At moments like this he needed little persuasion that his plans were the right ones. He wouldn’t miss the cold, the crowds, the creeping claustriophobia, the inescapable ubiquity of strangers’ body odour or any of the other myriad frustrations which characterised his morning commute. There would be nothing in this for which he would pine.
Of course, there were some people – a few colleagues, the friends from other contexts he met up with occasionally. However Nick had held relationships at something of a distance since the split with Jane; while that policy had its down sides, at times like this it was easier to stay the course. Over the past three years that relationship had faded into the background, but the regrets were still keen. He knew it was all to predictable to attempt to save himself from being hurt by keeping others at arms’ length, but that didn’t make it any less successful. Better the dull ache of regret and frustration than the sharp stabs of let down and disappointment.
He knew the business opportunities were good where he was going – property on the west coast was booming, the economy was more stable than in the past and a new President was bringing the expectation of that stability lasting into years ahead. Optimism was at last running free, and Nick was planning to make the most of it. An old-fashioned American dream, without starting in the gutter.
There had been little in the way of attempts to make him stay at work – the standard good-natured jokes, the predictable collection he wasn’t supposed to know about, but in truth this was the sort of company that would cope perfectly well without him or most others.
He had a week left, and this week would mainly be putting his house in order. 17 emails waited for him. One from the manager.
“Come and see me ASAP. John”
Nick pondered for a moment – this could only be some last minute clarification of pending deals for his successor. He went straight upstairs; John’s door was open.
“Come in, Nick. Good to see you”
Nick had never been close to John; nor was he suspicious of his motives like others were. Like many others, he just kept stayed his distance.
“I’ll get straight to it Nick. Caz is leaving. Wants to be a full time mum. Don’t get it myself – she’s wasted at home. With a body and a brain like hers, she’d be a millionaire in 5 years. Anyway, you’re perfect for her job. We’ll put you on 60K, 5 more than she was and beef up the bonuses. Interested?”
Nick had no answer. This was unexpected, unasked for and more than he would make for at least 5 years abroad. Silence while he studied the calendar.
“Well?”
“S-S-Sorry”, he stammered. Surprise always bought this on, cruelly reminding him of childhood embarrassment at the very moment he needed to be most focussed. “I just wasn’t expecting this. Can I let you know?”
John looked surprised too. “I thought you’d jump at it. You have until before team meeting tomorrow.”
“Thank you.
He left on autopilot; to where, he didn’t know. Coffee-machine, drink, wander down hallway. Pay more attention than necessary to the notice-board. Anything to kill time.
After eight hours of what passed for work, the dilemma was down to this: there was no personal reason to stay, no financial reason to go. The journey home had seemed longer, the to-do list ahead of the move substantially more out of control faced with this decision. Whenever he was usually faced with a decision, it would come down to lists. Here there was one item on each list, each item of equal weight.
The answer came down to a simple choice – stay or go, money or opportunity, familiar or new. He saw no reason for one or the other; nothing screaming at him that it was obvious. So he decided simply to let it be decided for him; when he left the station at the end of his journey, he would wall slowly home past the shops, allowing the busy commuters brush him, bump him, overtake him. Whatever he heard or saw first in the shop windows, overheard phone calls and conversations, would decide for him – stay or go, money or move, home or abroad.
The train pulled in, he climbed the stairs, keeping pace with the middle of the crowd; he took the card from his pocket, pressing it to the reader and through the gate. And he started to listen.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Wrong Number
There are moments when I can still hear the gentle reprimand, the loving rebuke. Always it would come in those moments of quiet, embarrassed realisation that I had forgotten something, left something out, overlooked it. “Slow down son. Stop and think. Be more careful, more thoughtful, more thorough.”
It’s odd how little things like that stay with you and resurface at different times of your life, creep up on you unawares when you lease expect it or come back to haunt you when you feel at your most vulnerable and insecure. Part of me, at the end of this day – the part that hadn’t consumed a celebratory two beers, half a bottle of champagne and three whiskies – could still hear the correction.
Looking back, I can see why it happened. It shows how dependent on these little pieces of consumerism we have become; ten years ago we would never let the things out of our sight; these days it’s a reflex pat of the pocket every now and then. We had both been in a hurry after lunch; she had to get back for a client immediately, so she left quickly. I settled up and grabbed the phone without looking. I took my time getting back to the office, the better to savour the crisp spring air and the views along the river on the way back. By the time I got back to my desk I was straight back onto emails; then project planning. I needed to get it finished before four, so I could get off to the jeweller’s in good time before closing. They were going to call to let me know the ring was ready; then plans for the weekend would be complete, planned to the last detail. Answer certain, but surprise inevitable. I knew she expected me to wait till the summer, when we would go back to see her family. She, though, didn’t know I had phoned her folks - they were in on the deception. I allowed myself a moment of smugness as I worked.
