Jeremy nodded. “The personal and the political equal parts of the same thing?”
“Quite. And by ‘political,’ we’re not talking party politics. We’re talking everyday life.”
“Mmm. And what exactly is your part in that, Maurice? From the super-spook perspective. You must be risking your neck a bit with this Ripurpantzov plan. Tricky selling it to the top brass, I should have thought.”
“There are times, Jeremy, such as now, when the balance of global affairs has shifted so drastically that one senses the imperative to do something about it without asking anyone’s permission and let the devil take the hindmost. You chose to leave your past life behind in silence and without a clue of what was up ahead. Such a choice is also open to me.”
Maurice shrugged and fiddled with his pipe.
“That word ‘choice’ yet again,” said Jeremy.
“Indeed. But, as Jean-Paul Sartre remarked, ‘Commitment is an act, not a word.’ According to him, if we are truly to be, first we must use our freedom to choose, then we must act in accordance with that choice.”
In Jeremy’s mind distant bells rang, reminders of the philosophy bit of his PPE programme all those years ago. “So we don’t just exist like the other animals.”
“Quite. In Sartre’s view, human essence is supposedly beyond mere existence.” Maurice chuckled while sucking at his pipe. “Mind you, a proper cock-up we’ve made of our superior powers so far, have we not? By wrecking the very planet we live on, just for starters.”
“Maybe that’s why Barry became a gardener,” said Jeremy. “To save the last patches he could. Like this bluebell wood.”
“And more power to his elbow. I wish him well. Meanwhile, there remains this little favour I was asking of you. Any further thoughts?”
“I’ll think it over. If I’ve come this far, I could go a little further, right?”
“Up to you, old chap,” said Maurice, tapping out the ashes of his pipe on the heel of his shoe and making sure they didn’t set fire to any undergrowth. “Your choice. Now should we make our way back home? People will be wondering where we’ve been for so long.”
Back at the Shepherd’s Hut, Dennis and Julie had asked Barry why Jeremy and Maurice had gone off on their own, to which Barry replied, “Oh, you know just a little ramble. Some project Maurice has in mind. You’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure. Meanwhile cups of tea all round perhaps? I also have some rather good Hobnobs we could chew on.
“Sounds good to me,” said Dennis, mussing Colin’s ruff with one hand and Hans’s with the other from his armchair while Shirley lay curled at Julie’s feet. Pete had opted to sit outside awaiting his master’s return.
“Want a hand with the tea and biccies?” said Julie.
“Many thanks,” said Barry. “Tell you what, I’ll brew and you can carry. How would that be?”
Julie grinned. “So it’s the girl that gets to be the waitress?”
“Oops, sorry, no offence intended, I promise you. So, to remedy matters, how about you brew and I’ll carry. How would that be?”
“Perfect. But no bags okay. When I make tea, I need leaves and a pot.”
“Follow me, Julie. A pot you shall have and access to leaves of many varieties from builders’ to lap sang su chong. I shall leave the blend to you while I prepare my tray.”
So off the pair went into the kitchen, leaving ex-copper Dennis/Betty to wonder what all the fuss was about. Where Dennis was concerned, girls were just girls and tea was just tea.
Mind you, when Barry returned ten minutes later toting the tray from which Dennis took his mug and sipped, even he was obliged to hoist his eyebrows and declare it the brew the best he’d ever tasted.
“Mmm,” he said, licking his lips. “Perfect.”
“My old dad’s recipe. Glad you like it,” said Julie. “Goes nicely with Hobnobs.”
Colin, Hans and Shirley agreed as they were given pre-dunked biscuits to try.
“Raaf, raaf,” they chorused, each sitting dutifully on their bottoms in the hope of more.
It was once everybody was seated again, happily sipping and dunking while offering the dogs the odd snack that Julie asked Barry for further elucidation of the question which had been nagging at her ever since her arrival at the Shepherd’s Hut, namely: what exactly was it, this choosing and being chosen business. Okay, she could see why Jeremy might have wanted to change his life around, as indeed Dennis/Betty had. But…
“How might that also apply to you?” said Barry.
“Mmm, yes.”
Normally Julie Mackintosh refused all questions about herself but now was not a normal time and Barry was a bloke—one of the very few apart from her father—she was starting to trust.
“Well,” said Barry, “Given my recent faux pas on the waitress issue, you would be forgiven for not believing me, but I am and always have been a feminist.”
Julie raised both eyebrows, Dennis blinked, and Barry nodded.
“Yes, I am,” he confirmed. “I was never much impressed by the bra-burning and such antics, and was even more underwhelmed by their latterday little sister postfeminism because both rendered women easy prey to male mockery. But I believed and still believe in the vital issue of consciousness-raising, which to my mind was always the nub of the matter. And, interestingly, where it coincides with the ‘choosing and chosen business’ you asked about, Julie.”
Dennis excused himself saying this was all a bit above his head and anyway he needed a pee.
Julie was interested though. “How?” she said, all ears.
“Well, in both cases what we are concerned with is ‘know thyself,’ as both Socrates and Plato pointed out. How can we understand other people if we don’t understand ourselves, they asked. Sadly for many people such a question is relegated to the very depths of their psyches because they are so preoccupied with erecting an impenetrable self-image that to ask it would be inviting disaster. They are what they seem and that image needs to be constantly reinforced. Am I making any sense?”
Julie nodded. “Lots of it.”
“This is true for both men and women,” Barry continued. “But it seems to me that it’s women whose façades are the hardest to maintain. Call it a glass ceiling, call it anything you want, but even in these supposedly liberated days, it is still they who are the most exposed to the unexamined, predominantly male, assumptions of family, social class, race, religion, etcetera. The age old myths die hard.”
“In other words, we are always already chosen,” said Julie, reflecting ruefully on Sir Magnus’s view of what he still referred to as the gentle sex. “Still moving to the rhythms of others.”
“I couldn’t have put it more neatly myself. It seems you have just answered your own question.”
“Well, that kind of a life is not for this girl. Not anymore.”
Barry laughed. “I’m glad to hear it. Mind you, not all of us men are the blighters I describe. Some of us have done a little of the necessary thinking,” he was saying as Pete took to oinking and there came the knock on the door announcing the return of Jeremy and Maurice.
Julie ran to open it and took Jeremy by the hand.
Twenty
Sir Magnus Montague had taken even more steps towards becoming a new man and to honouring his promise before magistrate Dame Sally Swinburne to become more socially aware. He had, for example, written to PM Clarissa saying he didn’t want to be a knight of the realm anymore and she could give his gong to anyone else she fancied, although his recommendation would be a deserving overworked person in the National Health Service. Nurse Angeles Rodriguez and Professor Doctor Hugo Printemps would be excellent candidates, in his view.