Short fiction: It Turns on a Sixpence

The CEO has a bad day

When Phil became CEO he had the desks and chairs ripped out and the partitions between workstations knocked down. Then he had new desks installed that went up and down at the touch of a button, and swivel chairs with multiple adjustments. Everyone had two big screens now, and a docking station on their desk and another at home so their laptop could click into place on a kitchen table. The windows in the executive office were changed, too; now they were big single panes of glass.

It was beside one of these that Sally sat one wet late afternoon in April, watching gusts of wind blow fine sprays of rain against the glass. She caught her reflection. She could see the acne scars on her cheeks. She’d thought those’d have gone by now; she was 28.

Grok

She glanced across at the desk across the aisle. Robyn was buried in some spreadsheet or other, or purported to be; but now and then her hand would reach out to one of her monitor cables, which had several little toy koalas that grasped it between their sprung paws.

“I thought you were going to get rid of those,” said a sharp voice. Robyn looked up. Sally did too. Phil had soft-shoed down from the executive suite, unheard as usual; he was small and jowly and reminded Sally of a picture she had once seen of a past President – who was it? –the one who resigned when her mum and dad were young. She had never really understood why. He was standing above Robyn, holding some sheets of paper.

“I like my abseiling koalas,” said Robyn.

“We will have a lot of shareholders and the Chair around tomorrow,” said Phil. “I don’t want them to see toys in the office.”

“OK,” said Robyn.

“By the way I have just had a major shareholder ask why you have a boy’s name,” said Phil. “He asked me if you were a transsexual.” He didn’t wait for a reply but turned towards Sally. “You’ve got the workstation and everything arranged with the hotel?”

“Oh yes,” said Sally. “They host AGMs quite often. I’ve given them the attendance list. They know what to do.”

“Good. And don’t forget my flask of coffee. Make it here. I’m not drinking the hotel shit.”

“I shan’t forget. I’ll have it with me.”

He turned away. Sally stuck her tongue out, then realised Robyn was looking at her and her face held a warning; she could be seen in the opposite window. She grimaced.

“Wayne,” said Phil to the next desk. Wayne was a tall thin man in his mid-20s; he was always pale and vaguely sweaty and Sally wondered sometimes if he drank heavily, or used drugs. “Wayne, this deck of slides is shit.” He waved the sheaf of papers at him. “I want a new deck. Quickly, please. I want to grab the audience, all right? This is a crucial AGM. We are announcing a revolution. Not a Women’s Institute cake bake.” He threw the sheaf down on Wayne’s desk and turned back towards his office suite.

Wayne made a V-sign at Phil’s retreating back. “OK, you get a new deck,” he muttered. “Dickhead.”

Sally looked at her watch. It was past six.

“I’m off,” she said. “I’ve got almost everything in place for Thursday, and I can run over everything tomorrow and make sure.” She started shutting down her PC. “You two sticking around?”

“I have to do that dick a new deck,” said Wayne. He was leaning back in his seat, his legs stretched out.

“And I have to do a new draft of the press release,” said Robyn. “He didn’t like the last three.”

“Pillock,” said Wayne.

“Well, good luck. I’m going to stop by my sister’s for tea.” Sally put on her puffa jacket. “Still raining.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Robyn. “I’m missing the Sunshine Coast right now.”

Sally went. The other two worked on, saying little. At length Phil stalked past on his way out, dressed in a smart new wool coat; he did not say goodnight. The door of the executive office slammed behind him.

“What a dick,” said Robyn.

“It’s because you wouldn’t shag him,” said Wayne.

“’ He asked me if you were a transsexual’, said Robyn, imitating Phil’s voice. “Nasty little man.” She stood up, stretched, and glanced over the partition at Wayne’s screen. “Hey, Wayne!”

“What.”

“You can’t access that kind of stuff over the company network!”

“Don’t worry. I’m using a VPN.”

“For fu – Jeezus, Wayne. I don’t care. You can’t look at things like that in the office. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Not what you think,” said Wayne. He smiled sweetly.

Robyn was silent for a minute. Then she smiled.

“Wayne,” she said, “you’re a conniving little shit. And I think I love you.”

*

Sally sank into an armchair in her sister’s living room and sighed deeply. Although it was April, it was still cold outside, as well as damp, so her sister had lit the wood-burner. It filled the room with flickering warmth.

“He’s a twisted character,” said Sally.

“He does sound it.” Her sister Eileen was a short-haired, slim, crisp, practical bachelor girl in her 30s. She was herself just in from work and had not yet changed; her white lab coat was flung over the back on the settee, its hem embroidered with the name of the small pharmaceuticals company she ran with a partner.

“I mean, he goes on and on at poor Robyn all the time about her having a man’s name. She doesn’t. It’s Robyn with a Y, she’s an Aussie.”

“Did she refuse to shag him?” asked Eileen.

“I think maybe yes,” said Sally. “Why?”

“Well, that’s often why men bully women.” Eileen put a bowl of crisps in front of her and started rummaging in the drinks cupboard.  “Anyway, you need a jolly big G&T.”

Sally smiled. Then she frowned.

“And I’ve got to have his Thermos of coffee ready when he does his presentation on Thursday.” Like Robin earlier, she imitated Phil’s voice. “Don’t forget my flask of coffee. Make it here. I don’t want to drink the hotel shit.”

“Oh dear,” said Eileen. Then she paused in the act of mixing the G&Ts. “This coffee flask,” she said. She looked at her sister.

“Oh no,” said Sally. “No. Eileen, that’s evil.”

She began to laugh.

*

The morning of the AGM was wet. Sally stood beside the hotel entrance. She wondered when warm spring weather would come.

