Father of the Man (23 page)

He hadn’t, of course, required any aide-memoire but the strategy worked. He felt liberated to start writing.

“Sunday afternoon. 22.10.89. Nottingham railway station. ‘My season ticket expired yesterday. I want it extended please by the six days lost through strike action.’”

Flat. He suddenly remembered the clerk’s ponytail and one earring; then the dwarf in the lumberjacket and black sneakers; the mother with her baby; the soldier having problems with his rail warrant. Patently, some of the points he now began to salvage wouldn’t be of much use to a solicitor but he himself, unforeseeably, was finding interest in far more than merely plain facts.

So he had written—flowingly—about a dozen lines when the man who had simply smiled at him yesterday, in a mistaken nod of recognition, came along the train this morning.

Usual explanation. Usual provision of name and address. (Less than two days to go and it would all be at an end.) The man moved on.

A bare five minutes later he returned. This time he had company. A tall and suntanned official in his mid-forties, with glasses and a moustache, produced his ID.

“Revenue Protection, sir. I’m afraid you’ll have to get off this train at Leicester.”

After a moment Roger shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

The official stared at him and bit his lip. “So you want all these passengers to be delayed, do you, while we have to fetch the police?”

There was nobody sitting next to Roger but the two men in the seat opposite immediately lowered their papers and made no pretence of not being interested.

They did not look sympathetic.

Nor did those who sat across the aisle.

Time is money, their expressions seemed to say. We all have vitally important meetings to attend. Appointments to keep. Interviews. Lectures. All set up for the stroke of nine. Already they were glancing at their watches.

“Can’t you have the police waiting for me at St Pancras? That’s what I was promised earlier in the week. No one has to be delayed.”

Roger had lowered his voice, partly in the hope it might encourage this stern-looking newcomer to do the same. It didn’t, though—not at all. “No, sir. I’m afraid you’ve got to leave this train at Leicester.” Little wonder there were heads craning round curiously, along the whole length of the compartment.

The train, in fact, was already slowing down for Leicester.

“Right. Are you getting off here of your own free will, or do we have to make the police come on board to fetch you?”

“Yes.” Roger’s throat felt painfully constricted.

“Yes—what?”

“The police.”

The Revenue Protection official put out a hand as if to pull him bodily from his seat; but then thought better of it. Instead, he reached up to the rack above Roger’s head, took down his raincoat and umbrella, snatched up his briefcase from the table, and walked to the nearest door with them. Roger saw him hurl them on the platform. The train had scarcely stopped; no passengers as yet had boarded through that door. Afterwards he imagined the looks of bewilderment there must have been—almost of alarmed disbelief—as they had to clear a quick pathway for the passage of his belongings. He picked up his biro, returned it to his pocket, placed the exercise book on his lap, along with the greaseproof bag which contained the rest of his breakfast, and remained seated.

He hoped that his briefcase or umbrella might actually have hit someone…the type of person who would be bound to lodge a complaint.

The other official, who had stayed at his side, a bit uncertainly, didn’t meet his eye. He was bending slightly at the knees, gazing out of the window, apparently looking at something which had caught his interest on the line.

There was a long wait. In truth it was nothing like as long as it might have been—Roger would have expected a full half-hour and it wasn’t even a third of that—and yet, because he didn’t know when it would end and because he felt acutely uncomfortable throughout, hearing or sensing or imagining the murmur of agitation all about him, it certainly
felt
like half an hour. The Revenue Protection officer was now out of sight—perhaps standing on the platform—but the other man had had to turn away from the window and wander up and down the compartment answering questions about the reason for the holdup. “We’re extremely sorry, sir,” he was saying, “extremely sorry, madam. It won’t take very long. Nothing to worry about. We’ll soon be on our way, doing everything we can to make up for lost time.” Roger heard him add—when this had failed to satisfy—“The young man has a grievance; it’s going to take a bit of sorting out.” Roger wished he could have had the bottle, himself, to stand up and apologize. But all he felt able to do was shamefacedly glance from time to time at the people sitting nearest him—and they seemed merely frustrated and impatient; not curious, nor ready to adjudicate. He believed it would have helped if someone had spoken to him, asked non-aggressively for reasons. But he couldn’t be the one to start a conversation.

