The Anarchist

The changes Jennifer bought to the Entwhistle household were shocking and immediate. Inside a week, she had not only altered the look and fetor of the place, she seemed to have succeeded in dissipating its burdensome ambience. The rooms appeared bigger, lighter and his mother genuinely happier. But what really swung things was when Jennifer greeted his arrival home with a cup of tea and ginger biscuits.

In the beginning the conversation between them was restricted to short reports about Mrs Entwhistle’s wellbeing and planning the various alterations the house needed to undergo. In the weeks that followed, however, their chat grew to encompass Sheridan’s job and Jennifer’s past. Jennifer, like Sheridan, was Croydon-spawned, and, like him, she intended to leave – eventually. Like most things of any cop, the swinging sixties seemed to have bypassed Croydon altogether. She also told Sheridan that she never planned to have a baby because she’d seen, smelled and, worst of all, listened to childbirth first hand. He shared the sentiment, but for the reason that he’d had enough of people being dependent on him for one lifetime.

It was Mrs Entwhistle who noticed that Jennifer was leaving later and later and that she’d taken to wearing small amounts of make-up. She also noticed a general reduction in the irritability – at a push, desperation – that had characterized her son during recent months. Sheridan assured her that it was to do with his work and made excuses to prune short the evening conversations with the nurse.

Then his mother did something quite extraordinary.

One tea-quaffing evening in late summer, Mrs Entwhistle silenced the conversation with a slap to the arm of her chair. Then she launched into a speech. She began by explaining that perhaps she had a tendency at times to take them both for granted but in the last few months they really had shown her extraordinary kindness. The point being they were young and shouldn’t spend their lives doting over a housebound old woman. She slid out an envelope from the side of her armchair. Sheridan shuddered. He figured the dote must have applied to enter a home. But he was wrong. The envelope contained two tickets for a Bach concert at the Fairfield Hall that Saturday night.

Simultaneously, they reddened. What could have possibly prompted this powerless bag of smiles into becoming a shameless meddler? And how in hell’s name had she managed to get hold of the tickets? They would go, now? she asked. They looked at each other and shrugged. Jennifer was the first to smile and nod. Then Sheridan smiled and it was settled.

As she was leaving he told her how awfully sorry and ashamed he was, he couldn’t think what had possessed his mother to do such a thing. She said, rubbish, it was very thoughtful of her and she’d be happy to go if, of course, he would. He smiled and said, ‘Well, let’s call it a date then.’

As she shimmied into her overcoat he noticed the small rise of her breast in the stiff, white blouse. It was peculiar, he’d never considered Jennifer in this way before.

When Sheridan re-entered the house, he asked his mother exactly how she’d managed to procure the tickets. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ she told him. Later, when he learned the truth, Sheridan Entwhistle would feel rather idiotic about things. But for the time he merely smiled, content to put it down to the strangeness and unpredictability of female-kind.

During the days that followed he took note of the nurse’s heart-shaped behind as she bent over his mother’s chair and her slender black-stockinged legs. Jennifer also had a big nose. Ever since seeing Breakfast at Tiffany’s he’d appreciated big noses on women. Sheridan wondered how Jennifer would dress for the concert. He’d never seen her in anything other than the nurse’s garb.

Jennifer wore a dark green velvet dress with a plump roll collar falling just high of her cleavage. Her black hair was down and her lips were painted cardinal. In fact, out of the nurse’s gear, she didn’t look unlike Audrey Hepburn. Though Sheridan would have never confessed it, he’d bought himself a new suit for the occasion – a brave faun departure with grand collar and flares.

Over tea in a cafe in St George’s Walk, he gave her the news that he’d need to apply for planning permission to widen the living room door as it formed part of a structural wall. She grinned and told him that talk about his mother was prohibited tonight. He agreed and asked what she wanted to talk about. She said she didn’t know. Then she asked him whether he preferred the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. He told her that he didn’t much like either. What type of music did he like then? she asked. He hesitated and then answered that, come to think about it, he didn’t really care much for music at all. This made her laugh. She told him it was impossible. Everyone had to like one type of music. Sheridan didn’t. She asked about his favourite film. He didn’t know. What was he interested in then? He thought for a second or two and told her, magazine publishing. He went on to tell her that one day he’d own a huge company of his own, publishing everything from trade titles to magazines like Oz. Jennifer was, or at least made out that she was, impressed. At the time working in magazines was considered rather avant garde.

