Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (67 page)

‘I’m afraid the desk thing is a unilateral, non-negotiable option,’ he said sadly. ‘Things have escalated beyond our expectations, and in your present condition you might end up hurting yourself.’

‘That “poem”, for instance,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr, attempting to soften Disvan’s bald statement with reasoning, ‘had definite tones of the pre-suicidal.’

‘Although refreshingly free of talent,’ said the landlord brightly.

‘So,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘it has to be sorted out. Right now, before anything else happens.’

‘One can of sorting-out juice, all present and correct,’ smiled Bridget Maccabi, elevating a once garish-red jerry can.

It was the work of a few short moments to get the desk into my garden and douse it in petrol. The Binscombe mob gathered in an expectant semi-circle before it.

‘Have you got anything in there you want to salvage?’ Mr Disvan asked me.

‘My poetry!’ I said feverishly. ‘The manuscript of my spiritual autobiography!’

By silent consensus, the crowd, as one, feigned deafness and prepared to press on. Disvan stepped forward, matches in hand and tipped his hat—to the desk.

‘We’re very sorry,’ he said politely, ‘but there seems little alternative. Our friend is not able to take what you have to tell him.’

It should have been utterly ludicrous—a man in front of an audience, apologising to a desk—but somehow it wasn’t. The other Binscomites believed in what they were seeing and in what was to come, and their credulity was contagious.

And, I must now admit, there was more. An unmistakable anticipation in the garden. I could feel a crispness in the air, a presence not entirely human, something other than us listening and waiting.

It was close to dusk now, and in the shadows cast by the privet hedges there were already deep pools of darkness. Looking up, I could see both the first star and nosey neighbour of the night, gazing down on our strange little gathering. I thought of the comparative life-spans of men and stars and felt even more depressed. But that may just have been the desk.

‘Is there anything you would like to say?’ asked Mr Disvan gently. ‘Any last words?’

A long, long pause followed. Even the nosey-Parker gave up and left her net curtain, and the spell the scene had woven over me almost faded to death. Perhaps this really was just tenth century Binscombe mumbo-jumbo after all.

Then the desk’s central draw slid slowly open of its own accord. Most of us took a step back and blundered against each other in the gloom.

Very softly at first, and then more confidently, sounds came from the desk’s interior, rising eventually to drown out our mumbling. There was an admixture of noise, a Babel of voices, mostly mixed into incomprehensible roar but with some elements distinct and all too audible. I heard deep sighs and groans, the rumble of arguments and bitter, wounding rejoinders. There were the quiet tears of young women, the aftermath of office friction, joined with muffled voices protesting at some long-dead injustice. The desk was unburdening itself of fifty years of working life.

Eventually the awful chorus slowed and imperceptibly faded away. Silence followed.

What Mr Disvan had termed ‘the blast’, came, as the name would suggest, suddenly and with appalling force. Unlike an explosion, it was silent, but the wave of accumulated human unhappiness that struck us, buffeted us back and streamed out our hair just like a bomb. Disvan’s wisdom in assembling a crowd was then proven by just how sick and ill we all felt. Spread amongst fewer people, the burden might have proved insupportable. As it was, we all gasped and struggled, trying to hold onto our peace of mind and previous (unsuspected) quiet contentment.

Then the explosion was past us, spreading on and out, doubtless to cause inexplicable tears and black moments within its burst circle, but thinning and weakening rapidly.

My depression was miraculously gone. I and all the others rallied ourselves and returned to observing the desk. It seemed to have changed—very slightly, in a manner not easy to define, but somehow for the better. It had lost a degree of rigidity, was no longer braced against the next misfortune. It had acquired resignation.

Another minute of utter quiet followed and then a voice came from the desk. It was high and clear and resonant—and utterly, totally, tired.

‘I have been in this form,’ it said, as much to itself as speaking for our benefit, ‘for nigh fifty of your years. And in that time, only once in all that time, have I been called on to store a thing that was not facts and figures; mere columns of numbers. A mere once, have my users asked me to guard a work of the spirit and imagination.’

