The Loner, page 48
“M’lud, it is my case that my witness was attacked by the accused,” Mr. Phipps said firmly, trying to conceal the weakening of his own conviction.
Then, to Bob’s absolute horror, Mr. Shannon intervened to help his learned friend. “M’lud,” he said, “in order to assist my learned friend, may I suggest he points my client out to the witness.”
“An excellent idea,” declared the judge, impressed by the advocate’s evident desire for fair play.
“I am obliged to my learned friend,” the prosecutor continued, using another of those strange antiquated expressions which annoyed Bob. “Well now Mr. O’Connor, do you see the young man standing in the dock – over there?” He pointed at Bob.
“That I do, sir.”
“Do you recognise him, Mr. O’Connor?” Mr. Phipps glared at the witness, willing him to give an affirmative answer.
“No, sir. I don’t.”
“Think carefully, Mr.O’Connor, before you answer my next question: on the night you were assaulted, did you see this man?”
The Irish Liverpudlian stared intently at Bob, and looked hopelessly confused. “I can’t say I did, sir,” he replied. “The man ‘oo hit me ‘ad long hair and ‘alf a beard. ‘Ee was a tramp. This feller’s no tramp. You’ve got the wrong man, sir!”
Mr. Phipps tried as hard as he could to look unperturbed, but his hesitation did not escape the judge’s experienced eyes. “Mr. Phipps,” he said benignly. “May I suggest that it would be appropriate to adjourn the case for fifteen minutes while you take instructions?”
“Yes, m’ lud, I am grateful for your suggestion. I would indeed like to take instructions.”
“In the meantime, Mr. Phipps,” the judge concluded with a polite warning, “I would like the witness to remain in the witness box. You will, of course, remind those instructing you that no-one may speak to the witness until his evidence is concluded, or prompt him in any way?”
“Of course, m’lud.”
CHAPTER 35
Chimes of Freedom
Starry-eyed and laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours – for they hanged suspended,
As we listened one last time an’ watched with one last look,
Spellbound an’ swallowed ‘till the tolling ended:
Tolling for the aching ones, whose wounds cannot be nursed;
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse,
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe;
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
Bob Dylan
Fiona was not happy. She was sitting in an armchair in her flat, her long dark hair dishevelled, and hanging untidily over her eyes. There was a letter on her lap, and she was crying quietly; her jeans, which were usually pressed neatly, had lost their crease, where a hand on one knee rested on a moist handkerchief.
Everything that could have gone wrong, had gone wrong recently, she reflected. First, there was her friend’s absurd parting from Bob; then there was Bob’s ridiculous court case, and now, the final insult, the letter.
The letter had upset her most, but it was Bob who she could not help pitying. It was as if she had transferred the sense of her own personal tragedy into concern for Bob; a really nice boy, she thought, handsome, courteous, kind, and outrageous sometimes perhaps – but she had always reckoned that he was the kind of person who could not fail to make a success of life. Sue had been so happy with him: the merry times they had had dancing, the concerts they had gone to – there was nothing he would not have done for Sue. In fact, he had spent so much time at their flat that he had become almost like a brother to Fiona. Then her friend had finally broken off the relationship – he had agreed to this, as he would have agreed to any other request from her; and as a result, he had ended up in court. True he had seen a solicitor – not one of the big city firms, but Mark Flitley’s boss – a man who she’d never heard of before Mark had taken articles with him. Poor Bob! So generous! He would always please his friends, if he could. So much so that he’d ended up with a second rate solicitor, and pleading not guilty – a bad decision if ever there was one! Poor feller!
And then, the letter.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of familiar footsteps coming up the stairs. They could only belong to Mark, but there was something unusual about the way he shot up the stairs. His pace had been slower recently: but now he could be heard leaping briskly up the stairs, three steps at a time. He knocked on the door of the flat.
“Come in,” she called. At that moment she would have relished any company other than his. She hurriedly wiped away her tears, and tried to compose her hair.
He came in full of excitement, and threw a bundle of flowers into her hands. She was taken quite by surprise. She held them for a moment, and tried to smile. Then she collapsed with a flood of tears, and the flowers fell unappreciated onto the floor.
“Is there anything wrong, Fiona?” Mark asked, surprised.
“Is there anything right?” she replied sharply, as she began to collect the fallen flowers. “I-I’m sorry, Mark. I-I didn’t mean to drop the flowers. It was nice of you to bring them.”