The concert was diabolical. Worse than any recording. When it was time for the organ to sound and a disproportionately loud, flatulent note resounded through the hall, Sheridan actually guffawed. Jennifer tutted and softly slapped his knee.

After the performance he drove her home in his Morris Minor and she asked whether he’d enjoyed the evening. He said he had. She wondered whether he’d perhaps like to go out again. He said he’d like that. In that case, she told him, she’d let him into a secret. Then she changed her mind.

It wasn’t until they’d lip-kissed for the first time after their fourth date that she confessed it was she who had bought the Bach tickets after collaborating with his mother – because frankly Sheridan was worse than useless. He told her that for her information he’d had his fair share of girlfriends. Well, perhaps fair share was a slight exaggeration. He’d had one other girlfriend and that was when he was seventeen – but frankly business put paid to that sort of thing. Had she had any other boyfriends? he enquired. That was for her to know and him to find out, she told him, and kissed his mouth for the second time.

*

Sheridan applied a thin veneer of polyunsaturated fat to his toast and forewent the customary marmalade. Jennifer raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She was shattered. Sherry had made no fewer than eleven visits to the bathroom in the night, on each occasion rousing her from a weightless sleep. Something was not right with her husband, she knew this much. What though? Folucia, work, his health? His health; God, she hoped not – how she detested disturbances.

‘Last night …’ said Sheridan earnestly lowering his toast. ‘Well, actually this morning, to be accurate. I had the most remarkable of dreams.’

Jennifer shot him a startled look. They never spoke about dreams. The encoded messages that periodically surfaced from the mind’s sewer were ipso facto private. To Jennifer, breakfast-time dream autopsies were as tasteless as discussion of sexual matters or bowel movements. In two and a bit decades of marriage, dreams had never been on the agenda. There was quite definitely something up with the man.

‘One of those full-colour, three-dimensional, profound-truth dreams. You know the sort?’

‘Sherry, please. It’s too early for Freud. I can’t cope with potties and willies at breakfast.’

‘I assure you that this dream was entirely potty and willy free.’

‘Still, Sherry.’

‘I was in the City. Actually, I suppose it could have been New York, Croydon even, surrounded by the most colossal skyscrapers …’

‘Precisely …’ she spat. ‘Archetype of male virility. Seven, six.’

‘Good grief, Jennifer. Of course, last night I dreamt a dream of a thousand cocks.’

At that moment a dishevelled Folucia tramped in.

‘That must have been nice for you, Daddy,’ she grinned. They bade her a low key good morning, to which she grunted back, and watched on as she opened the fridge, removed what she required and exited – neither, it seemed, ashamed nor guilty that her hob-nails had clumped up the stairs at one-thirty that morning.

Jennifer looked over at her husband disapprovingly. He anticipated her and uttered assurance that, if he got the chance he’d do the father, daughter bit that evening.

‘American valedictory cliché. Four, one, four, three,’ smiled Jennifer in the porch and they clicked their mouths together without touching.

‘I’ll do my utmost. You have a nice day too.’

Sluggishly ambling his way to the bus stop, Sheridan Entwhistle began to mutter. ‘One, two, three … four … five, six.’ No fewer than eleven Bill Isaacs, Cons grinned down from his neighbours’ windows.

An undoubtedly positive aspect to being in the middle of nowhere is that everything is delivered.

On the other hand, folk rise early making it that much more awkward to receive their donations.

Scouring Fort William and the foothills of Nevis that morning, Yantra managed to collect just a pint of milk, a loaf of bread and some eggs. Still, as he often commented at such times, hunger assists humility and provides an empty focus for meditation. And, of course, where there’s famine there’s repletion. They should feel glad that someone would be eating what they would not.

At times, Jayne had the distinct feeling that Yantra’s crude Zen-styled maxims were little more than a façade for life’s frustrations. She was bloody starving and she made this plain.

