8

Thursday 29 May — Thursday 5 June 1986

The inspiration to visit Leslie had come to Colley when he was sitting over a blank sheet of paper ostensibly composing a memorandum, but in practice thinking about Chaite. He was obsessed with her; what could — what should — he do? He was in despair when, suddenly, he had his brilliant idea. He would ring Leslie. It was so long since he had rung Leslie that he had to look up his number.

He found it; dialled it.

‘The number you have just dialled has been changed ... [quoth the automaton] ... Please consult your new directory’

Damn. Colley consulted his new directory and found that the telephone area had been changed as well so that Frettleborough Polytechnic no longer fell within it. 192.

‘Directory enquiries, which town?’

‘Frettleborough’

‘And the name of the people?’

‘Frettleborough Polytechnic — it’s a changed number’

‘What was it?’

‘The number is Frettleborough 274174’

‘274174 ... thank you very much’

Colley tried again.

‘Poly — tech — nic’

‘315 please’

‘We don’t have a 315. Who do you want?’

‘Um ... Leslie Benjamin’

‘That’s 2026, caller. Remember that. Number’s ringing’

‘2026 — Leslie Benjamin’

‘Hello’

‘Colley! ... Where are you?’

‘In my office. But I’m coming over to Frettleborough’

‘Good. When?’

‘As soon as we’ve arranged it’

‘Poor Colley. You’ve got a problem’

Leslie knew.

‘Usually’

‘Well ... can you come for lunch next Thursday ... or is that too soon?’

Colley knew his diary. Thursday would be fine.

‘That’ll be fine. About midday? Where?’

‘Come to my office and we’ll decide’

‘I’ll look forward to that’

Leslie hissed into the phone:

‘Got to go. See you. Bye’

Now that he knew that he was going to do something — that he was going to talk to Leslie — Colley felt more relaxed. He made a note in his diary; then, without putting down his pen, he drew his notepad towards him and wrote his memo fluently and flawlessly.

That night Colley slept well. He didn’t wake at 3 o’clock thinking of Chaite. He woke at 4.30 thinking of Leslie.

That night Colley slept right through; it was 6.30 before he woke up mindful of a composite chimera; a Chaile; a Leste. He switched on Radio 3, predicted the key for the Philip Jones fanfare to introduce the Open University, got it wrong, and settled back to listen to a heavily-scripted impromptu discussion [‘Well, John ...’ ‘Well, Rob ...’] between a heavily Scouse professor and an even heavilier Geordie doctor of philosophy — each proud of his mandatory regional accent’s acceptability in the groves of Open Academe — on the Place of the Aristotelian Virtues in Benthamite Philosophy. ‘And vice versa ... [thought Colley, who wasn’t really listening] ... what’s posterity ever done for me?’ He wondered if Leslie was listening; he knew that his work had something to do with making such programmes.

And now Colley was in Frettleborough. It had changed. Not the buildings that closed over oppressively as he entered the inner city; they were still the same. It was the roads that had altered. A plethora of signs: No Entry, One Way Street, No Lorries Between 7am and 8pm Except on Sundays, Get In Lane, Keep In Lane, Cyclists Only, Traffic for Market Street Keep Right At Roundabout ... and yet you had to doff your cap to the city fathers: the traffic had been strangling Frettleborough, and now Frettleborough was strangling the traffic. Who is the potter, pray, and who the pot?

Colley found his way to a car park of concrete and red brick over a shopping centre and wound down his window as he stopped at the barrier. There was an oppressive smell, a miasma of modern Megapolis: overchoked cars mingled with concrete and a whiff of mikki. A ticket protruded rudely from a machine — he stuck his tongue out at it in retaliation and drew it forth. The barrier swang up like a railway signal; an incongruous ginger cat sockpoled purposefully past. There’s a whisper down the line where the year has shot her yield, and the ricks are ready to depart intoned Colley, moving forwards.

Rows of radiators smiled as he spiralled, seeking a space. Here scurries a rep, samples and expectant order pad at the ready; here a woman sports a suit of a cut and shade betokening the pseudo-uniform, her billowing neckwear topped by a Tussaudian complexion; here a mother — tottering tot clasping a plastic bottle of Coke as big as itself — deftly compresses folding frame, Mothercare pushchair; here a man in a van, dirty white overalls, tea in thermos, savouring sandwich, scanning the Sun in the firm belief that it’s a left-wing organ.

with an embarrassing thud as his rear fender met the concrete solidity of the structure even as he was congratulating himself on his deft driving. He looked furtively around for witnesses, but there was none but a Great Dane constrained in the adjacent car, half raising its languid head; the Hound of the Baskervilles having a day off; he wouldn’t tell.