“What’s the matter, Fiona?”
“Oh, never mind – everything’s on top of me at the moment.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was Bob’s trial today, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“What did he get?”
“That’s just what I came to tell you about.”
“Well, don’t just keep me in suspense! Tell me what happened. Was he sent to prison?”
“He was acquitted.” There was a ring of triumph in Mark’s voice.
“What? Impossible!”
“No, it’s true.”
“I can’t believe it. How could he possibly get off?”
“The principal prosecution witness couldn’t identify him,” he said.
Fiona blinked and stared at him. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“Let me make a cup of coffee, and I’ll explain.”
She nodded. By the time he came back from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee, she had combed her hair, and found a vase for the flowers. She sipped thankfully, as Mark took up the story.
“You see, Bob bought a suit, and had his hair cut, and his beard shaved off. So the man who says he was assaulted couldn’t recognise him in court. When the prosecutor saw his main witness hesitate, he decided to abandon the case. The jury was never even asked for a verdict. The case never got that far!”
Fiona began to regain her usual cheerfulness. “Oh! So your boss sorted it out then?” she asked
“With a little help from me!”
“He must be a very good solicitor, Mark.”
“First class – bit mean with the money though.”
“Oh well, you can live with that while you’re an articled clerk, can’t you?”
“I certainly can, Fiona.”
“You must be really lucky to have such a good solicitor as a boss, Mark,” she added excitedly. “He must be giving you the benefit of an awful lot of experience. You must have a fantastic career ahead of you.”
“The work is very interesting – much better than studying!”
“I am so glad nothing bad has happened to Bob. I just wish he and Sue were together again.”
His eyes met hers. “They are, Fiona,” he replied slowly.
This was the second pleasant surprise of the evening. “You mean...” She left the sentence uncompleted.
“Sue was in court in the public gallery.”
“Oh good! Where are they now Mark?” “They’ve gone out – they’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating?” She frowned. The storm clouds began to gather again. “Celebrating – without me – or you? How mean!”
Her annoyance was quite unexpected. Mark shyly ventured: “Of course – er – I mean – er – if you’d like me to – I-I could take you out. We could celebrate together. It’s a long time since we last went out together...”
Fiona now understood the reason for the flowers.
She looked at him doubtfully for a moment. Then she snapped the letter into her handbag. Her eyes shone. “Oh Mark, what a lovely idea,” she said, her voice showing a surprising enthusiasm. “Yes, I’d love to come out with you. Why don’t you take me to the Phil?’
Mark had been expecting her usual polite refusal. So her enthusiasm took him quite by surprise. He was speechless.
She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll just get myself ready,” she called as she disappeared into her room. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
The moments passed very slowly.
At last she was ready. She came out of the bedroom, wearing a short dark skirt with a shiny black patent leather belt – not a mini, but short enough to show her elegant athletic legs to advantage. There was a blue blouse and a dark cardigan. She had washed her face, and the slightest touch of make-up concealed the soreness around her eyes. Her hair was brushed, straight, and glossy so that it reflected the light. She had tied it back into a pony tail with a clip, so that her wide brow was exposed, and the oval features of her face, enlivened with pearl earrings, revealed her natural beauty. She had some rings and bracelets, and a cameo pendant hung from her neck.
Mark gazed at her. The impression was so overwhelming that he felt embarrassed, almost afraid to admire her and turned away.
“You’re f-fabulous!” he stammered. He wished he had his suit on rather than his sweater and jeans.
They set out from the flat. Mark did not speak for a while, and Fiona was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to worry about his shyness. At last she asked him if he had been to the Phil before.
“Once or twice,” he replied. “It’s usually too crowded for me.”
“We’ll be early tonight. So we should find a seat.”
“Do you often go yourself?”
She nodded and smiled. “All the in-crowd go there,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve always belonged to the in-crowd. So Sue and I often go. It’s a great pub – the atmosphere and fittings are the best I’ve known in any pub. But the in-crowd! I don’t half get bored with them sometimes.”
The public house called the “Philharmonic Coffee House” was a quaint old building with iron gates, situated off Hardman Street, opposite the concert hall. There was a circular bar, a large ancient fire place, and elaborate chandeliers. A passage and two small rooms opened from the main bar: one of the rooms being dedicated to Liszt, and the other to Brahms. There was already a crowd around the bar; men with jeans and colourful shirts; girls with mini-dresses or trowsers; everyone dressed in the most expensive bright casual clothes that were in fashion, and not one wearing a suit. The atmosphere generated by the in-crowd clearly favoured exclusively everything that was young, progressive and trendy; even the older men there had aped the image and the fashion of youth, as if consciously disowning the value of their own age and experience.
