City of the Mind

  Matthew, refining a few opinions of his own, reaches Graham Selway’s house and knocks on the door.

  ‘I didn’t attempt to phone,’ said Matthew. ‘I assume you spurn anachronisms like British Telecom.’

  ‘Naturally I’d prefer to hire a street urchin to take messages across town, but they’re hard to come by these days. People will insist on sending their children to school. Anyway, come in and waste some of my time. What brings you to these parts?’

  Graham Selway led Matthew into a reassuringly normal office, with decent lighting and appropriate electronic equipment. ‘How are you? Far too long since I saw you.’

  They had been at college together, and had kept up the sort of desultory, amiable contact of those for whom acquaintance has never quite overflowed into friendship. In youth, Graham had been solitary, ascetic and self-sufficient – qualities of which Matthew had felt faintly envious. Life must be a damn sight easier for people like that. Moreover, he appeared to be without sexual urges of any kind – also, surely, an inestimable advantage. Now, twenty years on, he had a faded look – a slight stoop, the hairline receding. He was dressed with indulgent shabbiness in baggy cotton trousers and a faded T-shirt. He had operated for the last ten years or so a successful private practice specializing in choice and expensive restoration.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Graham poured out two cups from a percolator in the corner of the room. Drawings spread out on the long table under the window afforded glimpses of unswerving classicism, as though everything since about 1820 were some transient aberration.

  ‘Are you doing a lot round here these days?’ asked Matthew.

  Graham shook his head. ‘The best stuff all went some time ago. I did a few then. It’s rapidly become too late. The big boys are moving in. City money. How are things on your patch? I took a turn around Docklands the other day. Are you all getting terribly rich?’

  ‘Not personally,’ said Matthew. ‘Do I detect a note of supercilious contempt?

  Graham laughed. ‘It’s not my line, as you well know. But you’re still keeping your hand in with bread-and-butter renovation, aren’t you? You personally, I mean. I thought that Cobham Square development was yours?’

  ‘It is indeed.’ Matthew wandered to the window. The street was cobbled. Opposite, a Georgian number rubbed shoulders with a cavernous shell whose brickwork sprouted a botanical garden of assorted foliage. A forklift truck rumbled by, followed by a van whose open windows howled reggae music. ‘Anyway, you seem to have kept it all at bay here, so far.’

  ‘Precariously. And not for much longer. The other end of the street is up for grabs. Maybe you people should be going for that job. There are various interested parties slogging it out over the ruins, I gather. Want to take a look?’

  They went outside. Further along, the cobbles gave way to pot-holed tarmac and the Georgian relics to a tottering warehouse, a thicket of estate agents’ signs and a length of hoarding which shielded an immense hole in which an excavator was already foraging, its metallic claw picking at a mound of rubble. Matthew and Graham stood watching. ‘Office block,’ said Graham. ‘Of course. We’re a suburb of Bishopsgate. There’s some sort of battle going on for the last few freeholds, apparently. The money men cutting each other’s throats. Good luck to them. Sort of thing you might want to take on?’

  Matthew shrugged. ‘We’re not doing a lot of soliciting at the moment, to be honest. Our books are just about full.’

  ‘I’m sure they are. So, in their humble way, are mine.’

  Above the roof-line Matthew could see the brilliant silhouette of a crane, scarlet in this instance and brilliant against the sky. But it was the sky itself that held his attention – a summer sky in which great luminous masses of pearly cloud seemed to be themselves the source of light, with no sun visible but, here and there, hidden gaps in the cloud cover through which streamed golden rays in which you expected to see a risen Christ. A dramatic, allusive sky – inappropriate and yet, to any Londoner, profoundly familiar.

  They walked back towards Graham Selway’s office. A svelte black car with smoked glass windows nosed out from the kerb behind them and accelerated past, forcing Matthew to jump for the pavement. A posse of Bengali schoolchildren scampered by, satchels thumping against their backs. The resident canaries poured out an effortless stream of song. Graham was talking about a college contemporary of theirs who was apparently designing futuristic cities in Brazil. ‘Entirely surreal, by all accounts.’

  ‘More so than this?’ enquired Matthew.

  Graham paused on his doorstep. ‘This? Oh, you get used to it. It’s been going on ever since I moved down here. I’ve forgotten what static surroundings are like. There’s a certain exhilaration about constant upheaval, I suppose. Different of course if one had a family. How’s Susan?’

  Matthew explained.

  ‘Oh dear. Sorry to hear that.’ Embarrassment hung heavy. ‘Come in and have another cup of coffee,’ continued Graham determinedly.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve distracted you for long enough – and oddly enough I have work to do as well.’

  Matthew headed back to his car, passing once again the mosque on the corner of Fournier Street, where the shadow of the sundial was now extinguished by the clouded sky. Automatically, he glanced at his own watch, and then was irritated by this servitude to passing hours. Why must we always know what time it is? Once, people wandered through capacious and unstructured days, tipping only from morning to night, and season to season. And there arose suddenly folk memories of his own, in which he had been temporarily innocent.

