Chapter 18 Intermission

Returning to The Up North near five I took a last look around, everything that had happened now wiped clean. I felt sad, as if the moment I closed the door it would be as if I’d never been there.  ‘Will I be back?’ I thought.  I slung my bag on my shoulder and closed the door, Andy sweeping as I arrived at the gym.

“This it?” he said.

“Yep.”

Climbing into his cab we wound through the city and I took in all the things which had become so familiar; the mountain, Dunkin’ Donuts, the mall.

“So, are we going to see you again?” he said as pulled into the bus station.

“I think so, need to get some more money together, but…yeah, I think so.”

Spending a final night in Bangkok I walked Khao San Road returning to the restaurant where I’d sat with the cops.  CNN playing on the wall and a caption telling of thousands dead in the south, I turned away considering what I’d do in England.  I hadn’t really made a plan yet, just had a sense returning was the right thing to do.  Going back to my father’s home didn’t seem to make sense; it would be no different to the last time. I thought about where else I could go.  Manchester was the only other place I’d lived, I thought I might go there, book into a hostel, find a job in a bar until something better came along.

On the plane to Heathrow dozens of tourists were dressed in bandages, our arrival delayed as Police came on board to give a briefing. 

“As you may be aware there’s been a significant incident in South East Asia, Thailand being one of the worst effected countries.  For anyone involved in the incident we have a team of professional counsellors and medical staff awaiting you in arrivals.  In addition, the incident has courted considerable media attention, for anyone not wanting to answer questions we ask you to make yourselves known.”

With that I was away, passing teams wrapping people in silver blankets I entered arrivals as reporters thrust their microphones over the barriers, “Were you in the affected area? can you tell us anything about your experience?”

Moving silently forward I located a Costa Coffee and took the cheapest cup on the menu.  I didn’t feel like I was home yet, the foreign voices around me giving me the sense I was still in foreign lands.  I pulled out my diary and wrote down my plan; Manchester, hostel, job, rent a room, get a better job, buy a house, resurrect my degree.  That seeming good enough I sipped my coffee.    

At the National Express coach counter a young afro-Caribbean sat coolly in a casual blue shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows in defiance of the cold outside.

“When’s the next bus to Manchester?” I asked.

He tapped his keyboard still looking at the screen as he began to speak.

“There’s one in ten minutes via Digbeth, Birmingham, is that O.K?”

The moment he said Birmingham I thought about my family, about Emma.  It was Christmas and I hadn’t seen them in months.

“Is there one that doesn’t go via Birmingham?”

“Another hour and a half for that one and you’ve got to go via Coventry, it’s a lot faster via Birmingham.”

“I’ll take Digbeth.”

On the journey, I began to consider home, ‘Perhaps I should see them,’ I thought, ‘In fact, perhaps I should go home full stop’.  I didn’t have much money left and Manchester might have taken the last of my savings, at least I could regroup at home, perhaps move to my grandparents. 

Arriving I took a taxi to Stuart's, I was going to ease myself in with a friendly face and an interested ear but finding no one home I returned to Horton Grove.

“Paulo, when did you get back?” Emma beamed as she opened the door.

“This morning.” 

I loved surprises, one minute on the other side of the world, the next arriving on a doorstep unannounced.  As news of my return filtered through the family rushed around buying belated Christmas presents and I enjoyed a week watching festive T.V.,  I did Muay Thai in the garden once but there didn’t seem any point.  I still ran to burn off excess energy and completed my conditioning exercises, but that was it.  No one asked what I’d done, over one meal I enthusiastically told them but no one cared. 

After a week I sat down to formalise my plans for the next few months, deciding to resurrect my degree in philosophy which gave me just enough time to make the May exams. I called Yaa several times, but when I moved to my grandparents I stopped.  There just didn’t seem any point, thousands of miles apart, no plans to see each other again.  It was a cold streak I’d developed after my marriage, one moment loving someone as best I could and the next cutting off.  I immunized myself against hurt by always putting myself first.  I made plans and people fitted around them, but the plans always came first.  It was my way of maintaining order, ensuring the world I created was my own; where I went, how I spent my time, that was up to me.  A long distance relationship fast drained your resources; money, time, anxiety. 