‘And what was that, may I ask?’ said Mr Disvan, as though he was engaged in just another conversation.

‘What a dryness you have made of your world!’ said the desk, ignoring him. ‘When you have
The Collected Works of William Shakespeare
, why then do you study accountancy and books of business? Why do you devote yourself to such aridness? I do not understand your race. You have treasures in abundance but you value dust. I shall not be sorry to leave your company.’

I wanted to argue with it at this point, as I think that accountancy is a vibrant and vital part of the Western way of doing things. However, Mr Bretwalda whispered for me to ‘belt up—or else!’

‘What other words have you given me,’ the desk continued, ‘for my farewell? What else can I say about my years among you but to echo words from
Hamlet
that:

‘I could a tale unfold whose lightest word,

would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,

Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres.’

Mr Disvan nodded his sad concurrence and flicked a match onto the desk’s top. It ignited with a flash and rapidly disappeared into a broiling mass of flames. The heat was intense and we had to retreat a step or two.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought I heard a vestige of the desk’s voice reach us for the last time. Softly, and on the very edge of hearing, it had whispered, ‘Thank you.’

We stood and watched the cavorting of the fire, thinking our own thoughts and silently projecting fancies into the flames. Then Mr Disvan directed our attention upwards. In the billowing smoke we saw a vision. A slender young tree was ascending upwards, up into the sky, reborn and redeemed, up to where man could no longer reach it.

OH, I DO LIKE TO BE BESIDE THE SEASIDE (WITHIN REASON)

‘And as for Eurobonds,’ I slurred, ‘well, they’ve gone right down the plughole!’

‘Really?’ replied the landlord, heavy eyed, resting his chins in his hand.

‘Absolutely!  The market’s stone dead. Swap options are even worse after that Hammersmith and Epsom court case. Jap equity warrants are all shot to hell. Damned bear market everywhere you look... Dread to think what my year-end commission bonus is going to look like.’

I paused and slopped some more champagne in my glass before lamenting on.

‘I tell you, half of our arbitrageurs might as well shut up shop and go home.’

‘I wish you’d do the same,’ muttered Mr Patel quietly.

Drink allowed my hackles to rise without the usual calculations of consequence. After all, though small, Mr Patel was rather tough and wiry-looking.

‘I beg your... what did you say?’ I spluttered. Mr Disvan then saw fit to intervene.

‘Well, honestly, Mr Oakley,’ he said, ‘you’ve done nothing but moan all evening. You sit there in your sharp suit and braces, drinking champagne, and go on and on about interest rates and European money snakes...’

‘I’ve never seen one,’ interrupted the landlord.

‘…and how people don’t understand your troubles and how it’s all so unfair. I mean, suppose you had some real problems.’

I felt upset. What I’d thought were sympathetic ears were revealed as just more parts of the vast insouciant universe after all. A little tiny bit of self pity had seemed permissible, understandable even. So okay, this month had been a bumper one, but who knew how long it could continue?  Behind me, driving me on, was a giant drooling monster of a mortgage. People didn’t understand; it was so unfair.

‘That’s right,’ nodded Doctor Bani-Sadr. ‘I bet—what?—fifty yards from this very pub, there’s folk living lives of quiet desperation, stories and troubles that’d make your hair stand on end. They don’t suffer from emotional incontinence.’

‘I reckon so,’ rumbled Mr Bretwalda’s great bass voice. ‘You don’t have them coming in and saying, “woe, woe and thrice woe” when I’m trying to have a peaceful pint.’

‘There’s always persons worse off than yourself, Mr Oakley,’ added Mr Disvan as though the old saying would be new to me.

The landlord took up an imaginary guitar and, with a voice like a bear full of buckshot, murdered a Ralph MacTell song:

‘Let me take you by the hand

And lead you through the streets of Binscombe;

I’ll show you something

To make you change your mind...’