The hotel was generic; a five-star city centre offshoot of a large chain, once distinguished and independent but long bought up and sanitised, the potted palms and faded artworks banished in favour of chrome and steel. The reception desk was of Carrera marble and Sally wondered briefly what would become of it; when the next architect was wheeled out to remodel the hotel, where would it go, and who would see the beauty of its stone?

She felt her phone vibrate in her inner pocket and took it out. There in 2 min it said. Black Audi. Chairman’s driver. She looked up and down the street in the rain. At length a pair of digital LED headlights stood out from those around it; the car signalled and swished smoothly to the front step, where Sally stood ready with an open umbrella. She opened the door and the company Chair emerged, bending past the door jamb. A tall man in his seventies, he had a full head of white hair and a moustache, and his well-cut suit was half-hidden by a lambswool coat not unlike Phil’s although the lambs had been to better schools.

“Good morning, Sir Peter,” she said.

“Ah, Miss – Ms Bailey?” he said. His voice was deep and rich, but had something oddly tentative about it.

“Yes. Sally, please,” she said.

“Sally.” He turned to the driver. “Thank you, Craig. I shan’t need you for several hours. Find somewhere congenial, with coffee. A parking fee will be quite acceptable.”

She heard the driver chuckle his thanks. She held the umbrella over the Chair as they mounted the steps to the entrance. “My dear, you are getting rained on,” he said. “Let me get wet. At my age it scarcely matters.” He had a stick in his right hand, but moved it to his left and reached for the umbrella handle.

“Oh really, Sir Peter.” She smiled at him. “It is so nice to see you.”

“Likewise.” He smiled back, then frowned as she shook out the umbrella in the hall. “I am sure you have the copies of my speech ready for those that want them. I have to say, I am less easy in my mind about my remarks – than…. last year….”

“You have concerns, Chairman?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, then: “No. I should not have said that.”

He patted her arm. “I suppose I should greet the rest of the Board. I expect they are in there networking, as we call it nowadays.”

She took him to the meeting room, where Robyn was handing round copies of the meeting press release, marked with a 2pm embargo. She heard Robyn politely batting away questions about its content, suggesting they be raised with the CEO after his speech.

Phil himself was in a small side meeting-room hired for the day, pacing up and down and waving the printouts of his slides around while Wayne sat at the table making frantic amendments to the presentation on Phil’s laptop, pausing every now and then to output the revised slides to a small portable printer. Sally put her head round the door.

“The Chair is here,” she said.

“F*** him,” said Phil, and continued to pace up and down.

Wayne was fingering something in his shirt pocket. It looked like a USB stick.

“I’d better come and see him, I suppose.” Phil dropped the printouts on the table and Sally followed him out. As she did so she saw Wayne take out the USB stick and slide it into a USB port. She wondered for a moment what Wayne was doing, then decided she did not need to know.

“Is my coffee ready?” asked Phil over his shoulder. “I can have it while the Chair is giving his speech. He’ll be boring, anyway.”

*

As always in an AGM, the order of business started with the Chair. Sir Peter opened the meeting and indicated the Board of Directors. He formally confirmed that the meeting was quorate (it clearly was; the room was packed). He held the stick in one hand, the presentation clicker in the other. It occurred to Sally that he had not had a stick the previous year, and he looked older. But his voice was still strong.

He moved on to the Chairman’s Address.

“Some of you are aware,” he said, “that our company has shifted its strategic vision somewhat in the last year. This has reflected the priorities of the Board since Mr Philip Baldwin’s appointment as CEO last year. You will hear more from Mr Baldwin on the latest progress, but in sum we will increasingly move from retail space and staff-driven operations to automated warehouses from  which orders can be fulfilled. We will use artificial intelligence to integrate these operations with online marketing…”

“Will we?” asked a voice from the audience. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Sally looked at the speaker. It was the representative of the shopworkers’ union.

“Mr Johnson, we will take questions later in the meeting,” said Sir Peter.

“From shareholders you will,” said the representative. “Not from me.”

“You should have appointed a shareholder to act as a proxy,” said Phil. He poured some coffee into a cup from his Thermos flask.

Sir Peter tapped the stage with his stick.

“As Chair, I am making my address to the AGM. I should prefer not to be interrupted,” he said. He looked at the union rep. “Mr Johnson, we have known each other for many years. You must know that I will always be pleased to hear any representations from you after the meeting.”

“Idiot,” muttered Phil. It was not clear who he meant. Sally sensed a tension in the room. Her eyes were drawn to the flask.

In due course Sir Peter finished, and handed the floor to the CEO. Unlike the Chair, Phil had a slide presentation; for as long as Sally could remember, Sir Peter had never used one – a strange omission now, when most presenters welcomed the screen image as a way to take the audience’s eyes away from them.

“The world,” he began, “is changing. So is the role of human agency.” The first slide came up. “A Changing Role for People,” it said.

“No role for people,” muttered Johnson. He looked distressed.

“We are in a race,” continued Phil. “Those who, out of misguided qualms or caution, keep on a larger workforce than they need will quickly find themselves out of business.”

“So will you if there’s no-one with a job left to buy your goods,” said someone. “Yep,” said Johnson. The Chair rapped the floor with his cane.

“Continue, please, Mr Baldwin,” he said. He looked grim.

Phil clicked the presentation clicker and a new image slid onto the screen. “We cannot avoid the realities of the AI revolution. This schematic shows how technology will affect the workforce…”

There was silence for a moment. Then someone said: “Yes, it does, doesn’t it.”

Someone chuckled. Someone else gasped. Sally’s eyes opened wide. Robyn, standing by the door, seemed to be suppressing a grin.

“Good God,” said the lady from the Financial Times.

“My goodness,” said the man from the Mirror. “She’s a big girl, isn’t she.”

