The story continues from Tranche Eleven
It is the beginning of Marcus’ first full day at Mrs Bettevants’. He has written a list of tasks and today he must begin to action them…
Tuesday 30 August
Sunlight was flooding the room. Today I have a lot to do, he told himself. I must get my stuff back from West Ken, that’s the main priority. Then it’s get a job, find some way of getting the resits done and I must contact Dr Callendar. It’s not like last time. Now I have to take responsibility for myself – Armand helped me accept that. He got out of bed, washed, shaved and went out just as a dungaree wearing girl with artfully short blonde hair was coming out of the next room.
“Hi you must be Marcus. I’m Elaine – I got in late - hope I didn’t disturb you?”
“No… not at all.” Her blouse or shirt looked like pink silk and the denim overalls were liberally trimmed and patched with an assortment of fabrics. “Mrs B says you work in fashion?”
“Not street fashion. I work at KHM – we do mostly historical costumes for films and such, but we do costume restoration too for V&A, museums, National Trust. What do you do?”
“Nothing yet. Only got here yesterday…”
“Yeah, Mrs B said you were in France. Have you met any of the others yet?”
He followed her down the stairs. “Only Doctor Holbeek and Ambrose Darling.”
There were four of them for breakfast. Freddy was in Paris, Libby’s fieldwork had been extended for a further week or so, and Tancred would be back from Milan for supper, possibly, Mrs B said. Joshua, another absentee, was a weekly boarder who worked for John Lewis, Mrs B explained as she served him.
“Morning Marcus, what have you got planned for today?” Dr Holbeek asked as he sat down.
“Get my stuff from my last place…” he replied and, noting her expectant expression added, “and find a job…” Her expression implied there must be more admitted, “and do something about re-sitting my A-levels.”
“Glad to hear that,” she said, “what subjects?”
“Physics and Chemistry…”
“Go to the Poly – Regent Street - good reputation and not too far.”
“Thank you…” She might look as though one glance would tame lions but he would follow her advice. He had learned from Marie-Christine that not all older women were like his mother. This reminded him that he should contact Dr Callendar. He trusted that Armand had believed he would benefit. Perhaps nothing would come of it, but unless he made the effort he would never find out. So, he had four tasks for the day.
Making appointments
To find a job would take some time: he would get the papers when they came out and also visit the Labour Exchange, the nearest was in Mortimer Street. The Poly was near Oxford Circus, so he could at least find out what they did on his way to West Kensington, but first he had to phone Mrs Lambleigh. That was easy – ‘just come when you can luvvie’ she had said. It took three tries to reach Dr Callendar, and then only to speak to a secretary or assistant: nevertheless, an appointment was made for one o’clock on Wednesday.
The Labour Exchange
Labour Exchanges had provided him with the pea-vining job just before he was thrown out and the laboratory technician’s job in the laboratory of St Phillip’s Hospital when he had first arrived in London. The last job he had got before going to France was driving a delivery van for a florists in the Brompton Road; that lasted three weeks. There were others he preferred to forget: such as sorting scrap plastic in a damp basement two streets away for a spectacle frame maker, which lasted two days, and being a waiter at the Golden Egg in Earl’s Court for two weeks.
He decided call in at the Labour Exchange in Mortimer Street in the forlorn hope that they might have something before the News and the Standard came out with their advertisements later in the morning. Most of the jobs on the hundreds of cards seemed to be in kitchens or hotels or shops. One he particularly fancied, for a clerk at the British Board of Film Censors, had gone. Another for data entry at the British Museum needed experience of computers, which he didn’t have. The woman who interviewed him thought he might be a bit overqualified for ‘Stock Order Clerk. Administering sales order process for large, prestigious furniture retailer. Good education standard required, preferably book-keeping experience. Hours 9-5 Mon-Fri, salary negotiable depending on experience’ but an interview for with Debbie Warriner at Waring & Gillow Oxford Street for 4:30pm that day was arranged. The woman in the Labour Exchange told him that Miss Warriner was interested that he had worked in a bank and seemed to be keen for someone to start as soon as possible. Since Marcus needed a job, that suited him and the interview was arranged.
