Beyond the Arch Read online

  Beyond the Arch

  David Evered

  Copyright © 2018 David Evered

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  ISBN 978 1788030 755

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For the people of Tyneside – with affection

  Contents

  About the Author

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

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  35

  Literary References in the Text

  About the Author

  David Evered’s professional career was in academic medicine and research. He has been a consultant physician in Newcastle Upon Tyne, the Deputy Head of the UK Medical Research Council, a Special Adviser to the International Agency for Research on Cancer (WHO – Lyon) and a Trustee of Macmillan Cancer Support. He has lived in Newcastle, London and France and is now retired. He and his wife live in rural West Berkshire. This is his first work of fiction.

  All experience is an arch wherethro’

  Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades

  Forever and forever when I move.

  Alfred Tennyson – Ulysses

  In order to arrive at what you do not know

  You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.

  In order to possess what you do not possess

  You must go by the way of dispossession.

  In order to arrive at what you are not

  You must go through the way in which you are not.

  T S Eliot – East Coker

  1

  Ann’s parting injunction as he had left for work that morning could not have been clearer. Under no circumstances should he be late for the dinner party she had arranged. Peter reached the street and glanced at his watch. He was now irretrievably late. He hesitated, wondering if he should return to his office and call but decided that this would only delay him further. He sat anxiously on the edge of his seat in the bus, impotently willing it forward, as it edged through the evening traffic. Waiting on the rear platform as it reached his stop, he looked once more at his watch. Already twenty minutes late, he suddenly remembered Ann had asked him to drop into the off-licence on his way home. What the hell was it – sherry, gin or wine or was it more tonic that was needed? It would be best to cover all bases by stocking up on the lot. He smiled inwardly for a moment at the thought of Ann trying to maintain the party with inadequate supplies of alcohol, particularly with Andrew present.

  He opened the door as quietly as was consistent with avoiding the accusation that he was creeping in. As he had anticipated, Ann was in the hallway to meet him. ‘Wherever have you been?’ she muttered. ‘They’ve been here almost half an hour. It’s not a good start to a dinner party.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I was just leaving when a client with pressing marital problems came in’. Peter was a solicitor. ‘It took some time to sort things out. She was extremely distressed, custody problems.’

  ‘You could have phoned – it’s always possible to phone.’

  ‘I know, but I was so involved and only realised how late it was after I’d left. I felt it would be better to hurry home after getting the drinks you asked me to buy rather than spend time looking for a call box. You know how often they’re out of action.’ He reflected that minor decisions which seemed eminently reasonable at the time frequently sounded less than adequate when recounted later.

  ‘I am sure you could have made time. You’d better come through or they’ll be wondering what we’re doing out here.’

  ‘Ah, the prodigal or is it the reprobate?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘Probably both, but this prodigal is not returning empty-handed,’ said Peter as he held his purchases up. He looked around at the four guests. He knew Andrew and Sue Hepscott well. They lived in the flat below. Andrew was a lecturer in economics at the local tertiary college and Sue was a primary school teacher who worked four days a week and devoted the remaining day to voluntary work in a hospice shop. Peter enjoyed their company although there was a certain antipathy between Andrew and Ann which sprang from widely differing political and social views. He had known them for a year or so before he and Ann had married. Andrew, in particular, was given to advancing challenging and, at times, anarchic views. Ann was prone to remark that he reminded her of his old friend from Cambridge, Michael Rattray, a serious handicap. Sue shared her husband’s radical political views but was more tolerant and less outspoken. She was generally happy to exchange simple domestic trivia on social occasions. The other two guests were Adrian and Blanche Rogan, an accountant and his wife, whom they had met playing tennis at the local club. They had found them consistently even-tempered and amiable and they had been invited to establish closer social contact.

  Peter greeted the four and tried to excuse his late arrival in a sentence. It was evident that his absence had provided a focus for discussion during the preceding thirty minutes. He seated himself on the settee next to Blanche and found he was being pressed for more details of the problem which had detained him than he was prepared to divulge. He disliked discussing the law socially except in the most general terms and then would do so only under duress. She was unusually persistent and it became clear that their earlier conversation, in his absence, had offered endless opportunities for speculation. The questioning became progressively more probing and the others started to listen with a level of attention which he found disconcerting. He tried to explain the legal problems relating to custody disputes in simple and comprehensible terms, although they were complicated in this instance as the principal residences of the now separated parents were in separate jurisdictions. He was just finishing his account when Ann opined that this was not a suitable topic for a dinner party and announced that the meal was ready. Peter was relieved when Andrew insisted he had only been discussing his work under pressure from the others and that he should be permitted to leave the cares of his work behind him. His relief, however, was lessened by the recognition that support from this quarter was not necessarily to his credit in domestic
disagreements.