  He is at the end of that long thin garden by the railway track, watching the trains go by. His face is squeezed into the gap where a strut of the fence is broken – he is not tall enough to see over the top. The wood is warm and rough (in his head, his mother’s voice warns about splinters); a train hurtles past with that satisfying brief commotion, that rush of displaced air. And suddenly there comes to mind the realization that he does not know what time of day it is. Has he had his dinner or not? He consults his stomach, which is of no help; he is not particularly hungry, nor particularly full. Is it early morning? Afternoon? Evening? It does not occur to him to seek the sun, he simply stands there, adrift, and taking a curious pleasure in his state. It is now, he thinks. I am now. Everything is now. And at the same instant, or so it seems, there arrives the recognition, the revelation that at some other point – at some unknown, unknowable then – he will have this time, this moment, in his head. He will look at it from elsewhere. He will come down here to the fence again, tomorrow, and see his own perception, acknowledge its truth. He feels all of a sudden, infinitely wise.

  (And Matthew, unlocking his car in a side street off Brick Lane, pauses for a moment to salute that child, across the decades.)

  He wakes. He wakes into consciousness of his own body and, simultaneously, of hers. He is lying on his side; she is lying up against him, curled into him, the curve of her back fitted to his chest and stomach, the front of his knees slotted to the back of hers. He can feel her breathing; her intakes of breath alternate with his. She is asleep and he, now, transiently, is not. It is the dark dead of night, any time and no time. And he is filled with a sense of perfect happiness, of security, of impregnability. He is suspended thus for ever, in darkness and love; there is no age, nor death, nor change. They are immortal, he and she.

  *

  (And Matthew, easing himself into the driving seat, stares unseeing through the windscreen, at once enriched and deprived.)

  The last three years had been the longest of his life, there was no question about that. Before then, time folded in on itself like a concertina, compacted in the mind as an impenetrable sequence of event and routine. A thousand nights like that night. A thousand days in which he had been busy, angry, tired, joyful, anxious and content. There were landmarks, to be sure – the officially chronicled dates of significance like marriage, the start of a new job, the move
to a different place, Jane’s birth. And there was the uncontrollable unpredictable maverick record of the mind, in which it all still went on, now obscured and now leaping to prominence, everything foreshortened, condensed, and spotlit.

  Whereas the last three years had limped onward with a relentless chronology, from unease that all was not well, through bleak recognition that things were bad, to misery, acceptance, and the slow plod to decision, separation and some sort of eternal convalescence, if that was his present state. There were anniversaries: two years since she went to Spain without him, a year since he moved into the flat. And recently, it seemed as though time had picked up its pace a little, that spring had followed a little quicker on the long dank winter days, the spun-out horror of Christmas. Sometimes, it seemed even to trot again – he came to the end of the week surprised, and a little out of breath. Was this a good sign? Was this what was wanted, that life should hurtle ahead, taking you with it?

  ‘We’re none of us getting any younger’; an expression of which his mother was tiresomely fond – including him in the sweep, nowadays. She had granted him, at some mysterious point, admission to adult status, with all that implied: the right to hold opinions, exemption from instruction, mortality. Periodically she enquired about his pension arrangements and appeared to take a sombre satisfaction in the irritation that this caused. She swerved, these days, between treating him as her peer, her associate in wry endurance of the follies and shortcomings of this world, and according him the licence due to youth. He experienced, in consequence, a confusion of identity, blamed her and was exasperated with himself for the immaturity of his reaction. He could not help but note, too, that there is evidently no end to the bizarre complexity and variety of exchange between parents and children.

  Jane stands at the window of his flat, running a dampened finger down the glass – a maddening sound.

  ‘Could you not do that?’ he says, patiently.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s a nasty noise and I’m trying to read the paper.’

  The weekend has come round again. Their weekend.

  ‘What are we going to do today?’

  ‘I’ve got to do some shopping and then … Well, we’ll think about it. In a minute.’

  There is a pause. Matthew reads half of an article in The Independent. He glances at Jane and sees that she is chewing the end of her plait. Susan believes that this habit is evidence of disturbance, and is concerned about it; this is one of the few matters they discuss, these days. Matthew’s view is that lots of little girls chew the ends of their plaits, and always have done. But in dark moments he doubts his own complacency, and is concerned also. He knows that both he and Susan, alone and helpless, watch Jane with fearful eyes for signs of the damage that they may have done.

  Jane says ‘Where are you when I’m at Mum’s house?’

  Matthew, startled and wary, abandons his paper. ‘I’m at my office. Or here in the flat. Or seeing somebody about something.’

  She turns from the window to face him. ‘That’s not what I mean,’ she cries. She is frustrated and intent. ‘I mean – I can’t see you, I can only think you, so you aren’t there.’

  ‘Oh – I understand.’ Matthew is relieved. He is also impressed, and floored. She has a point, she does indeed. ‘Yes, that is a problem. But I am there, I promise you, just as much as you are. You’re not really worried about it, are you?’ he adds.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Jane. She puts the end of the plait in her mouth and stares, chomping. And then suddenly she swoops across the room and leaps at him, pummelling him. In play, or so it seems. ‘We’re both here,’ she says fiercely. ‘Aren’t we? Aren’t we?’