As they entered, Fiona was recognised, and received several acknowledgements and greetings. Then she steered Mark into the room signed “Brahms.” They found a seat, and Mark went to the bar and bought a pint of beer, and a gin and tonic. He sat down without saying a word.
“Is there anything wrong?” Fiona asked.
Mark shifted uncomfortably on his chair, and replied uneasily! “Do you have that feeling that you’re being watched, Fiona?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said laughing. “I’m well-known here, and it’s the first time I’ve ever arrived with a single male escort. I’m proud to be seen with you. You should be flattered!”
Mark did not know what to say. He felt uncomfortable. He tried to talk about Bob, Sue, and the Buchanan Street children, but somehow his words seemed flat and lifeless.
“So this is the ‘in-crowd’,” he said at last, looking towards the door, and the ever increasing congestion around the circular bar.
She nodded: “Don’t you wish you were part of it?” she asked, with a sly grin.
He shook his head. “Not really. It’s not my cup of tea. Too many new ideas! Too little strength in them!”
“Ah, I was forgetting,” she said teasingly. “I was forgetting your iron-hard, rock-solid hobbies, caving and Greek! Why didn’t you try something easier and more fun?”
“I was in a terrible state. There was no easy way out, Fiona.”
“Well, I can see that caving has helped you, and, after all, that’s not particularly untrendy: but, Mark, I still can’t understand your Greek-reading – as a hobby, OK; but as an all-consuming passion, you’ve made a religion of it. And it’s so dated! It’s just not ‘in’ at all.”
“It is difficult to read, Fiona, but that’s what makes it worthwhile. You have to think logically to read the texts. There is one common symptom of all nervous disorders – failure of reason. See what has happened now the World is losing interest in Ancient Greece: the planet has gone mad with crazy ideas... cruel dictators...”
“There are other ways of training you to think logically than translating the Classics, you know.”
“So there are, but think of it another way: the Greeks invented democracy – not the kind that we have, of course, but they laid the foundations of modern society and government. If you study their history and read their books, you can’t help developing an enthusiasm for the ideal of democracy. Suppose I hadn’t had that ideal? What do you think would have become of me then?’
She shook her head without understanding. “I can’t think it would have made any difference,” she said sharply.
“I could have become a hippy.”
“You are a hippy, Mark. All students are hippies – even solicitors’ articled clerks!”
“If I’m a hippy, I’m certainly not a dropout,” he rejoined firmly. “I could have tried to purge my sorrows by developing an addiction to drugs. I might have got involved in some crazy extreme politics, and ended up in gaol for planting bombs, or become a martyr in the cause of some paranoid tin-can dictator. I could have fallen for the spell of some suicidal fanatical religious sect. If I’d given up hope altogether, I might even have become a tramp or an alcoholic.
“You’re too serious and sensible, Mark. None of those things could ever have happened to you.”
“Why not? It’s happened to cleverer, wiser, and more sensible people than me. Think how young and impressionable we are in our late teens and early twenties: open to all kinds of temptations and influences – many of them positively evil. If you’ve no strong principles and standards to base your life on, you’re more likely to succumb than anyone else. You can’t distinguish the good from the bad without principles. The value of Ancient Greece is indirect, but the indirect value of some things often far outweighs the direct benefits of others.”
She yawned. “If you follow your argument to its logical conclusion,” she said wearily, “you’d never have had a problem in the first place. Didn’t you tell me you’d started Greek, long before you began doing anything about your problem?”
“I agree. It wouldn’t have made any difference, if I hadn’t seen a psychiatrist; but, if I hadn’t continued to read the classics, I don’t think the doctor would have been much use to me either.”
She opened her handbag, and took out a packet of cigarettes. “Ah yes, the shrink!” She lit a cigarette, and blew out a large cloud of smoke contemptuously. “You’re lecturing me, Mark. You’re about as boring as the ‘in-crowd’. Can’t we be more light-hearted?”
“What shall we talk about, then?”
