Jenny Colgan - Working Wonders

‘God, I’m so sorry … Let me help you with … Wasn’t looking …’

Scrabbling around on the pavement, he couldn’t help noticing that some of the packages were quite peculiarly shaped. Looking up, he realized Lynne had been coming out of the pet shop. A fat man, obviously the shopkeeper, came out behind her.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. We just can’t get crocodiles, okay? They’re illegal.’

‘ Illegal ? How on earth does anyone make soup?’

Lynne raised an eyebrow at Arthur as the man retreated inside. ‘Hello, Arthur. Well met.’

Arthur swallowed. ‘Em, hello there.’

‘Are you going this way? Let’s walk a while.’ It sounded more like a command than a query.

‘Why …’ Arthur stumbled for something to say. He didn’t really know any therapists and was slightly worried about being misinterpreted in some way that would mean he was a terrible person. ‘Why do you want a crocodile?’

‘Who wouldn’t want a crocodile?’

Arthur shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘What’s the matter?’

Arthur looked at her kind face. Today, her hair, decorated with pendants that looked like leaves, was loosely pinned back in a bun with tendrils escaping.

‘Well …’ He explained about his conversation with Gwyneth. She was meant to be his counsellor, after all.

‘Hum.’ Lynne stared straight ahead. ‘That was quick.’

‘What? You knew they were going to do this?’

‘No, of course not. Not as such,’ said Lynne, twisting up her face. ‘Office grapevine, you know.’

Arthur nodded.

‘So. How are you going to begin?’

Arthur shrugged. ‘I was actually just considering … that I might not.’

‘Might not? Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘What’s ridiculous? Do I have the look of the man who’s going to spend the rest of his life stuck in an office?’

‘Around the mouth … and the nose, yes.’

Arthur grimaced and walked on. Lynne caught up with him.

‘I think it is time, don’t you?’

‘What?’ He turned round. ‘It’s not my time.’

‘It is,’ said Lynne urgently. She looked at him, and he felt something odd pass between them. He shook his head.

‘Sorry – I don’t quite know what I meant by that. I mean – well, what do you mean? Time for what?’

‘Time for you to take all this energy and …’ Lynne cast her hand around the desolate parking garage where they found themselves. It was puddled with oil and cigarette ends. ‘Ssh,’ she said.

Arthur followed her gaze. In the far corner, three white faces were huddled round a brazier, staring at them like ghosts out of the darkness. Not an unfamiliar sight in the back roads of the town. Arthur and Lynne quickly hurried on through the car park.

‘Who’s going to change all this if you don’t?’

‘What, now you want me to tackle the drugs problem?’

‘Environment matters, you know that. Pride, Arthur. It’s time to pick up your sword and go for it.’

‘Pick up my what?’

‘It’s just an expression.’

‘Oh. Only I seem to have been hearing about swords rather a lot recently.’

‘Yes, well unfortunately I’m not a Freudian type of analyst, so I can’t help you with that one.’

‘What sort of analyst are you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just see how it goes along, eh?’

‘You are a real therapist, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she patted him on the arm. ‘Yes, I am. Now, what have they asked you to do? Fire someone?’

Arthur gave her a sharp look. ‘Do you do everyone’s therapy or just mine?’

‘I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, then. Obviously you already know. Yes, they have.’

‘Then do it quickly. Show who’s in charge. Don’t mess around. If you’re going to run this thing, Arthur, you’re going to need respect.’

‘I know. But even though I hate the guy, I don’t want to ruin his …’

‘Week, perhaps? Month, maybe? His type always bounces back. Look over there.’

Arthur followed where her finger was pointing. Two nine-year-old boys were bent over a rain puddle in the cracked concrete. They should have been at school. Instead they were mindlessly, repetitively, picking up pieces of rubbish, setting them on fire with a lighter and dropping them in the water.

‘You don’t have long,’ said Lynne. Arthur watched the two boys for a moment more.

‘But I …’ He turned round. In the darkness of the car park, Lynne had gone.

Ross was sitting alone in the canteen, a place made up of hideous plastic furniture that somebody believed would be made to look like the Dorchester by the addition of some wickerwork and some pathetically touching pot plants. He was rocking on the edge of his chair and prodding a pencil at a glutinous piece of Danish pastry. Arthur stood in the doorway and looked at him. Suddenly, he didn’t look much of a tosspot any more. He looked like an ordinary young man, already running to fat, anxious and insecure.

‘Ross,’ said Arthur softly. He’d felt nervous about doing this, but seeing him, he couldn’t be.

Ross blinked and let his chair fall back to the table with a start. He couldn’t quite look at Arthur but stared straight ahead.

‘Hey Art!’ he said, forcing the jocularity into his voice.

‘Do you want a coffee or something?’ As soon as he’d said that, Arthur realized it was cruel. Why prolong the uncertainty while he buggered about getting a cup of coffee? He might as well have said, ‘Would you like an extra four and a half minutes of excruciating torture?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Ross.

‘Ross …’

‘Yeah? What? Good news, is it?’ He coughed a cynical laugh.

‘No,’ said Arthur. He wondered if Ross would punch him, but he still felt all right; quite under control.

‘Ross, they’re doing something different. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.’

Ross stood up, as if he couldn’t bear to be any closer in airspace to Arthur. ‘God, God, I bloody knew it.’

‘I understand you’ll be feeling upset …’

‘Might have known they’d get some namby pamby PC non-car bloody saddo who just happens to be good at fucking poofter tests …’

‘Okay … maybe not quite that upset.’

‘I told ’em. Sort out the roads. Build more. Don’t hire some soft wanker who can’t even get laid.’

‘Yes, well, we seem to be moving from upset to offensive …’

‘And now they’ve got you running the whole bloody town! Well, God help them, that’s all I can say.’

Ross stood up and kicked his plastic chair crossly, his heavily gelled ginger hair sticking straight up from his forehead. He advanced on Arthur.

‘I don’t give a fuck, you know. You’re not the first guy in here. Some bloke walked in and offered me a job in Slough. You just bloody watch me. I’ll sort out that place and we’ll be using your fucking pedestrianized precincts as car parks.’

Arthur got riled. ‘That will be great. Why have just one town hating you when there are so many more opportunities out there?’

Ross leaned into him menacingly. The room was eerily silent, it still being out of lunch-hour time. Arthur suddenly found himself thinking back to his first and only fight ever. He was ten years old and, after kicking the shit out of everyone in the class in ascending order of size, McGuire had finally got round to him. The time had been pre-ordained. The class had encircled them. Arthur had taken a deep breath, trying to remember what his stepfather had told him – ‘Don’t worry, son, you only have to square up to the bullies once, then they’ll leave you alone. Run at him as fast as you can and try and hit him on the nose.’ Of course McGuire had held out one arm, held him by the forehead and pounded him into the ground – on that day and so many days after that, it long ceased to be a spectator sport. Arthur’s nerves were not, at the moment, at their boldest.