A Mr Smith, the one who’d gone to Washington, might have said, in the drawling tones of James Stewart: “You guys…I feel sorry about this. But we can’t let City Hall always call the tune, can we?” Immediately he would have smoothed away dissension; won friends and popularity. “At times like these we Ordinary Joes must band together. Because whenever City Hall gives us a raw deal and we don’t let out one goshdarned almighty holler what happens? We allow the system to become that little bit more repressive, that little bit more uncaring, that little bit more convinced that it can get away with it. Fellas, it’s then we need to reach out for our catapults!”

Unrestrained cheering. A standing ovation. Vows of solidarity. Jefferson Smith would no doubt have been carried aloft in triumph.

The Revenue man returned.

His promptness was something to be thankful for. So was the sight of the policeman he had with him.

Roger, of course, got up as soon as the policeman requested it.

On the platform this tow-haired, plump-cheeked representative of the Law picked up Roger’s possessions. He held the umbrella and briefcase—and also exercise book and breakfast—while Roger put on his raincoat and for a second or two brushed unconsciously at a small dark smudge on one sleeve. The train began to pull away. It seemed that everyone was peering out at them…and not simply those who were sitting; there was a lengthy line of hands momentarily on seat tops, on tabletops, a lengthy line of hunched-over trunks. Roger turned his head. “You know, we’re not unsympathetic to this complaint of yours,” remarked the young policeman.
Or to your feelings when you find that you’re the object of a peepshow
, he seemed also to be saying. “But there’s just no way, unfortunately, that you can travel without a ticket.”

Roger relieved him of the rest of his belongings.

“Yet I have to get to London and I haven’t enough money.” He was putting the food and the book back into his briefcase.

The Revenue Protection officer had apparently disembarked higher up the platform. He joined them in time to overhear what Roger had said.

“Then get somebody to take money into their local station,” he advised. “And Leicester will be notified.”

Roger shook his head. “No. There isn’t anyone.”

“Nonsense! There’s always someone. In an emergency. If you swallow your pride and forget to be obstinate.”

The policeman rubbed the tip of his broad and freckled nose. He said, “Mr Mild, sir. There’s nothing we can do.”

“You could arrest me.”

“Oh, nobody wants that.” He said it with a grin, as if Roger had just made a joke.

“
I
do. It’s the only way I shall ever get a fair hearing—be able to state my case before those who are impartial. If you don’t arrest me I shall simply catch another train later in the day.”

“No, sir, I wouldn’t do that.” The policeman’s look remained agreeable but it lost all signs of joviality. “At the moment you’re a civil offender. Do as you’ve threatened and you at once become a criminal offender.” He wiped a bit of dirt off Roger’s shoulder. “I think we’d better escort you safely off the station, sir.”

A few minutes later Roger stood on his own, outside the main entrance, looking about him. Shortly afterwards the Revenue Protection official followed him out.

“Which way’s the town centre?” Roger inquired.

“You should have asked that policeman while you had him there. I’m a stranger in this place the same as you are. Had to be on that train specially. Just for you.” There was no particular animosity in the man’s tone. But there was no particular concern, either.

“How did you know I’d be on that one?”

“We’re not daft. We can put two and two together. It’s a mistake to underrate us.”

“Then perhaps you could tell me what I do now: stranded in Leicester with less than fifty pence in my pocket. I can’t go back; I can’t go forward. What do I do?”

“Thumb a lift.” With that, he turned abruptly and went into a staff office which adjoined the station.

As soon as he’d gone, Roger doubled back through the main entrance.

He went into the buffet on Platform 3. He would have liked a cup of coffee but the state of his finances meant it must be tea.

He sipped this slowly, sitting in a corner, his back to the window and also to the door. There was an announcement on the loudspeaker. It startled him at first—its volume and its unexpectedness—but it was simply to the effect that the next train into Platform 3 would be for London St Pancras.

Up till now he’d felt less nervous than rebellious. As the train drew in, however, his nervousness came back.

