The story continues from Tranche Thirteen.
Most of the elements Marcus needs to progress have been or are being assembled. He has got to where he is because of the kindness of strangers. Since childhood he has tended to reject or avoid such interventions, no matter how well-meaning. It is probable that he is becoming aware that the most stable structure has three legs - and he has just the two. Somehow he has to learn how to let others lend him their support…
Wednesday, 7th September.
First session with Dr Callendar
It had been a very busy morning on top of two busy days. Marcus had to run to his appointment with Dr Callendar. He arrived out of breath. “Sorry I’m late. I was trying to convince a customer not to cancel her order...”
She closed the door and seated herself facing him. Glancing at the sheaf of papers on her lap, she asked: “Were you successful?”
He had been expecting some sort of review of all the forms and inventories he had completed a week before – or at least some pleasantries. “The General Manager finally agreed a four-and-three-quarters-percent concessionary discount. She didn’t cancel.”
“Are you enjoying it working at Waring and Gillow?”
Strange question! Was he enjoying it? “Yes, I am in a strange sort of way.”
He could see from her expression that her next question would be ‘why?’ So he continued. “No-one’s been doing the job for nearly a month. It’s chaos. But there is a system. Debbie in the accounts office explained how the dockets are generated and what’s supposed to happen. My bit is processing the orders with suppliers. Fortunately Mr Lewin in the next office is helping me. Without them I’d probably have run away… but Mel seems to think I can make it work…”
“That seems encouraging,” she said, shuffling her papers and uncapping a pen. “What else has been happening during the past seven days?”
The question seemed surprisingly conversational, almost as if this were a casual chat. Remembering that Armand had been similarly disconcerting Marcus took two long slow breaths and let the answer bubble to the surface.
“I’ve signed up for resits at the Poly. Evening classes start next week. Oh, and I went the Drill Hall round the corner and applied to join the TA.”
“How are you getting on with the people at Mrs Bettevants’?”
Again, she surprised him. He was expecting to be asked about Drill Halls and the TA! Of course, her generation would know all about that. Another change of direction!
“I see them at meals...” How to describe without actually saying he felt like an outsider? “They’re friendly enough, but older and…”
“And?”
“Ohh, they all seem successful and good at what they do.”
She made notes and chuckled. “Lizzie Holbeek and Freddie Lehrman have been with Mrs B for years. Don’t be too hasty to dismiss them. But what else have you done? Go anywhere at the weekend?”
“I went home.” He was sure he had not said anything about his parents at the interview. He hadn’t then decided to go. She was just tossing pebbles. But even if he had said nothing to her it was most likely that Armand would have mentioned parents in any notes he might have passed on.
“For the weekend?”
“Just Saturday and Sunday. I had to get my school notes and books.”
“Armand refers to some problems at home. Have they been resolved?”
“No,” he replied, feeling himself withdrawing, becoming wary. What had he told Armand? What had Armand told her? She was waiting, sitting quietly, observing. It was a gentle gaze, patiently inviting. “I can’t go back there.”
She continued observing him, hands folded on the papers on her lap. It reminded him of Armand. He had always given him time to reflect. While it was true he had no wish to return home it would not be how boys of his age, like Brian, would be expected to respond.
“It was good to see my brothers and the new house. They go back to school at the weekend and Mum and Dad go back abroad on the thirteenth...” he stopped, breathing slowly, forcing himself to trust his instincts and stay calm. “It’s an old house in a little country town; very different from the last place… Dad said they will be having work done while they are away – and Mum wouldn’t want me living there on my own any more than at the other place a year ago.”
“Thank you…” Doctor Callendar was turning over pages on her lap. “Did she tell you that?”
“Not in so many words. She just made it obvious that nothing had changed since a year ago – if anything my quitting the bank and running away to France just seemed to make her more convinced that she’d been right last year…”
She folded her hands; looking directly into his eyes. “That was the way you saw your mother this last weekend. What I’d like you to do now is to turn your mind back.…” She paused before asking: “What is your very first memory of her?”
“First?” His mind emptied. “I don’t know… not of her specifically anyway…” Think! He dredged his memory. What was his earliest memory? Of anything – she would have had to have been there. Something, like a half-remembered scene from a film, drifted across his mind. What was it? He struggled to verbalise an odd jumble of images and feelings, of smells or tastes.
Then it sprang into focus. “I’m in my pushchair… it’s a place with a rough dusty wooden floor. I feel excited… I know! We’re getting orange juice. It’s like syrup. Really sweet. I can still taste it… But I don’t remember her.”
Dr Callendar sat back in her chair. “What do you remember about her, Marcus?”
Her question led to his articulating vivid memories of many things, but few that he thought of as ‘motherly’. No memories of hugs – surely there must have been hugs? – but a clear memory of being punched and a hazy memory that it had been something to do with a faulty electrical plug. Had he electrocuted himself? Was it protective fear? The more the questioning probed, the more he felt he was being enticed into disloyalty. Maybe she wasn’t the sort of mother idealised in Woman’s Own – but she was his mother! By the end of the session he was frustrated, disillusioned, angry. It became an effort to remain polite. This was not what he had expected! He had answered honestly and yet all that he had revealed was his own inadequacy. Doubtless that was what Dr Callendar intended, to expose his weakness to make him face it.
Hurrying back to Fitzroy Square, running some of the way, allowed anger to dissipate and, perhaps, lessen the feelings of betrayal. By the time he reached the Square he felt calmer: he had tried to be scrupulously honest about his feelings for his mother. Armand’s few sessions in Nice had helped him recognise that fear of exposure had built barricades rather than trust. He owed it to Armand to find the courage to go to the next session with Dr Callendar and trust her to help him.
Supper
Mrs Bettevant was in the kitchen. “Hello, luv. I kept yours in the hotbox.”