The yokels had one of their ‘grin-ins’ at my expense and I was successfully goaded into recklessness.

‘Right,’ I said, jabbing a rude and unsteady finger towards the doctor, ‘money where your mouth is! You find this tragic figure, fifty yards from here like you say. Bring them here in... three minutes and I’ll stand bubbly all round.’

‘Right-o,’ agreed Bani-Sadr, far too eagerly for my liking. He was already on his way out.

‘Hang on!’ I said, disconcerted. ‘What about if I win?’

Mr Disvan smiled.

‘You won’t, Mr Oakley,’ he said.

‘The Lord hath delivered him into our hands,’ said Mr Bretwalda, (mis)-quoting his hero, the late, great Oliver Cromwell. It was the only quote he knew. He always said it when some unfortunate fell into a preconceived Binscomite pit of deception.

Like the doomed Scots army referred to by Mr Cromwell, there was nothing for it but to await the chop of defeat in as stoical fashion as possible. I wiled away the time in gloomy calculation. Approximately twenty people in the bar at say half a bottle a head, well, okay, maybe a bottle a head at... far too expensive a bottle, equals... a bloody pricey night out, the second trip to the cashpoint this weekend, current account overdrive. And so on.

‘I’ll save time by getting the bottles up now,’ said the landlord, and he stooped down to lift the cellar door.

‘Hold fast,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

The landlord straightened up, gave thought and then clearly recalled some omission.

‘Leave it to me,’ he said, tapping the side of his red nose conspiratorially.

‘Otherwise we’ll never get him in,’ added Disvan.

‘S’right. Whatever it takes, we’ll have our drink off Mr Oakley, won’t we lads?’

A ragged cheer from the patrons gave him the required mandate. Mr Disvan smiled at me like a small child, full of innocence, free of conscience.

There were a few pictures dotted round the wall of the Argyll, photographs of long dead (but not forgotten) football teams, sepia views of scenes gone by and pub outings past. The landlord now went to each and turned them to face the wall. No one, aside from me, seemed to find this curious. However, before my query could be framed, the good doctor made it back, with time to spare and a little old man in tow.

I sensed then and there that I’d lost the bet. Our guest radiated troubles past and present. His shaggy hair, his burning eyes, the relief map of his face said it all. Years of tension had burned him down to skinniness, and if bad vibes could generate energy he would have been on a par with fission power. This was not a man I’d choose to live next door to, for fear of his aura seeping through the walls; and, vertigo or no vertigo, stuck in a lift with him I’d take my chances shinning up the cable. In short, a Zen master he was not.

‘I don’t think I want to hear it,’ I said. ‘I’ll pay up.’

Nobody took any notice. The old man was checking out the decor, noting each reversed picture with excruciating care. Everyone else was watching him with interest—for good reason. With his ‘flight or fight’ mechanism cranked up as high as it was, he might do anything next.

In fact what he did do was linger by the door, shaking off Doctor Bani-Sadr’s hand and harangue us.

‘No cameras, no cameras!’ he shouted hysterically.

In other circumstances this might have been funny, for who would want to photograph that scarecrow? Who would risk their lens in that way? However, like some Yankee rock star just flown in from LA, he seemed to be expecting massed paparazzi.

‘There are no cameras,’ said Mr Disvan calmly, ‘I assure you.’

The old man apparently was assured by this but neglected to let the message through to his face. Striding to the bar and slamming one claw on it (I noticed a crude ink tattoo of the word ‘Hate’ but wasn’t confident of finding ‘Love’ on the other), he shouted out again, to no one in particular, ‘Come on then, where’s this champagne?’

I tried to sound jaunty despite the earlier offer to concede.

‘No hard luck story,’ I said to the side of his head, ‘no champagne.’

He turned to look at me and I was powerfully inclined to take a step (or two) back. Somewhere along the line I also lost my grin.

‘Who,’ spat out the old man, ‘is this little streak of...’