Colley got out and put on his jacket, ritually checked his accustomed pockets, and locked the car. There was no apparent way out of the car park except by his route of entry — ridiculous. Then, in a distant corner, he espied a crude mural; a symbolic stick man striding purposefully up some ill-limned stairs. He made for the door which must surely be there. It was, but the handles were fastened together and: ‘Please use other door’ ordered a scrawl on a torn-off scrap of hardboard. Colley looked around in vain for the other door.

He peered over the parapet at the people going about their business at ground level, unaware that he was trapped high above them in an open prison. ‘Me Tarzan ...’ he looked for a liane on which to swing down; as his hopelessness grew he spotted that ‘other door’ ... close to where he had parked. He looked at his watch; what had been twenty minutes early would now be at least five minutes late. He scurried down the stairs as the door banged to hollowly behind him, blinking as he left the cool concrete darkness of the car park and emerged into a narrow alley-way struck by a shaft of sunlight, and a welcoming smell of fruit beckoning from the brightly-lit hypermarket. Experience showed that the shop could be a short cut to reality.

‘Exit to car park only’ said a sign. A uniformed octogenarian sought to stop him, holding up his skinny hand: ‘Sorry, sir … you can’t ...’

Colley pointed vaguely into the shop: ‘Iss my vife ... I help fetch ... microvave ... iss very heavy’

The Ancient Mariner became the Helpful Hermit, beaming understandingly, ushering him in the forbidden direction.

‘Senk you ... iss kind’ effused Colley, walking with what he hoped looked like a mittel-European gait. He passed down aisles high-piled with provisions, mountains of merchandise, 20p off this, 10% extra that, buy three and get one free.

He found an egress twixt the tills wondering if he might be apprehended for shop-lifting and so sue for wrongful arrest — what a shame they didn’t stock grand pianos; the doors hissed, rolled apart automatically, and he debouched into the pedestrian precinct.

appointed places, but there were many non-car-owners too, aliens among the automobiles, had they strayed from their circuit.

The barrel-shaped ladies, waddling with shopping trolleys, hats on immaculate wispy blue rinses and thick brown coats buttoned high against the sun; the old men, some shabby, shambling and unshaven, some in tweeds with a military manner; the young in pinks, greens and whites with much supererogatory pattern detail, or fringed leathers with random chains and complex insomniac hair.

So many sat on seats among the jigsaw of raised flower beds, the sun shone, and everyone looked so happy, that Colley found himself smiling as he sauntered, wondering why everywhere, every day, could not be as idyllic as this, bathed in beauty rather than in the more usual vague feeling of general despair — vandalism and violence, murder and mayhem, robbery and rape. Thus he arrived at Leslie’s office benign and punctual after all.

Colley was shocked at the way Leslie had aged since last he saw him. ‘And have I aged similarly?’ he wondered, not believing it possible. They went to a ‘little wine vault’ Leslie knew.

‘What’ll you have?’

Colley had forgotten Leslie’s infinite capacity for taking Pimm’s.

‘St Clement’s ... if you don’t mind’

Colley, who could fall over at the pull of a cork, knew they shouldn’t start turning the screw. He gave an apologetic grimace, willing Leslie to understand that it was some old ulcer playing up, secure in the knowledge that Leslie would not ask about it, for to admit of Colley’s possible infirmities would only lay open his own.

Leslie was clearly a regular here; how else would he have been served with a pint mug sporting a Carmen Miranda lookalike without even batting an eyelid? The St Clement’s too, garnished with slices of oranges and lemons looked more eminently quaffable than the usual effete offerings.

Leslie led the way to a corner table whence, by some antiphasic miracle, the otherwise omnipervasive Muzak™ was excluded; a cone of silence. An impossible waitress materialised; Colley astounded that anyone could actually have got herself up to look so like The French Maid.

‘Reading Greats ... [hissed Leslie] ... leading light of OUDS’

Her voice was surprising: musical Mummerset. Practising, perhaps.

‘Good morning, Lettice ... [said Leslie] ... mackerel salad, please. Colley?’

‘Er ... I’ll have the same, please ... if that’s all right’

He wondered why it shouldn’t be all right.

‘Of course, sir. Two mackerel salads. Will you have anything to start with?’

Neither Colley nor Leslie had decided who was paying; neither particularly wanted anything to start with, yet did not want to seem inhospitable, should he turn out to be the host.