I was deep into the project at 3:20, just enough to feel optimistic that I would finish in time. The phone vibrated; looking back it should have struck me as strange. I never leave it on silent. I answered without pausing to think.
“Hello?”
“Is Rachel there?”
“Er you’ve got the wrong number. This is her fian…boyfriend…Who is this?”
“Could you tell her I’m stuck in traffic and I won’t make the appointment. I’m already late?”
Next I said something I shouldn’t have. Not to a client; especially not one of hers.
Straight out the door. If I had time to stop, that sinking feeling would have quickly overtaken me. But it wasn’t going to. If it wasn’t already too late, I had to find her. Straight down the street, two blocks away. Into the lobby. I stared breathlessly at the woman on the desk, reaching back into my memory for her name. It wasn’t there. No matter – by some miracle she remembered me.
“You’ve missed her. She left to go shopping. She said she needed something for the weekend.”
“Where?”
“Not sure. High street I think.”
It was as good a guess as any. Straight out the door again, lungs burning, shooting pains in the legs – these shoes weren’t built for this. I must have looked possessed, desperate or both. Past the station, up the high street. A hundred yards away, there she was, swiftly walking past the shopping centre, swinging a bag in her hands.
Too breathless to shout now, I kept running as she seemed to accelerate towards the crossing. I stumbled, straight into a passer-by; I lost my footing and reached out as I fell, hands stretching for her bag.
Trying to use it break my fall, I heard her scream in surprise. Back on my feet I looked from her to the bag, where a familiar ring tone kicked into life. I grabbed it; just as I did so I felt my legs go from under me, falling under the weight of a well-meaning defender of public order.
I could hear Rachel protesting, laughing as he wrestled me into submission.
“It’s fine, it’s OK, it’s nothing!” she managed to get out between breathless giggles. She touched my assailant on the shoulder. “Leave him; really. My fiancé just wants his phone back.”
It’s odd how little things like that stay with you and resurface at different times of your life, creep up on you unawares when you lease expect it or come back to haunt you when you feel at your most vulnerable and insecure. Part of me, at the end of this day – the part that hadn’t consumed a celebratory two beers, half a bottle of champagne and three whiskies – could still hear the correction.
Looking back, I can see why it happened. It shows how dependent on these little pieces of consumerism we have become; ten years ago we would never let the things out of our sight; these days it’s a reflex pat of the pocket every now and then. We had both been in a hurry after lunch; she had to get back for a client immediately, so she left quickly. I settled up and grabbed the phone without looking. I took my time getting back to the office, the better to savour the crisp spring air and the views along the river on the way back. By the time I got back to my desk I was straight back onto emails; then project planning. I needed to get it finished before four, so I could get off to the jeweller’s in good time before closing. They were going to call to let me know the ring was ready; then plans for the weekend would be complete, planned to the last detail. Answer certain, but surprise inevitable. I knew she expected me to wait till the summer, when we would go back to see her family. She, though, didn’t know I had phoned her folks - they were in on the deception. I allowed myself a moment of smugness as I worked.
I was deep into the project at 3:20, just enough to feel optimistic that I would finish in time. The phone vibrated; looking back it should have struck me as strange. I never leave it on silent. I answered without pausing to think.
“Hello?”
“Is Rachel there?”
“Er you’ve got the wrong number. This is her fian…boyfriend…Who is this?”
“Could you tell her I’m stuck in traffic and I won’t make the appointment. I’m already late?”
Next I said something I shouldn’t have. Not to a client; especially not one of hers.
Straight out the door. If I had time to stop, that sinking feeling would have quickly overtaken me. But it wasn’t going to. If it wasn’t already too late, I had to find her. Straight down the street, two blocks away. Into the lobby. I stared breathlessly at the woman on the desk, reaching back into my memory for her name. It wasn’t there. No matter – by some miracle she remembered me.
“You’ve missed her. She left to go shopping. She said she needed something for the weekend.”
“Where?”
“Not sure. High street I think.”
