Lamplight in the Shadows (7 page)

‘When we begin to be concerned with the energies of man, we find ourselves instantly dealing with a double creature. Most part of his being seems to have a fictitious counterpart, which it is at his peril if he do not cast off and deny. Thus he has a true and false faith, a true and a false hope, a true and a false charity and a true and a false life
.'

The words struck a chord with James and caused him to pause in his reading in order to consider them further. John Ruskin certainly had a deep, intellectual insight to life.
The only problem
, James thought as he lay the book to one side and cupped his chin in his hands,
is identifying which bit of one's own life is true and which is false
. Was it the life he was building around his new medical partnership in Bishopsworth that was true or the one he periodically returned to in Barminster? He assumed the fact that they seemed to be mutually incompatible meant that one must be truer than the other.
On the other hand, is it possible to lead two different lives, separated from each other both geographically and intellectually?
One life stimulating and full of promise, the other draining his inner strength and posing insoluble difficulties with respect to his marital relationship. No, it was not possible according to Ruskin. Ultimately, one of these must be exposed as a ‘fictitious counterpart'. One section of his life must be cast off and denied.
However, which part and how?

Simultaneously yawning and stretching, he rose from his chair and walked across to the window of his newly rented, first-floor flat.

Absorbed by his reading, he had not noticed it grow dark outside as he whiled away his Thursday afternoon away from the surgery. Now, gazing down at the wintry scene, he watched as the street lamps slowly flickered into life, bathing Bishopsworth market place in a soft orange glow. High above, strings of multi-coloured lights had been strung across the streets as a corporate token to the festive season. Christmas Day was less than a week away and he sensed a new degree of urgency coming from the bustling throng below as they hurried to complete their shopping.
Hurrying to return to the cosy warmth of their homes and families
, thought James wistfully. He sighed, folded his arms and leant against the window frame.

‘How many of you are also leading lives of false hope?' he asked out loud of the unhearing figures below.
And, if so,
he silently continued,
how do you decide which hopes are false and which ones need pursuing with determination and dedication? Perhaps Shakespeare was right when he wrote ‘All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players…'
‘In which case, I wish someone would give me a synopsis of the plot,' he said, once more giving voice to his thoughts.

On the streets below, the play of human lives flowed on, the walk-on actors unaware of the complexity of the questions directed towards them from a window above.

Hearing the clock of St Matthew's Church chime the hour, he looked at his watch.
Five o'clock
. The surgery staff Christmas party was that evening and a coach was due at the surgery at six-thirty to transport everyone to the venue across in Hull.
Time for more mundane matters
. Moving away from the window he started to unbutton his shirt as he walked towards the bathroom.

As he stood in the shower, relishing the vigorous flow of hot water tumbling over his head, his thoughts turned again to the view of the market place from the window.
It's certainly a good way to observe life in Bishopsworth
, he mused, rubbing shampoo into his hair.

Night times were best – or worst, depending on one's perspective. But only after the pubs had called last orders. Then, what was a somewhat sleepy market town during the day became a heaving throng of inebriated youngsters as the pubs spilt their contents onto the streets before closing their doors for a welcomed respite. In the ensuing hour, he could learn far more about the personalities of the younger section of his patient population by watching from his window than a decade of meeting them in the consulting room would reveal.

He cast his mind back to the previous evening, which had been quite a revelation to any unprepared observer of life. First, there was the interesting fact that the revellers were broadly divided into distinct groups according to their sex, with the women largely staying together, as did the men. Each group occupied its own piece of pavement, well separated from the next group. One or two chose to ignore the occasional traffic and took up stations within the centre of the road, where they continued their rowdy conversations. Others sat in shop doorways or on the back of the seats in the bus shelter. Very few couples were present.

The clothing fashion was also of interest; James' first observation being that nobody wore a coat. The women, seemingly oblivious to the freezing temperature and the remnants of a light snowfall that afternoon, tottered around in an uncoordinated manner on a mixture of high-heeled shoes (none of which were less than three inches in height) and clad in nothing more than skimpy tops and tight micro-skirts, the latter requiring constant small adjustments with one hand in a vain attempt to keep their underwear covered. With their other hand they grasped the arm of the nearest female in an attempt to stay upright on the icy pavements. Some linked arms, enabling them to clutch a packet of cigarettes and a handbag whilst walking and smoking at the same time.

In separate groups were the lads, again dressed in a style guaranteed to make them anonymous amongst their peers, only for them it was blue jeans with a white shirt (the latter with at least the top three buttons undone and worn on the outside of the jeans) and a pair of designer trainers. As he watched, many of them rolled their own cigarettes, which they then passed around the rest of the group. He strongly suspected that he was observing the overt smoking of cannabis. However, the lack of a police presence in the market place allowed such untroubled brazenness.

Discourse between the two sexes consisted almost entirely of shouting at each other from across the street. Occasionally, a member of one group would cross to another and steal a kiss or a quick grope, rewarded either by a resounding slap amidst jeers from others in the group or the chance to leave together in one of the town's taxis, which sporadically entered the market place. It was with amusement that he noticed the instigators of such forays were often the women.

Here and there, he had spotted more furtive activity such as a man relieving himself in the doorway of the Barclays Bank, a woman holding on to a car aerial and vomiting into the gutter whilst a friend helpfully held her long hair out of the way, or a couple engaged in an intense bout of mutual groping in the narrow alley next to the solicitor's office. It was a different world to the sedately civilised one he had been observing from his window that afternoon.