Phil looked puzzled, then realised no-one was looking at him; everyone’s gaze was rivetted on the screen. He turned. Instead of his schematic slide, the screen displayed a naked couple performing with no restraint whatsoever.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said. He lunged at the keyboard. The mouse moved in response to his hand, but mouse clicks had no effect. He jabbed the Esc button at the top left of the keyboard, but nothing happened.  “Oh God,” he moaned. “Oh God.”

As luck would have it the soundtrack emitted just these words from both performers, albeit with more enjoyment.

“I say,” said someone, “is that even legal?”

His neighbour gazed at the screen, mouth agape. “So that was what my wife meant,” he said at last. “So that’s what she meant.”

“I am sorry, so sorry,” said Phil. He pressed key after random key but the keyboard was plainly locked. Then suddenly he stood up straight; his eyes stared. “Oh my God,” he yelled, and clutched his stomach. He bent over, straightened again and charged off the dais, his hands clasped over his belly; his face had gone white and he was sweating. “My stomach!” he yelled. “My stomach!” He smashed through the room’s swing double doors just as a waiter was entering with a large silver tray piled high with finger food. Both went flying. Phil picked himself up and disappeared down the corridor, leaving the waiter sprawled amidst a debris field of vol-au-vents.

For a minute or so nothing happened; the meeting gazed at the screen, mesmerised. Then there was a loud click and the screen when blank. Sir Peter had returned to the dais and had unplugged the computer.

The audience was silent. Sir Peter looked around, and saw Robyn emerging into the room from the corridor.

“Where is Mr Baldwin?” he asked.

“He is in the bog, Mr Chairman,” she said.

“I see. Is he returning to the meeting?”

“I doubt it. He’s chucking his little heart out.”

There was a titter through the room.

“Very well.” Sir Peter stood at the front of the dais, his cane in both hands, touching the floor. “The Annual General Meeting has been disrupted and it seems it cannot continue. As Chairman, I must declare it adjourned. I shall ensure that it is reconvened at an early date and in full accordance with the Companies Act 2006. Thank you for your forbearance.”

He nodded briefly to the room, and left the dais.

*

They formed a knot in the corner of the room beside the fallen vol-au-vents.

“You must be off your head, Wayne,” Sally hissed at him.

“Don’t look at me,” said Wayne. “Where’s that bloody thermos flask? You’d better get rid of that quick.”

“I can’t find it,” said Sally. She looked frightened.

“It’s in my shoulder-bag,” said Robyn. “In an hour or two it’ll be on its way downstream in one of those rubbish barges, never to be seen again.”

“Thank you. Thank you,” said Sally.

“Where’s Phil the Dick?” asked Wayne.

“He’s still in the dunny,” said Robyn. “I wondered if he’d get out of there alive for a moment. He seems to be barfing less now. I don’t know how we’re getting him out of here though. No cabbie’s going to take a bloke who’s crapped himself like that.”

“Maybe,” said Wayne, “we should just leave the fucker.”

“We might have to,” said Robyn. “Where’s the Chair?”

“He’s been saying goodbye to folks and apologising,” said Sally. “But I think he’s nearly finished.”

“Maybe you should go schmooze him,” said Robyn. “Wayne’s got some stuff to do with Phil’s laptop. And he’d better bloody do it quick if you ask me. I’ll get rid of your bloody Thermos. Jeez, if we’d known you were going to do that…”

“I’ll go schmooze him,” said Sally.

She found Sir Peter in the corridor. He had been deep in conversation with Mr Johnson. “It may be that he was not the right choice,” she heard Sir Peter say. “But we are a public company. There are proper procedures. Please leave this with me for now. We will talk again.”

They shook hands. Sir Peter turned towards her. He looked tired and, suddenly, old.

“We will have to find out what happened today,” he said.

“Yes,” said Sally. “Quite.”

“I will ring Craig and tell him he is needed earlier than expected.”

“I will do it.” She took her own phone out and dialled the number. The driver answered at once, his words muffled by a Scotch egg; she could hear a newspaper rustle. He would, he said, be there in ten minutes.

“I will go to the lobby,” said Sir Peter. “Will you wait there with me?”

“Of course.” They walked slowly down the corridor and he took her arm.

“We will have to find out,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said again. Then she burst out:

“Sir Peter, he was a horrible man.”

He nodded slowly.

“I think I knew that,” he said.  He looked at her. “You speak of him in the past tense.”

They had reached the lobby and say down in two rather uncomfortable steel-and-leather armchairs. It was still raining outside and the bright lights inside made the street seem dark, although it was midday.

“My father loved my mother the moment he saw her,” he said.

She looked at him.

“In Hamburg. He was a soldier. She was clearing rubble. His commanding officer did not want to let them marry. ‘She’s a German,’ he told him. ‘I’d rather you warried a wog.’”

Sally flinched at the word. I wonder why he is telling me this, she thought.

“It took a long time before he could marry her and bring her home. His family did not really welcome her. But they built a life. They were happy at last. Then when I was 10 she took me out shopping. A dog ran out in the street and a car had to brake. It was one of those Reliant things, a three-wheeler, and it skidded and mounted the pavement. And she was gone.”

“Oh.”

He reached out and touched her arm. “We have seen a man destroyed today,” said Sir Peter. “He was not a very nice man. But he was a man.“

“Yes.”

“Life is random,” he said. “A person’s fate can turn on a sixpence. And it will. Let Fate do its work; it needs no help; it has no need of you.”

They said nothing for a minute or two. Then the Audi slid up to the kerb outside the hotel. He stood, a bit lowly, and she gave him her arm so that he could steady himself. They went out together into the rain. She held the car door open as he eased himself down into the seat. He reached out and squeezed her hand. Then he pulled the door to, and the car swept away through the rain.

