Lamplight in the Shadows (16 page)

Standing at the living room window of his flat, James was experiencing an overwhelming sense of heaviness. Perhaps it was the effect of the slow strains of Mahler's fourth symphony emanating from the radio or maybe it was that outside depicted the depressingly familiar scene of Bishopsworth preparing for the forthcoming festivities. For many, the seasonal ritual was a time of delight. For James, the garishness and conspicuous consumption represented nothing more than coarse consumerism.
Where is the beauty of it all?
he asked himself.

‘Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour, England hath need of thee.' He spoke the words of Wordsworth aloud and from memory, finding strength, as he often did, in the words of the great poets and writers at times when his soul was in need of propping up.

‘We are selfish men,

Oh raise us up – return to us again

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power!

Thy soul was like a star and dwelt apart:

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea

(Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free),

So didst thou travel on life's common way

In cheerful godliness – and yet thy heart

The lowliest duties on itself did lay.'

He paused, as though to allow the words to sink deep within and start to work their magic. Melancholia was a comforting retreat when all else was wrong in the world. It was where he spent a lot of his time alone these days. Cocooned and insulated, by the beauty of music and poetry, from the commonness and harshness of the world he inhabited by circumstance of birth.

Had the world ever been different or was it always thus? What about Milton and Wordsworth, Shakespeare and Byron, Keats and Shelley? Had they the good fortune to live at a time when things were different? Alternatively, had they experienced the same pangs of doubt and wistful longings that so frequently pierced the armour plating behind which he, James Armstrong, often unsuccessfully, tried to shield his fragile core? Maybe there was no dissimilarity? Perhaps the same forces, which drove those great minds so many years ago, were still at work in the world today. If so, how does one harness them and make them work to alter the lives of the aimless masses in the streets below?

He stood, gazing at the scene, yet not seeing the detail. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the vortex of time. He often tortured himself with those and similar questions. Yet, no answers ever returned, no matter how long he dwelt on the subject.

The telephone rang and returned his thoughts to the present with a jolt.

He hated the shrill sound telephones made. During six years of hospital medical practice, telephones and bleeps had summoned him this way and that, regardless of the time of day or whether he had eaten or slept, and oblivious to the fact that he may have been on duty for the past seventy-two hours or more. He now saw them as instruments of torture; their ringing nothing more than the barbs of acoustic arrows sent to pierce his peace and tranquillity.

He took a mouthful of gin and tonic, set his glass down on a table and picked up the receiver.

‘Dr Armstrong.'

‘
Good evening
, Dr Armstrong. How very nice to be able to speak to the man himself instead of that dreadful answer machine you insist on using.'

‘It serves as a useful barrier against those determined to deprive me of any form of life of my own when I am not on duty.'

‘So, do I take it that you are on duty today?'

‘No. I just forgot to switch the telephone over.'

‘Then I assume that I now rank as one of the plebeian masses determined to spoil your sanity?'

‘No, of course not.'

‘Good. I am
sooo
glad.
It comes as a great relief to know that the great Dr Armstrong still has time to talk to his little brother.'

‘Jules, you are impossible! To what do I owe this honour anyway? You only ring me when you want something.'

‘Tush! A more shameful sleight on a fellow kinsman I have never known.'

James laughed. ‘It's the truth, Jules, and you know it is.'

‘Well, my dear brother, on this occasion I am going to prove you wrong. But before I do, what are you doing at the flat alone?'

‘How do you know I am alone?'

‘I rang your home number and Janice answered. She said you were at the flat. Which raises the question as to why you are there and not on duty, whilst your
darling
wife is all alone in an empty marital home? Is all not well in
Chez Armstrong
? Or am I being too inquisitive?'

‘No, just very perceptive, as always, Jules. Janice is not quite the “darling” wife at present. I'll tell you all about it one day, but not right now.'

‘Then, perhaps my little proposition will assist in that process.'

‘Go on; I'm listening.'

‘What are you doing the weekend after next?'

‘From memory, I think it is free. I know I am not on duty, but I would have to check my diary to be sure there is nothing else.'

‘Forever the cautious one. James Armstrong's Rule Number Two: never admit to having your diary near to hand, in case you have to commit yourself to something.'

‘Jules, you really are terrible to me!'

‘I just know you too well, brother. You forget that I lived with you for your first twenty years – well, eighteen to be precise.'

‘Seventeen years and eight months, if you
really
wish to be precise,' replied James, referring to the exact difference between their two birthdays. ‘Anyway, what is supposed to be my “rule number one”?'

‘Never answer the telephone unless compelled to do so, of course.'

‘Ok, you win; I'm free that weekend. Now, why do you want to know?'

‘I'm inviting us to Christmas lunch with our parents.'

‘But Christmas is still another five weeks away!'

‘Yes, but will you be able to get to that far-flung corner of the British Empire known as North Devonshire on the 25
^th
December?'

‘No, not with the demands of the practice.'

‘No, of course not. Neither will I, because good old British Rail will find a reason to close down the entire network over the holiday period. Therefore, I propose that we have a family Christmas lunch in early December, whilst we can all get there. I trust that Janice will honour us with her presence or have you unravelled too much of her knitting for her to temporarily forgive you?'

