Joseph O'Neill - This is the Life

Susan moved still closer to me on the sofa. I sensed her chunky knee resting against mine and her arm coming around again. ‘Jimmy Jones,’ she said.

I could take no more. She was a nice girl, but I just could not take any more. I gripped her and pushed her away. ‘Look, don’t do that,’ I said. I hissed the words, I did not want to raise my voice. ‘I’m not in the mood. Can you understand that? I don’t feel like it.’ I sat on the edge of the sofa and drank down some more beer.

She stiffened. I could feel her legs go taut as I looked down at the floor between my knees. After a moment of silence I threw her a quick, furtive glance. Her face was white.

She had flown into a rage. She got to her feet and stood back. ‘You bastard,’ she whispered. ‘You think you’re the only bloody person in the world. You haven’t changed one bit. Have you ever stopped to think about how I might feel? About why I’m here?’ Suddenly she shouted, ‘Have you?’

Then I shouted too. I shouted, ‘I don’t want to know! I didn’t bloody invite you here, did I! It’s over between us, Susan! Get that into your head!’

She screamed, as her face turned patchy with tears, ‘Over? Over? What’s that supposed to mean?’

I shouted. ‘Over! We’re finished!’

She began sobbing but she still managed to cry out, ‘You’re so stupid! I’m never going to speak to you again!’

Then she ran out of the house. She tried to slam the front door but it jammed on a pile of mail.

I stayed where I was, breathing heavily.

Then a draught made the curtain flap out of the window again and a door clacked shut and I remembered that the front door was still open. When I cleared away the post I saw that among it was a letter from Batstone Buckley Williams. I took it back into the living-room, took a slug of beer, and opened the envelope.

Dear James ,

It has been decided to call a meeting of the partners to discuss your recent departure from, and performance and conduct at, work. It is only fair to warn you that some of the partners are minded to question your future at the firm. We would be glad to hear any representations that you may wish to make on your behalf. You will appreciate that it is with great regret that we find ourselves in this position. The meeting will take place on 12 July at 2.30.

Yours sincerely ,

The Partners, Batstone Buckley Williams

I finished my beer and switched on the television. Then I rang for a curry and, stretched out on the sofa, opened another can. Afterwards I drank more beer and watched more television until the moment came to haul myself to bed.

In the morning, when I lay there under my duvet, I reviewed the situation. It did not look good; it looked as though everything was on the slide. Donovan and me, my thesis and me, Susan and me, Batstone Buckley Williams and me — it looked all over between all of us.

There was something else. The luminosity seemed to have changed. Although a great beam of July daylight blazed down through the curtains like a spotlight, there was a terrible lack of illumination about the room. Later, outside, when I went to buy some beers and cigarettes, it was the same. This fierce gold was pouring down from every corner of the sky, yet nothing lit up.

I went back to bed. Surely this could not be it. Surely things could not really be like this. Surely the clouds would pass.

And yet the next day, Wednesday 12 July 1989, the day of the partners’ meeting, nothing had changed.

I caught the tube to the office. I used to like taking the tube, it made me feel like a Londoner. London is a world-class city and I liked to think that something of its status rubbed off on its citizens. Also, by catching the tube I was chipping in, doing my bit for the city. Without people like me, underground travellers, London would not work. If the subsoil did not seethe with trains, did not suck in and circulate a huge population of its own, the superficial metropolis — the landmarks, double-decker buses, skyscrapers and fountain-filled squares — would grind to a halt. London’s heart is under its earth, and some days catching that Northern Line made me feel essential, like blood. I think that those days are over.

Yesterday morning I was numb. I sat out the journey staring at the dark walls of the tunnel rushing by. I was not thinking of what lay ahead, and when I stepped from the elevator into the office it suddenly struck me where I was and I began shaking. But I walked steadily to my room, disregarding the looks I was getting from everybody. Thanks to June they probably thought that I had made a fool of myself over some woman. I did not care what they thought.

My room had not changed. I had half-expected to come back to a transformation of sorts, but, no, everything had stayed just the way it was. Only the calendar had changed. Now it showed Vancouver in July — breakwaters, a beautiful ring of mountains.

Then I heard the noise June makes on her computer keyboard with her long, black, brilliantly nailed fingers. Tip-tap, tip-tip-tap. I began shaking all over again. I had this moment planned and I was all nerves. I stood up and walked slowly over to her. She could not see me coming, but she could hear my footsteps, and even if she had not been told of my return, she would know that that was me walking towards her. I stopped in front of her desk. She looked up, but at my stomach, not at my face. Then she tilted her head downwards so that I could see the back of her long, elegant neck.

I said, ‘June, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened.’ I paused and swallowed. ‘I’ve had some problems,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have let them affect me in the way they did. From now on, things will be back to the way they used to be,’ I said. I moved my hands from behind my back. I handed her a bouquet of roses.

(If I can just come in here: those flowers — they were not really my idea. I had bought them as a result of a tip I received years ago from Simon Myers, my first pupil-master. If ever you have woman-trouble, he told me, buy them flowers. It always works. They know it’s a trick, you know it’s a trick, but they love it all the same. So I bought June roses.)

June accepted the flowers in silence. I stood there for a moment with my hands in my pockets, but I received no response. Then, as I turned away, she spoke.

‘So,’ she said. ‘You’re back.’

I gestured by raising my arms, Here I am, as you can see. I gave her an apologetic smile.

June said, turning to look me in the eye, ‘Did you have a good time? I hope so, because it’s been a complete nightmare here. I’ve had the worst couple of weeks of my life.’

I felt bad about what I had put June through, but I was not ready for this kind of conversation. I said in a soft voice, ‘Don’t say any more, June. You don’t know what happened. Things have been difficult for me just recently.’

‘Well, they’re going to get even more difficult from now on,’ June said. ‘What are you going to tell the partners?’

‘I’m going to tell them the truth,’ I said.

In the middle of the conference room at Batstone Buckley Williams is a large egg-shaped table bearing four decanters filled with water. I was seated at one tip of the egg, the twelve partners were seated at the other. They were all looking down at the portion of the table in front of them and toying with pens and paper-clips. Directly in front of me, fourteen feet away, sat Edward Boag, the senior partner. Just above his left shoulder the sun shone straight in my eyes through a gap in the Venetian blinds. I was hot, and I knew that my damp forehead was glistening in the rays.

The meeting was called to order. Boag looked embarrassed. Mumbling anxiously and tugging at his big ears, he stated the purpose of the gathering: to hear and consider the explanations I had to offer in respect of certain complaints made against me.