‘For God’s sake,’ he barked in a very unenlightened manner. ‘I’m really not in the frame for begging and, forgive me if I’m mistaken, but the Jocks aren’t exactly known for their love of the didgeridoo.’ She tutted, but he went on. ‘Tell yer what though, Jayne, find me one of them dying cats in a tartan sack and I’ll have a crack at it. But, you know, babe, it’s been a long day already so just give me a fucking brea … Hey, like sorry. Yeah, I know what you’re saying. You want to use some of the money, right?’ She nodded, so he undid the zip at the back of the driver’s seat and reluctantly pulled out the bank bag. They were down to their last twenty pounds.

Shopping in Fort William was not easy. They concluded that a tribe must have visited the town earlier for many of the shops and pubs had handwritten signs saying no travellers and no gypsies.

Yantra wanted to make enquiries. Was it possible that they’d travelled alone for so long that they’d failed to hear about a festival? Or had the town merely been paranoic hosts to a tiny group of travellers? Jayne had experience of Yantra’s making enquiries. Invariably he’d ask the most inappropriate person he could find – like a pig or a pub owner – and wind up in a vicious debate over civil liberties.

‘Yan, I don’t feel welcome here. You know, I’m experiencing some powerful negativity from the indigenous. Can we, like, just do the dust from our shoes thing.’

‘Well, babe, to my reckoning the path of least resistance has to be the A82. Which leads us directly to the middle of an even more nowhere place than this – and a highly Buddhist place it is to be, if I recall.’

They managed to find some vegetarian burgers in a small shop on the edge of town which they wrapped in tinfoil and cooked on Biddy’s engine as they hurtled southbound on the path of least resistance.

Six weeks before, Sheridan Entwhistle had had a somewhat uncomfortable conversation and quite possibly it had been the beginning of everything.

The cautionary palpitations. The peculiar thoughts flinging up into his consciousness. The dissipation of a hard-earned inner pomposity. And, as it would seem a month and a half later, the folding of his existence into a bizarre anarchy.

‘You realize this meeting is the result of a quite ludicrous misunderstanding,’ Sheridan announced with all the resilience of a seasoned building. ‘And the fact that the unfortunate episode, as you so delicately put it, occurred post a luncheon, where yes, as we’ve established, I did partake of the grape in moderate quantities, is purely circumstantial. The events are entirely unrelated. And in my view, and I imagine the view of anyone with an ounce of commonsense, the events are significant only inasmuch as they are entirely insignificant. I don’t think I can make myself any clearer. Nor do I think that I can spare any further time in discussing these fictions.’

He rose.

Belinda Oliphant, Director of Personnel and Human Resources, cleared her throat.

‘Please sit down, Sheridan.’

He complied with a frown and she nodded to her PA, indicating that what she was about to say needn’t be recorded.

‘Look Sheridan, the last thing I want to do is waste your time and mine re-treading the same ground. And believe me, Sheridan, the very, very last thing I want to do is suggest that you’re, well, being conservative with the truth. But, Sheridan, surely you can see that there are things which simply don’t add up.’

‘Absolutely, Belinda. Someone’s imagination has got the better of them. And I suggest it is to them you should be talking. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things …’

‘And frankly,’ Belinda went on, raising her voice a touch, ‘if person A reports that person B was slurring their speech and reeking of alcohol, I’m duty bound to treat the sober account …’

‘I take exception to …’

‘Sheridan, what motive could she possibly have for making this up?’

‘I’m not suggesting that she did make it up. I simply believe she misunderstood the intention behind the invitation.’

‘But you repeated the invitation. You wouldn’t take no for an answer. That is not something that a person makes up or misunderstands. That is a statement of fact.’ She gestured to the PA to recommence note taking.

‘Look, if I did, it was purely because, well, I suppose I thought she was being polite, or shy or something … you know how these girls, these women, can be.’

‘Helen declined the invitation, initially on the grounds that she wouldn’t feel comfortable in a wine bar dressed as she was. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, I believe …’

‘To which you replied …’ Belinda donned a devilish pair of spectacles and read from a typed sheet of paper. ‘“Rubbish, my dear, you look absolutely scrumptious as you are.”’