‘I think the salad is all I want’ said Colley, implying that if Leslie wanted strips of tender young celeriac marinaded in Moët et Chandon, boiled in a bleached linen bag at full moon until the cows came home, deep frozen, passed through the microwave oven, lightly sprinkled with fresh-ground cardamom and served on a bed of luscious iced cucumber, who was he to stop him?

‘Mackerel salad’ll do me fine’ said Leslie, snapping the menu shut and handing it back over his shoulder to The French Maid with the half patronising, half self-deprecatory, smile suited to such occasions.

‘And would you like the wine list, gentlemen?’

Again Colley and Leslie exchanged glances.

Again Colley took the initiative, handing The French Maid his glass.

‘I think I’d like another of these ...’

‘And a Pimm’s for me’

Leslie was glad to be let off the hook.

Colley mused on the whole art of restaurant play — particularly the subset food-speak — for all around people were assuming pabular roles; as the food for their tables arrived, they would start slightly on the buttocks, hold a finger at shoulder level, and pronounce: ‘I’m the egg mayonnaise‘ or ‘I’m the rare steak’ or ‘I’m the cheeseboard’.

then Colley had known that Leslie had not died, and the signals became subsumed in the noise again — until the next time.

Had Leslie changed? Was his once-so-valuable trait of putting his finger straight on one’s troubles no more? The mackerel salads came, mountainous as the drinks.

‘They do you very well here’ said Leslie, tucking in. Colley was amazed to see him filling his mouth with wickedly curved fish-bones — then realised that it was probably stems of cress or pieces of thinly-sliced raw onion. Colley was amazed, too, at the thick showers of dandruff on Leslie’s shoulders — how could it be that the myriad of available panaceas had passed him by?

Momentarily, Colley experienced a revulsion from someone whom he had held dear for longer than he cared to remember. Perhaps he had subconsciously felt this, and this was why he had allowed his friendship with Leslie to lapse. He had expected to bounce his problems off Leslie; now he felt that he couldn’t. He felt angry, thwarted, frustrated. Once again, his selfcentredness came to the fore, as though Leslie existed solely to bolster him up whenever he deigned to ask, to be folded back into the box like a marionette when Colley had finished.

‘I’m glad you’ve come ... [said Leslie] ... I’ve got a problem’

Colley started. What was the answer to that? What, indeed, was Leslie’s problem — not dandruff, surely? To give Colley his due, he suddenly realised that he had been so intent on discussing his problems with Leslie that it had never crossed his mind that Leslie might have problems of his own. Could it always have been so? He experienced a cold flush; he had used Leslie as a sounding-board so often; now it was time to reciprocate, and he didn’t relish the sudden, sharp realisation that as long as he could talk about himself he didn’t much care about anyone else. He composed himself: ‘What’s the matter?’

Colley looked, he hoped, serious and receptive.

‘Jaguar trouble’

Colley almost laughed: ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Well, I’ve been running the Old Girl so much that all sorts of things are beginning to go wrong at once — king pins, gearbox, rear axle, brakes — and I don’t know how I’m going to be able to afford to restore her. I really shouldn’t’ve used her so much, but it’s such fun and ... what’s the good of a car if you don’t use it? Mind you, when I do get it fixed, I’ll be a jolly sight more careful, but I just don’t see how I can at the moment’

have run the Old Girl into the ground. It really was so easy to see what other people ought to do:

‘Have you got another car?’

‘Yes ... not such fun, of course’

‘Of course not, but it’s a start. Now, how much do you need to spend on the Jag?’

‘More than I’d like to think’

‘Oh, come ... Shouldn’t you start by finding out? Unless you know, you can’t begin to plan — and I certainly can’t’

Yes, other people’s problems were really so simple. Turn the problem back on itself; analyse it; help its owner to approach it logically; defining the problem was a long way towards finding the solution. Come to think of it, that’s what Leslie had always done. Leslie had never given advice, just asked probing questions. Colley felt less selfish by the second.

‘I’m sure that if you run your other car — that’ll save you some money — and draw up a plan for getting the Jag refurbished over a period, you’ll feel a lot better’

Colley knew how much the XK120 meant to Leslie; without it, he’d probably curl up and die. They went over the detail of what was needed.

‘I feel a lot better already, Colley. You’ve really cheered me up ... [Colley hoped he looked modest, self-effacing, pleased] ... And why ... [continued Leslie] ... did you suddenly pop up again after all this time?’

Colley felt genuinely guilty. What could he say?

