A Quiver Full of Arrows (15 page)

Septimus spent his day in a glass cubicle on
the sixth floor, adjusting claims and recommending payments of anything up to
one million pounds. He felt if he kept his nose clean (one of Septimus’s
favourite expressions), he would, after another twenty years, become a manager
(claims department) and have walls around him that you couldn’t see through and
a carpet that wasn’t laid in small squares of - 111 slightly differing shades
of green. He might even become one of those signatures on the million pound
cheques.

Septimus resided in Sevenoaks with his wife,
Norma, and his two children, Winston and Elizabeth, who attended the local
comprehensive school. They would have gone to the grammar school, he regularly
informed his colleagues, but the Labour government had stopped all that.

Septimus operated his daily life by means of
a set of invariant sub-routines, like a primitive microprocessor, while he
supposed himself to be a great follower of tradition and discipline. For if he
was nothing, he was at least a creature of habit. Had, for some unexplicable
reason, the K.G.B. wanted to assassinate Septimus, all they would have had to
do was put him under surveillance for seven days and they would have known his
every movement throughout the working year.

Septimus rose every morning at seven-fifteen
and donned one of his two pin-head patterned dark suits. He left his home at 47
Palmerston Drive at seven-fifty-five, having consumed his invariable breakfast
of one soft-boiled egg, two pieces of toast, and two cups of tea. On arriving
at Platform One of Sevenoaks station he would purchase a copy of the Daily
Express before boarding the eight-twenty-seven to Cannon Street.

During the journey Septimus would read his
newspaper and smoke two cigarettes, arriving at Cannon Street at nine-seven. He
would then walk to the office, and be sitting at his desk in his glass cubicle
on the sixth floor, confronting the first claim to be adjusted, by nine-thirty.
He took his coffee break at eleven, allowing himself the luxury of two more cigarettes,
when once again he would regale his colleagues with the imagined achievements
of his children.

At eleven-fifteen he returned to work.

At one o’clock he would leave the Great
Gothic Cathedral (another of his expressions) for one hour, which he passed at
a pub called The Havelock where he would drink a half-pint of Carlsberg lager
with a dash of lime, and eat the dish of the day. After he finished his lunch,
he would once again smoke two cigarettes. At one-fifty-five he returned to the
insurance records until the fifteen minute tea break at four o’clock which was another
ritual occasion for two more cigarettes. On the dot of five-thirty, Septimus
would pick up his umbrella and reinforced steel briefcase with the initials
S.H.C. in silver on the side and leave, double locking his glass cubicle. As he
walked through the typing pool, he would announce with a mechanical jauntiness
“See you same time tomorrow, girls”, hum a few bars from The Sound of Music in
the descending lift, and then walk out into the torrent of office workers
surging down High Holborn. He would stride purposefully towards Cannon Street
station, umbrella tapping away on the pavement while he rubbed shoulders with
bankers, shippers, oil men, and brokers, not discontent to think himself part
of the great City of London.

Once he reached the station, Septimus would
purchase a copy of the Evening Standard and a packet of ten Benson & Hedges
cigarettes from Smith’s bookstall, placing both on the top of his Prudential
documents already in the briefcase. He would board the fourth carriage of the
train on Platform Five at five-fifty, and secure his favoured window seat in a
closed compartment facing the engine, next to the balding gentleman with the
inevitable Financial Times, and opposite the smartly dressed secretary who read
long romantic novels to somewhere beyond Sevenoaks. Before sitting down he
would extract the Evening Standard and the new packet of Benson & Hedges
from his briefcase, put them both on the armrest of his seat, and place the
briefcase and his rolled umbrella on the rack above him. Once settled, he would
open the packet of cigarettes and smoke the first of the two which were
allocated for the journey while reading the Evening Standard. This would leave
him eight to be smoked before catching the five-fifty the following evening.