“Let me tell you what I think about Ancient Greece, Mark: it was a land of Gods and Goddesses, of fairies, spirits, monsters and heroes – a magical world full of wonderful stories. I loved them when I was a child. Entertain me, Mark. Keep off that deep philosophical nonsense of yours. We’re supposed to be celebrating, aren’t we? What about that old philanderer, Zeus?”
“Ah! His loves, you mean? He had lots of women. There was Leda – Zeus seduced her, by becoming a most convincing swan! Their daughter was Helen.”
She laughed. “What a clever operator,” she said. “So Helen followed in her father’s footsteps then?”
“Then there was Europa. Zeus fell in love with her and became an innocent snow-white bull, who wandered among the herds where Europa was playing. She was so enchanted by the bull that she climbed onto his back, and he swam off with her all the way to Crete. That’s how King Minos was born – you know, the man who built the Labyrinth.”
“Whyever did he do that?”
“His wife – Minos’ wife, that is – fell in love with a bull – a real bull this time. The product of the union was the Minotaur, half-man and half-bull. So Minos built the labyrinth to keep the Minotaur in.”
She laughed. “Your stories get worse all the time,” she said. “Do tell me another one.”
“Well, there was Alcmena. Zeus had a warm reception for her! To make her more serene, he took her husband’s form!”
“Dear me, Mark. So the king of the Gods was an impersonator as well! I thought these Greeks of yours had principles!”
“The Gods were supposed to live easily. They could do as they pleased. It was sin to dare to behave like the Gods, Fiona!”
“I see, one law for the Gods, and another for the rest of us mere mortals! The World hasn’t changed much, has it? So what happened to Alcmena?”
“Zeus’ wife, Hera, was very jealous.”
“I’m not surprised!” the girl exclaimed.
“So she sent the Goddess of childbirth to stop Alcmene from giving birth.”
“Cruel bitch! So what happened?”
“The goddess sat on the altar in Alcmena’s bedroom, with her legs and fingers tightly crossed, so that Alcmena couldn’t have her babies. She was in labour for seven days.”
“Poor girl! Without a doctor too! She must have been made of strong stuff. What did her husband think?”
“I don’t know. They were despairing of Alcmena’s life, when her nurse had an idea, and called out suddenly that the child was born. The goddess was so surprised that she uncrossed her legs for a moment – and in that moment, the spell was broken, and twins were born.”
Then, to Bob’s absolute horror, Mr. Shannon intervened to help his learned friend. “M’lud,” he said, “in order to assist my learned friend, may I suggest he points my client out to the witness.”
“An excellent idea,” declared the judge, impressed by the advocate’s evident desire for fair play.
“I am obliged to my learned friend,” the prosecutor continued, using another of those strange antiquated expressions which annoyed Bob. “Well now Mr. O’Connor, do you see the young man standing in the dock – over there?” He pointed at Bob.
“That I do, sir.”
“Do you recognise him, Mr. O’Connor?” Mr. Phipps glared at the witness, willing him to give an affirmative answer.
“No, sir. I don’t.”
“Think carefully, Mr.O’Connor, before you answer my next question: on the night you were assaulted, did you see this man?”
The Irish Liverpudlian stared intently at Bob, and looked hopelessly confused. “I can’t say I did, sir,” he replied. “The man ‘oo hit me ‘ad long hair and ‘alf a beard. ‘Ee was a tramp. This feller’s no tramp. You’ve got the wrong man, sir!”
Mr. Phipps tried as hard as he could to look unperturbed, but his hesitation did not escape the judge’s experienced eyes. “Mr. Phipps,” he said benignly. “May I suggest that it would be appropriate to adjourn the case for fifteen minutes while you take instructions?”
“Yes, m’ lud, I am grateful for your suggestion. I would indeed like to take instructions.”
“In the meantime, Mr. Phipps,” the judge concluded with a polite warning, “I would like the witness to remain in the witness box. You will, of course, remind those instructing you that no-one may speak to the witness until his evidence is concluded, or prompt him in any way?”
“Of course, m’lud.”
CHAPTER 35
Chimes of Freedom
Starry-eyed and laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours – for they hanged suspended,
As we listened one last time an’ watched with one last look,
Spellbound an’ swallowed ‘till the tolling ended:
Tolling for the aching ones, whose wounds cannot be nursed;
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse,
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe;
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
Bob Dylan
Fiona was not happy. She was sitting in an armchair in her flat, her long dark hair dishevelled, and hanging untidily over her eyes. There was a letter on her lap, and she was crying quietly; her jeans, which were usually pressed neatly, had lost their crease, where a hand on one knee rested on a moist handkerchief.
