He was suffering from a headache, doing nothing. A woman called Hester phoned Justin. She said they had gone out together forty or more years ago. Did he remember? He pretended that he did. It was absurd of her to ask such a question. Hester? Hester who? She was having an exhibition of her abstract paintings at the Greystoke Gallery in Oxford. She hoped he would come along. ‘Are you all right, Justin?’ she asked. ‘You sound a bit down.’
‘I’m okay. Are you all right?’ He had already forgotten what she had said her name was.
‘I’ve been having a terrible time. I caught a bad dose of flu at the beginning of last year. Of course, I’m middle-aged now. Well, a bit more than that, really. I mean to say, my Maggie is coming up for thirty-one. It’s sad to see your children grow old, and I know she doesn’t get on too well with that daft husband of hers. Anyhow, it took me ages to recover from the flu – and then I went blind in one eye.’
‘That was bad luck, Hester.’ Her name had come back to him. He thought he had better pronounce it before it was gone again.
‘Well, for an artist, you know … I thought it was the flu but the doctor said it was the acrylics. I’ve just gone through the laser treatment and, thank God, my sight’s restored.’
‘Was it painful, the treatment?’
‘So here we are, talking about our illnesses …’
‘It’s an occupational hazard when you are eighty.’
‘Really! I’m only sixty-nine, you know. My friend Terry – I tell friends it’s short for Terylene – she says the reason why no one likes old people is because all they can talk about is their illnesses.’
Justin chuckled. ‘She could be right. Add a smell of wee …’
‘I hope you will make it to the Greystoke Gallery. It would be nice to see you again. Or at least interesting. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, my father has died.’
Hester? He tried to conjure up a face. No luck.
Justin Haddock (or, as he prefers, Haydock) is eighty years old, and there are many faces he can no longer conjure up. For him, life is rich in small events, even phone calls. He values its everydayness, knowing he will not live for ever. To survive for a goodly number of years is all very well, thinks Justin. The vital thing is to maintain something of a social life; it is there that enjoyment lives. This is not so easy when one’s wife – as in Justin’s case – has died. Or did Janet go to Carlisle? Surely Carlisle had just been a silly joke. It had become stuck in his throat like one of his warfarin pills. And again, he wondered about the world in which he lived: and about the lives of those about him. There might be someone hiding in his house of whom he was unaware. Supposing Maude unwittingly brought in a villain, a thief … He stood gazing out of the window. He was fine. Must not fall over … He seeks for an understanding of why we live our lives as we do – an ample enough theme for any novel. One thing in particular he likes about his mother-in-law Maude is her rejection of what he termed ‘the Christian rigmarole’ – the idea that bodies locked into a coffin would be resurrected and face judgement somewhere, perhaps in a celestial version of the Old Bailey. How could anyone believe that in the twenty-first century? Yet because of his religious upbringing, his rejection of the ‘rigmarole’ produced in him a certain feeling of unease: an unease justified by events, and by an alien religion.
A long while ago, back in the 1960s, Justin made a name for himself with a televised two-parter play entitled, The Worm Forgives the Plough. Justin wrote the screenplay from a book of that title, and took over as its producer at the last moment when the original producer fell ill. It was a lucky opportunity which lifted his career. The Worm Forgives was the story of a man who had served in World War Two and afterwards deliberately chooses the harsh life of a small farmer, to be close to the natural things he thinks most important. Carthorses and all that. And a beautiful woman who had been a Land Army Girl. This production marked the beginning of Justin’s comparative fame. That fame is long behind him. Now he is adjusting to obscurity as well as decrepitude. Old Headington is a real place. It is a stony suburb of some antiquity within the embrace of the city of Oxford, where forgotten things belong. Most of the characters in this story are fictitious. They are not real. Nor am I Justin Haydock; but Justin’s pains and uncertainties are real enough – all a part of experience. If you are fortunate enough to live that long. Only in your eighties do you realize how beautiful the world is. Or parts of it.
Justin was proceeding slowly along the Croft, an ancient walkway situated beside a high and venerable wall which runs from one side of Old Headington to the other. He encountered a thin man with a lined tanned face. It was Jack Hughes, unmistakable in that yellow jacket, the fellow who had applied for the job of gardener and then decided against it. He was leading his small black dog on a length of string. He put out an arm and stopped Justin. The sleeves of the jacket shot up almost to the elbow, revealing a tattooed arm and a red fist. He asked how old Justin was. Justin told him. ‘Nice dog you have there.’
‘You and that woman with you made fun of me,’ Hughes said. ‘Don’t you have no sense of feeling?’
‘I’m sorry, it was just a joke. We were not making fun of you.’
Hughes lowered his arm. ‘Talkin’ French at me …’
‘Speaking a word or two of French is not in itself an indication of a lack of feeling.’
Hughes still looked threatening. Nor did the dog look particularly friendly. ‘Yes, you was makin’ fun. I don’t like being made fun of. I would beat you up if you wasn’t so old. You made fun of me just because I’m poor and down on me luck. I’ve had a rotten life. It’s all I can do to keep myself together. I got no friends I can trust, apart from this here dog.’
In an attempt to mollify, Justin said, ‘I like your dog.’
‘It don’t like you.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Hughes shot Justin a glare of hatred, hunching up his shoulders to deliver the glare. ‘I don’t s’pose you are. Why should you be? My mother died the day I was born. Cold and waxen. Cold and waxen she was. I can never get it out of my mind. I go to church. I pray. But always there’s that death of my ma in my mind. It was so unfair. An aunt looked after me. Kind enough, religious. It’s like something lodged in my mind.’
Justin bit his bottom lip. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Mr Hughes. Please accept my apologies if we offended you, but I must get on.’
‘Do you read your Bible, may I enquire?’
‘Of course not. I have no religion.’
‘That’s Oxford for yuh! You could learn som’ing. Take Ezekiel.’ Hughes reined in his dog and struck a pose to declaim, ‘“Also out of the mist thereof came the likeness of four living creatures. And this was their appearance; they had the likeness of a man—”’
‘Fine, thanks, great stuff, but I must be off. I have to go to the bank.’
Hughes seemed not to have heard. He continued his quotation, with gestures. ‘“And every one had four faces, and every one had four wings.” It’s going to be like that and I’ll be glad of it!’
‘It’s nonsense, man. Ezekiel must have been raving mad, face up to the fact.’
Hughes stuck his face close to Justin’s. The dog sniffed his trouser leg. ‘I served my country. I was in the Falklands War. What does this rotten country care about me? It’s like