________________________________

More short fiction from Mike Robbins

Sport is Character-Forming A migration through a muddy river
The Man Who Lost the Plot When the character you write is cardboard
The Long Road from the Black Death A history lecturer retires
Who Killed Walter Williams? Don't ask, even now
A Difficult Life When the world dislikes your birth
Come and See the Chickens A rather English love story
In Search of a Plot  Be careful. Elspeth may put you in a bacon slicer
A Question of Character Pity the nation...
The End A gun on a brownstone roof
The Last Time A figure skater leaves the ice
After the Flood An end? Or a beginning?
Remembered Time The past is a dangerous place
A Train Journey One's sister comes to visit
Time After Time When you have to warn the children
Fashion Wokeness and subversion. With style
A Time of Darkness History doesn't repeat itself. But it rhymes
Another Time A tear in the fabric
Evolution The world is turning
When Time Stands Still A hurricane lashes Pershing Square
Parallel Worlds Heat pumps and lentils. And a nice glass of Marsala
A Man for All Seasons Net zero. The Stranger's Bar. And a three-line whip
A History Lesson Why do we study it? So we can spot it happening
The Creatives Meeting a tech bro
Cold Everything is cold here
Homecoming A sort of love story
Solitude A Cold War memory
Rhodri Hactonby's Maps A question of social geography
Hiraeth A yearning…
Strange Places A spirit in the sky 
A Sideways Journey Things might have been different
Displaced Encounter on E94th Street
Belonging Do you? Where?
Leaving Home A house has memories

Mike Robbins is the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction books. They can be ordered from bookshops, or as paperbacks or e-books from Amazon and other on-line retailers.
Follow Mike on Twitter and Facebook.

Short fiction: Sport Is Character-Forming

A migration through a muddy stream

The narrow river had carved a shallow valley; on either side the ground rose 200ft or so. The valley sides were not that steep, but would cause a tractor to lean rather; one could see the remains of furrows where the land girls had ploughed them during the war, but they were now rough pasture once more. On one side of the stream, however, there was a flat water meadow that ran a hundred yards or so back from the stream. On this stood a middle-aged man, moustached, a little stout, his nose criss-crossed with small red veins; he was clad in tweeds and had a hat to match.

He pulled his jacket closer against the damp wind, and glanced at his watch. It was not quite half-past three, but it was still late January and the light was beginning to fade. They should be here by now, he thought, and looked up at the rim of the hill on the other side of the other side of the valley, beyond the river. The winter sky was a mixture of high, light-grey clouds and darker, lower ones that drifted below them; it was quite bright, and hurt his eyes a little, but as they focused he could see a slender female figure motionless on the crest of the hill, three hundred yards or so away, outlined against the sharp grey light. Its features were in shadow and it was somewhat uncanny, a spirit of some sort, come to claim some debt or other. Beside her sat a large dog, turning its head this way and that.

“I do believe that’s Dr Powell,” he thought. “Damn.”

He glanced at his watch, looked up and saw that a white thread had appeared on the top of the hill opposite. It grew in width, and passed the motionless figure and its dog; it widened into a white and black river, flowing down the slope, and resolved itself into a phalanx of 70 or 80 youths aged perhaps 14 to 16, in black shorts and white singlets, their legs spattered with mud.

“Come on, boys!” he yelled. “You’re almost halfway. Cross the stream! Come on!”

They approached the river, panting, some looking grimly determined, others exhausted, their hair matted from the rain, some bent forward, others with their heads thrown back and panting for air. “This way! This way!” he shouted, and they dropped off the meadow onto a shallow muddy gradient that led into the river; it was churned by cows and scattered with dung. The impact of their feet on the mud was clearly audible. They surged into the water in a mass migration, zebras, gazelles and wildebeest breasting the waters of a crocodile-infested Mara River in search of grazing, knowing the leopard or lion awaited those who were slow, old or weak. The water reached their waists or, if they were small, their chests. They clambered onto the bank opposite, gasping for breath; some bent down for a moment, hands on knees, but he urged them on, and they began to run slowly up the path to the crest of the hill on this side of the river. One or two seemed to hesitate in the current. “Come on, Grigson! Come on, Pettifer!” he bellowed. The latter, a short slim boy of 15 or so, struggled to reach the bank and he strode forward and grasped the boy’s shirt, yanking him onto the bank.

“Come ON, Pettifer!” he bellowed. “Dammit, boy, you’re being left behind!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the boy. He stood and began, half-heartedly, to half-trot towards the hill.

He watched the boy go, then began to follow him.

“Mr GUNTER!”

He paused, and turned round. The voice was from the silhouette atop the hill on the other side of the river; it did not appear to have moved.

“You have just made the boys run through a river. They will be soaked from head to toe!” she called.

“Indeed. What of it?” he shouted. “The College ethos is quite clear. Sport is character-forming.”

“I daresay, but really,” she shouted back. “It is the ’flu season! For crying out loud. How many of those boys will I see on my rounds later this week?”

He stared, and was about to make a rather sharp reply; then he thought better of it and turned and resumed his slow walk up the muddy path.

Across the river, Dr Powell also turned, and strode off in the opposite direction. “Buster. Come,” she barked. The Labrador had been sniffing a damp pile of cow-dung . He left it with regret and trotted in front of her. A light drizzle had begun. How bleak the English countryside is in winter, she thought, grey and dull and lifeless – a sort of meanness. She thought of the boys as they ran past her, their hair matted with the drizzle, their faces frozen in endurance.

Ahead of them was a small barn. It was in poor repair and appeared unused. Buster was passing it when he stopped, raised his head and looked towards it; then he went over to it. I suppose he’s found something appalling to roll in, she thought, and quickened her pace, her wellington boots squishing on the muddy track.

