Whatever. Here's the train. Piss off. I hate goodbyes.'
TWELVE
It would be a difficult visit to my mother. She would still be fuming because I had missed my usual day without letting her know, but I was aware, as I bought the cake and fetched the Saab from its garage, that there was an extra element now. I longed to tell her about Ange. Why? For all sorts of reasons. Believe it or not, I felt more proud of the relationship than ashamed of it. At least I was living, and I knew that my mother felt that I was too dull to have any kind of life worth relating. Also, conversation at the Home was painfully difficult. This would at least be something to talk about. Besides, I would be delighted to be
able to shock her. You may think that cruel at her age, but you haven't sat there week after week for nine years and watched her being so smug in her condemnations, so complacent in her disapproval. The main reason, however, was more honourable: I just did not want there to be such a yawning gap between us. If I had such a large and growing secret, it would make our relationship even more sterile, my visits even more pointless. I realised that in the nine days since I had last visited her, Ange had begun to become really important to me.
The Home smelt of fish and stale cabbage. It always smelt of stale cabbage, regardless of what they had had for lunch. The only difference that their lunch made to the atmosphere was that, if they had fish, the whole place smelt of fish and stale cabbage.
My theory of relativity is much simpler than Einstein's. Time goes at varying speeds. Time is a malign omniscient God who can see what I am doing and moves accordingly. 'He's with his mother. Slow down.'
'Hello, Mother.'
Peck on the cheek. No warmth. Same every time.
'So, you've come eventually.'
I didn't rise to this. I put the carrier bag down. In it was the cake. Walnut.
'I've brought you a cake, Mother. Walnut.'
'I hope there aren't bits in it. My teeth can't cope with bits.'
'How are you?'
'Why do you ask? You aren't interested. If you were, you'd have come on Wednesday.'
'Mother, I wasn't well, I didn't want to give you food poisoning, you aren't as strong as you used to be, it might kill you.'
'Why should you think that would upset me? What sort of a life do I lead?'
I chose to ignore that. I repeated my question. 'How are you?'
'Oh, mustn't grumble.'
'Good.'
'My balance isn't what it was.'
What could I say to that? All I could dredge up was, 'Oh dear. I'm sorry.'
She lowered her voice. 'I need a nurse in the room when I go to the commode.'
I was shocked. This meant that her balance really was bad. She would never be seen on the lavatory by another human being unless it was absolutely necessary.
'I've fallen twice.'
It was coming, the beginning of her terminal decline.
I decided to change the subject, this one upset me, but I let a minute or so go first. I didn't want to use up my questions too quickly. They had to last for two hours.
'What did you have for lunch?' I asked at last.
'Fish. We always have fish on a Friday, though of course you wouldn't know that, as you usually come on a Wednesday.'
'Mother, are you going to spend the whole of this Friday complaining because I didn't come on Wednesday, because if you are I might as well not have come at all.'
'Well, don't if you don't want to. I don't want to be a burden.'
I wanted to scream, but I controlled myself. I used up a few seconds, and then I asked my next inspired question.
'What sort of fish?'
'I don't know.'
My heart sank again. Was her memory beginning to go?
'You couldn't tell. It was so tasteless.'
A wave of relief swept over me so powerfully that I broke out into a light sweat. Her remark had been a criticism and not a lapse.
I so wanted to be with Ange. My mother's room was stifling. Ange was the fresh air outside. Ange was the world beyond the windows. Now that I had fallen . . .
I was going to say 'in love'. No. No, I couldn't be in love with Ange. That would be stupid. I enjoyed her company. I would be sad if I couldn't see her again. That was all.
'Come back, Alan.'
'What?'
'You were miles away.'
'Sorry, Mother.'
'You only come for two hours. It's not very nice if you spend part of it miles away. I'm eighty-seven. I get no conversation all month. Margaret's well meaning but she has no conversation. Unfortunately that doesn't stop her talking all the time. I look forward to our chats.'
Dear God!
'Where were you?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'When you were miles away. Where were you?'
'Nowhere, mother.'
'Has something happened?'
'No, Mother, nothing's happened.'
'Is something wrong?'
'No, Mother, nothing's wrong.'
Oh, the gaping chasm between us. I decided that next Wednesday I would tell her about Ange.
Next Wednesday was the day when I was taking Ange to eat Jane's hot curry, but I made sure that before I met her at the station I gave my mother her full two hours. I couldn't have faced any more of her rebukes.
I drove towards the Home very slowly. I always drove slowly, but when I went to visit my mother I drove even more slowly, as if I hoped that there was a chance that the place might burn down before I reached it. On this occasion, however, I drove even more slowly than usual. I was screwing myself up to tell my mother about Ange. I fantasised about how the conversation might go.
'Mother! I've something to tell you. I have a girlfriend.'
'Oh, Alan, darling! At last! How terribly thrilling! Do tell me all about her.'
'Well, her name's Ange.'
'Oh how lovely and informal.'
'Ange Bedwell.'
'My word, that sounds promising. Where's she from?'
'Gallows Corner.'
'Oh how nice. I don't know the area myself, but it sounds most dramatic and historic. How old is she?'
'She's twenty-four, mother.'
'Oh! Well, good old you. And what does she do?'
'She works as a temp in a skip-hire firm in Romford.'
'Alan! How refreshingly exotic. You must bring her to visit me.'
I could wish, as my students say, when I ask them if they are making good progress with their essays.
As I parked in the Home's spacious car park, I was shocked at the realisation that I had passed through three roundabouts without noticing them.
The visit began in its usual way. Peck on cheek. 'I've brought you a cake, mother. Chocolate cream.'
'M'mm.'
This was her ungracious way of saying 'Thank you'. The subtext was, 'Why haven't you brought me one I don't like? You know how I enjoy grumbling.' Her other favourite was lemon drizzle. When I played safe and took chocolate cream and lemon drizzle alternately, she had complained that I wasn't giving her enough variety.