He looked at his watch – ten past seven. “I start evening classes at seven from next week. So on Mondays and Tuesdays I’ll have to rush supper but on Wednesdays I’ll have to go straight to the Poly after Dr Callendar – so no supper.”
“Don’t fret about that luv – just let me know in the morning. Come a bit early if you’re in a rush and I can always put something by for when you’re late.”
He thanked her and took the bowl of soup to the table. He would have preferred to eat alone but Freddie and Ambrose were there talking.
“Just us left,” Freddie greeted. “Have some wine?”
“Thanks, I shall,” Marcus replied, getting a glass. “How’s it going on the new Bond, Ambrose?”
“Shooting’s just started. But I’m not involved in that.”
Freddie probed and Ambrose parried. Yes, it was a Bond but he wouldn’t be drawn on plot or setting except to say that Roald Dahl had written the script and there was a lot of location work - and he wouldn’t say anything about that either. His part was just set design in the studios at Pinewood. And, no, he wouldn’t say any more. Ambrose shifted the focus to theatre. The next day he would be going to the last night of Oliver! He had been very junior when he became one of Sean Kenny’s assistants more than six years previously. Marcus listened, daring only to say he had seen the show a year ago. They began talking about ‘Funny Girl’, which both had seen, after Ambrose said ‘he had heard’ that a filmed version was being planned for next year.
Marcus ate while they talked. The anger he had felt earlier had been replaced by an awkward guiltiness. He had been resisting Dr Callendar. Why? He knew she was his best hope to help him escape his crushing negativism. At least he was willing to acknowledge it. In some ways his father’s belief in ‘pulling himself up by his own bootstraps’ was not completely wrong. It wasn’t a matter of physical but of psychological levitation. Intellectually obvious but…
He put the crockery and cutlery on the trolley. “I’m off upstairs.” Freddie and Ambrose were still talking. “Goodnight.”
He shut the door to his room and dithered. His emotions were still bubbling after the session with Dr Callendar. He recognised the signs of what Armand had called ‘existential panic’. Leaning against the door he shut his eyes and took a long slow breath. Just breathe, he told himself. It will pass.
7:37pm, Wednesday, 7th September, Room 6, 30 Fitzroy Square. Existential panic!! What causes that feeling? Armand helped me recognise that this is how I’ve always responded when feeling boxed in. He talked about the fight or flight response and so did Dr C today. She also mentioned that all the questionnaires I filled in for her suggest I avoid direct confrontation – which I do. She got me talking about Mum. That certainly made me feel boxed in. I was quite angry by the end. Why?
Good question. But how do I answer it? Let’s say that I do experience this existential panic and that I feel it very strongly when required/forced to talk about my mother – no! actually more than that – forced to talk about feelings about my mother. Even now, just thinking back to that session, I can feel the panic rising. What did I say to make me feel like that???
I’m going round in circles here. I’ve been thinking and thinking and all that I can honestly say is that I don’t have feelings for my mother…
Wow! What does that mean?
It means what it says. My mother is my mother. She gave birth to me. She has taken care of me – as well as she is able.
What did I NOT tell Dr C? That I don’t believe Mum loves me and I certainly wouldn’t say she likes me. When Pip or Gill talked about their mothers there was the same distancing or embarrassment or dislike – but their mothers grace the social pages of Tatler and both girls were regularly trotted out for important social occasions. Maybe that’s just how people like that are. Anyway, the Hardwycks aren’t paupers. Dr C asked me what I wanted from my mother all I could say was that I wanted to feel liked – just that. I’d be happy with that.
9:53pm. Enough! I’ve got a job, a place to live and the revision grindstone starts on Monday. I’ve got to beat this existential anxiety thing – the aim is to put failure behind me. No plans beyond that – yet.
Marcus read through his journal entry. A bit rambling, he thought, but writing it had settled him. He put the notebook aside. TA tomorrow. There would be more drill for the new recruits. Unlikely to be a period in the miniature range this week. Probably a period on ‘map reading’ or ‘ranks of the British Army’. Did he want to go? Not want, exactly, but intuition was telling him he had to engage with other people outside of work, have a pastime, be sociable. Avoiding that was the pit he had slipped into while working at the bank. Running away to France taught him that not only did he have to find the way to climb out, but that he would never succeed if he didn’t allow other people to help him. Why was that so hard to accept?
Friday 9th September
End of the week
Waiting in the queue to collect his pay packet he realised that he had nothing planned for the weekend. Maybe he would go shopping. He needed new trousers and a jacket too. If the weather was good he might try out the camera he had brought from home. Or he could sort out all his notes and books: classes started on Monday. Or he could rest. It had been a stressful week, especially dealing with salesmen and managers, although Mel had dealt with the difficult cases. Marcus was learning that sorting, categorising and filing paper was easy for him, but picking up a phone and talking to people, whether on the sales floor or in one of the manufacturers, demanded a huge effort. On the positive side, he was also learning that most people were helpful, often much more than he expected.
Mel had good relations with the salesmen and he advised Marcus how best to deal with their different characters. He also seemed to know everyone in the trade and Marcus quickly learned to trust his advice about the quirks of the people when phoning to resolve a problem. But why, oh why, could not salesmen write clearly, legibly? How many more times must he ask Mr Morley or Mr Quinn or Mr Dainton exactly what their strange annotations meant – which were always about patterns or colours or materials or finishes or trims in arcane furniture lingo that he was supposed to know. No wonder the previous clerk had left!
He collected his wage packet. Not much, but enough to pay Mrs B and go out occasionally. He still had money in the bank, which would be a good buffer, but he would have to be careful to pay for the revision classes and examination fees.
Passing the Welsh chapel across the road from the loading dock he looked up at the words Capel Bedyddwr Cymru incised in the stone. Every time he passed he wondered how they ought to be pronounced. His only knowledge of Welshness was Richard Burton reading Under Milk Wood on a recording in the old library at the Grammar School. He wondered whether this chapel had a Reverend Eli Jenkins in bible black painting pictures with words on Sundays. He walked on and turned right into Great Tichfield Street, the route he took deliberately to avoid passing the hospital or the nurses homes, but even in avoidance he was reminded of Sophie. Doubtless she had forgotten him – but he had not forgotten her.