Everything that could have gone wrong, had gone wrong recently, she reflected. First, there was her friend’s absurd parting from Bob; then there was Bob’s ridiculous court case, and now, the final insult, the letter.
The letter had upset her most, but it was Bob who she could not help pitying. It was as if she had transferred the sense of her own personal tragedy into concern for Bob; a really nice boy, she thought, handsome, courteous, kind, and outrageous sometimes perhaps – but she had always reckoned that he was the kind of person who could not fail to make a success of life. Sue had been so happy with him: the merry times they had had dancing, the concerts they had gone to – there was nothing he would not have done for Sue. In fact, he had spent so much time at their flat that he had become almost like a brother to Fiona. Then her friend had finally broken off the relationship – he had agreed to this, as he would have agreed to any other request from her; and as a result, he had ended up in court. True he had seen a solicitor – not one of the big city firms, but Mark Flitley’s boss – a man who she’d never heard of before Mark had taken articles with him. Poor Bob! So generous! He would always please his friends, if he could. So much so that he’d ended up with a second rate solicitor, and pleading not guilty – a bad decision if ever there was one! Poor feller!
And then, the letter.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of familiar footsteps coming up the stairs. They could only belong to Mark, but there was something unusual about the way he shot up the stairs. His pace had been slower recently: but now he could be heard leaping briskly up the stairs, three steps at a time. He knocked on the door of the flat.
“Come in,” she called. At that moment she would have relished any company other than his. She hurriedly wiped away her tears, and tried to compose her hair.
He came in full of excitement, and threw a bundle of flowers into her hands. She was taken quite by surprise. She held them for a moment, and tried to smile. Then she collapsed with a flood of tears, and the flowers fell unappreciated onto the floor.
“Is there anything wrong, Fiona?” Mark asked, surprised.
“Is there anything right?” she replied sharply, as she began to collect the fallen flowers. “I-I’m sorry, Mark. I-I didn’t mean to drop the flowers. It was nice of you to bring them.”
“What’s the matter, Fiona?”
“Oh, never mind – everything’s on top of me at the moment.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was Bob’s trial today, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“What did he get?”
“That’s just what I came to tell you about.”
“Well, don’t just keep me in suspense! Tell me what happened. Was he sent to prison?”
“He was acquitted.” There was a ring of triumph in Mark’s voice.
“What? Impossible!”
“No, it’s true.”
“I can’t believe it. How could he possibly get off?”
“The principal prosecution witness couldn’t identify him,” he said.
Fiona blinked and stared at him. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“Let me make a cup of coffee, and I’ll explain.”
She nodded. By the time he came back from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee, she had combed her hair, and found a vase for the flowers. She sipped thankfully, as Mark took up the story.
“You see, Bob bought a suit, and had his hair cut, and his beard shaved off. So the man who says he was assaulted couldn’t recognise him in court. When the prosecutor saw his main witness hesitate, he decided to abandon the case. The jury was never even asked for a verdict. The case never got that far!”
Fiona began to regain her usual cheerfulness. “Oh! So your boss sorted it out then?” she asked
“With a little help from me!”
“He must be a very good solicitor, Mark.”
“First class – bit mean with the money though.”
“Oh well, you can live with that while you’re an articled clerk, can’t you?”
“I certainly can, Fiona.”
“You must be really lucky to have such a good solicitor as a boss, Mark,” she added excitedly. “He must be giving you the benefit of an awful lot of experience. You must have a fantastic career ahead of you.”
“The work is very interesting – much better than studying!”
“I am so glad nothing bad has happened to Bob. I just wish he and Sue were together again.”
His eyes met hers. “They are, Fiona,” he replied slowly.
This was the second pleasant surprise of the evening. “You mean...” She left the sentence uncompleted.
“Sue was in court in the public gallery.”
“Oh good! Where are they now Mark?” “They’ve gone out – they’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating?” She frowned. The storm clouds began to gather again. “Celebrating – without me – or you? How mean!”
Her annoyance was quite unexpected. Mark shyly ventured: “Of course – er – I mean – er – if you’d like me to – I-I could take you out. We could celebrate together. It’s a long time since we last went out together...”
Fiona now understood the reason for the flowers.
