vertical again. He poured out grateful thanks.
‘No sweat, mate. We couldn’t just leave you there, getting soaked to hell.’
‘You could have done so very easily, so I’m profoundly grateful.’
‘That’s all right, mate. If you’re okay, we’ll crack on.’ So then he hobbled home, heart full of gratitude for people’s kindness. He felt proud of England, not for its economic success but for the way one stranger readily helped another. All the same, he had not helped Om Haldar.
Kate had pleaded she was so busy unpacking. He sat down. The house was silent; Maude had probably gone to see her friend two doors away. He glanced into the garden, hoping again to see Janet’s ghost. Nothing was there. He rang the local Queen’s Bakery, but they had sold out of chocolate cakes. They had some cheese-and-bacon puffs. He was asleep in his armchair when the vicar called. Ted Hayse’s rubicund face looked smilingly at him. He said, ‘Justin, my dear, I had to come and apologize for not greeting you properly the other day. I meant no offence.’
‘And no offence was taken, Ted, thanks.’
‘That young man was telling me all his troubles. Well, most of them, to be honest, and I could but listen. The young have much to bear.’
Justin nodded. ‘Frankly, old age is to be preferred to adolescence, to my mind. Not that one has much choice between them.’
Ted looked contemplative, as if deciding what he might say. ‘Yes, that young man … well, he has a bad father and much to struggle against. A great deal depends on one’s father at a certain time in life. A good model is a great help. Our Heavenly Father of course is the best model of all.’
Justin agreed in part. ‘My father was a brave man. He was awarded a DSO for his role in Bomb Disposal in World War One – the Great War. To me he was a hero, someone to look up to, but it always made me feel I was a coward.’
Ted said sympathetically that he was not a coward. A short laugh from Justin. ‘I’m being brave about my age. Who was it said that old age is not for wimps? You know what Doris Lessing said about John Osborne?’
‘No,’ said the vicar, with vicarly honesty.
‘She said he just wasn’t very competent at life. I often feel like that too.’
‘Jesus loves the incompetent, my dear Justin.’
‘How about the incontinent?’
Ted managed to sigh and laugh at the same time. ‘You know what He said in the Gospels? “The pee-ers are always with us”.’
‘What about those who aren’t with us?’ When he started talking about Om Haldar, the vicar chipped in, saying that of course she was not a Christian but nevertheless she was one of his parishioners for a while and he had visited her, taking some of his wife’s buns with him.
‘And did Mrs Fitzgerald mind?’
Ted Hayse looked searchingly at him. ‘After all, Justin, Mrs Fitzgerald is a regular churchgoer. I cannot listen to any criticism of the lady. That would not be right.’
‘Right!?’ echoed Justin mockingly.
‘That’s what I said.’
Justin asked what they should do about the foreign girl. The vicar replied that he had phoned the Salvation Army. He told Justin that the Salvation Army was good at finding lost people and kinder than the police were when they found them.
On Thursday, Justin was due to see a doctor. Another doctor, the friendly Dr Reid. Justin woke early. His back hurt from the fall of the previous day. He rubbed some Deep Heat on his spine before going slowly downstairs, stair by stair. He took a bundle of dirty clothes with him and shoved them into the washing machine. Scalli would see to their drying and ironing, supposing she returned.
While the kettle boiled, he switched on the TV to BBC 1, curious to see what might be happening in the world, of which he was still trying to regard himself as one of its citizens, despite some evidence to the contrary. A news programme was talking about the A380, the gigantic aircraft now being assembled in Toulouse. Singapore Airlines had already ordered a number of A380s. Justin reckoned it would be worth flying in the plane, just out of curiosity. Maybe he could fly to Nias. And of course take a break in Singapore, where some of the most delectable food in the world was to be found. At one time he had worked on a documentary about the island and had been filled with admiration for the place, for its orderliness and its cuisine, as well as a sound judicial system. The weather was damp and thundery. The TV signal fluctuated. No doubt that would be eliminated when all television went digital in a year or two. He took his Carlisle mug of tea up to bed with him. According to the news, another mad suicide-bomber had been apprehended.
Dr Reid was prescribing warfarin as well as more diuretic pills. He asked, ‘Do you want some anti-depressants?’
Justin was surprised. ‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Well, you are somewhat depressed, are you not?’ ‘Are you not?’ – an interesting construction. He thought about it. ‘Well, aren’t you?’ The doctor picked his right-hand nostril slightly as he rephrased his question.
‘Whatever my problems, would an anti-depressant cure them?’
The doctor blinked at the silly question. ‘They would cheer you up.’
‘But there are genuine reasons to be depressed – I don’t mean just my problems, but about the whole bloody world, the human race.’
The doctor tapped on his desk with the end of his pen. ‘Very well. You prefer to remain depressed?’
‘I prefer to remain as I am, thanks.’ Then he found himself admitting – as if it were his fault – that one of his precious bodhisattvas had been stolen. The doctor asked what exactly a bodhisattva might be. ‘Bodhisattvas are divine beings who could be in Nirvana but instead remain on Earth to help humanity to holiness.’
‘I didn’t know you were religious, Justin.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Maybe your missing bodhisattva got tired of your cabinet and escaped to Nirvana.’
Justin laughed. ‘If only it were that easy …’
On his return home, he found a package on his doorstep. It contained four teak chair leg-risers. He was grateful and touched by this present from his friends in Logic Lane. There was no sign of a young female assistant with erotic propensities.
Kate Standish rang him. As ever, he was cheered to hear her voice. They would meet again at suppertime, when she would return his Toyota with many thanks. She was just off to work at the Aten Trust HQ – two rooms above a hairdresser’s on the London Road in Headington. He was disappointed.
The hairdresser was called the Way Ahead.
He set the leg-risers aside and worked on polishing his talk to the Wives’ Fellowship. He had decided that his topic should be on ancient inventions, some so ancient that inventions had become institutions. He would speak of orchestras and of writing, but more particularly of restaurants. After Justin had typed out a few sentences, he discovered he could not concentrate, and went out to his courtyard to admire the laburnum. The tree had grown to a considerable height and was now in full flower. He had grown it from a seed and twice transplanted it before moving it as a tender sapling to its present position by the wrought-iron garden gate. It was lovely to behold, light green leaf a perfect foil for the yellow-gold florets. ‘My princess!’ he addressed it, ironically adoring. Birds sang under the street lamps.
His mundane, humble, unique garden always calmed his spirit. He saw no need to