Dr Callendar had ended their session with a quote from Hamlet - for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so - asking him to reflect on it before they next met. He had not been able to stop reflecting on it, always reaching the same conclusion. His conscience reminded him that he known Sophie was not hurt by what Pip said but by his failure to speak up. He had acted badly. He was a weakling with a defective moral compass.
The next junction was with Margaret Street. Someone, probably Sophie, had told him about a famous church there. He turned right. Halfway down the street on the left was a sooty brick building. It looked like a school but had a steeple, so was likely the church. He dithered. Why was he feeling so uncomfortable? He looked at his watch. Forty minutes to supper.
He went through an arch into the courtyard. A door in the corner was open. He went in. There was a stoup just to the left. Water glistened. He smelled incense. It was unmistakably a church. An arched nave. Ranks of pews. The far wall decorated with painted tiles of religious scenes. An image of the Virgin Mary with a rack for candles, two burning still. And then, beyond the choir, the altar with the reredos peopled with saints soaring to the commanding figure of Christ in majesty. Marcus felt overwhelmed and sought a seat. He did not share his father’s unquestioning belief nor his mother’s complicated relationship with doubt. The idea of a church as sanctuary had drawn him in and its Pre-Raphaelite adoration of detail enveloped him in romantic artistry. A man in a black cassock was lighting the candles on the altar. People were slowly entering. Some sort of service was imminent. He got up and left.
The Christ in heavenly majesty had seen through him. The nurses’ home was in the next street. He could continue being a coward and go to Fitzroy Square by his avoidant route or he could go round the block, ask to see Sophie, apologise and move on. Whether it was the commanding figure in the Reredos, Hamlet’s words or aching guilt, he walked around the block and ran up the steps to John Astor House. Once through the doors he asked whether he might see Sophie. No, he had not made an arrangement. If she wasn’t in he would leave a note-
“Marcus! What are you doing here?” It was Sophie’s partner (Deborah? Debs?) from his stay in the Meyerstein Ward a year ago. She was supported by two other nurses who were regarding him with evident suspicion.
“Hi. Umm…” Just tell the truth idiot! “I came to see Sophie… errm… to apologise – face to face – I know she won’t want to see me but…”
“Better late than never Marcus! She’s just behind us.” The three nurses moved to block his escape. “We’ll wait with you.”
Marcus saw Sophie coming through the doors. The three nurses were immediately aware of an impending drama and closed ranks.
Sophie glared but kept coming. “Marcus, I never expected to see you here!”
Now he had an audience. “I’m sorry Sophie. I know it’s taken me a long time and I have no excuses. It’s just I’m really, really sorry I was such a coward…”
Sophie was looking at him more in surprise than anger. The others were watching them both. Should he just go? What was he waiting for? “Ummm… anyway… I’m sorry…”
Sophie looked at the other nurses and then back at him. “Look Marcus – we probably need to talk, but I have to go or we’ll be late for shift.”
“I’ll leave my details…” he said, indicating the reception window, “and I’ll try – I will - ring you when…”
Sophie glared at him. The three nurses seemed to form a protective escort and rushed her out of the door. Well, if nothing else, he’d given them something to talk about. He had done something he should have done nine months ago, yet somehow that only sharpened the feelings of guilt. He deserved that pain. He had known at the time that he had been a coward. He would write to her. Then, if she still wanted to meet, they might talk. He walked slowly towards Fitzroy Square.
Sunday 11th September
It would be two weeks on Monday since he had arrived at Mrs B’s and four since he had run away to France. He was feeling that more had happened to him in those few weeks than in the whole year previously. Recording events in his journal had become a useful spur for reflection. He began to write.
1:48pm, Sunday 11 September. Mrs B’s Fitzroy Sq. The boys are back at their schools today. Pete in last year in the Sixth and Chris last year of Prep. When I saw them last weekend I sensed Pete is no happier than I was two years ago and Chris has argued with Mum about his next school. I’m only now getting some idea about how unhappy I was. I need to go and see them at least once a month. Maybe there’s not much I can do but I wish I’d had someone to talk to.
Some good things this week: I finally found the guts to face Sophie and tried to apologise. She was going on shift so I couldn’t say much – but I’m glad I said sorry to her face. I phoned on Saturday but she wasn’t available (or didn’t want to talk to me) so I decided to write. It took a long time and several drafts each getting shorter until I got it down to a single heartfelt page. I was honest. I delivered it this morning. Then I went to church at All Saints. It’s very high Anglican. I found it soothing. Maybe I shall go again.
On Friday night, after I’d seen Sophie, I came back here for supper and Tancred and Elaine insisted I go to Liza’s with them. I was expecting a sweaty cellar club like the Flamingo, but it isn’t. It’s over a restaurant in Covent Garden. A members only drinking den. Very smoky with shaded lights and alcoves and booths and photographs, hundreds of photographs, on the walls. It’s difficult to know who goes there. There are men and women from twenties to sixties (or more), a friendliness I haven’t encountered much elsewhere – like people assume that if you are there you are ‘one of us’. Some people looked like they’d come from the opera and others looked like they were off the stage in a pantomime and many with the same sense of individuality as Elaine and Tancred. I thought I recognised a few faces but it seems to be a place where everyone is equal, even me. I’ve never been in a place where I feel so included. There was music, a jazz combo and a couple of singers. Main thing for me was the friendliness. People just talked to you! I got propositioned a couple of times. Elaine had warned me I might. Like that time at Studland with Brian last summer I just understood what was going on intuitively. Out in the real world I don’t trust my intuition at all. This is something I need to explore with Dr Callendar. Tancred put me up as a member – I had to fake my age, I’m now twenty-one!