  The party moved to the dining room while Peter collected discarded glasses and placed them in the kitchen before returning with two bottles of wine. Ann was completing the seating arrangements, male and female alternately and no husband sitting next to his wife. The conversation drifted easily, if haphazardly, from one topic to another. The assassination of Martin Luther King, the terrorist attacks by the Baader-Meinhof gang, student unrest in Paris and David Bowie’s film “2001 – A space odyssey” were all touched on and discarded.

  The dinner was almost over when they were interrupted by the telephone. Peter left to answer it. He was about to return ten minutes later as the others were entering the lounge for coffee. Ann had come out as she heard the call finish. ‘You were a long time. Why didn’t you ask whomever it was to call back tomorrow?’

  ‘It wasn’t the sort of call I could cut short. It was Jenny. Your father’s been admitted to hospital and they’re not too sure what it is. They think it’s some sort of a heart attack and that’s on top of his chest problems.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Ann sat down. ‘How bad is it? Should we go?’

  ‘The hospital apparently said that there’s no immediate cause for concern but he’s quite ill and they cannot be certain how things will progress over the next few days. It occurred to me while we were talking that it would be a good idea if we both went up there tomorrow as it’s Saturday. I told Jenny we would go.’

  Anne hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes, we should. Could you manage that?’

  ‘I can get John to deal with any urgent problems over the weekend.’

  ‘Go in and explain to the others but don’t let them feel that they have to go. I just need a little time to collect myself before I join them again.’

  He went through to the lounge. ‘It was Ann’s sister, Jenny, who has just phoned.’ he said. ‘Their father’s had a heart attack. It seems to be fairly serious, particularly as he has chronic chest problems but we really don’t know much more at present.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Adrian. ‘Where is he in hospital?’ he asked Ann as she followed Peter back into the lounge.

  ‘In Newcastle.’

  ‘Is it Upon Tyne or Under Lyme?’ asked Sue.

  ‘Oh, it’s Upon Tyne.’

  ‘I didn’t know your parents lived there,’ said Andrew. ‘I don’t remember you talking much about them. In fact, you’ve kept them very dark. Now Peter, over there, we know about his parents. He has very proper parents – standard issue of two who live in Surbiton or Cheam or along one of the more salubrious suburban lines that run out of Waterloo.’

  ‘My family have always lived in the north-east and one doesn’t talk much about parents, I guess, because we all have them.’

  ‘I suppose I might have guessed where you came from – you once told me your maiden name was Robson and historically they were border raiders, were they not?’

  Ann smiled. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Did you collect Peter on a border raid?’

  ‘Oh no, he required a well-thought out strategy and a prolonged attack.’

  ‘Are you going up there?’

  ‘Yes, Peter suggested we should go tomorrow and as we have a bank holiday on Monday we shan’t have to hurry unduly to get back. He says he can stay until Tuesday morning as he has no major commitments that day.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sue. ‘Would you like us to go?’

  ‘No, no, I should prefer you to stay – it would be a distraction. It’s a long time since I was last in the north-east.’

  ‘I’ve never been to that part of the country,’ said Adrian ‘but I’m told that the countryside is magnificent.’

  ‘I’ve not been home for a long time. The last time was eight years ago, immediately after I’d graduated. If I’m honest, I have to admit I was glad to get away.’

  ‘Why was that?’ He paused before continuing. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m probing and you would probably prefer not to talk about it just now.’

  ‘No, it’s alright.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s always been something I’ve felt uneasy about and perhaps a bit guilty as well. I always felt that the north-east would restrict and limit my horizons and ambitions. That’s why I left and came south, first to university and then, after I graduated, I stayed. The job opportunities were here. My lasting memories of the city, or at least of the part where we lived, were of a rather cheerless world. My father was an amazing man but he lost his job as shipbuilding declined and joined so many others in their fifties for whom unemployment unavoidably became a way of life. It was mainly very drab and grey but there was a bright and unreal (and sometimes surreal) night life dominated by a tinsel clubland, but that was never for us. The world of “you’ve never had it so good” never seemed to quite make it to Tyneside. People were always trying to be seen to be enjoying themselves with loud and sometimes drunken conviviality. You’re right, the countryside is magnificent, but for most of the time it was almost as remote to us as London. It really didn’t impinge on our lives in the city. Our only experience of the countryside and the coast was on our annual fortnight’s summer holiday.’