She looked at him doubtfully for a moment. Then she snapped the letter into her handbag. Her eyes shone. “Oh Mark, what a lovely idea,” she said, her voice showing a surprising enthusiasm. “Yes, I’d love to come out with you. Why don’t you take me to the Phil?’
Mark had been expecting her usual polite refusal. So her enthusiasm took him quite by surprise. He was speechless.
She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll just get myself ready,” she called as she disappeared into her room. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
The moments passed very slowly.
At last she was ready. She came out of the bedroom, wearing a short dark skirt with a shiny black patent leather belt – not a mini, but short enough to show her elegant athletic legs to advantage. There was a blue blouse and a dark cardigan. She had washed her face, and the slightest touch of make-up concealed the soreness around her eyes. Her hair was brushed, straight, and glossy so that it reflected the light. She had tied it back into a pony tail with a clip, so that her wide brow was exposed, and the oval features of her face, enlivened with pearl earrings, revealed her natural beauty. She had some rings and bracelets, and a cameo pendant hung from her neck.
Mark gazed at her. The impression was so overwhelming that he felt embarrassed, almost afraid to admire her and turned away.
“You’re f-fabulous!” he stammered. He wished he had his suit on rather than his sweater and jeans.
They set out from the flat. Mark did not speak for a while, and Fiona was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to worry about his shyness. At last she asked him if he had been to the Phil before.
“Once or twice,” he replied. “It’s usually too crowded for me.”
“We’ll be early tonight. So we should find a seat.”
“Do you often go yourself?”
She nodded and smiled. “All the in-crowd go there,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve always belonged to the in-crowd. So Sue and I often go. It’s a great pub – the atmosphere and fittings are the best I’ve known in any pub. But the in-crowd! I don’t half get bored with them sometimes.”
The public house called the “Philharmonic Coffee House” was a quaint old building with iron gates, situated off Hardman Street, opposite the concert hall. There was a circular bar, a large ancient fire place, and elaborate chandeliers. A passage and two small rooms opened from the main bar: one of the rooms being dedicated to Liszt, and the other to Brahms. There was already a crowd around the bar; men with jeans and colourful shirts; girls with mini-dresses or trowsers; everyone dressed in the most expensive bright casual clothes that were in fashion, and not one wearing a suit. The atmosphere generated by the in-crowd clearly favoured exclusively everything that was young, progressive and trendy; even the older men there had aped the image and the fashion of youth, as if consciously disowning the value of their own age and experience.
As they entered, Fiona was recognised, and received several acknowledgements and greetings. Then she steered Mark into the room signed “Brahms.” They found a seat, and Mark went to the bar and bought a pint of beer, and a gin and tonic. He sat down without saying a word.
“Is there anything wrong?” Fiona asked.
Mark shifted uncomfortably on his chair, and replied uneasily! “Do you have that feeling that you’re being watched, Fiona?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said laughing. “I’m well-known here, and it’s the first time I’ve ever arrived with a single male escort. I’m proud to be seen with you. You should be flattered!”
Mark did not know what to say. He felt uncomfortable. He tried to talk about Bob, Sue, and the Buchanan Street children, but somehow his words seemed flat and lifeless.
“So this is the ‘in-crowd’,” he said at last, looking towards the door, and the ever increasing congestion around the circular bar.
She nodded: “Don’t you wish you were part of it?” she asked, with a sly grin.
He shook his head. “Not really. It’s not my cup of tea. Too many new ideas! Too little strength in them!”
“Ah, I was forgetting,” she said teasingly. “I was forgetting your iron-hard, rock-solid hobbies, caving and Greek! Why didn’t you try something easier and more fun?”
“I was in a terrible state. There was no easy way out, Fiona.”
“Well, I can see that caving has helped you, and, after all, that’s not particularly untrendy: but, Mark, I still can’t understand your Greek-reading – as a hobby, OK; but as an all-consuming passion, you’ve made a religion of it. And it’s so dated! It’s just not ‘in’ at all.”
“It is difficult to read, Fiona, but that’s what makes it worthwhile. You have to think logically to read the texts. There is one common symptom of all nervous disorders – failure of reason. See what has happened now the World is losing interest in Ancient Greece: the planet has gone mad with crazy ideas... cruel dictators...”
“There are other ways of training you to think logically than translating the Classics, you know.”