I’m glad I went to Liza’s. I’d been wary (scared?) of Tancred and Elaine. I envy their energy, they seem to ooze creativity even though I still don’t know what they really do. On Saturday Elaine made me go shopping because I said I felt ‘fusty’ compared with them and most of the rest of the crowd in Liza’s. They asked me what I meant by ‘fusty’ and I had said it was feeling like an abandoned suitcase in the lost property office at a railway station.
The shopping was fun. Elaine dragged me from Carnaby Street to second-hand and surplus shops and made me dress up in a dozen different ways. I felt a fraud in Tancred’s style. When she had me try on Afghan coats or drainpipes or bell-bottoms I felt like a poser. But I was allowed to like linen shirts and moleskin trousers, plain waistcoats and woollen jackets. She said I was finding my look. When I said I thought my hair was too long and unkempt she took me to a barber, said she was a stylist and stood over him while he gave me a haircut I feel comfortable with. If the army don’t like it I won’t join!
I like the look of this new me but I’ve got to trust Dr C can help me sort out the mess inside. Next week I start evening classes three nights a week – my aim is to knuckle down and pass next summer. BUT I don’t have any longer term plans than that – yet! Must not lose sight of that.
He read the two and a bit pages twice before he closed the notebook and went to the window. It was a hazy day and people walking around the Square were lightly dressed. There were a couple of hours before supper. He would go out and enjoy a walk in the park trying not to think - just experience being. That would be a challenge!
Wednesday 14th September
Without any social niceties or other preamble Dr Callendar said: “Tell me about your week, Marcus.”
“It’s been busy,” he replied, cautiously. How was she expecting him to respond? Was she really just wanting him to tell her what he had done over those past seven days? What had he done? Where to start? Simple chronology or order of importance? Relax! Tell a story. “Work is settling down. I understand the process now and am getting to know the salesmen and people in the manufacturers…”
She nodded and made a brief note.
“My brothers went back to school at the weekend and my parents are flying back overseas today and I think I’ve settled at Mrs B’s. I started Chemistry revision classes at the Poly on Monday and Physics yesterday. There’s an introduction to the laboratory practicals tonight. Oh! And I went to the TA last Thursday and will probably be attested tomorrow.”
“Attested?”
“It’s the swearing of an oath of allegiance before an Officer. After that one gets a number and is issued kit and attends training and gets paid…”
“Seems like quite a commitment.”
Marcus wondered whether that was an observation or a question. “I suppose it is. It’s not like we’re going to war or anything, but I feel I need to confront myself, commit to something…”
“Some thing?”
Ah! Wasn’t asking himself that question the reason he was here? “Not a physical thing – not even an idea, really… Well, not an idea like ‘country’ or ‘democracy’ – it’s an internal thing…”
“Could you explain?”
“I’ll try. I have this idea I make things difficult for myself, like pushing on doors marked pull. I said that to someone and they said my problem is I hold the door shut – I don’t let people in…”
Dr Callendar made a lengthy note, seemed deep in thought for some moments and then asked: “How does that relate to commitment?”
He felt skewered, or was it hooked? He took a long breath. And then another. He felt the desire to dissemble, to wriggle free, to keep the door shut, to avoid looking in the mirror at a tumult of dissembling metaphors.
“It frightens me, the responsibility of it… I find it easy – comforting – to commit to a job, to joining the TA… but not to friends… not to my brothers… not to my parents…”
She was making notes. Had he said enough? Or too much? Let her do her work! Just wait. She stopped writing. She folded her hands.
“Last week you told me about your mother. Today I’d like you to tell me about your father…”
“I don’t really know him… I don’t suppose I know my mother either but with Dad it’s different: she’s a permanent fixture but he sort of comes and goes…”
“Comes and goes… can you amplify that a bit? I don’t understand.”
At last, a story to tell. Just tell her what you remember. Facts. Just facts. It felt like solid ground.
Practical classes at the Poly
He was seven minutes late and breathless when he reached the Poly and thirteen minutes late by the time he reached the appointed room. The person in charge of the class introduced himself as Chief Technician Pavel Walenski. He was grey haired and sour faced. Five students were already present when Marcus arrived, four more would come after him.
The first part of the class was taken up with completing the register, laying out the schedule of classes:
6 Chemistry classes alternating with 5 Physics classes
end of term 9 December,
mid-term break 24 – 28 Oct and
new term start 9 January.
With the administrative details completed Mr Walenski took them to the laboratories - first to Chemistry and then Physics. In both places he explained organisation, equipment and the required safety clothing, equipment and procedures. He spoke a precise English that made Marcus think of a ceramic pot that had been broken and glued back together again such that its function was retained.
“Anyone coming to the George?” Marcus called as they rose to leave the Physics lab. It had started as a deliberate ploy to counter his anti-social tendencies after the Chemistry orientation on Monday and discovering the Poly was teetotally inclined. He repeated it on Tuesday after the Physics class. Each time a few joined him. On Wednesday it was James, Linton, Victor, Leila and Esther. By agreement everyone paid for their own drinks.
“I talked to Dr Fenton about the syllabus and past papers,” Marcus said as they gathered around a table. “I’m not going to fail this time so I’m question-spotting. The syllabuses and past papers are in the library but I’m planning to buy study guides, a syllabus and the last ten years of papers and do a statistical analysis. Shall we form a study group?”
It had just been a wild idea remembered as the intuition he had suppressed during his last year at school.
“Yeah, I’m in,” said Victor.
“You doing it for both, or just one?” Leila asked.
“I’m doing both so we could have two groups…” Marcus was excited to see that they were welcoming his idea. “I’ll find out how to get all this stuff and we can meet next Monday after class, OK?”
He made an effort to get people talking but limited himself to one beer. The others all lived further away but it was agreed a study group was a good idea. Marcus walked back to Fitzroy Square feeling quite good about himself. As she had promised, Mrs B had put supper aside for Marcus.