As the train pulled into Sevenoaks station,
he would mumble goodnight to his fellow passengers (the only word he ever spoke
during the entire journey) and leave, making his way straight to the
semi-detached at 47 Palmerston Drive, arriving at the front door a little before
six-forty-five. Between six-forty-five and seven-thirty he would finish reading
his paper or check over his children’s homework with a tut-tut when he spotted
a mistake, or a sigh when he couldn’t fathom the new maths. At seven-thirty his
“good lady” (another of his favoured expressions) would place on the kitchen
table in front of him the Woman’s Own dish of the day or his favourite dinner
of three fish fingers, peas and chips. He would then say “If God had meant fish
to have fingers, he would have given them hands,” laugh, and cover the oblong
fish with tomato sauce, consuming the meal to the accompaniment of his wife’s
recital of the day’s events. At nine, he watched the real news on BBC

I (he never watched ITV) and at ten-thirty
he retired to bed.

This routine was adhered to year in year out
with breaks only for holidays, for which Septimus naturally also had a routine.
Alternate Christmases were spent with Norma’s parents in Watford and the ones
in between with Septimus’s sister and brother-in-law in Epsom, while in the
summer, their high spot of the year, the family took a package holiday for two
weeks in the Olympic Hotel, Corfu.

Septimus not only liked his life-style, but
was distressed if for any reason his routine met with the slightest interference.
This humdrum existence seemed certain to last him from womb to tomb, for
Septimus was not the stuff on which authors base two hundred thousand word
sagas.

Nevertheless there was one occasion when
Septimus’s routine was not merely interfered with, but frankly, shattered.

One evening at five-twenty-seven, when
Septimus was closing the file on the last claim for the day, his immediate
superior, the Deputy Manager, called him in for a consultation. Owing to this
gross lack of consideration, Septimus did not manage to get away from the
office until a few minutes after six. Although everyone had left the typing
pool, still he saluted the empty desks and silent typewriters with the
invariable “See you same time tomorrow, girls,” and hum Broken Rowing med a few
bars of Edelweiss to the descending lift. As he stepped out of the Great Gothic
Cathedral it started to rain. Septimus reluctantly undid his neatly rolled
umbrella, and putting it up dashed through the puddles, hoping that he would be
in time to catch the six-thirty-two. On arrival at Cannon Street, he queued for
his paper and cigarettes and put them in his briefcase before rushing on to
Platform Five. To add to his annoyance, the loudspeaker was announcing with
perfunctory apology that three trains had already been taken off that evening
because of a go slow.

Septimus eventually fought his way through
the dripping, bustling crowds to the sixth carriage of a train that was not
scheduled on any timetable. He discovered that it was filled with people he had
never seen before and, worse, almost every seat was already occupied. In fact,
the only place he could find to sit was in the middle of the train with his
back to the engine.

He threw his briefcase and creased umbrella
onto the rack above him and reluctantly squeezed himselfinto the seat, before
looking around the carriage. There was not a familiar face among the other six
occupants. A woman with three children more than filled the seat opposite him,
while an elderly man was sleeping soundly on his left.

On the other side of him, leaning over and
looking out of the window, was a young man of about twenty.

When Septimus first laid eyes on the boy he
couldn’t believe what he saw.

The youth was clad in a black leather jacket
and skin-tight jeans and was whistling to himself. His dark, creamed hair was
combed up at the front and down at the sides, while the only two colours of the
young man’s outfit that matched were his jacket and fingernails. But worst of
all to one of Septimus’s sensitive nature was the slogan printed in boot studs
on the back of his jacket. “Hell Hitler” it declared unashamedly over a white-painted
Nazi sign and, as if that were not enough, below the swastika in gold shone the
words: “Up yours”. What was the country coming to? thought Septimus. They ought
to bring back National Service for delinquents like that. Septimus himself, had
not been eligible for National Service on account of his flat feet.