But Buster had not found more cow-dung. He was sniffing excitedly at a boy who was crouched in the lee of the barn. The dog’s tail was wagging. The boy reached out to stroke him.

“What are you doing here?” asked Dr Powell. “The other boys passed ten minutes ago.”

“Please, Miss,” the boy said, “I couldn’t go on.”

He was rather small and had spots.

“Why not?” she demanded.

“I don’t feel very well,” he said.

She bent down and felt his forehead.

“Have you been feeling unwell for long?”

“Since yesterday,” he replied.

“Did you go and see Nurse Critchley?”

“Yes.”

“Did she take your temperature?”

“Yes. But I’d been drinking tea.”

“To raise the temperature in your mouth so she’d sign you off sick?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“That was silly, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t reply to this.

“What did she say?”

“She told me to pull myself together.”

“Ah. Well, come with me,” she said.

He stood up, but looked a bit unsteady. He really was rather small.

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen, Miss.”

She set off at her usual brisk pace then realised that the boy could not keep up. They walked slowly to a gate onto the lane where her Ford Consul was parked. She opened the door; Buster jumped in and onto the front bench but she ushered the boy in beside him. She climbed in behind the wheel. Buster rested his head on her thigh.

She drove down the lane to a main road and turned towards the nearest village. It was, in fact, almost a small town. As they came into it, a tall Victorian building gloomed above the road. It had spires and a clock; it was a boarding school, but it always reminded Dr Powell of a wicked witch’s castle in a fairy story. She turned the Consul into the school’s front yard and stopped by the main door.

“Go straight to the dispensary,” she said, “and tell Nurse Critchley that I sent you. I shall be in to do my rounds in the evening and I shall see you then.”

He climbed out and moved to close the car door.

“Mind the dog’s tail,” said Dr Powell. She leaned over and tucked Buster’s tail in behind his legs. The door clanged shut.

She put the Consul in gear and drove the 10 minutes or so to a smaller village, where there was a row of cottages that included her own. Buster snaked in ahead of her. “Sit!” she commanded. He sat. She rubbed his coat with a rough old towel. “Mucky pup,” she muttered. She left her wellingtons in the porch and put on her ladies’ brogues. Mrs Potts had left a fire burning in the grate. Dr Powell pulled back the spark guard and poked at the coal with the poker, then made herself tea. Mrs Potts had also left her a lamb casserole on the sideboard, to heat up a little later. The Times waited on the low table in front of the chintz sofa. Dr Powell opened it at the second page, after the small advertisements that filled the front. "Mr. Kennedy Calls on East and West to Begin Anew the Quest for Peace," read the headline. The story went on to describe the wintry inauguration in Washington; the hatless President, the elderly poet and his address, the many guests, the freezing cold. She put the paper down and looked at the fire, then at the framed photograph on the mantelpiece of a man in battledress and beret, his arm through hers; she looked very young.

She became aware that she had been staring at the picture for several minutes.

Buster laid his head on her knee.

“I suppose you want your dinner,” she said. She fed him, and turned on the six o’clock news on the Home Service; the dial glowed a soft gold-yellow as the radio warmed up. Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country.

She heated up the lamb casserole and ate half of it. It was good, flavoured with herbs that Mr Potts grew behind their cottage. But she did not feel hungry.

When she had finished eating she jabbed the fire with a poker and put up the spark guard, then took her scarf and coat, and put on her stout brown shoes. She sensed the weather changing even as she left the house; it was colder, and the rain from earlier had changed to light snow flurries. She dusted the snowflakes from the Consul’s windscreen and drove the ten minutes or so to the school, parking where she had dropped the boy earlier. 

She walked through the tiled corridors of the Gothic building. The walls were whitewashed and glaring – and empty, for it was the hour of evening service and when she passed the stairs that led to the school chapel, she heard the sound of a hymn – Onward Christian Soldiers, a little ragged and thin. There was a noticeboard scattered with bits of paper and drawing-pins. Sunday dress to be worn at all times during exeat, read one notice. The following boys to report for detention after Chapel, read another. At length she reached the door to the sick bay, a long, narrow room, also white, with bright bulbs that lit it harshly.

The thin figure of Nurse Critchley greeted her at the doorway. “Good evening, Doctor,” she said with a slight incline of the head.

“Good evening, Nurse Critchley,” said Dr Powell. She noted a younger, plump woman walking between the beds. The junior matron from the Main House. “I am about to leave, but Miss Clowes will be on duty overnight.” She indicated the beds. “Collins and Jeffries, ’flu. Also this boy who I believe you sent down here this afternoon.”

“Yes, I did,” said Dr Powell. For the most part, Nurse Critchley’s parched rectitude did not worry her; but tonight it was an irritant. “I will see Collins and Jeffries first.”

“Very good, Doctor. I will go now, if I may.” She stalked out of the sick bay and disappeared up the corridor towards the Chapel, her heels clicking on the worn, rounded Victorian tiles.

Miss Clowes smiled. “Would you like a cup of tea, Doctor?” she asked. “I’ll make a pot. The boys can have some too.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you.”

Miss Clowes went into the pantry and busied herself with the tea caddy and a big brown teapot. At length the kettle whistled on the hob.

“We have been lucky so far this year,” said Miss Clowes. She handed the doctor a cup and saucer. “I thought we might have more ’flu. These lads will be all right in a day or two.” She dropped her voice, and nodded towards the 14-year-old in the corner. “But this little chap doesn’t seem very well.”

Dr Powell asked the two older boys a few questions and took their temperatures; both were still a little high. But they were both feeling better. Thy admitted it with reluctance.