He was alone at the table when Dr H passed on her way to the kitchen. “Looks like the Poly is keeping your nose to the grindstone.”
“This is orientation week,” he replied. “We have two terms with twelve two hour sessions to cover the syllabus. There’s a group of us planning a strategic approach.”
“Which is?”
“The goal is to pass the exam. We know what the syllabus is so we’re going to analyse past papers to determine the frequency of topics.”
“Question spotting? That can be risky.”
“Agreed. But the last time I thought it unethical and didn’t do it.”
“Why unethical Marcus?”
“Back then I was not in a good frame of mind. Now I know I need all the help I can get.”
“That seems sensible. Have you thought about university?”
“Not yet…”
“Don’t leave it too late. If you ever want to discuss options I would be happy to talk; I have some experience.”
“Thank you…” He was grateful. He finished the supper and gathered up the papers spread across the table. He had expected her to be critical and yet she had been helpful – he must learn to be less judgemental. University applications had already been mentioned in the orientation briefings and most of the others had plans: only he had not. He would find an opportunity to talk to Dr H.
On the way to his room he saw a piece of yellow paper in his pigeon hole. Under the printed rubric ‘Telephone Message’ someone had written ‘5.30. Marcus – re-weekend call HYD 7319’. Cryptic! He recognised the Hardwyck’s number. He fed four pennies into the box and dialled.
Mrs Hardwyck answered. The reason for her call was to invite him to Morton Lynford. She was driving down on Friday hoping to leave as soon after six as possible. He accepted and went up to his room, sat down at the table and opened his journal.
10.03pm. My room. Mrs B’s. There was a phone message in my pigeon hole and for one glorious moment I thought it might be from Sophie. It wasn’t. Nor will it be. I said I would phone her and I must. Thought I might invite her to talk some time this weekend, but I’ve been invited to Morton Lynford. That was a surprise. I haven’t seen Brian since Easter and Milly since Pip gave me the boot. It will be good to catch up and (serious note to self) I must do something to patch up the friendship. The Hardwycks have been good to me. I need to acknowledge that, especially with Brian. With Sophie, I must call – next week – and then let it go. And I must not forget other friends – especially Sandy and Lizzy. Right! That’s my weekend fixed. Tomorrow – keep on top of the orders and plan to get around the salesmen to learn a bit about what they sell. TA tomorrow – maybe I’ll be attested.
Friday 16th September
At the end of his twelfth day he had sorted and sifted and catalogued and filed, bringing order out of chaos. Cheroot smoking Mel had been his saviour, asking the questions that Marcus missed or did not think to ask and, most of all, being encouraging. Marcus had made lists, and lists of lists. He had correlated the lists and indexed the dockets with file cards linking order numbers to salesmen and to manufacturers and to delivery dates. Then he had taken all of that to Debbie in the accounts office. After one and a half hours and three cups of tea, she declared herself confident that the stock-order office was in good hands.
“Stop worrying Marcus!” she urged. “You’ve worked wonders. Mr Reichmann’s talking to the salesmen about keeping a closer watch on their order pipeline but, frankly, if they’d been doing that in the first place we wouldn’t have got into that mess. He wants you to keep close watch on all the orders due for delivery in the next two weeks as top priority. One other point, when you can, get around the departments and try to meet all the salesmen. Might cut down on misunderstandings.”
“OK… yes, thanks. I’ll do all that.” He gathered up his papers. “Before I get back to work I need to tell you I’m now doing revision classes at the Poly and I’m joining the TA. That doesn’t affect work except I shall have to finish no later than five thirty on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. I know that’s my normal finish time but the appointments I have with Doctor Callendar on Wednesday tend to run over a bit. I thought if I could start at eight thirty each day I could have two hours for Doctor Callendar and still be within my hours.”
“Hmmm. So you’re offering to work an extra two and a half hours a week to allow you time to see this Doctor during the workday?”
“Yes… I promise to keep on top of the work.”
“Well… and there was me thinking you were going to hand in your notice just as you’d straightened out our mess…. Take what time you need Marcus – just keep on top of the orders.”
As Marcus returned to his office he was wondering why Debbie would joke about him leaving. Why did he always assume the worst? He would ask Doctor Callendar. Half an hour to clocking out and a weekend in the country!
Pay day and a weekend in the country
There was a queue at the Cashier’s office. He waited, checking his watch. People jostled. Slowly the queue advanced. Corinne handed him his pay-packet. He moved on, looking at the neatly written figures on the buff paper envelope. Two thirds of what he had been paid at the bank, but at least he had enough for his rent and maybe more than one night out, the bar at the Drill Hall was ridiculously cheap.
He checked his watch again. Thirty five minutes to get to the Hardwyck’s. Not by the Underground, the rebuilding at Oxford Circus was causing congestion, so a bus would be better. He rode a crowded 98 to Marble Arch and walked from there.
“Marcus!” Milly hugged him. “Brian’s got a guild dinner in the City tonight, he’ll be coming down later with Daddy. Come in. Mummy’s got supper for us.”
Mrs Hardwyck hugged him too. “We’re celebrating this weekend – Milly starts at the Old Vic on Monday.”
“I’m the most junior – I’ll be making tea for everyone!”
She looked at him appealingly, so he hugged her again and was almost surprised that she didn’t pull away. “Well done, I know you said that’s what you really wanted.”
“Been a slog - lot of temping, stand-ins, short-term gigs, but, yeah, finally made it. What about you? Nik told Brian you’d left the flat in West Ken and when Mummy rang your mum she said you’d been in France and were living in Fitzroy Square…”
Mrs Hardwyck stepped in decisively. “Darlings! Supper! You’ve got all weekend to talk.”