The Poly
His next task was to find a way to retake his failed exams. Encouraged by Dr Holbeek’s suggestion he should try the Poly, he continued along Mortimer Street towards Regent Street. The Poly, halfway between Oxford Circus and the BBC, was an imposing building with a uniformed doorman who accompanied Marcus all the way to the Admissions Office. Janice, who was just as welcoming, asked a few questions and then took him to the third floor where she introduced him to Dr Miller, the Science’s admissions tutor.
Dr Miller was youngish, more Mick Jagger than Marcus had been expecting. “I’m hoping to retake Physics and Chemistry A-levels…”
“Physics and Chemistry? Yes we do those. Anyway, tell me a bit about yourself…”
Marcus told Dr Miller much what he had already Janice about his previous failure reason which Dr Miller accepted and then asked what other qualifications, such as O-Levels, he had.
When Marcus told him he had seven O -levels and a grade B in Biology at A-level as well Dr Miller grinned. “We do London Board not Oxford and Cambridge, but I doubt that’ll bother you. You said you lost your place at medical school: are you still aiming at medicine?”
“No… I just want to pass the A-levels so I can move on.”
“But are you thinking about university?”
“I… I haven’t decided. I shall have to work to support myself. Do you do part-time courses?”
“We do evening revision classes. But word of warning, you’ll have to do a lot of work in your own time. Classes start third week of September. There are still places – so if you’re interested, go and see Janice and she will get you registered. Also, if you do plan on university we can help with the UCCA process.”
He went back to Janice who gave him a prospectus, timetables and registration forms, which he took to the Kardomah across the street. He had all the information he needed. He completed the forms at a table by the window immersed in the aroma of roasting coffee beans. Having filled them in he took the forms to Janice across the road. She checked the forms, smiled, told him classes would begin the week beginning the twelfth of September and that he should receive written confirmation early the next week.
West Kensington
He couldn’t help feeling pleased with himself as he took the Underground to West Kensington to collect the trunk and tuck-box he had left with Mrs Lambleigh when he fled to France. As he reached Number Fourteen a girl came out of the front door and almost ran into him. Stepping quickly aside he apologised. “Oh! Sorry…”
“Sorry! I was rushing.” She had stopped and was looking at him. “Aren’t you, Mariella’s friend? We met in the launderette ages ago. You’re Marcus, right?”
“Yes…” He was wracking his memory. He remembered a girl with fiery hair who Mariella had called… It was an odd name. Like a flower. What was it? Why was he so gauche? Take a risk! “You’re Jacintha!”
“I am… Wow! You remembered… Ummm… . If you’re looking for Mrs Lambleigh, she’s in the kitchen, best go in the basement door…. Sorry, gotta rush…”
He was still thinking about the encounter as Mrs Lambleigh opened the basement door and invited him in.
He followed her into the kitchen. “I just met Jacintha - she knew my name…”
“Course she did! When you lived cross the road all the girls thought you were a lost puppy and that boy you lived with was like something out of Crufts. How’s things for you now? Fancy a cup of tea and tell me about it?
Her comment that Nik was ‘like something out of Crufts’ was oddly appropriate, he certainly had that pedigree champion quality. Nik was ten years older, had sophisticated artistic friends who held soirées in Knightsbridge flats and even when just walking across Hyde Park, attracted holidaying Americans. Did he mind that the girls thought him a ‘lost puppy’? No, it was fair. He had learned that in Nice.
“I got back yesterday and I’m living at Mrs Bettevants’. I did like you said and redirected any mail here – anything come for me?”
“Just a couple, I’ll give them to you before you go. Better leave me a note of your new address and phone too. Anyway, tell me about France…”
He glossed over the worst parts of his running away to France, nevertheless, talking about the help he had received emphasised the depth of the pit he had jumped into. Marthe’s decision to take him to Mathilde, and her readiness to trust him, had encouraged him to be more willing to accept help when it was offered. She was pleased he had signed up at the Poly, telling him he was a bright boy and would be sure to get the job later that afternoon. He said nothing about Armand or Dr Callendar, it would have embarrassed him to admit he needed that sort of help. Taking the exams again and getting and holding down a job was something he had to prove he could do. Mrs Lambleigh was a willing listener, plied him with tea and then ordered a taxi to take him, his tuck-box and trunk back to Fitzroy Square.