When I moved to my grandparent's everything fell into place. I was given my uncle’s old room and they didn’t want rent.  I spent mornings preparing for philosophy exams and afternoons trailing agencies for work.  Signing onto Job Seekers Allowance I found the seventy pound allowance covered my outgoings and for six weeks I did nothing but the routine.  I ran in the evenings and when not looking for work made Starbucks my home, borrowing books from the library and plugging gaps where I still had questions Rousseau’s social contract, The Great Russian Thinkers, Eastern Philosophy.

It was the first time I’d lived with my grandparents, I remembered how I’d looked up to them when I was younger, my grandfather knowing everything, but seeing their daily routine I was overcome by a feeling of pointlessness. Filling days with chores, every evening watching whatever was on T.V.. My grandparent’s catchphrase was ‘We’re so busy’, but 'Busy doing what?' I used to think.  When my grandfather had worked they’d still got everything done; now it seemed they’d stretched the mundane to fill their days; vacuuming on Wednesday, dusting on Thursday, the weekly shop filling Fridays. 

After lunch one day I stood in the kitchen washing dishes with my grandfather. 

“So, what is this degree you're doing?” he asked.

“Philosophy.”

“Yes, yes, and what exactly is that?”

I’d been dumbstruck, the grandfather who known everything not even knowing what philosophy was.  It confirmed everything I feared about what I was doing, a worthless pursuit with no practical point, but for me it was the thing I valued most. 

“Philosophy’s the history of ideas, you know, beginning with the Greeks, it’s at the root of everything, the first people to investigate why things are the way they are, the best way to live.”

“Yes, yes, but what are you going to do when you finish that?”

“Teach English in Japan.”

It was another pre-prepared response, my degree nothing more than a ticket to a decent career and my family bought it.  In my own mind I still had no idea what I was going to do, just knew I had to have answers and without them I couldn’t stop.

It seemed so contradictory to me, my grandfather, like my father had been the utmost professional at work but their fundamental beliefs were treated like popcorn.  They’d say they were Christians, but pressed they’d have conceded they didn’t believe.  Wasn’t that worth getting straight? Hadn’t the neglect of the bigger questions allowed economics to usurp faith, wasn’t that why a whole generation were growing up wondering, ‘What’s the point?’.  Nights were when I felt most ill at ease, no desire to go out I watched D.V.D’s and made occasional visits to Stuart’s.  I could feel the niggle again, ‘Is this all there is to life? To retire and watch T.V.’.

As I searched for work the only place which would hire me was the employment agency itself.  Their sole client, the same gas company I’d worked for in Manchester. I was working with two younger girls, one pretty and organised, the other overweight and whinging.  It was an easy job, checking candidate paperwork, collecting passport photos, calling employers to check references and after three weeks I was redundant again.  They kept me on for a week longer than they should have and I sat practising Chinese and musing over how I was getting money for nothing.     

At home my grandmother was chef, expertly preparing meals and insisting all the bad things were good.  Margarine was good, cakes were good, pork was good, but in the best shape of my life I wasn’t going to lose it.  I read a Weight Watchers guide and restricted myself to 2,500 calories a day.  They said things had to contain less than five percent fat, so I found things with less than three; vegetables, bread, yoghurt, chicken. 

I ate sparingly, calculating my daily intake as I sat to every meal.  For the first time I felt my stomach empty, its walls contracting as it searched for something to digest.  ‘Intelligent eating’ I thought to myself.  I’d hover over my grandmother in the kitchen, everything I ate had to be grilled or boiled.  Pudding unnecessary, toast unbuttered, when I snacked, it was carrot sticks.  Watching as the final layers pealed away I stood in front of the mirror admiring my six-pack.  I changed angles, checking every one to make sure it was real, sideways on, front on, angled to the right, angled to the left, I had it. 

Back out of work and into my daily studying I applied for a couple of jobs from the newspaper, one selling loans and the other as a debt counsellor.  It was more extremes, one selling people into debt and the other lifting them out of it.  Attending the interview for the first job I was overcome by the drone phenomena.  Thousands of intelligent people cooped up in an office selling something they didn’t believe in to people who didn’t need it. 

It was a smart building, views over the city, a Starbucks in the basement.  Before my interview I collected a free cappuccino and stood watching a flurry of snow covering the rooftops.  It gave me a feeling of joy, like the feeling I’d had watching the lanterns in Chiang Mai, a feeling of change, confirmation that the world wouldn’t be the same every day. ‘I can’t do this again’ I thought ‘work for some soulless company, the unenlightened boss, the colleagues who’d talk about football and gossip.”