Marcus was as grateful for the interruption as for the supper. A year ago he and Brian had moved into Palace Court and Milly into the hostel in Pembridge Square. In that year Milly had got to be an ASM at the Old Vic and Brian was going to a guild dinner in the City! He encouraged Milly to explain what she did as an assistant Stage Manager and then volunteered to do the washing-up while they loaded the car.
“Sit up front Marcus.” Mrs Hardwyck steered him to the passenger side of the car. “It’s a long drive, so you can tell me what you’ve been doing since we last saw you.”
That had been at Easter. He had been working out his notice period at the Stock Office in the City. It was the last time he had seen Milly. He had been rude and they had not parted amicably. He had avoided her since and only seen Brian a couple of times at Nik’s flat in West Ken. Bite the bullet Marcus!
“First things first…” he turned to Milly in the back. “I’m really sorry for being such a prick at Easter, Milly. I--”
Milly leaned forward. “I knew you weren’t in a happy place. But thanks…””
“We know it hasn’t been easy for you, Marcus,” Mrs Hardwyck said as they joined the flow of traffic around Marble Arch. “Your mother said you’d been to France…”
It was such a gentle invitation to talk that he couldn’t resist it. “I ran away, really. I was lucky. Some people helped me…” What could he say? Yes, he had been lucky. Very lucky. “A girl I met in a cemetery got me a job in a café and her best friend’s uncle suggested I talk to Armand Caldieri, a psychologist.”
“Was that helpful?” Mrs Hardwyck asked, skilfully threading the car through Park Lane traffic.
“Yes…” Marcus was reluctant to say more.
“How did it help?”
She wasn’t letting him off easily. He was reminded of Mathilde opening oysters. When he tried, it took him as long to open one without stabbing himself as it took her to prepare a plateful.
“Armand held up a mirror and invited me to see myself.”
“And what did you see?”
The traffic around Hyde Park Corner was manic. Brian had said she was in chambers before she married and he could just imagine her in court in a wig. She wouldn’t let him go until he told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but…
“That I’m ashamed of myself…” That was the truth of it. He could dress it up as he had with Milly when he told her he felt as if his whole life was spent pushing on doors marked ‘pull’ and she told him he held doors shut so others couldn’t get in.
“…I don’t understand why I feel like that. Armand helped me accept I need help. He recommended me to a friend in London, she arranged my digs with Mrs B and signed me up as a client, or maybe a patient, and I’ve had two sessions.”
“Useful?”
“Doctor Callendar has been asking me about my parents and that was… difficult. I felt angry and resentful and lost a lot of the time: I don’t know why. I just know I must trust her and…”
“Are you worried that you won’t?” she asked, stopping at traffic lights.
Another perceptive question! He looked from Harvey Nichols to Harrods to the Hyde Park Hotel and back again. Was it ‘trust’, or something else? There was an Edwardian smugness about grand hotels and self-indulgent department stores where top-hatted commissionaires would recognise him as a charlatan, an interloper. Step up Marcus – be honest or be quiet!
“I’m worried that Doctor Callendar will hold up Armand’s mirror and I will know that I am worthless.”
Milly responded immediately. “Marcus! You’re not worthless.”
Marcus turned in his seat “Thank you Milly!”. Adding impulsively: “I could kiss you for that…” And trealised what he had said. “Oh!”
Mrs Hardwyck laughed. “Better do it Marcus or your life will be hell this weekend.”
Milly was regarding him with an intensity that sent his heart racing into the stratosphere. She had thrown down her glove! Kiss her, you fool! This is your Rubicon! He leaned toward her. Lips met and it wasn’t a chaste sisterly kiss.
Mrs Hardwyck spoke after a decent motherly interval. “Your mother said you are working at Waring and Gillow and will be taking you’re A-Levels again. She also said you will be joining the army – you seem to be keeping yourself busy.”
“It’s not the Regular Army. I’m just applying to join the Territorials – it’s part-time at weekends. – and revision classes at the Poly have just started, exams next summer. My job at Warings is just processing sales orders. Whoever did it before me left it in a mess and it’s taken me and Mel from the customer service office a dozen days to get it into order. It should get easier.”
“Where are you living now?” Milly asked.
“Mrs Bettevant’s in Fitzroy Square. It’s close to work and the Poly too.”
“What’s it like? Is it a hostel?”
“No, it’s a big house. Eight of us live there. An academic, a writer, three designers, an accountant, a student I haven’t met and me…”
They were passing the Natural History Museum. He had never been there. At his age Mrs Bettevant was a chorus girl in Paris.
“…Mrs B’s amazing. She was a dancer in London, Paris, Berlin and in New York back in the Twenties and early Thirties. Then she became housekeeper for a playwright and he left her the house when he died.”
Traffic was moving smoothly. He recognised Whiteley’s Depository and the footpath entry to Mornington Avenue. He had talked quite enough. He turned to Milly. “Have you met Laurence Olivier yet?”
She laughed but stroked his shoulder. “I’m an ASM, or I will be from Monday, the lowest of the low, and he’s the big cheese, but maybe I’ll get to make him tea sometime.”
“That can’t be all that ASM’s do – come on! Tell us what you’ll be doing.” he teased.
“Well… I don’t know… but Love for Love is in rehearsal and I might just possibly get a slot – and Olivier is playing Tattle in that…”
“Wonderful! I hope you get it.” Marcus was more impressed than he was willing to admit. Was there just a touch of jealousy? “Come on: tell us more…”
They played ‘I Spy’ through the heavy Friday night traffic out of London. Mrs Hardwyck impressing Marcus with her assertive driving and light hearted inventiveness such as ‘spring’ for ‘S’ or ‘differential’ for ‘D’ when they were stuck behind a heavy lorry or ‘trunk’ for ‘T’ when they followed a car with a bright blue tin trunk strapped to its roof-rack. Milly was easy to draw on her experiences learning the job of an ASM on a dozen placements including a week at the Palace. He had worked there for two and a bit weeks as a stage hand and so could share memories of Bond-girl Eunice Grayson and the Abbess, whose cloak he was positioned to catch as she swept off stage. Milly told him the opera singer was Constance Shacklock and her job had been marshalling junior performers. She had also worked on a TV production at Ealing Studios, another short placement in the West End and a couple of months in Richmond.