Towelling himself down before stepping from the shower cubicle, he considered whether the people he had watched earlier also had a part to play in the events of the evenings.
Were they the same actors simply playing in different scenes? In which case, were they too leading true and false lives? During which part of the day,
he pondered,
did their ‘fictitious counterparts' enter the stage?
As increasingly seemed to be the case for James, there were more questions than answers. He left this one hanging in mid-air for consideration another time and entered the bedroom to dress.

* * *

James was not one for large parties and the idea of having to attend a staff Christmas party filled him with apprehension from the very moment it was suggested. He preferred to deal with people on familiar ground, with accepted rules of engagement. Parties didn't have rules and consequently he always felt uncomfortably out of place at such events. If there was one thing that heightened his sense of being different from others it was the expectation for him to converse about trivial everyday topics, about which he was almost eccentrically ignorant, with people he shared little in common and knew even less about. The whole process was made worse by the added ingredient of loud, raucous music, which reduced most attempts to hold a conversation to an inaudible state of monosyllabic confusion.

‘But you must go. Everyone from the surgery goes. It is always a good laugh. We usually get banned from wherever we go and have to look for a new venue each year! That's why we're going across to Hull,' said Jane, one of the secretaries and principal coordinator of this year's jamboree. Her words had done nothing to lessen James' mounting disquiet when, back in November, he had tentatively suggested that he might not be available.

‘No doubt about it, James, your attendance is mandatory,' boomed Ian McGarva, having entered both the office and the conversation simultaneously. ‘You don't want to miss an opportunity to take these lovely lassies around the dance floor, do you now?' His words were punctuated by an arching of his bushy eyebrows and a slight pursing of his lips, whilst his hairy hands traced the figure of an hourglass in the air.

James had watched as a crimson colour spread up Jane's neck and onto her cheeks as though the memory of her personal encounter with those hands at last year's party was flooding back to her.

‘He does tend to get a little exuberant,' she said by way of explanation once Dr McGarva had picked up a Dictaphone and left the room. ‘But then, they all do! Last year Dr Slater did a strip-tease on the dance floor and ended up in nothing but a pair of Y-fronts with a banana stuck down the front.' Her laughter at the recollection had brought tears to her eyes. ‘Mind you, it might cramp his style this year. We normally have a room to ourselves, but this year we are trying one of those corporate events with other businesses and the like. Dr Slater was none too pleased at that decision, I could tell you. Says he hates such big places.'

The conversation did little to bring James any comfort. However, his conversation with Janice, the day before the party, had been even less comforting.

‘No, I'm sorry; they don't invite partners, not even those of the doctors. Do not ask me why,' he added as an afterthought. Following his previous discussion with Ian McGarva and Jane he had been left with a clear understanding as to the reason why, but now was not a prudent moment to discuss the debauched antics of his medical colleagues.

‘Then don't go. It's not as though you like going to parties.' Janice's face had been as morose as James had ever seen it.

‘Despite my reservations, I think I should,' he had replied. ‘It wouldn't be tactful to be the only one who doesn't go. Not when I have just been accepted as a partner. I see it as a duty to the staff.' ‘So what time will you be home?'

‘I was thinking of staying at the flat. It would be far easier than having to drive back to Barminster.'

Janice stared at him for a few moments, her appearance hostile.

‘
Wouldn't be tactful
;
it's a duty to the staff
,' she threw back at him, her voice taking on a spiteful quality. ‘Christ Almighty! Why does everything in your life have to be a bloody duty? Perhaps I should be one of your staff. Maybe you would then see being with
me
as a duty. Alternatively, perhaps that's what I am already – just a
duty
.
And where in your list of
duties
do I come, James? Oh, don't tell me. I already know: below medicine, below the bloody Church, below your books and music and highfaluting ideas, and now below the surgery staff. That's where I am, James; right at the bottom of your bloody list.'

Her voice had risen to a shrill shout, leaving behind a faint, high-pitched ringing from the nearby piano. Grabbing a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the floor next to her chair, she stormed out into the garden, slamming the backdoor behind her. The piano rang even louder as the bass strings joined in.

He watched her go, wincing at the blaspheming and swearing, but not having the strength, the willpower or even the inclination to try to reason with her. She was in no mood to accept that her own behaviour towards him for the past few years had resulted in what she now proclaimed to be a problem.

It was because of that outburst that James had spent the Thursday afternoon alone in his flat in Bishopsworth rather than returning to Barminster. It was also the reason for him being the last to arrive at the surgery to board the coach, which he did with a gloomy heart and in no mood to party.

* * *

In truth, the venue for the party was not in Hull but just outside, in a small village called Willerton, three miles to the west. Willerton, however, was in danger of fast becoming just a suburb of the city as the local policy of only building on brown-field sites gave way to the ever-increasing demand for housing and offices. Extending into the green belt, which connected the various satellite villages, was the local planners' easiest solution.

Willerton Grange was an old, largely Georgian manor house that had long since succumbed to market forces and was now a hotel and restaurant with an attached function room that catered ‘for weddings, parties and conferences', as the banner slung along the edge of the car park proclaimed.

The coach stopped outside the door grandly designated the
Ballroom Entrance
and discharged the thirty or so assorted nurses, receptionists, dispensers, secretaries and domestic staff; all female with the exception of the five doctors. As the eager rush of chattering bodies passed him, James hung back in his seat, observing the various familiar faces.

‘Quite intriguing how a dab of lipstick and a touch of mascara changes them all into ravishing beauties, don't you think, James?'

James turned to see the pale, gaunt face of Charles Hawkins peering between the headrests from his seat behind. The chemotherapy had taken its toll on his appearance, making him look considerably older than his sixty-one years. Faint wisps of silvery-coloured hair were just beginning to grow back in two patches on the areas of scalp just above his ears, making him, as Tom Slater had earlier wickedly proclaimed, look remarkably like an owl wearing a bow tie.