“Do you feel nearly ready to go back to the Big House?” she asked Collins. 

“I suppose so, Doctor,” he said.

“Surely you do not want to stay in here.”

“it isn’t so bad really,” the boy replied. She looked at his bedside stand. It was stacked high with books; The Brides of Fu Manchu, a Bulldog Drummond story, but also (she noted with relief) a Sherlock Holmes. Jeffries had a Sanders of the River book, The Ghost Stories of M.R. James and a copy of The Boy’s Own Paper.

“You two really are quite happy in here, aren’t you,” she said. “Don’t you want to go out and go to lessons and see your friends and everything?”

“No. They really don’t,” said Miss Clowes said from the other side of the room. She was fiddling with a very large old Bush radio that sat on the table near the door, looking for the Light Programme. At length The Saturday Night Show issued forth.

Dr Powell chuckled.

“Back to work with you on Monday, both of you,” she said.

“Would they really rather stay in here?” she asked Miss Clowes quietly.

“Yes,” said the other.

“But only when you’re in charge?”

“No,” said Miss Clowes. “All the time. They dread going back out.”

Dr Powell frowned. She went to the bed of the younger boy. His eyes had been closed but he opened them, uncertain; his eyes looked from side to side. She took out her thermometer.

“I’ll pop this under your tongue, now,” she said. “Hold it there. Keep still.” She looked across the room at Miss Clowes. “What was it earlier?”

“103 when we put him to bed.”

At length Dr Powell took the thermometer out, examined it and then shook it. “Unbutton your pyjamas,” she said, and listened to his chest with her stethoscope.

“He’s just over 104,” she called out. “A bit high but it always is, in the evening.” She took her cup and saucer over to the pantry, where Miss Clowes was washing the teapot. “If it goes much higher though, ring me at home. And also if he gets very chesty. That could mean a secondary infection. But if that doesn’t happen, he’ll be on the mend in a couple of days.”

“Good. The usual I suppose, keep him warm, plenty of fluids.”

“Yes.”

She left Miss Clowes in the pantry and went back to the boy’s bed. The radio was playing jazz, quite softly. Miss Clowes had switched off the main lights, and the boy’s bed was in shadow. She sat down on it. He blinked at her.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Dexter.”

“No, your Christian name.”

“Oh,” he said. Then: “Timothy.”

“Where do your parents live, Timothy?”

“Dorking. They were in Africa. They came home last year.”

“Now they’re home, could they have you at home too?”

“Oh no.” The boy shook his head. “Dad came here as a boy, you see. Anyway, he says it’s good for me. Character-forming, he says.” He looked away, puzzled, then turned back to her. “Do you have children?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you want them?”

The question startled her.

“My husband was killed early on D-Day,” she said.

“Oh – I’m sorry – I’m very sorry.”

“It’s all right.” She was silent for a moment. “He dropped by parachute. They had a lot of heavy equipment, you see, and some of them landed in the River Orne, and the Caen Canal. He was found much later.”

For a moment neither of them said anything, then she said: “We wanted children. We were going to have them, after the war.” She smiled. “We wanted three. He wanted boys. I wanted a girl as well.”

“If you had had them, would you have sent them here? To a boarding school? Like this?”

Once again, she was taken aback. Then she said:

“I think – if I had children – I would keep them with me. I would want them with me.”

They looked at each other.

“You must get your temperature down,” she said. “Sleep now.” She watched as he turned onto his side. She pulled up the counterpane so that it covered his shoulder.

Then, to her own surprise, she leaned down and kissed him on the brow.

She stood and walked quickly to the door of the sick-bay. Miss Clowes was still in the pantry, tidying up. “Good night,” she called to her. “Ring if there is a problem.” She heard a cheery “goodnight” in return. She walked rapidly down the corridor. As she came to the stairs to the Chapel, knots of boys clattered down towards her and dispersed; the Padre came down too, his sermon notes under his arm, and they nodded briefly to each other. She quickened her pace. Outside a front had passed. The drizzle of the afternoon had gone and there were stars in the sky, and a crispness in the air and signs of frost. She fumbled with the door-lock of the Consul, but at length it opened and she slid behind the wheel, pushing Buster’s rug out of her way. She put the key in the ignition, pulled out the choke and was about to start the engine. Then the tears welled up and she rested her face on the wheel.

_______________________________

 

More short fiction from Mike Robbins

The Man Who Lost the Plot When the character you write is cardboard
The Long Road from the Black Death A history lecturer retires
Who Killed Walter Williams? Don't ask, even now
A Difficult Life When the world dislikes your birth
Come and See the Chickens A rather English love story
In Search of a Plot  Be careful. Elspeth may put you in a bacon slicer
A Question of Character Pity the nation...
The End A gun on a brownstone roof
The Last Time A figure skater leaves the ice
After the Flood An end? Or a beginning?
Remembered Time The past is a dangerous place
A Train Journey One's sister comes to visit
Time After Time When you have to warn the children
Fashion Wokeness and subversion. With style
A Time of Darkness History doesn't repeat itself. But it rhymes
Another Time A tear in the fabric
Evolution The world is turning
When Time Stands Still A hurricane lashes Pershing Square
Parallel Worlds Heat pumps and lentils. And a nice glass of Marsala
A Man for All Seasons Net zero. The Stranger's Bar. And a three-line whip
A History Lesson Why do we study it? So we can spot it happening
The Creatives Meeting a tech bro
Cold Everything is cold here
Homecoming A sort of love story
Solitude A Cold War memory
Rhodri Hactonby's Maps A question of social geography
Hiraeth A yearning…
Strange Places A spirit in the sky 
A Sideways Journey Things might have been different
Displaced Encounter on E94th Street
Belonging Do you? Where?
Leaving Home A house has memories

Mike Robbins is the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction books. They can be ordered from bookshops, or as paperbacks or e-books from Amazon and other on-line retailers.
Follow Mike on Twitter and Facebook.