He was aware of being a little jealous of this girl. He guessed her father had a hand somewhere in easing the path towards realising her ambitions just as he had with Brian at Hambros. His parents’ way of interacting with their children was very different. It wasn’t about money or connections – although that must be a big help – but rather that the Hardwycks seemed always to be in step while his own family was as chaotic as a Norman Wisdom film.
“Are you in the TA now?” Milly asked, jerking him back to the moment.
“I was attested yesterday…”
“What did you have to do?”
“Swear an oath to be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, her heirs and successors and the generals and officers set over me… I heard others talk about it before but actually doing it made me feel… like I’d become a grown-up”
“Congratulations, Marcus,” said Mrs Hardwyck. “Any weekends coming up?”
“Next one’s a range weekend. After that is a Regimental concentration…”
“Do you want to be an Officer?” Milly asked.
“I’ve only just joined Milly, I’m not even a proper gunner yet!” He was dissembling deliberately because the Adjutant had sent him to see Major Fox, the Regimental Second-in-Command, right after Attestation. Major Fox had asked the same question as Milly. The man had pilot’s wings above two rows of medal ribbons and para wings on his left arm. Facing this man across his desk made him feel awkward, gauche. He had taken a slow breath, thought carefully and said ‘I’d like to be thought good enough.’ Fox had smiled like an indulgent god: ‘Up to you to prove it, Marcus.’
Mrs Hardwyck turned on the radio, it was a classical concert on the Third Programme. They were in the country, the weather was good, she was driving faster as the traffic thinned, overtaking wherever she could, clearly enjoying the driving. Milly curled up in the back and Marcus settled into his seat. He had a couple of hours to review the roller coaster of the previous three weeks before they reached Morton Lynford.
Morton Lynford
After a cold supper and some discussions about the arrangements for the next day he wished them goodnight. Milly took him upstairs to the room he had had previously.
“Pip said you were a good kisser…” Milly said as he opened the door.
Why had Milly said that? He’d been surprised by the kiss in the car. He had suspected Milly liked him, but that confirmed it. Why was she hovering outside his room. He felt frozen.
“Not to me she didn’t,” he replied sharply. Seeing her wince he felt remorse. “She could be thoughtless like that.” ‘And so can I!’ he told himself.
“Pip is cruel, not thoughtless. She’s an emotional leach,” Milly responded. “She actually rejoiced when you broke up with that nurse…”
That didn’t surprise him. After they first slept together, Pip asking him if she was ‘better than her’. When he told her that he hadn’t slept with Sophie she had sniggered and said ‘well, she wasn’t missing anything’. He ought to have ended it there and then. His five weeks and three days with Pip had been emotionally exhausting - but it had still been like having a plaster ripped off when she ditched him for the Etonian polo player.
“I didn’t know that, Milly but… well…” He backed into his room. “Anyway, better say goodnight. See you in the morning,” and he closed the door gently.
11:07pm, Friday, 9th September. Here I am at the Hardwyck’s for the weekend. It’s been a hard week. Started revision classes. Saw Dr C on Wednesday. That stirred up things and I’m
He heard the door open, turned and saw Milly. He closed the journal and slid it under the old book. He felt her looking at him. Why did girls do this to him? His mother was right, he was a sex-maniac!
Milly crossed the room and stood behind him. “That looks like an old book,” she observed, “what’s it called?”
“The Dolly Dialogues.”
“What’s it about?” she asked, picking it up and opening it at random pages.
“Oh, it’s difficult to explain…” He was worrying she would pick up the journal next.
But she closed the book, handed it to him and curled herself onto the armchair. “Go on, read me something!”
Why was she doing this? He didn’t know, exactly, but he had an intuition that she was offering him a different sort of mirror. The kiss had shown him what she wanted. He had to choose carefully.
“Well… if you’re certain…” He opened the book. “This is the beginning of the first dialogue – it’s called A Liberal Education…”
He began to read:
‘There’s ingratitude for you!’ Miss Dolly Foster exclaimed suddenly.
‘Where!’ I asked, rousing myself from meditation.
She pointed to a young man who had just passed where we sat. He was dressed very smartly, and was walking with a lady attired in the height of the fashion.
‘I made that man,’ said Dolly, ‘and now he cuts me dead before the whole of the Row! It’s atrocious. Why, but for me, do you suppose he’d be at this moment engaged to three thousand a year and—and the plainest girl in London?’
Marcus paused and looked at her. “And so it goes on…”
“Why did you stop? I want to know more!”
Marcus had never read aloud to anyone before – except in school of course. “You’ll have to read the book, Dolly.”
“So you think I’m your Miss Dolly Foster. Hmmmph!” She took the book out of his hands and leafed through it. “Oh! It’s got pictures. Is it an old book?”
“That one is. It’s my landlady’s. First edition, 1894 illustrated by Rackham-”
“Didn’t he do Alice?”
Marcus was surprised and from her grin he knew she had noticed. “Yes, he did…”
“I want more of this! How about you read a bit more?”
Now he knew she was teasing him. What to do about it? Intuition was telling him to risk honesty.
“When you kissed me I was really turned on… And I am now… But… I just don’t know how to handle… it.”
“I really want to go to bed with you…” She was standing in front of him, holding the book. “There, I’ve said it!”
He took the book, looked into her eyes and put his arms out. She did the same. He felt her willingness to surrender and it frightened him. With Patsy by the Iron Bridge he had ignored his screaming intuition and given in because it was easier than explaining. With Sophie he had felt it again and resisted because he did not know how to explain. With Lizzy he had almost given in but listened to intuition and found the courage to talk.
