I said, ‘June, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened.’ I paused and swallowed. ‘I’ve had some problems,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have let them affect me in the way they did. From now on, things will be back to the way they used to be,’ I said. I moved my hands from behind my back. I handed her a bouquet of roses.
(If I can just come in here: those flowers — they were not really my idea. I had bought them as a result of a tip I received years ago from Simon Myers, my first pupil-master. If ever you have woman-trouble, he told me, buy them flowers. It always works. They know it’s a trick, you know it’s a trick, but they love it all the same. So I bought June roses.)
June accepted the flowers in silence. I stood there for a moment with my hands in my pockets, but I received no response. Then, as I turned away, she spoke.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You’re back.’
I gestured by raising my arms, Here I am, as you can see. I gave her an apologetic smile.
June said, turning to look me in the eye, ‘Did you have a good time? I hope so, because it’s been a complete nightmare here. I’ve had the worst couple of weeks of my life.’
I felt bad about what I had put June through, but I was not ready for this kind of conversation. I said in a soft voice, ‘Don’t say any more, June. You don’t know what happened. Things have been difficult for me just recently.’
‘Well, they’re going to get even more difficult from now on,’ June said. ‘What are you going to tell the partners?’
‘I’m going to tell them the truth,’ I said.
In the middle of the conference room at Batstone Buckley Williams is a large egg-shaped table bearing four decanters filled with water. I was seated at one tip of the egg, the twelve partners were seated at the other. They were all looking down at the portion of the table in front of them and toying with pens and paper-clips. Directly in front of me, fourteen feet away, sat Edward Boag, the senior partner. Just above his left shoulder the sun shone straight in my eyes through a gap in the Venetian blinds. I was hot, and I knew that my damp forehead was glistening in the rays.
The meeting was called to order. Boag looked embarrassed. Mumbling anxiously and tugging at his big ears, he stated the purpose of the gathering: to hear and consider the explanations I had to offer in respect of certain complaints made against me.
Boag put three matters to me. The first matter was the complaints the firm had received from various clients — some of whom had long-standing connections with the firm — who alleged that I had neglected their cases. He read out the clients involved and the gist of their allegations (these complaints, I realized, related to the work I should have been doing when I was writing about Donovan). The second matter was the Lexden-Page incident. Tugging hard at his ear, the senior partner described the incident as he understood it. It was to be noted, Boag mumbled, that Lexden-Page had taken the matter to the Law Society, and they were demanding an explanation from us. Then he moved on to item three, my abrupt departure from work eleven days ago. Boag coughed delicately and asked me whether I agreed with the facts as he had stated them. I said I did. Then he coughed again and said that this was a most regrettable matter. Only once in his forty-two years at the firm did he recall a meeting of this nature. Unfortunately, the conduct in question was on its face so serious as to require immediate investigation and, if necessary, action of a disciplinary nature. In considering what action to take, the partners were keeping all options open. Did I understand the gravity of my situation?
I did, I said. Then I put my side of the story to the partners. I explained to them how my brother Charlie had been seriously ill with intestinal cancer, and how my inability to concentrate on my work came as a result of my worry for him. The perpetual hospital visits, the operations, the chemotherapy … (Here I asked the meeting to forgive me for a moment and paused to gather myself. I took a deep breath and continued.) The incident with Mr Lexden-Page, I said. Yes, that was truly unforgivable. All I could say about that was that I had received the news that morning that my brother had slipped into a coma. That said, there was no excuse for the way that I had spoken to Mr Lexden-Page. My departure from work was to visit Charlie. (I coughed before continuing.) I could reassure those present that I would not be seeing Charlie on the firm’s time any more. Charlie was dead, I said. Three days ago he had passed away.
I cleared my throat and stole a look up the table to see how the story had gone down. Pretty well, it seemed. No one was moving a muscle.
After a profound silence punctuated by the sounds of pens dropping, Edward Boag spoke up. To my surprise, he seemed irritated. ‘Yes, thank you, Jones. It’s a pity we didn’t hear all of this a bit earlier, though, isn’t it? Never mind,’ he said, not waiting for a reply, ‘it can’t be helped now.’ He picked at his ear. ‘Thank you, Jones, you can go now unless anybody has any questions.’
I went back to my office. Half an hour later I received notification from the partners that in view of my bereavement I should have some days off. A final decision about what action, if any, they would take would be made on my return.
NINETEEN
I did not react to the news of my reprieve. I did not move from my chair. My body felt heavy, as though it had been leaded down for some underwater journey. I weighed a ton.
Then I thought: this time off that I had been given — what if it was to give the firm time to check up on my story? Any private eye worth his salt would find out inside a couple of hours that I had told a pack of lies, that my brother Charlie was as fit as a fiddle, working in a bank in Chester.
Of course they would check up on my story. They were not stupid.
I forced myself to my feet. An idea, a long shot, had occurred to me. I would look in my personnel file and see if there was any indication there of exactly how much trouble I was in. You may think it ridiculous, that the confidential deliberations and decisions of the partners should be placed in such a vulnerable place, but it is amazing how often bungles of this nature occur in organizations like Batstone Buckley Williams. There was always a chance that I would find out something.
I stepped into the personnel office and walked nonchalantly over to the filing cabinet. I opened my folder.
There was nothing which bore on my current position. But then I saw something else. A letter with a 6 Essex Court stamp caught my eye. It was signed, Michael Donovan.
26 October 1978
To whom it may concern:
I can confirm that James Jones was my pupil for six months. My recollection, so far as it goes, is of an industrious and capable young man. I can recall nothing to suggest that he would not be an asset to your firm.
At first, I thought nothing about this curious little discovery — at the time I was too numb to think about anything. Then, that evening, something puzzled me. The reference was dated 26 October 1978, about a month after I had finished my pupillage with Donovan: why, then, did he give the impression that he was racking his brains to think of something to say about me? If he had been referring to a pupil of some years past, or to someone he barely knew, then it would have been understandable — but we were talking about someone who, until thirty days previously, had seen him more often and more regularly than anyone. We were talking about me, not some fly-by-night. Why, if that was so, did he have such difficulty in bringing me to his mind?