Since everyone was out and he wouldn’t dare ask Mrs B, he opened the trunk in the hall and carried the contents, the tuck box and the emptied trunk up to his room in five ascents. Among the contents he was relieved to find a spare pair of spectacles to replace the ones lost in France where the sharp clear light had somehow rendered optical assistance unnecessary. He added ‘eye test’ to his list of things to do. As the time of his interview was fast approaching he organised what he could and ran towards Oxford Street.
Waring and Gillow
Debbie Warriner was half an hour late for his interview and she seemed even more than ten times more nervous than he had been when only three minutes late. It was obvious that she was dealing with some sort of crisis and the stock order process was somehow at the heart of it. Marcus began to interview her. What was the nature of the job? Quite simple, she said, processing orders from the shop floor, forwarding them to the relevant suppliers and manufacturers and monitoring progress through to delivery to customer. The problem, she admitted, was that there had been no-one in that role for three weeks and they had been too short staffed to monitor the situation properly and problems were surfacing.
By questioning her he found that the system was based on an order docket with many carbon-copy colour-coded sheets that after, being completed by a salesman, ensured the relevant goods were ordered (his job), that the customer’s payment was booked, the sale was recorded in the appropriate ledgers, the salesman was credited, the supplier or manufacturer credited when the goods were received and the process completed when the order was delivered. The problems, she said, were in the order process and she needed someone to get it back on track. When could he start?
Supper
“You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” Doctor Holbeek observed as Marcus took his place at the table.
“I am. I signed up for revision classes, went to get my belongings from the last place I lived, and I got a job that starts on Thursday,” Marcus admitted, serving himself with soup. Her expression registered surprise and a feeling of satisfaction warmed him as he. Before he had met Armand the slight widening of her eyes and quick blink would have caused him to infer disbelief and it would have crushed him. Just going to have to live up to being this new me, he cautioned himself.
“You’ve been busy,” Ambrose observed in the strange way that Marcus thought of as ‘Picassoan’ – being regarded indirectly. “What sort of job?”
“Just a clerking job processing orders at Waring and Gillow…”
Elaine came into the room with two others. “Marcus, meet two more from the gods – Tancred’s just back from Milan,” she said, waving her hand at the man who was already seating himself next to Ambrose, “and Joshua, who’s boss of customer accounts at John Lewis,” indicating a man almost scurrying to the seat next to Tancred.
“Hi Marcus,” Tancred said, eyes scanning him.
Tancred was riveting, the first man he would honestly describe as beautiful. It wasn’t simply his dark eyes, coppery skin and black hair so much as the way he carried himself. Marcus thought, unexpectedly of Peter Pan. Joshua, seating himself next to Tancred, had a clipped moustache, short-back-and-sides haircut, horn rimmed spectacles and wore a grey suit over a white shirt and some sort of school tie. He either cut his nails very short, or bit them. Marcus characterised him as the Doormouse.
“Freddy and Libby are still away I suppose,” Elaine said, sitting next to him, waiting for the others to serve themselves. “What’s the soup Mrs B?”
“You favourite darling, Green Pea,” came the reply from the kitchen. “There’s liver and bacon with mash and veg and Eton Mess to follow.
“School food,” laughed Elaine, “hope you’re used to it!”
Marcus didn’t know how to respond to that and continued supping his soup. Elaine asked Tancred about his trip to Milan. Marcus looked around the table. Dr Holbeek was definitely the Red Queen while Ambrose was a possible White Rabbit. If Tancred was Peter Pan then who was Elaine? She was not an Alice, and definitely not a Wendy – Tink, perhaps? The Doormouse seemed to ignore all of them. And what would they think of him? Probably one of the playing card gardeners painting white roses red to avoid execution. He would sit back, eat and observe until he could decently excuse himself.
“Anyone coming to the pub after?”
Elaine’s question was directed to the table in general but Marcus felt as if she was singling him out as the newcomer. In fact she had barely glanced his way. Did that mean he was included simply because he was at the table but not expected to accept? He recognised his avoidance reaction kicking in. He wanted to say ‘I’d like to’ but feared more than anything seeing the look of disappointment on their faces if he did. Just keep eating and pretend you didn’t hear.