‘He’s Mr Oakley,’ interposed Disvan very swiftly. ‘The man who made the bet. Mr Oakley, please meet Mr Windsor.’

Windsor didn’t think me worth a second’s more study than was necessary and had already turned away.

‘Looks like it too,’ he said. ‘So you’re the... man who reckons he’s got troubles?’

‘Well...’

‘My backside you have! Top this then or stump up: I was doing my lawful job, shifting furniture, doing a house clearance. Got kidnapped, got mucked about, and ended up with twelve years stir for things I never did. Lost wife, kids, house, job—everything. It turned me bitter so people don’t care for my company anymore. I’ve learnt things I didn’t want to learn, and when death comes I’ll rush screaming to meet it. Anything to say, Mr Smart-suit?’

‘Ah... well...’

‘Thought not.’

‘But is it all true?’

I should have known better than to say it, I suppose, but it was a lot of money to fork out on some weirdo’s unconfirmed word.

There was an audible gasp from a few and Windsor gave me a look that should have ignited my hair.

‘He doesn’t believe me, Mr Disvan,’ said Windsor in a very even voice.

Disvan seemed unaware, or perhaps unconcerned, about the Western saloon show-down atmosphere.

‘All absolutely true, I’m afraid,’ he said blithely.

Even so, I didn’t like Mr Windsor, and since he was both old and runtish, I felt inclined to go almost but not quite to the point of welshing.

‘Okay,’ I said grudgingly, ‘but, I mean, where kidnapped? Where in prison?  What about details?’

Windsor spoke through gritted teeth, retaining a fingernail grip on his temper.

‘Kidnapped in... Eastbourne. Chokey in Isle of Wight. Anything else you’d like to know, Mr Oakley?’

‘Well, yes, now you come to mention it. Like, who kidnapped you? And why?’

Mr Disvan gave me an anxious look.

‘Let’s not go into all that now,’ he said.

But Windsor wasn’t having any of this moderation. ‘No, no!’ he said. ‘The young gentleman wants to know the ins and outs of it and I’m happy to oblige him. Let’s see. I was kidnapped... into, yes, that’s the right word,
into
Eastbourne back in the thirties. I was there for years. As soon as I got back I was arrested and got a twelve year stretch. Hard labour, no appeal. Got divorced the summer after and her next man adopted the kids. That takes us up through World War Two and after... are you getting enough “detail”, Mr Oakley?’

Actually, I was. It was all patently true, albeit too odd to accept. But some perversity kept me probing when I was already convinced.

‘Hold on,’ I said, trying to sound jocular but not even fooling myself. ‘Whoever heard of hostages in Eastbourne? It’s not Beirut, you know, and—’

Mr Windsor stepped close.

‘Sod this for a game of soldiers,’ he said, ‘or for a glass of champagne! So you want to know more, do you? Well, do the research for yourself—with my blessing. Cop that!’

Mr Disvan, Mr Bretwalda and one or two others were already on their way towards us but they were too late. Windsor had reached into his jacket and brought forth... a photograph.

My relief lasted only a second. Held before my eyes I could hardly avoid studying the thing. Subsequent events meant that only death would part me from memory of it.

The picture was old, tatty and faded—but clear enough for all that. A handsome young man, hair swept savagely back and Oxford bags flapping wildly, was striding down a seaside prom. It appeared sunny there, a bank holiday perhaps. The young man looked confident, maybe even excessively so, staring forward into good times, that day and ever after. Then his celluloid eyes seemed to twinkle... and I left the world behind.

*  *  *

It was sunny there. I felt the sun’s not so gentle kiss as I stumbled onto the prom, the momentum of my obscure journey carrying me forward a few puzzled steps on.

‘Hard luck, chum,’ said a middle-aged man in a straw boater. ‘Welcome aboard anyway.’

His friendly face offered desperately needed comfort in the circumstances, but he kept on walking and was soon far off. There were plenty of other people though, jolly holiday makers togged up in their best, but few seemed to notice me and I was left, gasping and very alone, in the middle of the road.