‘Don’t look so guilty ... [Leslie laughed] ... I really am pleased to see you, you know. I do think of you, often; the times we had together ... of course, we’ve moved on a bit since then, and it’s better to remember the past with affection than try to force something that can never be. How’s Genista?’

Colley started.

‘Oh ... she’s fine. She really enjoys looking after children, you know ... I think’

‘You think?’

Leslie looked exaggeratedly surprised.

‘Yes, I think ... I know. I don’t know. Oh hell; we don’t talk about that much’

‘What do you talk about?’

‘So who do you talk to?’

Leslie putting his finger on it again. He knew that Colley always had to talk to someone, and for a long time it had been him. Now it was him again. He could see Colley’s mind churning over and over.

Colley told him about Chaite, what fun she was to be with, how much they had to say to each other, what tender feelings he had towards her, how indispensable he thought she was to his wellbeing.

In fact, he was telling Leslie about his idealised Chaite; his mental Chaite. He did not tell Leslie about the physical Chaite, and the fact that her attitude towards him seemed to have changed — which was why he’d come to see Leslie in the first place — perhaps seeking some reassurance for which it was neither right nor realistic to hope.

‘So what’s the problem? ... [Leslie felt somewhat brutal] ... Are you going to bed with her?’

‘No ... not really’

‘How do you mean "not really"? Are you or aren’t you?’

‘Well ... it doesn’t work ... for either of us’

‘So you’re asking me to tell you it’s all right to worry Genista sick ... [Leslie held up his hand to stop Colley from speaking] ... worry Genista sick as long as you don’t go to bed with Chaite. You see that as the boundary between adultery and innocence’

From Leslie, it didn’t sound old fashioned.

‘Genista doesn’t know’

‘Who’re you kidding?’

Colley’s mouth fell open. Once again, he felt that new realisation of selfishness flow over him — it was exactly like standing at the edge of the sea and being knocked flat by a tsunami.

‘Look ... [said Leslie getting out pencil and paper] ... here’s you ... [he wrote a C] ... and here’s Genista ... [he wrote a G] ... You’ve known her even longer than you’ve known me; you lived next door to each other, you went to the same school ...’

‘Yes ... I’ve known her since she was in her pram’

‘You’re thirty ... six?’

Colley nodded:

‘As good as’

Leslie wrote 36 beside the C:

‘And Genista’s ...?’

‘Thirty four’

know each other so well that it’s hardly surprising that you haven’t much to say to one another sometimes — if you don’t talk work, or current affairs, or any of the myriad new experiences you can share — nothing to do with your common past’

Colley looked sharply at Leslie. Was he joking?

‘Now ... [continued Leslie (who wasn’t)] ... you say that Chaite is twenty seven and you’ve known her about a year. You realise that you’ve got getting on for forty — let’s say — years of independent adult experience to share between you. You and Genista can read one another like books. You and Chaite can’t — not in the same way. There’s chemistry there, and that makes it worth pursuing. It’s a novel experience for you, it’s a bit naughty, and you probably think you’re in love’

Colley baulked: ‘I didn’t say that’

‘No, but you do’

‘But ...’

Once more Leslie raised a restraining hand as Colley started to speak:

‘And I’ll tell you something else’

Leslie telling, giving advice, not questioning? This was new. But making statements was a way of questioning. Colley had to say something:

‘What’s that?’

‘You’re attracted to Chaite because she’s free and independent. You want her because you’re jealous of her freedom and independence. But you can’t magically transfer her admirable qualities to you by possessing her. Don’t you see that (a) it’s impossible to transfer those qualities, but (b) — much more important — if you did possess her that in itself would rob her of the very freedom and independence you think is so vital. It’s sheer atavism: the ritual sacrifice of the divine king; cannibalism is about eating parts of the wise or the courageous in order to transfer their attributes to yourself. It doesn’t work’

‘Wow’ was all Colley could think of to say. Leslie had really put his finger on something; why hadn’t he seen all that? Why hadn’t he seen a lot of things?

‘So what should I do?’

you can, never forgetting that her freedom is an essential part of her, and that — paradoxically — if you want to go on enjoying her you must never let on that you want to keep her. End of sermon’

There was a long silence. Wave after wave knocked Colley over; he kept standing up again like the Chinese Mandarin. He felt like a punch bag; a shadow boxer on whom the shades had turned the tables; he reeled round the ring; the bell rang:

‘Last orders, please, ladies and gentlemen ...’

Colley went to the bar for a last order, paid the lunch bill in gratitude, returned drink laden to the musing Leslie.

‘‘Cheers’’ they said in unison.

‘Thanks ... [said Colley, adding emotionally] ... old friend’