‘I may have used that turn of … an unfortunate choice of words in the light of things but, I assure you, entirely innocent.’

‘And at that time your hand was placed on her shoulder? Her naked shoulder, because that day she was wearing a sleeveless top. Am I right?’

‘A careless error. Still, I have no recollection.’

‘And your hand remained on her shoulder for the entire time you were issuing your invitations?’

‘If it did, it really was an unconscious gesture. And I fail to see that what she was wearing …’

‘Still, your noble intentions aside, you are not denying that the situation may have been similar to the way I’ve described it?’

‘It’s not the description that I take exception to, it’s the ridiculous interpretation that you’re forcing upon an innocent – I stress innocent – professional drinks invitation.’

‘An invitation which took place at five-twenty, perhaps ten minutes after you’d returned from lunch that particular afternoon.’

‘Absolute tosh. I went on to a meeting in the City directly after lunch.’

‘And you maintain that you were sober.’

‘Good God, woman. Of course I was bloody well …’

Belinda looked at Sheridan almost sympathetically.

‘Oh Sheridan, Sheridan. If you’d wanted to discuss Helen’s career, why didn’t you do it in your office? Why didn’t you do it the next morning?’

Sheridan had no answer.

Belinda latched on to his reticence and, looking directly into his eyes, asked, ‘And Sheridan, can you explain to me why Helen was in tears when she came to my office?’

Sheridan shook his head.

‘And why have I had reports of a number of other, all be they less serious, improprieties?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Mostly concerning your choice of words when addressing or referring to women? Three months ago you were requested to refrain from using the word, dear.’

‘Which I found made letter writing somewhat awkward. Of course I denied such a petty-minded request.’

‘And sales executives as, girls.’

‘My dear …’ he said with purpose. ‘You must understand: some habits die hard. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another engagement.’

‘Sheridan, Sheridan, briefly.’

‘What?’

‘Would you consider writing Helen a letter of apology? Do that and I think things might settle.’

‘Good God, woman. If there are any apologies flying around I expect to be on the receiving end of them all. Good afternoon, Mzzz Oliphant.’

‘Sheridan,’ she called as he threw open the door. ‘I’m afraid I have no choice but to report the matter to James, and recommend that further action be taken. I strongly advise you to opt for the apology.’

He turned and, for the first time since he’d been in prep school, Sheridan Entwhistle waggled his hand on his nose and blew a raspberry. Belinda Oliphant indicated that her PA should make a note of this.

Perhaps Sheridan hadn’t been quite so eloquent. After all, he couldn’t recall the meeting with Belinda Oliphant word for word. Was it possible that, in reality, he’d been a touch more self-effacing and given some indication that he’d do his utmost to drag his diction into the realms of the politically correct – whatever that meant.

The important thing was that he shouldn’t dwell on it. It all happened nearly six weeks ago after all. Nor should he allow himself to become so goddamn paranoic.

It wasn’t as if he was your actual sex offender.

It wasn’t as if he’d actually intended doing anything.

And if, just suppose, there had been that itsy-bitsy bit more to the invitation than he was allowing himself to admit, well, for bloody’s sake, he was only human.

But, in the name of God, he’d meant nothing by the invitation. And of this he was virtually, nay entirely, sure.

Besides, contrary to expectation James hadn’t summoned Sheridan to an interim meeting. Indeed he was mildly surprised when the MD greeted him in his usual affable manner at their regular monthly engagement. And throughout the meeting they stuck to the usual agenda of taking each of Sheridan’s magazines in turn and discussing ways of maximizing short and long term yield. Quite plainly the Oliphant woman had seen sense and backed down.

To think, he’d actually lost sleep over things.

To think, his self-confidence had faltered. That at times he’d actually taken to seeing himself in the way he imagined his staff must have – a middle-aged drooler. A man with a priapic, clandestine agenda. A dirty old believer in the impossible.

Then he saw it and shuddered. Behind the magazines and figure sheets was something he couldn’t fail to recognize – his fat, green, twelve-year-old personnel file.

‘You OK, old man?’ asked James, noticing that his interlocutor’s attention was somewhere over the Soho skyline.

‘Sorry, James. Lost concentration for a moment.’