“So there are, but think of it another way: the Greeks invented democracy – not the kind that we have, of course, but they laid the foundations of modern society and government. If you study their history and read their books, you can’t help developing an enthusiasm for the ideal of democracy. Suppose I hadn’t had that ideal? What do you think would have become of me then?’
She shook her head without understanding. “I can’t think it would have made any difference,” she said sharply.
“I could have become a hippy.”
“You are a hippy, Mark. All students are hippies – even solicitors’ articled clerks!”
“If I’m a hippy, I’m certainly not a dropout,” he rejoined firmly. “I could have tried to purge my sorrows by developing an addiction to drugs. I might have got involved in some crazy extreme politics, and ended up in gaol for planting bombs, or become a martyr in the cause of some paranoid tin-can dictator. I could have fallen for the spell of some suicidal fanatical religious sect. If I’d given up hope altogether, I might even have become a tramp or an alcoholic.
“You’re too serious and sensible, Mark. None of those things could ever have happened to you.”
“Why not? It’s happened to cleverer, wiser, and more sensible people than me. Think how young and impressionable we are in our late teens and early twenties: open to all kinds of temptations and influences – many of them positively evil. If you’ve no strong principles and standards to base your life on, you’re more likely to succumb than anyone else. You can’t distinguish the good from the bad without principles. The value of Ancient Greece is indirect, but the indirect value of some things often far outweighs the direct benefits of others.”
She yawned. “If you follow your argument to its logical conclusion,” she said wearily, “you’d never have had a problem in the first place. Didn’t you tell me you’d started Greek, long before you began doing anything about your problem?”
“I agree. It wouldn’t have made any difference, if I hadn’t seen a psychiatrist; but, if I hadn’t continued to read the classics, I don’t think the doctor would have been much use to me either.”
She opened her handbag, and took out a packet of cigarettes. “Ah yes, the shrink!” She lit a cigarette, and blew out a large cloud of smoke contemptuously. “You’re lecturing me, Mark. You’re about as boring as the ‘in-crowd’. Can’t we be more light-hearted?”
“What shall we talk about, then?”
“Let me tell you what I think about Ancient Greece, Mark: it was a land of Gods and Goddesses, of fairies, spirits, monsters and heroes – a magical world full of wonderful stories. I loved them when I was a child. Entertain me, Mark. Keep off that deep philosophical nonsense of yours. We’re supposed to be celebrating, aren’t we? What about that old philanderer, Zeus?”
“Ah! His loves, you mean? He had lots of women. There was Leda – Zeus seduced her, by becoming a most convincing swan! Their daughter was Helen.”
She laughed. “What a clever operator,” she said. “So Helen followed in her father’s footsteps then?”
“Then there was Europa. Zeus fell in love with her and became an innocent snow-white bull, who wandered among the herds where Europa was playing. She was so enchanted by the bull that she climbed onto his back, and he swam off with her all the way to Crete. That’s how King Minos was born – you know, the man who built the Labyrinth.”
“Whyever did he do that?”
“His wife – Minos’ wife, that is – fell in love with a bull – a real bull this time. The product of the union was the Minotaur, half-man and half-bull. So Minos built the labyrinth to keep the Minotaur in.”
She laughed. “Your stories get worse all the time,” she said. “Do tell me another one.”
“Well, there was Alcmena. Zeus had a warm reception for her! To make her more serene, he took her husband’s form!”
“Dear me, Mark. So the king of the Gods was an impersonator as well! I thought these Greeks of yours had principles!”
“The Gods were supposed to live easily. They could do as they pleased. It was sin to dare to behave like the Gods, Fiona!”
“I see, one law for the Gods, and another for the rest of us mere mortals! The World hasn’t changed much, has it? So what happened to Alcmena?”
“Zeus’ wife, Hera, was very jealous.”
“I’m not surprised!” the girl exclaimed.
“So she sent the Goddess of childbirth to stop Alcmene from giving birth.”
“Cruel bitch! So what happened?”
“The goddess sat on the altar in Alcmena’s bedroom, with her legs and fingers tightly crossed, so that Alcmena couldn’t have her babies. She was in labour for seven days.”
“Poor girl! Without a doctor too! She must have been made of strong stuff. What did her husband think?”
“I don’t know. They were despairing of Alcmena’s life, when her nurse had an idea, and called out suddenly that the child was born. The goddess was so surprised that she uncrossed her legs for a moment – and in that moment, the spell was broken, and twins were born.”