Septimus decided to ignore the creature, and
picking up the packet of Benson & Hedges on the armrest by his side, lit
one and began to read the Evening Standard. He then replaced the packet of
cigarettes on the armrest, as he always did, knowing he would smoke one more
before reaching Sevenoaks. When the train eventually moved out of Cannon Street
the darkly clad youth turned towards Septimus and, glaring at him, picked up
the packet of cigarettes, took one, lit it, and started to puff away. Septimus
could not believe what was happening. He was about to protest when he realised
that none of his regulars was in the carriage to back him up. He considered the
situation for a moment and decided that Discretion was the better part of
Valour. (Yet another of the sayings of Septimus.)

When the train stopped at Petts Wood,
Septimus put down the newspaper although he had scarcely read a word and as he
nearly always did, took his second cigarette. He lit it, inhaled, and was about
to retrieve the Evening Standard when the youth grabbed at the corner, and they
ended up with half the paper each. This time Septimus did look around the
carriage for support.

The children opposite started giggling,
while their mother consciously averted her eyes from what was taking place,
obviously not wanting to become involved; the old man on Septimus’s left was
now snoring. Septimus was about to secure the packet of cigarettes by putting them
in his pocket when the youth pounced on them, removed another and lit it,
inhaled deeply, and then blew the smoke quite deliberately across Septimus’s
face before placing the cigarettes back on the armrest.

Septimus’s answering glare expressed as much
malevolence as he was able to project through the grey haze.

Grinding his teeth in fury, he returned to
the Evening Standard, only to discover that he had ended up with situations
vacant, used cars and sports sections, subjects in which he had absolutely no
interest. His one compensation, however, was his certainty that sport was the
only section the oik really wanted. Septimus was now, in any case, incapable of
reading the paper, trembling as he was with the outrages perpetrated by his
neighbour.

His thoughts were now turning to revenge and
gradually a plan began to form in his mind with which he was confident the
youth would be left in no doubt that virtue can sometimes be more than its own
reward. (A variation on a saying of Septimus.) He smiled thinly and, breaking
his routine, he took a third cigarette and defiantly placed the packet back on
the armrest. The youth stubbed out his own cigarette and, as if taking up the
challenge, picked up the packet, removed another one and lit it.

Septimus was by no means beaten; he puffed
his way quickly through the weed, stubbed it out, a quarter unsmoked, took a
fourth and lit it immediately. The race was on for there were now only two
cigarettes left. But Septimus, despite a great deal of puffing and coughing,
managed to finish his fourth cigarette ahead of the youth. He leaned across the
leatherjacket and stubbed his cigarette out in the window ashtray. The carriage
was now filled with smoke, but the youth was still puffing as fast as he could.

The children opposite were coughing and the
woman was waving her arms around like a windmill. Septimus ignored her and kept
his eye on the packet of cigarettes while pretending to read about Arsenal’s
chances in the FA cup.

Septimus then recalled Montgomery’s maxim
that surprise and timing in the final analysis are the weapons of victory. As
the youth finished his fourth cigarette and was stubbing it out the train
pulled slowly into Seveneaks station. The youth’s hand was raised, but Septimus
was quicker. He had anticipated the enemy’s next move, and now seized the
cigarette packet. He took out the ninth cigarette and, placing it between his
lips, lit it slowly and luxuriously, inhaling as deeply as he could before
blowing the smoke out straight into the face of the enemy. The youth stared up
at him in dismay.

Septimus then removed the last cigarette
from the packet and crumpled the tobacco into shreds between his first finger
and thumb, allowing the little flakes to 611 back into the empty packet. Then
he closed the packet neatly, and with a flourish replaced the little gold box
on the armrest. In the same movement he picked up from his vacant seat the
sports section of the Evating Standard, tore the paper in half, in quarters, in
eighths and finally in sixteenths, placing the little squares in a neat pile on
the youth’s lap.

The train came to a halt at Sevencaks. A
triumphant Septimus, having struck his blow for the silent majority, retrieved
his umbrella and briefcase from the rack above him and turned to leave.