‘A short break’s what you need, old man. Do you the power.’

Sheridan was mortified. He knew the euphemism. Invariably, a short break ripened into a longer one and ultimately matured into the old chestnut: Gone to seek pastures new, on the company memo.

They discoursed some more yet James seemed distracted. Then, with an abrupt wave of the hand, he broke off in mid-sentence and laid a palm on the portentous file.

‘Sherry, Sherry, Sherry, old boy. Aaahh, Sheridan.’

‘What?’ he snapped, suddenly indignant.

‘Well …’ James paused and met Sheridan’s scowl full on. He smiled which caused Sheridan to smile involuntarily. Abruptly he modified the expression to a grimace to indicate that he hadn’t intended the smile. How he loathed the way he instinctively emulated the facial expressions of those in authority. It made it doubly bad that James was younger than him. A good ten years younger at that.

‘Been taking a thumb through your file, Sherry. Couldn’t help noticing that you’re approaching the big four-five.’

That’s right, James, you bastard, he thought. Sack me and you effectively retire me. Nice one, James.

‘So I am, James. Not something I’m particularly overjoyed about, but che sarà sarà and all that.’

‘Rubbish man. A fine age, forty-five. Got the experience, but haven’t lost the vitality. Know what I’m saying, Sherry?’

‘I think perhaps I do, James.’

‘Good. Time for a man to spread his wings a little.’

‘Quite so.’

‘So, give it some thought. I mean, Sherry, come back to me in a month and let me know what you want for your birthday. A launch? An acquisition? Product cards? Hell, man, you may even want to drag us screaming into CD - ROM. In a year or so’s time, I want to see you up on this floor. Earning some serious shekels. Know what I’m saying, man? Let’s have Entwhistle on the board of Monroe-Hastings. Ye gads, man, we must owe it you by now.’

‘Well thanks, James. That really is … I’ve been having a few thoughts … I’ll jot down some … excellent. I’ll do that. Leave it with me, James.’

Nor was Sheridan concerned that he now wore one of those froggish grins that almost has to be wiped away with the hand.

‘Fine. And take a long weekend, man. Hate to say it but you’re looking a bit worse for it.’

‘Yes, thank you. Thank you. I’ll do that. And thank you for the …’

‘Ooh-um, Sherry. While you’re in here. Managed to smooth things over with the lesbo-Trotskyite faction for you. But, you know, old boy, tone it down a smidgen. No more said.’

Sheridan sat with head in his hands until his coffee grew cold. Because his secretary was at home with yet another day of menstrual cramps, he roused himself and collected a fresh one from the automatic dispenser then played with his magnetic paperclip pyramid until that cup also gave up its heat.

He fetched a third and picked up the phone.

First he called his financial advisor and arranged to up his life cover.

Next he telephoned his doctor and made an appointment for Monday morning.

Then he called Interflora and instructed that a magnificent bouquet of red roses be couriered to his wife. The message he dictated was, ‘Expression of affection, one, four, three.’

Traditionally, Friday morning was reserved for meetings with the advertisement managers and editors of his magazines. He lifted the phone to summon Ashby Giles, the least favourite of his managers. Ashby who said yar, instead of yes and absolutely, old boy. Who congratulated him on his employing Helen in preference to the other hounds who had applied. Who consistently defied Sheridan’s smoking ban with cavalier proclamations like, Passive smoking is for wisps. Ashby Giles who was without doubt the man behind his staff’s silent mutiny. Their failure to bid him good morning, their solemn exeunt dead on five-thirty and, of course, their utter lack of motivation and consequently sales.

He pressed the first digit of the extension number but found that he was laughing too much to go on.

‘Sea Cargo Month,’ he spoke out loud, sneering like a child saying cabbage. Then there was Warehouse Product and Service Monthly. And to top it all, Logistics and Freight Distribution Monthly. Sheridan could barely contain himself when he recalled how they’d agreed that the title rolled off the tongue. That it had need-to-read written all over it.

And then there was the business plan he was working on for James. A scheme that would in two years’ time put Sheridan Entwhistle in charge of an on-line warehousing and distribution news and recruitment network that fed directly into the established industry interface.