The second post was more inviting, located in a converted warehouse I’d still be on a phone but people seemed to have soul.  They were making things better.  Getting through the first cut I particularly enjoyed the writing task about my journey to the interview.

“I finished up my cigarette as the 37 approached, climbing to the second floor for a picture of the world, tunes jumped from a teenagers headset…”

Completing my second panel interview I was sure I had it. I’d told them about how I’d helped my wife her straighten out her debts, my hunch reinforced by an overall feeling things had gone well and the director smoking the same brand of cigarettes.  I didn’t, when I got the call I didn’t take it badly, I took it as a sign.  They wanted someone who was going to stay and I wasn’t.

I thought over what I was going to do for a couple of weeks, turned down the job in the call centre and decided my studies were the most important part of my current plan.  I thought of going to London to be close to my university.  For a long time ‘London’ had been a word I couldn’t say, the place which had taken my wife, but it was different now, enough time passed the word was no longer attached to the painful memories.  Preparing for the move I went to Borders and purchased a Lonely Planet guidebook.  I was going to make it another adventure, I’d discover Chinatown, visit The City, become familiar with the tube. 

Picking out another title recommended by a friend from India I moved to Starbucks and began reading as I earwigged two girls talking about God, how a friend believed he’d seen an angel.  People's beliefs struck me as outrageous at times, the ones accepted by society far more wild than mine but in a way it was seemed better that way, in a world where so much would remain a mystery most people needed something to believe in, something that got them up in the morning and kept them moving through their routines.

The recommended book was a short story about a young boy seeking treasures in far off lands and returning to find it where he’d started.  I read it from start to finish that afternoon. The central message being, when you strike out after something forces conspire to help you get there, and if they don’t, perhaps you didn’t really want it in the first place.  Reading about the author I saw he’d loved to write, discouraged by his parents they’d put him through electric shock treatment, but he hadn’t stopped.

Before making my move to London permanent I did a recce day, taking the morning train to Marylebone and walking the streets. I hadn’t been in London in years and the quiet surprised me; small parks, grand looking buildings standing gentlemanly along the streets.  I walked past a few hostels, trying the bell at one and receiving information from a security guard. 

In the afternoon I moved to my university, lunching in a nearby café and then finding myself among the tourists in the library.  A list the greats who’d studied there was on the wall, individuals who’d been there for a time and passed on, the place seemed more like a museum now, a place where people would gape and gawp ‘You think Gandhi sat in this chair?’, ‘Would Marx have read this?’.

Back at home for a week I looked at jobs in The City, but charity fundraising was the job I knew I could do.  The company I’d worked for before having fixed teams in the London I called ahead arranging to re-train in Oxford. Arriving that weekend it seemed odd being back, sat with the rookies listening to how important it was for charities to acquire regular donors.  They were all in their twenties, mostly foreigners wanting to see a bit of England.  When I’d joined it had been about what we were doing and our instructor that day echoed the sentiment.

“I used to be a drama teacher but when I was working as a missionary in Romania I heard about this job.  I phoned my old man who’s a minister and told him about what I was thinking about doing, he said ‘Go for it’.  Four years later, here I am.”

I’d thought it might have been a long-term thing for me for a while, but the total consumption of my life had proved too much.  All jobs were the same at home, they demanded total commitment, whether you were working behind a checkout or running a company it was all or nothing.  You had to be dedicated or at least pretend you were, tell yourself this is my future, my reason for being, my passport to a life in the world.  I’d been happy to help for a while, but seven days a week hadn’t left much time for living. 

In a break I chatted a recruit who’d run a campaign for Amnesty International.

“Yeah, just done a bit of Muay Thai in Thailand and before that China, I was teaching in China.”

His eyebrows narrowed at the mention of China, “That’s somewhere I’d like to go,” he said, “Some of the worst human rights violations in the world.  You know about Falun Gong?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like to spend some serious time there.”

“But you know what’s funny?”

He looked at me with interest.

“Everyone in China had a smile on their face, they don’t work too hard, they spent evenings with their families.  I talked to a bar owner about how they didn’t get to vote.  You know what he told me? People didn’t care; whoever they voted for wouldn’t make a difference.”