 

Short fiction: The Man Who Lost the Plot

 A cardboard character

“Actually yes, my father did teach me something,” said Bernard.

Diana sat up in her chair. “He did?”

“Yes,” he replied. He looked at her, but his gaze was unfocused. He turned away, towards the Mediterranean that washed the cliffs 100 feet or so below the stone balustrade of the terrace; its surface glittered in the afternoon sun.

He was in his 70s, and rather thin; his beard was grey, his flyaway hair patchy, his eyes a very pale blue. He was slumped back in his chair, but the latter was high-backed and capacious, with thick armrests that kept him upright despite the amount he had drunk. He wore a faded Hawaiian shirt in orange-and-lemon hues, and a gold chain around his neck that rested on the white chest hair visible at the shirt’s open neck. We must seem an odd couple to the other diners on the terrace, thought Diana. This louche being Bernard, and herself – a trim blonde in her late 30s, dressed for the London office she had left early that morning; a smart green cord blazer and white blouse that flattered her figure and a dark skirt that ended not too far above the knee.

Delfi de la Rua/Wikimedia Commons

“What did he teach you?” she asked. She glanced at her recording device to make sure it was working.

“It was a problem,” said Bernard. “That he had with Dexter.”

“Really?” asked Diana. Dexter’s Sacrifice. The novel that had nearly won the Booker. Though she had never quite been convinced by the ending. But the world had disagreed, and the book had brought Sir John Coulter the Nobel Prize for Literature. The Nobel committee had talked of “the profound humanity… of his depiction of the ultimate sacrifice by a man driven by the nobility of the human spirit.”

I think there is a story here after all, she thought, and the hairs stood up on the back of her neck.

*

“You’ll get nothing from his son,” the Arts Editor had told her the day before as they sat in his glass-and-steel office in Canary Wharf. “Remember, his own books were not well received. Compared with his father, Bernard has been a failure.”

“I shall try flattery,” said Diana.

“He’ll see straight through it. He must know what a flop his own career was in comparison.”

“Well, I should try,” said Diana. “We must mark Coulter senior’s 100th. How is he seen, 30 years after his death? Is he still read, and all that? – yes, we know he is. What does his son remember?”

“Also you get a trip to Italy… er, what’s the name of the place where he lives?”

She told him. He chuckled.

“That’s where aristocratic German perverts went in the 1890s, to take pictures of bronzed naked teenage boys,” he said.

“So it was. Well, if I don’t get anything out of Bernard, I can always do a feature on its history, and we can illustrate it with a tasteful selection of filthy daguerrotypes.”

“I wonder if that might pull in more punters, actually,” said the Arts Editor.

*

“So what was the problem he had with Dexter’s Sacrifice?” she asked.

She wasn’t sure he had heard, but after a moment he began to speak.

“I was about 16,” he said. “We were living in Hampstead. Dad wasn’t an enfant terrible any more, you see. He’d made some money by then. And he had this paper job as an advisor to the Arts Council.”

“That’s right,” said Diana. “Surprising for a rebel.”

“Not really,” said Bernard. “That is the way the Establishment does it in England, isn’t it? If you tilt at windmills too often, they give you one of your own to shut you up.”

“I suppose so.”

“Anyway,” said Bernard, “my father was in his 50s then. He wrote in an office that had French windows onto the garden. It was early summer and they were open. My stepmother was out somewhere, as she usually was; actually she was shagging a Tory MP but I didn’t know that at the time, though I expect Father did. I was sitting on the patio, revising for my French O-level. I failed it of course. He was very angry about that…. It was mid-morning and he was writing. He had this rule. Always write at least 500 words before lunch. He knew he wouldn’t after lunch, you see. Because by then he drank.”

You would know about that, thought Diana. Before lunch, they had gone through a bottle of Lacryma Christi, which Bernard appeared to drink as an aperitif. During lunch they had dispatched a bottle of Aglianico de Vulture. (“Vulture goes well with grey meat,” he had quipped, nodding towards her plate of vitello tonnato.) Bernard had drunk most of this; he had now drunk several Avernas. Diana drank little while working. She now cradled a limoncello.

He seemed to drift off, and Diana prompted him.

“So what happened about Dexter’s Sacrifice?” she asked. He seemed to jerk back to life.

“I suddenly heard my father roar out: ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ And he came through the French doors almost violently. ‘Dexter does not work! He does not work! He would not do it!’ And he stood there on the patio, looking down the garden. He took no notice of me.” Bernard hesitated for a moment. “But then, he never really did.”

That is what his biographers say, thought Diana. Out loud she said:

“And did he say anything else?”

“Not at first. But after a moment I said, ‘Father, why doesn’t Dexter work?’ And he looked around as if he had just noticed me and said: ‘Dexter is to perform this supreme sacrifice, this monstrous act of self-abnegation. But he would not do it. I am writing a book about an unselfish act by a selfish man; an act of redemption. It is supposed to warm the cockles of the reader’s heart. But damn it all, the man is a shit. I know that he would not do it. Do you hear?’ And he unclenched his fists and looked down at the grass and said, ‘He would not do it. We would not do it. We are all shits.’

“And then he turned and strode back through the French doors.”

“He wrote it that way anyway,” said Diana.

“Yes,” he replied.

“I asked you if he ever taught you anything, any piece of wisdom that has helped you write yourself,” she said, “and you said yes.”

“He taught me two things that day,” said Bernard. “First, that a character in a narrative must behave in character. Otherwise, they are cardboard. The book probably won him the Nobel. But it never worked, you see. It never worked.”