  Peter walked over and put his arm around Ann. ‘I’ve only been there once,’ he added. ‘That was after Ann had left but before we’d met. It has some wonderful and very grand early nineteenth century architecture.’

  ‘How did you meet then?’

  ‘Oh, Ann was working for a television company, as she still is, and living in a flat close to the one I shared with a friend. We met at a party.’

  Andrew had been silent for some time but said quietly, ‘You know, I taught in Newcastle for three years. I saw it rather more positively but, I acknowledge, that was with the eyes of an outsider. I never thought it was sad. It seemed to be very much a place of people, of warm, active, vibrant and occasionally violent people with a pride in their own traditions, songs, brown ale, football and their almost, at times, incomprehensible language. But Geordieland has a socially stable, independently-minded and loyal community which has grown up there. It’s sad that too many of the local people, or at least its most vigorous members, leave. Ann has left as she found her prospects too limited and sadly those who leave rarely return or discuss their home. As for the incomers: “You’re being moved to Newcastle? Where’s that? My God, anywhere but there” the clipped middle-class accents proclaim in voices in which both astonishment and pity can be heard.’

  ‘There’s something in that,’ concluded Ann. ‘But perhaps we should have this conversation another time.’

  ‘I suppose that rather illustrates my point,’ Andrew said emphatically. He was nudged by Sue and added in a more conciliatory tone, ‘I’m sorry. Of course, you’ll want to change the subject in the light of the reasons for your visit tomorrow.’

  Peter relaxed in his chair. Andrew sober or semi-sober could be expected to socialise politely; after drinking, such expectations were often hopelessly optimistic. He had managed to terminate one dinner party in a dramatic manner and his presence was generally only acceptable to Ann in the presence of Sue. The whisky glasses were refilled. Peter wondered if he should refill Andrew’s but felt that such an omission would be too conspicuous. He was relieved and reassured by Andrew’s wink as he poured him only a modest tot.

  ‘No, it’s alright,’ said Ann. ‘I might have added that opportunities for women are more limited in the north. The spirit of Andy Capp still persists.’

  Ann rarely spoke of her family or her upbringing even when she and Peter were alone. He knew she had spent her childhood in a small terraced house and that her horizons had been restricted by the steep banks of the Tyne. The sad splendour of the Cheviots and the broad sweep of the coastline had been as inaccessible to her as they had to him as a child in Surrey. Peter had never met Ann’s parents, although he had tried to understand the blow it must have been to the family when her father had been made
redundant and had joined so many other middle-aged men with little prospect of finding another job.

  ‘So you decided to make a break for freedom,’ said Andrew. ‘From my experience in the north-east it was brave to take such a step away from the tight bonds of family which are so characteristic of Tyneside.’

  ‘Yes, you could look at it that way but again, if I’m honest, I would have to admit that my motives were largely selfish, as I said earlier.’

  ‘You may be being over hard on yourself. You had the motivation and the drive to grasp the opportunity to manage and take control of your own life.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Peter anxious to channel the conversation into other waters. ‘Ann did that. None of the rest of us have taken control over our own lives and destinies in such a decisive manner. Most of us remain enclosed and limited by our childhood environment and upbringing and simply don’t have the drive or initiative to cast off the shackles which constrain us. I was brought up in an irremediably middle-class environment where I and my peers all moved seamlessly from school to national service to university to a respectable profession, well mostly respectable,’ he smiled, ‘if you include the law in that category, and then on to marriage. Perhaps society should provide us all with opportunities to develop more freely and we should have the courage to take them.’

  ‘Right, Peter Bowman, that’s all very well but how would you develop given free range?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘I suppose I rather walked into that challenge! I’m uncertain in the absence of opportunity but possibly society might or should be more accepting of changes in one’s occupational, social and emotional life.’

  ‘But why do you think society should offer you opportunities? If you feel your life is incomplete or unchallenging – should you not create your own as Ann has done? We’ve never had so much freedom and so many opportunities to break out. We were discussing student unrest and the extreme activities of the Baader-Meinhof gang over dinner. This is a time of revolution and change – or at least a time to challenge the certainties of our everyday worlds. There are opportunities if you look around you. I’m not suggesting you become a terrorist but why should students have all the fun? Most of us are simply too content with the trivialities of our lives. Would you, would any of us, have the confidence to manage an ever-changing life and the inevitable emotional and economic uncertainties which would accompany such a change? Could you, or any of us, really adapt to a free-living, free-ranging lifestyle? Would we not all soon hanker after a life of stability and certainty?’