I’d met people like him in Asia, missionaries wanting to turn Buddhist into Christians, human rights activists who wanted to bring down governments.  I’d wondered why they couldn’t take a lesson from the cultures they were trying to change; this is the age of leisure, start relaxing.  He looked so serious, like every thing in the world was wrong.  I guess I’d felt the same for a time, resentful of the BMW drivers, determined everyone should build a well in Africa.  I was more realistic now, I still wanted to do my bit, but I was going to enjoy my life. 

Arriving in London the manager of my hostel was a French lady with a poodle.  Showing me my room it was student accommodation; bed, desk, wardrobe, breakfast and dinner included. Opposite Hyde Park the location was as central as it got and I spent my first evening walking to Chinatown to watch Liverpool beat Juventus in the European Cup. 

Taking the tube to work the following morning I met my Asian team guide and an Indian lady with a PHD in renewable energy.

“O.K., today we can work anywhere we like, Paul you’re with me,” he’d said

He told me he was a university dropout living with family in Tottenham and the job was good for money.  By day three I’d signed up a single Korean student, the area manager coming to speak with me.

“So, what’s going on, you not got going yet or what?”

He was a salesman in a suit.

“To be honest, I’m not feeling it.  I worked on Water Aid before and I was passionate, but this. I just don’t see Amnesty as being as important.”

“Don’t say that to me, I don’t want to hear that, every charity is exactly the same.”

“I disagree, sorry but that’s just the way I feel.”

“I’m not happy about this, not happy at all.”

He hadn’t been happy, he was a fuckwit.  He didn’t give a shit about charity and to have someone like that tell me all charities were the same was bullshit. 

Returning to my hostel I ate a meal in the basement.  It reminded me of school dinners; dry croquets, fish in breadcrumbs and a semolina pudding.  ‘I’m done’ I thought ‘I can find something else to do, I’ll let the people who care about Amnesty, do Amnesty’.  

I met my team in East Ham the next day handing over folder and bib and spending the afternoon walking The City, the beating heart of the British economy. Sometimes it was referred to as The Square Mile, almost exactly a square mile.  It was incomprehensible to think about how much money and power was concentrated in that block.  As if the rest of the country could have sunk into the sea and as far as the economy went we’d hardly have noticed, the buying and selling of invisible things somehow generating profits which maintained Britain’s place in the world. 

Wandering between the towering offices it felt romantic, gazing up at the Gherkin, crossing the steps of the old coffee houses where trading began.  A Saturday, it was deserted, like a movie I’d seen after a nuclear war, a place where people worked but no one lived. I imagined myself working as a broker; I’d been educated through Oxford, taken straight on by a firm, a six figure salary, an apartment overlooking the Thames.  Computer trading hadn’t come in yet, I was in the pit shouting frantically “Buy Arm, buy, buy, buy”, my hand raised, tie lose around my neck.  I’m scribbling frantically on my pad, my heart thumping, sweat warm on my face but moving too fast to care. 

The next day I visited a branch of the job agency I’d used at home, handing my C.V. to a girl who looked like all the other girls who worked in agencies; smart, indifferent to what she was doing, seemingly efficient.

“What do you want to do?” she asked as I sat sipping water.

Now that’s a good question.

“Anything really, something that pays.”

“Well, I think we have just the thing, you’ll be working in a publishing house.  Nothing too exciting, just organising the books in the archives, does that sound interesting?”

“Sure, sounds good” I didn’t think so at all, but I knew what I had to say. 

“Can you start tomorrow? They need someone right away.”

“Tomorrow, yeah, that’s great.”

“I want you to be sure, we’ve had a couple of people not turn up.”

“Yeah, it’s fine, sounds good.”

Back at my hostel it wasn’t good at all, another shitty job.  Agencies didn’t care what sort of job they put you up for, as long as your C.V. ticked the boxes, as long as they could score their commission.  What was I going to do?  London was expensive, ‘Do I want to stay?’ I asked myself.  That night I made up my mind to leave, the agency would have to grin and bare it.  ‘So what do I do now?’ I thought as a familiar anxiety rushed through me, ‘The Legion?’, ‘Thailand?’.  I still had three and a half thousand pounds, I knew the routine. 

Thinking about when to go the present seemed like the opportune moment. Heathrow a tube ride away, I could book a flight and be gone the next day.  I called up a few travel agents but none had a flight before the end of the week.  I sat back   ‘How about I going home for a week, drop off what I don’t need, do it properly’. 

I pulled out a letter from my sister Emma,

‘BB (Big Brother), no matter where you are or what your doing I’m always thinking about you - Best of luck LS (Little Sister)’.