“Sorry Elaine,” apologised Doctor Holbeek. “Can’t, I have a seminar at Birkbeck.”
“Yeah, I’m good for an hour,” replied Tancred. “What about you Ambrose?”
“Love to but I have to be in Streatham by eight… but Marcus’d probably like to be asked.”
“I was including you,” Elaine reassured him with a hand on his arm. “Come on, we don’t bite…”
“I’d love to…” Marcus was grateful that she had left him no room to wriggle out.
Tuesday, 30 August, 21:40, Mrs Bettevant’s. Here I am, slightly sozzled, after a couple of drinks at the Grafton with Tancred and Elaine. Tancred said he’d only be there for an hour but was still there after two hours before he and Elaine and some others (Greg? Diane? Nikky?) went off to some club. I pleaded poverty but really I’ve no head for booze. I’m glad I resisted that impulse not to go. It’s still really strong. I’ve got to find a way to work on this. But it’s been a brilliant day! I went to West Ken, got my stuff and now I’ve got everything unpacked. Now I am installed here! Mrs Lambleigh spent two hours listening to me. She just sat me down and plied me with tea.. I don’t think I have ever talked to anyone like that. Made me realise how much Armand helped me open up and tomorrow I meet Dr Callendar. I must just ask for help and see what happens. Another good thing to pat myself on the back about is I signed up for revision classes at the Poly. And I nearly forgot (!) I’ve got a job. Just clerking but it’s £12 a week, walking distance, has a canteen so So I’ll have a little over £8 after tax. After five guineas to Mrs B that leaves no more than £3 for the week – can’t afford too many nights like tonight. At least I’m not smoking – nearly cracked in the pub but didn’t when I realised I can’t afford fun nights at the pub if I go back to smoking. Better not relapse. Still a lot to do: must see Brian and Milly, write to Sandy, bite the bullet and apologise to Sophie and go home to get the rest of my stuff. Right, enough drivel. Bath and bed.
Wednesday 31st August
Telephoning home
The first task after breakfast, he told himself, was to telephone home and arrange to visit over the weekend. He tried to delay making the call by being friendly and talking at breakfast: but it was a weekday and everyone had somewhere to be and he knew that wasn’t personal. Did he really need his school notes and text books? Probably not all of them but it would save on buying new books and be an excuse to see his brothers before they went back to school. And he wanted to thank his father, but not to his mother: she would say something about him costing his father still more money to bring him back from France. Dad hadn’t needed to pay for the train home - and definitely not for a sleeping berth on the Blue Train.
With a pile of coins at the ready, he dialled the exchange. In the year since he had left home the family had moved to a town further inland that still had a manual telephone exchange. He was able to say ‘Bungay seven-five please’ to the friendly lady in the exchange as if stepping back into Richard Hannay’s world.
When the phone was answered it was a younger voice that just said: “Hello?”
“Rog? It’s Marcus. Is Mum in?”
“No, she’s just gone to Howard and Dawsons… I’ll get Dad,” and the phone was put down. Marcus listened to retreating footsteps and a voice shouting ‘Dad! Marcus is on the phone.’
They agreed that he would come on Saturday, stay overnight and return later on Sunday with whatever he needed to take back. It was a brief but practical conversation recommending he come to Halesworth via Ipswich on Saturday, aiming to arrive about two. Other than requesting Marcus’ current address and telephone number, that was the end of the conversation.
Not as bad as he had feared! He would see his brothers before they returned to school the following weekend. They and his mother would not be returning to the house until the next Easter. Ought he to consider asking to be allowed to stay in the house while they were all away? No. He had already decided that. He had to be self-sufficient. Armand had helped lift the corner of the veil on the behaviours that led to his running away: not only in the previous two years but for as long as he could remember. But he could feel the veil dropping again. He needed help – the question was whether Dr Callendar could provide it, and if she could not, what else might he do.
Why was he worrying? Armand had mitigated his fears about criticism and judgement: convinced him that it was the fear he needed to deal with. He had recommended her and she had arranged his room at Mrs B’s - so he had to go. But what if Dr Callendar wasn’t like Armand? Maybe they had trained together but he wasn’t outgoing and friendly and successful like the boys who did well at school. Mum thought there was something wrong with him and Dad hadn’t disagreed. Dr Callendar was a woman: perhaps she might be more like his mother. It was bad enough failing exams but failing as a person was worse.