‘Janice doesn't knit.'

‘Oh, God, James, give me a break! Do you know that for somebody with a string of post-nominal letters, you really are quite dense at times! It was meant as a
euphemism
. I suppose you
do
know what one of those is or do I have to buy you a dictionary for Christmas?'

‘Truce. Yes, alright. It sounds a good idea. Do I assume that Mum and Dad know what you are suggesting? After all, you know what they will want to do, don't you?'

‘Yes, to the latter; no, to the former. Nevertheless, I am sure they will be up for it. I will ring them later when I've had a few more drinks. A second bottle of claret helps to make Mum's incessant chatter easier to follow.'

‘That would sound dreadful if I didn't already know what you mean!'

‘Makes one surprised that Father is almost teetotal, doesn't it? Anyway, I'll check it out with them and ring you back with the details.'

‘And I'll go and see if I can pick up some of Janice's dropped stitches.'

‘Good man. Speak later.'

‘Bye, Jules.'

‘Bye, Jimmy.'

‘Jules, I am not Jim—'

James' protestations were cut off in mid-sentence as he heard a click and the line went dead. He replaced the receiver and smiled to himself. His younger brother was at times irascible, frequently impetuous and often a rogue, but never unforgivable.

Picking up the almost empty glass of gin and tonic, he drained the last drop and headed into the kitchen.

If ever anyone needed a clue as to the occupant of this particular flat, in the sense of that person being male or female, then the kitchen would give the game away. In general, the flat was spartan in respect to its furnishings, but otherwise tidy and clean. The clues within the kitchen were to some extent the contents of the fridge – a loaf of bread, a small tub of Flora margarine, a pack of cheddar cheese, some UHT skimmed milk, a carton of orange juice, twelve small bottles of tonic and a freezer full of ice cube bags. The rest of the clues were outwith the fridge – a box of Twining's tea bags and a large bottle of Gordon's gin resided on the top of the fridge, whilst a few tins of soup and one of baked beans languished in a nearby cupboard. There was no other food.

He pressed out a couple of ice cubes and dropped them into his glass. The sound of gin splashing over the top of them, with the resulting cracking noise the ice cubes made, was a sound that always gave him a sense of contentment. He smiled as he levered the top off a bottle of tonic and added it to the glass. Having small bottles of tonic was a luxury he allowed himself; Janice would be appalled if she knew. However, there were few things worse in James' view than, when desperate for a decent drink, finding the tonic has gone flat. Making a mental note to buy some more lemons, he returned to the living room and flopped down in an armchair.

For a moment, his gaze fell upon the telephone and he considered the proposition he had just accepted from his brother. It would be good to see his parents again and, besides, he always enjoyed the Devonshire countryside. However, he was not so sure how Janice would react to the plan. She had never before agreed to visit his parents' home. Despite his parents' attempts to welcome her into the family, she had never quite fitted in. There was always a degree of tension that stemmed, so he thought, from the unspoken view of his mother that Janice fell somewhat short of the wife she had once envisaged for her eldest son. Up to now, meetings had therefore always taken place on ‘neutral ground'.

‘Oh well,' he said aloud as if to emphasise the point. ‘If she doesn't want to come with me, then I will go alone.' He took a sip of gin.
After all, it is Christmas and the family has not been together for many years
, he continued, finishing the thought in silence.

On the radio, Mahler's symphony finished and, following a few brief announcements by the presenter, was replaced by Mozart's
Piano Sonata in A Minor
. Listening to the lively arpeggios and chords of the first movement, the fingers of his free hand tapped out the notes on the keyboard of an imaginary piano.

The year has passed quickly
, he thought. In fact, it had passed much too quickly, with seemingly little to show for it. It was as though, having become a partner within the practice one year previously, someone had then pressed the pause button on the rest of his life. He had failed to progress (at least to any significant extent) his plans to pursue the priesthood, the house in Barminster was yet to go on the market, and there had been no move to find a new house in Bishopsworth. In fact, Janice had rarely set foot in the practice area, showing a level of interest that bordered on indifference.

‘My year in limbo,' he said aloud, reminding himself, in the process, of the title of one of Winston Churchill's books,
The Wilderness Years
. The concept did not sit well with him. Time was not to be wasted but treated as a valuable commodity, each passing second being one that could not be used again.

‘Memo to self,' he continued, ‘must be more diligent in 1992.' But how, exactly, when there were obstacles such as the state of his relationship with Janice that stood in the way? It was a question he increasingly asked himself and had no ready answer. The very contemplation of the problem was enough to give him a deep feeling of unease.

He took another sip of his drink and sat back in the chair, the glass balanced in his lap, his eyes closed. The second movement of Mozart's piano concerto was entitled
Andante cantabile con espressione.
Forgetting his disturbed thoughts
,
he now allowed its gentle, flowing melody to waft through his ears and brain until the very music was coursing through his veins, carrying him to a plane of contentment which, so it seemed to him, existed somewhere
en route
to heaven. Perhaps he would leave worrying about 1992 until it arrived.