Numbers of people got off; numbers got on. Standing inside the doorway of the buffet Roger watched them. He waited until the last possible moment. He heard the guard blow his whistle. Then he made a dash across the platform—in his haste colliding with an elderly man in a bowler who glared after him in annoyance. But the train was already moving; he couldn’t do more than call out his apology. At first he was unable to open the door which he had made for; yet somebody helped him from inside; and a minute later he was seated. The train wasn’t due to make another stop until it reached St Pancras.

He was now a criminal offender—and felt cross with himself for not having inquired about the actual, practical differences. This omission struck him as being stupid. The trouble was, he thought, that at moments when the adrenalin ceased to run he was simply so very tired.

The conductor came along the compartment asking for tickets from Leicester.

Roger didn’t look up from the book in which he was again writing—or pretending to write—and the conductor passed on without a pause.

At St Pancras once more Roger simply walked away.

But it was after ten when he arrived at work.

Mr Cavendish was as little pleased as he had been the day before.

“Damn you,” he said. “Damn you. I’ve offered you the way out. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Have I got to give up my day off, just to make sure that the other two won’t find themselves short-handed? And you may or may not be interested to know this but heavy showers are forecast for the weekend.”

Roger looked at him; came to a decision.

“I can promise you I shan’t be late tomorrow.”

“How can you promise that?”

“Well, does it matter? If I say—”

“I see at any rate you’ve taken note of my little homily on arrogance. That’s something. So what if not only the entire police force of this country but MI5 and SMERSH are all on your trail by crack of dawn—what then—I can still take my day off and rest secure in your promise?”

Roger smiled.

“Yes. God willing. As long as I get paid today and I’m alive tomorrow I guarantee that I’ll be here on time. Even ahead of time.”

“Do you feel that you deserve to get paid today?”

“Most certainly.”

“And it’s all very well to say God willing. But if he’s not it’s no skin off his nose. He can still have his breakfast brought to him in bed, pick out a long-overdue new sofa in John Lewis’s, drive to Chalfont and Latimer for lunch with his in-laws and pop in to see Felicity’s Aunt Lizzie on the way back. I mean, whether he happens to be willing or not, as regards the likes of you and me. And if he
doesn’t
happen to be so—well, we poor suckers, we’re absolutely stuck with it. Aren’t we, Rose?”

“You can say that again, Mr Cavendish!”

“You know…for once…I actually find myself in total agreement with Rose.”

17

Usually he listened to Radio 4 when he first got up because he felt that everyone should try to keep abreast of world events, say little prayers, spend a minute or two of concentrated thought on those who were suffering, attempt to picture their conditions, attempt to walk a few steps while wearing their shoes…Though what this ever did for anyone other than possibly himself—“Hey, look at me, at heart a decent,
caring
sort of chap!”—he wasn’t sure. He had come to feel very ambivalent about the power of prayer: after all, the suffering just went on and on and on; if it wasn’t man, then it was nature; and yet the child in him still appealed to the Lord who had got rid of his warts and had appeared to help him in countless small ways, large ones as well, all through his life…”How can people live without God?” he had often asked…and yet, now, he wasn’t sure; or if he was, if deep down inside him he still was, he felt arrogant and shifty and self-centred. What
right
had he to believe in a God who granted prayer?…And in any other sort of God he simply wasn’t interested.

But this week he didn’t listen to Radio 4. Already feeling depressed, he’d rather listen to the disc jockeys on Radio 2 and be reminded to walk on the sunny side of the street and to look for the silver lining whenever clouds appear in the blue. (Though Radio 2, it was often said, drew its audience mainly from the over-fifties—which was another good reason, of course, for not listening to it on any regular basis.) For this week he had a real need to be told about silver linings. About people who love people. And where you see clouds upon the hills you soon will see crowds of daffodils. Yeah! Hallelujah! Amen!

He even danced a little as he put the kettle on—bare feet moving bouncily across cool quarry tiles; Polly sitting in the archway, head cocked, trying so studiously to get to grips with such a code. (This one, in fact, was about only the Deadwood Stage; but whip-crack-away, whip-crack-away, whip-crack-away was in itself a life-enhancing message.)