An honest ape with honest shit and an honest handshake …
‘Jon, there are too many random elements in play this time. As you know.’
‘Is this urgent?’ Jon’s phone chirruped and ticked — like a mechanical manifestation of guilt.
‘We can’t have the monkeys running the fucking zoo.’
I like monkeys.
‘Is this, though, an urgent matter?’
‘Not in the least. But we thought, as you do slightly know him and he is, apparently and understandably, somewhat friendless … While your workload is low, Jon … Not that you chaps ever get much rest, we know … You are appreciated. It’s not that we don’t appreciate you. There is creative tension at certain levels, but you are … appreciated.’ Chalice halted to let another waxworks smile overtake him. ‘We thought that you might establish a common ground.’
‘Like a shared allotment.’ Jon letting this be audible, because he couldn’t prevent it. ‘We can talk about our onions together.’
Chalice pressed on regardless — he was the type. They were all that type. Whether they’d trotted about with the Chilly Rivers, or sold yoghurt before they got here, being relentless was seen as a virtue. How else can one shove a recalcitrant civil service up the relevant hill and off the cliff.
And somebody always has to tumble first, go over and soften the landing for everyone else.
I spend my life waving at samphire gatherers as I plummet. I will not mention this.
Chalice would get the Lear reference, but it would escape the Minister for Nothing to Do With Me. ‘The weight of this sad time we must obey. Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.’ I can’t go and see it onstage any more — not theatre at all.
Those inaudible telly actors, they get me down. Which isn’t the problem — the words are the problem — the art is the problem — the constant dig of reproaches in most of what I can remember on any subject are the problem …
Chalice had ground on while Jon was rather significantly absent but nodding and fortunately just aware enough to catch: ‘I told Milner you could join him for an informal chat. At that little pub — the place opposite you. Around three.’
‘Three today?’
‘Three today, yes. I know you skipped lunch. That’s a dreadful habit.’ Chalice made this sound sticky. ‘But you can make up for it now. While you’re free.’
‘But it’s not urgent.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘I’ll … ah …’ Yesterday evening I was sitting by a square pool, herbs planted at its edge and blue tiles holding the water, evening-blue tiles — sepulchral — shining beneath the reflections, the wet ghosts of light, and there was tea in glasses and I liked that. I barely had a headache, almost none. Not a trace of nausea. ‘Then I’ll … of course…. Three o’clock.’
‘We said you were available then.’
Chalice spired his fingertips as Machiavelli surely never did. ‘Less bustling than at lunchtime. It does get busy in there over lunch. The boisterous young and freshly-down favour it, I believe. Our new blood. I hear the fish and chips are impressive — for a bar meal.’ Chalice gave a tiny, incongruous sigh, business concluded, and stood. ‘That’s set then.’ He didn’t extend a hand for shaking. ‘Splendid. And if you can tell us how things went.’
Jon focused on standing successfully. ‘You want me to tell you today.’
‘Preferably today. If you wouldn’t mind terribly.’
‘Of course.’
‘I see him and I tell you about him.’
‘Of course.’
And Jon was vividly aware of his feet and socks and the clutter of his shoes and shoelaces, the weight and complications attending each step as he removed himself, nodding to the Minister — Good to see you, happy to help — closed the door over, took the corridor at more speed than was necessary just to be out and out and away.
It had seemed not unreasonable thereafter to go astray.
A woman is crying on platform three at Canada Water Station. The sound she makes is unusuaclass="underline" extremely loud, something between a howl and keening, an odd lowing. Although the area is busy with commuters because it is lunchtime, the strange quality of the woman’s grief, perhaps grief, means that she is being ignored. Around her there is a bubble of cleared space.
She is middle-aged and plump, Caucasian, dressed in a sweater and thin waterproof jacket, along with loose trousers which would be suitable for jogging or sports in general, although she does not look especially athletic. The woman wears white trainers which are very clean and make her feet appear to be bigger than they actually are. She has a lanyard around her neck which supports a quite large, square tag — identification of some sort, again with a vaguely sporting flavour.
The woman continues to lament, or perhaps lament. Her uncomfortable presence announces itself repeatedly and produces shuffles amongst the crowds, turned heads and an ambient shame, embarrassment, unease.
Two younger figures advance on the woman, one from the head and one from the foot of the platform — they are also women. The shorter of them is white, has a practical air and may have a physically involving job. She wears functional slacks and an anorak, has gingerish hair tied back in a loose knot. The taller woman has an angular, lean face, something Ethiopian about it. She is the more stylish of the two, suited and turned out in a way that would fit a high-end office. She has gone to some trouble with her bag and shoes, they agree with each other nicely.
The pair hesitate when they reach the insulating area, the space cleared around the woman by dismay, the space created by this yowling person. They study her face, which is not so much wildly anguished as puzzled, locked, afraid. It does not correspond with her cries, has not flushed with effort, but only stayed greyish and indoors-looking. They both ask, ‘What’s wrong?’
The woman continues to yowl and waves the tag at the end of her lanyard as if it is magical. Then she explains, in a voice made tired by its exertions, that she is autistic. Between words, there are sobs. She is aware that she is autistic. That is a truth. She understands that she will not die from having missed her train. That is a truth. She is standing beside a map of the different lines that pass through Canada Water and cannot keep her eyes from it for long, as if it may at any time indicate the removal of a necessary track, a dreadful blank. That will not happen and is an untrue truth. She knows that she can catch another train which will take her where she wants to go. That is a truth. She will not be trapped here for ever. That will not happen and is an untrue truth. Nevertheless, she is lost. That is a truth and an untrue truth. Inside her, truths and untruths are tearing something with nerve endings into pieces and producing terror. She has been howling in protest and for assistance and for the return of her proper train, the one she needs. She needs the passage of time to become different.
The pair talk to her in very low voices, consistently calming: as if they may have children, or like being friends to their friends, or are familiar with anxiety and weakness. It seems they actively enjoy being helpful. They tell the woman the next train that she can catch.