It was as good a guess as any. Straight out the door again, lungs burning, shooting pains in the legs – these shoes weren’t built for this. I must have looked possessed, desperate or both. Past the station, up the high street. A hundred yards away, there she was, swiftly walking past the shopping centre, swinging a bag in her hands.
Too breathless to shout now, I kept running as she seemed to accelerate towards the crossing. I stumbled, straight into a passer-by; I lost my footing and reached out as I fell, hands stretching for her bag.
Trying to use it break my fall, I heard her scream in surprise. Back on my feet I looked from her to the bag, where a familiar ring tone kicked into life. I grabbed it; just as I did so I felt my legs go from under me, falling under the weight of a well-meaning defender of public order.
I could hear Rachel protesting, laughing as he wrestled me into submission.
“It’s fine, it’s OK, it’s nothing!” she managed to get out between breathless giggles. She touched my assailant on the shoulder. “Leave him; really. My fiancé just wants his phone back.”
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Bypass Cottage
Inspired by a building a short drive from my home.
Ever since she was a young girl, she had dreamt of living in a cottage. She wasn’t too particular about the exact appearance, but a few things were non-negotiable; a large, sweeping garden that hugged two sides of the exterior of the building. A wooden gate, wider than it was high. A drive gravelled in such a way as to make that satisfying crunching noise as people drove or walked up it. Inside the building she didn’t mind if there were one or two floors; what mattered instead were a few little touches that in her mind said ‘cottage’: one of those laundry drying racks that were suspended from a kitchen ceiling and could be lowered down by turning a black handle in the corner. A utility room with unpainted stone. An Aga.
If these things were there – or had the potential to be there after some work – then her dreams would have been fulfilled. It was these thoughts that were in the forefront of her mind as she undertook the laborious process of looking for a place. She wasn’t going to settle for just a place to live – she wanted a place that spoke to her of home - and home, in her mind, was just such a cottage as she had pictured all these years.
She had never really sought to live out dreams; not since the marriage fell apart anyway. That whole affair – an appropriate choice of words, on reflection – was such a predictable let down, such a painful crushing of dreams, which resulted in her determining never to allow the possibility of disappointment again. Don’t expect too much, and you don’t get let down.
That mood lasted for three years. The divorce had taken longer than it needed to come through, hardening her cynicism. But money and the gentle passage of time since had a funny way of dulling the sharp edge, so it was when she one day sat down with her accounts and realised that she could finally afford to move that her thoughts turned to the cottages of her dreams.
The first two she looked at had proved to be nearly perfect but either too far from work, friends or her maximum spend. The third was also nearly perfect and ideal in value – but she was beaten to it by a lawyer. The fourth didn’t have everything, but it certainly had potential to be just about everything. So when the offer was accepted, the contract signed and the keys handed over, then the champagne could flow.
Names had never meant much to her, and she always liked to think of herself as something of a maverick; so she took it as something of a complement when friends told her it wasn’t quite what they expected. Yes, the area was a noisier one than many cottages were found in. Yes, parking would be an issue when they came to visit.
But it didn’t matter. The cottage was named for the road it was on; and to her, Bypass Cottage was just perfect.
Ever since she was a young girl, she had dreamt of living in a cottage. She wasn’t too particular about the exact appearance, but a few things were non-negotiable; a large, sweeping garden that hugged two sides of the exterior of the building. A wooden gate, wider than it was high. A drive gravelled in such a way as to make that satisfying crunching noise as people drove or walked up it. Inside the building she didn’t mind if there were one or two floors; what mattered instead were a few little touches that in her mind said ‘cottage’: one of those laundry drying racks that were suspended from a kitchen ceiling and could be lowered down by turning a black handle in the corner. A utility room with unpainted stone. An Aga.
If these things were there – or had the potential to be there after some work – then her dreams would have been fulfilled. It was these thoughts that were in the forefront of her mind as she undertook the laborious process of looking for a place. She wasn’t going to settle for just a place to live – she wanted a place that spoke to her of home - and home, in her mind, was just such a cottage as she had pictured all these years.
She had never really sought to live out dreams; not since the marriage fell apart anyway. That whole affair – an appropriate choice of words, on reflection – was such a predictable let down, such a painful crushing of dreams, which resulted in her determining never to allow the possibility of disappointment again. Don’t expect too much, and you don’t get let down.
That mood lasted for three years. The divorce had taken longer than it needed to come through, hardening her cynicism. But money and the gentle passage of time since had a funny way of dulling the sharp edge, so it was when she one day sat down with her accounts and realised that she could finally afford to move that her thoughts turned to the cottages of her dreams.