“I know,” she said. “I read it for A-Level English. It didn’t work.”

“The character lost the plot, you see,” he said.

“Actually,” said Diana, “it was the other way round. What was the second thing you learned that day?”

“That we are all venal,” said Bernard. “He needed to finish the book. It did not work. But his publisher was waiting. So that must not be allowed to matter.”

DCRJSR/Wikimedia Commons

He looked at her, his eyes unfocused.

“But he was better than me,” he said. “I was never any bloody good, was I?”

“People read your books.”

“For form’s sake, to see if I was like him.”

“Do you still write?” asked Diana.

“No.”

“What do you do, day to day?”

“I collect daguerrotypes,” said Bernard. “Have you heard of Wilhelm Freiherr von Westofen?”

“Was he one of the aristocratic perv – er, photographers who came here in the late 19th century?” asked Diana.

“Yes,” replied Bernard. “Although everyone calls these old pictures daguerrotypes, by then they were using glass negatives and paper prints.”

“Weren’t some of these guys …dodgy?”

“Judge for yourself,” he said, and took out his phone. He jabbed it a few times then handed it to her, saying: ”Here. Scroll down.”

So she did. She looked up at him.

“These boys look very young. Didn’t the locals object?”

“No. He was far too wealthy,” said Bernard. “And he paid off the local men of honour. Wouldn’t work now. Anyway, most of these pictures were thought lost. Destroyed, you see. By Fascists and priests. In a fit of morality.”

Diana looked at the pictures and wondered if the priests and Fascists might have had a point. She handed back the phone.

“You’ve got your story now, haven’t you,” he said.

“What?”

“You came to get something on my father. You didn’t really come to see me. But I can be a story too, can’t I? I’m a failed writer and a pervert who collects dirty pictures of boys. In the name of art history, naturally.”

He took a gulp of Averna.

“Why don’t you do that?” He continued. “Poignant story of famous writer’s failed son. The son who lost the plot.”

He was looking at her with what she suddenly realised was pure, unalloyed hatred.

“Why would I wish to do that to you?” she said.

“Because you do. Because you all do.” His eyes glowed with malevolence.

And then he cried.

It was a quiet time of the afternoon but a few tables were, like theirs, still occupied from lunch. One or two people looked their way. She looked her bag for a tissue and found she hadn’t one.

Then he fell asleep.

She sat with him for five minutes or so, wondering if he would wake. He didn’t, and she looked around at the sea, now sparkling against the sun as it swung round to the west. At length she stood and went inside, where she found the head waiter and asked for the bill. She paid, then took a €50 note from her purse. “I wonder if you might do something for me?” she asked.

The head waiter nodded politely.

“When Mr Coulter wakes up, would you arrange for a taxi and ensure that he returns home safely?”

“Yes, of course, Signora.” He took the note. “I have done so before. I shall call his housekeeper; she is my cousin.”

“Excellent,” she said. “Thank you.”

She walked back to her hotel through a series of small, shady streets and piazzas; most Italians were resting at this hour in summer, and there was almost no-one about, the shutters drawn across many windows. The occasional motorino hummed past and that was all.

At the hotel she sat at the small round table on her veranda and began to type her story. By seven o’clock she had it, at least in outline. Coulter Knew Dexter “Did Not Work”, read the headline. Knew Nobel book was flawed, says son.

She listened to Bernard’s last rant on her earpiece.

At length she pressed the Save button and took a Peroni beer from the minibar. The sun was sinking over the sea. She watched it for a few minutes, then took out her phone and composed a text.

Please report on status of joint projects

She smiled, and put the phone down. A moment later it buzzed in reply.

First joint project dormant

She replied: Good. Second joint project?

Bedtime strop earlier. Is now brushing teeth in compliance with project management

She chuckled.

How trip? How Bernard? 

Has lost plot very sad

Oh. Sorry

Hate job sometimes

Understand. Large gin waiting here

😊😊😊Love to joint projects

She put her phone down. No, she thought. I shan’t write about Bernard.

She swallowed some beer, and watched as the rim of the sun sank below the horizon and the sea began to darken.

More short fiction from Mike Robbins

The Long Road from the Black Death A history lecturer retires

Who Killed Walter Williams? Don't ask, even now

A Difficult Life When the world dislikes your birth

Come and See the Chickens A rather English love story

In Search of a Plot  Be careful. Elspeth may put you in a bacon slicer

A Question of Character Pity the nation...
The End A gun on a brownstone roof
The Last Time A figure skater leaves the ice
After the Flood An end? Or a beginning?
Remembered Time The past is a dangerous place
A Train Journey One's sister comes to visit
Time After Time When you have to warn the children
Fashion Wokeness and subversion. With style
A Time of Darkness History doesn't repeat itself. But it rhymes
Another Time A tear in the fabric
Evolution The world is turning
When Time Stands Still A hurricane lashes Pershing Square
Parallel Worlds Heat pumps and lentils. And a nice glass of Marsala
A Man for All Seasons Net zero. The Stranger's Bar. And a three-line whip
A History Lesson Why do we study it? So we can spot it happening
The Creatives Meeting a tech bro
Cold Everything is cold here
Homecoming A sort of love story
Solitude A Cold War memory
Rhodri Hactonby's Maps A question of social geography
Hiraeth A yearning…
Strange Places A spirit in the sky 
A Sideways Journey Things might have been different
Displaced Encounter on E94th Street
Belonging Do you? Where?
Leaving Home A house has memories

Mike Robbins is the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction books. They can be ordered from bookshops, or as paperbacks or e-books from Amazon and other on-line retailers.
Follow Mike on Twitter and Facebook.