Flicking back through the book I’d read the previous week I considered what it was about, the path, the instinct that I was in the wrong place, Pirsig’s static latching, jumping until I found myself a place conducive to the life I was trying to create. The only hard thing was returning home.  My grandparents really thought I was going to do it in London, ‘He’s going to get himself a real job, make something of himself’ they’d thought.

I called from Marylebone telling Emma I’d be back that evening, no one said anything for a couple of days.  I managed to get a flight for the end of the week and buying travellers cheques I gradually filled my bag.  I’d go a little heavier this time, laptop and D.V.D’s to fill the dull moments.

Needing another book I returned to Borders and bought a title recommended by a South African from my fundraising course.  It was based on a true story, the Australian author getting divorced, becoming a heroin addict, a bank robber, escaping from prison, living in a Bombay slum.  It was just what I needed, a tale to make my own life seem sane. 

The only thing I had to get through was the final family meal.  My grandfather’s birthday he wanted to take us out and I felt obliged to attend.  Keeping conversation to small talk my father brought up The Legion, I’d mentioned it loosely at the end of a dinner, telling them I’d considered it while on my previous visit to Thailand. 

“So, what is this Legion thing, you don’t know anything about it,” he'd scoffed.

We never talked about anything meaningful, but with a couple of drinks inside him he’d picked his moment. 

I didn’t answer turning to my mother’s brother, “So what’s next on the agenda?” he asked me. “Are you really joining The Legion?”

“Thailand, I’m going to get myself fit and if it feels right, yeah, I might have a go.  I need challenges, you know me, I can’t stay around here like these guys do.”

“Well, I think it’s great, keep in touch, and if you do come back make sure you visit.”

He knew the score, Oxford educated, he hated talking to them as much as I did.  Not that we didn’t love them, they just didn’t seem real.  Never talking about feelings, never talking about what was important to them.  I couldn’t be around people like that, all emotion on hold, all new ideas taboo. 

The morning of my departure Emma took me to Starbucks and wearing my gym t-shirt the waitress asked about Muay Thai.

“It’s Thailand’s traditional fighting sport; I’m going back train for three months’.

I was excited as I spoke, my life suddenly re-invigorated, ready to leap off the cliff and throw myself to a place where I felt alive.  Over coffee Emma told me about attempts to resurrect a relationship with a departed boyfriend and I asked about her plans for university.  She’d been damaged by my mother’s death and living at home only made it worse, my father talking about her needing counselling, being unfit for university.  I could see how she’d benefit from being away; my only reservation was that she was doing what was expected, going to a good university, studying fashion, preparing for a career. 

I wanted her to know how much she could do.  How the world would open up if she took time to dream of a life for herself.  But she was smart, and deep down I knew she’d find her way.  I’d push an occasional book into her path or mention an idea, but I wasn’t going to tell her what to do.  It seemed everyone evolved through a battle between influences and instinct, her instincts strong enough to ensure she’d win the fight.

Leaving me at the bus stop she wished me a farewell and I was back with my bags.  A sunny day the driver stowed my luggage and I climbed on board, sitting at the front for a view and putting on my stereo to listen to a band they’d covered at the Riverside Bar.  The Afro-Caribbean driver putting on his own tunes I switched off to listen.  He looked relaxed, humming along to Mowtown in his fingerless leather gloves.  I thought how simple it must have been; turning up, driving somewhere, driving back, evenings with his wife, no one looking over him, no one telling him what to do.  He just had to drive.  It made me feel relaxed to see someone like that, but I knew I couldn’t do the same.  I was on a fast track, a mission to answer questions and restore meaning.  If life burnt me out before I reached the sun, so be it.

Waiting to change buses at Victoria, I opened my laptop and watched a scene from The Last Samurai.  There were so many things I loved about it, a Westerner cast in the Asian culture, a warrior battling his demons, drinking himself to sleep, re-finding himself through a different way of life, I saw myself, being beaten until he couldn’t stand, I saw myself. 

‘You do not fear death, but sometimes you wish for it, is that not so?’

An older lady came to sit beside me, I’d seen her earlier looking lost and carrying half a dozen hippy bags you’d buy in India, like a traveller who’d returned home and not known where to go.  I’d had the urge to talk for a while but she was mumbling to herself now, ‘Is that how I’ll end up?’ I thought. ‘If all my plans come to nought, back here, penniless, nowhere left to go.’