“Oh, Milly! Let’s go riding tomorrow and I’ll try to explain. It isn’t that I don’t want you – I do. I like you. I’ve always liked you, but…”
He continued to hold her, stroking her hair and her back, feeling the excitement slowly dissipating, bodies relaxing. She hugged him and turned away quickly. He knew he had hurt her as he watched her close the door, waiting for the lock to click before going back to the desk and opening the journal.
11:41pm. Milly told me she wants to sleep with me! Told me! Now what? I’ve known her since that first Speech Day. Then she was Brian’s little sister. Even a year ago, moving her into the hostel she was still his sister, just a bit more grown up. I felt safe with her like I do with Sandy – like having my own sister. Then I kissed her in the car. And just now. Wonderful, tempting but girl+sex=disaster – for me, anyway. I’m going to have to talk to Milly or I’m just piling up problems for myself. Damn!!!
Marcus closed the journal. He was angry with himself. Lying in bed he gazed at the moon above trees etched into a starry sky, the same sky Hardy would have seen. Why couldn’t he be normal about sex like other boys? Yet if Doctor Callendar had questioned him, he wouldn’t have known how to answer. What is normal? And if he was having to ask, then he wasn’t.
Sunday 18th September
9:10pm, Sunday. Back in my room (cell?) at Mrs B’s. It feels more like home than any place I have lived since I was ten. Is that true? Yes – but why? Didn’t I feel like that anywhere else? It just occurred to me that I should add school and Antoine’s café. What do they all have in common? They feel like home – so what is ‘home’?
This weekend at Morton Linford is a good starting point. To Brian and Milly that is their home, a place where they feel they belong. In some ways that is true because the house and the land it sits on was home to their mother’s family since long before Hardy was born, but in fact I think that is incidental. Mr Hardwyck may be rich but he isn’t a Derriman or a Boldwood. His family, were Dutch traders in the East Indies. Brian and Milly have a home not because their parents have money but because they all work together like a unit. They are protective of each other and of the people to whom they are close – which, I realise now, includes me. It isn’t because Milly has a crush on me nor that Brian and I are ‘chums from school’ but simply because they care.
This caring is hard for me to define. How did school care for me? Probably because the business of being in loco parentis imposed a legal as well as a moral duty. Since school was not Dotheboys Hall or Tom Brown’s Rugby, I was secure there. Mrs B isn’t my mother – we have an accommodation contract. If we both honour it, then I am secure. It helps that the other people in the house reinforce my feeling of security. Mathilde gave me a roof over my head in return for work. We were both satisfying immediate needs. I think in this case there was a shared moral responsibility each to the other. I was secure because that moral bond was honoured.
I think I felt secure at Morton Linford because I was actually honouring a moral contract with Brian and Milly’s mother.
I almost scrubbed out that last statement. I didn’t because it isn’t rational, it isn’t logical, it isn’t social/legal – it is purely existential. What it feels like is the implied contract between the thrower of a lifebelt and a drowning man. It’s all about choices…
I must talk about this with Dr C on Wednesday. I feel like a blindfolded man on a very high diving board wondering if the pool he is about to dive into has any water in it. Mad!!!!!!!!
4.17am. Woke from four hours of the weirdest dreams I’ve had since the days I would calmly walk under the river to get to the other side and then roller skate jump over a thousand fish barrels and fall into a bottomless pit!!
So, Marcus, how was your weekend? Be honest!
Like a real dream, not the madness I woke from! On Saturday Milly and I were out talking for most of the day. We rode a bit, walked a bit, sat on tumuli a bit and just talked. I knocked the bung out and dumped my life on her. A very ragged and incomplete story, like a notebook that has been torn up and sellotaped together again. And she listened. Perhaps the horses listened too. Or maybe none of them did. It didn’t matter. It was a purge or venting or draining an abcess. Then I began to ask her questions. ‘What was your favourite toy’ started it all. While she had let me talk for hours without a question I had to tease her to talk. I found out that girls and boys are at once alarmingly similar and astronomically different. By the end of that day I had the glimmering of an understanding why my relationships go pear-shaped.
On Sunday we all went to Chickerell Range for a day of shooting. It was great fun with a collection of the oddest people. It’s some sort of antique gun collectors club. There were lots of people: a girl with a Derringer, people with blunderbusses and Martini Henrys and Brown Besses to an old guy with a monocle demonstrating his Gabert four-barrelled machine gun. I probably still stink of sulphur from the black powder!
Going back to the moral contract that I said I felt I had with Mrs Hardwyck. Now, as London starts to wake up on Monday, I need to be clear with myself about what I mean by that. Mrs Hardwyck trusts me not because I am a friend of her children but because she trusts her children and they trust me.
Circular argument? Yes, in a way. But what I have learned, what Milly taught me on Saturday, is that we have to ask for what we want. Because I don’t know what I want I ask for what I think other people are expecting me to want. Now that really is a circular argument – self-destructively so!
5.42am. What a lot of writing! Having read it three times now, I believe I may be learning. I admit now that my vague dream of wanting to be a ‘story-teller’ hasn’t gone away. It is undoubtedly what I really want. When I admitted that to Milly on Chilcombe Hill she said ‘well, you know where you’re going – now you have to work out how to get there.’ It is so simple, so obvious, so true, and yet I have been wilfully denying it since I was twelve, tried to write a story, read it, thought it was crap and decided I’d never be a Rider Haggard or even a W E Johns. I never really stopped writing but would never dare to show it to anyone. I had the chance with Donald’s writing group at the Victoria but ran away from that too.
Enough written, enough said. Milly thinks I need help to break this logjam. I promised Milly her I will raise it with Dr C on Wednesday.
Marcus is out of the Slough of Despond and he has had a lot of help to achieve that. The Wicket Gate lies ahead of him and he knows he has a hill to climb beyond that - but does he yet have the confidence to climb it by himself?
The story continues to Tranche Fifteen…