En route to the appointment
It was only a few minutes after nine and the appointment was at one. Nearly four hours. He didn’t feel like journalling, his thoughts were far too negative: he decided to walk around, pinpoint her office and explore a part of London he didn’t know. The appointment with Dr Callendar was at Number Eight, Huntley Street, the Royal Free Hospital Medical School. He stood in front of the building and looked at his watch. It was nine fifty-seven! He had dawdled and was still three hours too early. What to do? What was nearby? Coram Fields – why was the name familiar? Something to do with abandoned children and the Bluecoat School, but detail evaded him. Great Ormond Street was nearby with its hospital that Peter Pan still helped. The enclaves of lawyers at Grays Inn and Lincolns Inn might be worth exploring or maybe further over towards the City. Did he really just want to wander?
Not really. He felt restless. He needed to do something. In the next street he had seen a sign saying ‘Inns of Court & City Yeomanry’ and another ‘254 (City of London) Regiment RA’. Must be a TA Drill Halls, he had thought as he passed them. Why not go and see what they did? It would kill some time. He went back the way he had come.
On impulse, perhaps hoping for a sniff of gun oil, he chose the Artillery. A man in khaki overalls was coming along the entrance hall towards him. “Hello lad, what can I do for you?”
“Err… I was passing. Saw the sign. I was in the CCF at school…”
The man examined him, wiping his hands on a rag. “What rank did you get to?”
“Bombardier…”
“Artillery then. What experience?”
“Twenty-five Pounders. We’d borrow one of the OTC’s and shoot at Stanford. I’ve got Basic and did the Advanced Surface to Surface Gunnery course for cadets at Larkhill.”
Marcus was rewarded with attention. “You thinking of joining the TA then?”
“I don’t really know anything about it…” Marcus had had no such thoughts, but the CCF had been the only place at school he had felt he was good at something.
“I’m Staff Sergeant Abrams, one of the PSIs. Come into my office…”
Staff Sergeant Abrams told him Drill Nights were seven thirty to nine thirty every Thursday. There were usually two training weekends a month and a two week Annual Camp, for which he would be paid. Once he was attested he would be able to attend training. It usually took two or three weeks for recruitment to be confirmed, a number assigned and kit issued. He gave Marcus forms to fill in and told him to bring them back if he was interested. The man’s expression suggested he thought him just another time-waster. That annoyed Marcus! He’d come back the next evening just to prove the man wrong!
He still had more than two hours to waste. He backtracked to Tavistock Place and found a café. The Army Forms he had been given were on flimsy paper that was neither white nor buff and felt and smelled of another age, as if his grandfather might have filled in just such a form when he volunteered for the Boer War. The questions were straightforward – name, address, date of birth, trade or occupation and so on. Another sheet of paper gave information on conditions of service, mobilisation liability, rates of pay and the annual bounty of twenty-five Pounds if one met the efficiency requirements and attended twelve training days, and a fourteen-day Annual Camp. Pay varied by rank, experience and qualification but for a recruit was six shillings and eight pence per day: total, a bit over thirty pounds. If nothing else, he would enjoy doing something at which he had proved himself competent. The last of the sheets listed the history of the regiment from its origins in 1863 through three wars and many changes of name, reorganisations and amalgamations. He looked at his watch. He would finish his third coffee, give the completed application to Staff Sergeant Abrams and go to his meeting with Dr Callendar.
Meeting Dr Callendar
He arrived early at the Royal Free’s medical school building where he waited in Dr Callendar’s outer office while the receptionist-cum-secretary was typing and dealing with phone calls. The clock ticked slowly towards the appointed hour, and then past it. A few minutes later the door to an inner office opened and a woman came out.
“Marcus! Sorry to keep you waiting. I just have to sort this.” She handed the secretary-cum-receptionist a file. “My notes are in there. Can you type them up and send to Mister Bryant with the usual covering note.”