The first two she looked at had proved to be nearly perfect but either too far from work, friends or her maximum spend. The third was also nearly perfect and ideal in value – but she was beaten to it by a lawyer. The fourth didn’t have everything, but it certainly had potential to be just about everything. So when the offer was accepted, the contract signed and the keys handed over, then the champagne could flow.
Names had never meant much to her, and she always liked to think of herself as something of a maverick; so she took it as something of a complement when friends told her it wasn’t quite what they expected. Yes, the area was a noisier one than many cottages were found in. Yes, parking would be an issue when they came to visit.
But it didn’t matter. The cottage was named for the road it was on; and to her, Bypass Cottage was just perfect.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Can you hear it?
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.
Life’s too busy; London’s too noisy; there’s always far too much going on. I never have time to…; I can’t see you until…; I haven’t had the chance to…
If city life is so bad, why do so many people live there? Why do city draw people so helplessly, relentlessly if they cause nothing but strain and stress and misery and disappointment and illness to those who live there? It’s self-evident, surely, that there’s good and bad about everything and city life shouldn’t be immune to that. There’s plenty that’s wrong with what goes on there.
But who, apart from those who make money from their existence, celebrates cities now? That seems somewhat contradictory to me; cities are growing effortlessly, continually; and they will always do so. Why?
I’ve always lived in or near cities – the last 10 and a half years in a variety of parts of London; I’ve never dreamt of living apart from them. I’ve always trotted out clichés along the lines of: the diversity, the opportunity, the ease of getting places. But there’s something more – walk with eyes open in the city, and you might say you are never more than the glance of an eye from a miracle, from the beautiful and the echo of eternity.
Jon McGregror spends a whole, breathtakingly beautiful book examining this in “If nobody speaks of remarkable things”; a novel, yes, but also a breathless hymn to the endless beauty, the everyday moments of transcendence of city life. It’s a plea to open eyes, to listen, to stop – to all city-dwellers to become archivists, interacting with the things, the places, the people all around.
There are many who bemoan cities – London especially – as places of darkness. But when did you last listen?
If you listen, you can hear it.
The city, it sings.
If you stand quietly, at the foot of a garden, in the middle of a street, on the roof of a house.
It’s clearest at night, when the sound cuts more sharply across the surface fo things, when the song reaches out to a place inside you.
It’s a wordless song, for the most, but it’s a song all the same, and nobody hearing it could doubt what it sings. And the song sings the loudest when you pick out each note.
Life’s too busy; London’s too noisy; there’s always far too much going on. I never have time to…; I can’t see you until…; I haven’t had the chance to…
If city life is so bad, why do so many people live there? Why do city draw people so helplessly, relentlessly if they cause nothing but strain and stress and misery and disappointment and illness to those who live there? It’s self-evident, surely, that there’s good and bad about everything and city life shouldn’t be immune to that. There’s plenty that’s wrong with what goes on there.
But who, apart from those who make money from their existence, celebrates cities now? That seems somewhat contradictory to me; cities are growing effortlessly, continually; and they will always do so. Why?
I’ve always lived in or near cities – the last 10 and a half years in a variety of parts of London; I’ve never dreamt of living apart from them. I’ve always trotted out clichés along the lines of: the diversity, the opportunity, the ease of getting places. But there’s something more – walk with eyes open in the city, and you might say you are never more than the glance of an eye from a miracle, from the beautiful and the echo of eternity.
Jon McGregror spends a whole, breathtakingly beautiful book examining this in “If nobody speaks of remarkable things”; a novel, yes, but also a breathless hymn to the endless beauty, the everyday moments of transcendence of city life. It’s a plea to open eyes, to listen, to stop – to all city-dwellers to become archivists, interacting with the things, the places, the people all around.
There are many who bemoan cities – London especially – as places of darkness. But when did you last listen?
If you listen, you can hear it.
The city, it sings.
If you stand quietly, at the foot of a garden, in the middle of a street, on the roof of a house.
It’s clearest at night, when the sound cuts more sharply across the surface fo things, when the song reaches out to a place inside you.
It’s a wordless song, for the most, but it’s a song all the same, and nobody hearing it could doubt what it sings. And the song sings the loudest when you pick out each note.
(Jon McGregor: If Nobody Speaks Of Remarkable Things. Pub. Bloomsbury, 2002. Page 1)
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