  ‘Oh, we are,’ Matthew replies. ‘We most certainly are.’

  ‘Mr Halland?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Mr Rutter would like to talk to you.’

  ‘Why?’ enquired Matthew, after a moment.

  There was some heavy breathing. ‘He wants to talk to you, that’s all. I’m putting you through now.’

  A click. ‘Mr Halland?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think it might be a good idea if you and I had a little chat.’

  ‘I’m surprised to hear that,’ said Matthew. ‘I thought we parted fairly conclusively.’

  ‘I don’t like people nosing around where they’ve got no business, Mr Halland.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You heard what I said.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Or maybe you’re hoping to do business?’

  ‘Mr Rutter,’ said Matthew. ‘I am a simple fellow and you are mystifying me.’

  A pause. For regroupment, it would seem. ‘You were sussing out the Spitalfields corner site last week. One of my people was watching you.’

  ‘I was indeed in Spitalfields last week. And I take exception to being spied on by your henchmen.’

  There was a change of tone. Rutter became, now, confiding. Propitiatory, even. ‘And you’ve got a right to. Sometimes people get over-enthusiastic, know what I mean? You got a lot of staff, it’s difficult to keep them all in line, right? Far as I’m concerned, you could be down there for the scenery.’

  ‘On the whole,’ said Matthew. ‘And all things considered, that’s pretty well what I was there for. Not that it’s any concern of yours. But I’m beginning to see the point of this phone call.’

  ‘I thought you would. You’re an intelligent bloke, I could see that when we met. I dare say we got different outlooks, but that’s no reason why we can’t have a reasonable talk.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Matthew. ‘But what about, exactly?’

  ‘That Spitalfields site.’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest interest in the Spitalfields site.’

  ‘I think you was sussing it out,’ said Rutter heavily. ‘I think you and your firm’s working for Glympton Holdings. And let me tell you something, my friend, Glympton isn’t going to get that site. I’m getting that site. So you’re wasting your time.’ Another change of tone; the flexibility was indeed remarkable.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s you who’s wasting his time. And mine, come to that. I am not interested in the site, and neither I nor anyone else in my firm have any connection with Glympton Holdings. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy.’

  ‘So am I, Mr Halland, so am I. I don’t make phone calls to amuse myself. I’m disappointed you’re taking this line. I’d hoped we could have a nice friendly sensible chat. You think about it. I may be in touch again.’

  Click.

  Get stuffed, thought Matthew, hanging up.

  Eight

  ‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ said Alice Cook.

  Matthew looked enquiringly at her. He felt apprehension – a twinge of panic, indeed. What was coming? Cohabitation? Marriage? Surely not.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Alice. ‘I’m thirty-seven. Grey hairs, practically …’ – she grimaced, forged on, overruling Matthew’s frantic protests of disagreement – ‘Anyway … the biological clock and all that. I’ve decided I want a baby. Of course, in the fullness of time I may find the ideal guy and live happily ever after with him, but right now I’m less bothered about that than the female reproductive process. I don’t want to be a geriatric mother. You and I are a jolly good thing but we know it’s not for ever. So what I’m saying is … I want you to give me a baby. No strings whatsoever. We’ll have it all made watertight by lawyers – I don’t want you to contribute financially. My responsibility entirely. If you want to see it from time to time, that’s fine by me, but if you don’t that’s fine too. Right?’

  No, thought Matthew wildly, not right at all. Wrong, quite wrong. This was worse by far than anything he had anticipated. He felt horror, embarrassment, and a searing compassion. Dear Alice, you have no idea. That is not how children are made. Except that of course it is – the world is crawling with children made in just that way. But not mine. Not any child of
mine. Nor, I hope, before too long, eventually yours, dear Alice.

  ‘Alice …’ he began. He stopped, scrabbling for words.

  She watched him. She was wary now, going onto the defensive. ‘You don’t look as though the idea grabs you very much.’

  ‘Alice,’ said Matthew. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘I’ve never known you have any problems in that department.’

  ‘Alice, having a child is …’ He halted. Is a serious undertaking? Is painful? Is expensive? Is perhaps the most significant thing one will ever do.

  ‘Having a child takes two people,’ said Alice. ‘Unfortunately. That’s why I need some friendly co-operation. I’m not asking for much, am I?’ She gazed at him.

  He had to look away. ‘Alice,’ he said, ‘I honestly don’t think you’ve …’

  ‘All right. Enough said. You’ve got your point across. You don’t want to. OK then. Forget it. I can always look elsewhere.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Listen. Alice … I understand. I really do. At least I think I do. In so far as any of us ever understand what someone else is feeling. I hope you have a baby. But I can’t give you one. Someone else might not feel the same and that’s fine. I may be being selfish or prissy or God knows what, and I’d dearly like to oblige simply because … well, because of you. But I can’t. I can’t just plant a child as though it was a piece of vegetation.’