Then she turned to face him. “Come in Marcus… let’s sit at the table by the window…”
Armand had sat in an armchair and Dr Korda, in the Human Jungle, sat behind a desk. Dr Callendar seemed strained, distracted. Marcus went to the table and sat down. What was he letting himself in for? He read his name on the buff folder she placed on the table.
“I’m Moira Callendar,” she said, putting a clipboard and then a pen on top of the folder. “Armand and I trained together. He thinks I might be able to be some help to you but, being Armand, all he would say about you is that you are a determined young man with a tendency to push on doors marked pull – why would he say that?”
That was unexpected! “Because it’s true.”
“Can’t you read?”
Although she asked the question gently it still stung. He didn’t want another woman telling him he was a disappointment, he could do that for himself. “I wouldn’t be here if I could.”
“Thank you for an honest answer; recognising a problem is more than half the battle in solving it.” She smiled for the first time. “Tell me, when you push on a door that doesn’t open, why do you keep on pushing?”
It was Marcus’ turn to smile. “When I see the word ‘pull’ I think it really means ‘you’re not pushing hard enough’. I can’t believe that getting through a door could be that simple – there must be something I’m missing, that I don’t understand.”
“That’s a good starting point. What’s your earliest memory?”
“Earliest?” Stop thinking! He let his mind empty. “Going to get really thick sweet orange juice – I can almost still taste it - I was in a push chair.”
It was more a memory of a memory, but it brought up others “And another, again I was in a push chair, and for some reason I associate that with being circumcised – so some sort of discomfort. Oh, and another in a push chair, my dad was taking me for a walk down by the harbour, and I really wanted to pee but didn’t ask, wet myself and I can still remember the smell. All of those were before I was two. Nothing else, really, until later…”
He watched her writing, wondering what significance those strange recollections might have. Each memory had popped up like a fragment of film projected on his consciousness. Were they the only things he remembered?
“Thank you Marcus.” She capped her pen. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen and a bit…”
“Hmmm, that presents me with a problem. You were referred to me by a foreign physician and because you are not yet twenty-one I will need either parental permission or a referral from your own doctor. Would your parents give permission?”
“I could ask my mother. I’m going home to collect the notes and books I need for revision. I could do it then.”
“Good. I shall give you the form I will need you to fill in and her to counter-sign. If you can bring that to our first session. With your permission I should like to include you in a research project I’m leading. I ask all participants to complete a battery of inventories – all the results will be anonymised, so you won’t be identified. If you are happy to do that, and your mother approves, I can include you in the project and then our sessions will become part of it. If you, or your mother, would rather not take part, then I could take you on as a private patient, but there is obviously a cost to that.”
Marcus accepted the sheaf of questionnaires, the project outline and the patient agreement form and sat in an empty consulting room, wrote his name on the first questionnaire and read the first statement (You find it easy to make new friends). Dr Callendar had said respond without thinking too much - he ticked ‘Strongly Disagree’. Then he ticked ‘Strongly Agree’ for ‘You could spend days learning about random things that interest you’ and ‘Neutral’ in response to ‘When others are upset, you feel upset too’ and so on and on for almost two hours before handing the wadge of papers to Dr Callendar’s secretary-cum-receptionist and fleeing the building, hoping his mother would refuse to consent. He did not want those inventories marked up and graded like exam scripts confirming his mother’s opinion that he was a sex-obsessed degenerate.
He told Mrs B that he had been to see Dr Callendar because she had been a tenant and arranged his room, but wouldn’t have felt comfortable admitting that to anyone else at supper. He was similarly reticent about mentioning his visit to the TA. He did say that he would be going home for the weekend but focused only on getting what he needed for revision. He knew he had been lucky, very lucky, but felt cautious about expecting his second year in London would be better than the first. He wrote nothing in his journal that night.
Tomorrow Marcus starts his new job. Debbie Warriner’s concern that he start quickly means that he suspects it will not be easy, but it is only a short walk from his digs and he needs the money. Will he go to the TA Drill Night - probably, but he is ambivalent: it is a bit of money - but can he afford the time if he is serious about revision? He is not eager about going home, but needs one of his parents to authorise participation in Dr Callendar’s research. With regard to friendships, there is much still that he needs to do…
Marcus continues his journey in Tranche Thirteen…