Ned (2)

2.

The reason why Robert was sitting waiting to board the Harwich-Esbjerg ferry was because, at the age of thirty five, he’d left his wife and two children and was now on his way to meet up with his new lover, a Danish student of psychology,  eleven years his junior.

   His leaving had been on the cards for a while, ever since his wife, Helen, had confronted him with a body of written evidence which, she said, backed up her claim that he was having a mid-life crisis and should see a psychiatrist. Like an anthropologist keenly observing a remote species, she had kept a notepad and pen close at hand over a period of some months, busily gathering her testimony. After ten years of marriage Robert had changed from the studious, respectable English teacher she had met at post-graduate college, to a slovenly, confused individual whose actions bordered on the bizzare.

   Her concerns were as follows: She said that Robert had become increasingly argumentative and fussy regarding food. Where once he would have heartily scooped up forkfuls of her ravioli, minced beef hash and meat and potato pie, he now took to pushing his food around his plate like a petulant schoolboy, complaining about nutritional value and fat content.

   There were unnatural mood swings. One moment he’d be sitting brooding in his study (quite normal), the next minute he’d be running about the garden in a state of manic exuberance. On occasion he would laugh out loud for no reason. Why, she wondered ?

   Worst of all there was his sudden preoccupation with death. One afternoon, having returned home early from work, she had caught him lying on the sofa in his pyjamas. He was listening to Mozart’s Requiem and reading one of several library books covering different aspects of human annihilation. These books ranged from a self-help guide about the consequences of family bereavement to a study of burial practices in Borneo and Senegal. There was also a glossy book concerning architectural design which, on closer inspection, revealed itself to be a pictorial odyssey of crematoria through the ages.

   He was becoming sloppy in his dress. Instead of the sombre, understated colours he had worn since they’d first married he was affecting gaudy shirts and silk ties – quite inappropriate wear for a teacher, according to Helen. Also, one morning, as Robert was shaving, she had caught sight of an unfamiliar garment.

   ‘What on earth are those ?’ she asked.

   Robert half swivelled in her direction and said – not without a hint of sarcasm – ‘I believe they're called briefs.’

   ‘But you always wear boxer shorts’ Helen observed. ‘White boxer shorts.’

   ‘Well, I thought it was about time I brightened myself up.’

   ‘Why should you want to do that ?’

   ‘What’s with the third degree ? Can’t I even change my choice in undergarments ?’

   On this he turned a further ninety degrees, revealing the embossed image of a familiar cartoon character. Helen inhaled. Sharply.

   ‘There’s a picture of a duck on the front of them.’

   ‘Yes. It’s Daffy Duck. I bought a set of three from the Warner Brothers shop. I know Daffy Duck isn’t exactly high culture but he’s always had a special place in my affections.’

   She was staring open-mouthed at her husband’s munificent bulge and the face of a madcap duck was staring back at her. It was at this point, she told him, that she concluded that something was seriously wrong. And she wasn’t going to rest until she discovered what it was.

*

Robert too had felt the shuddering of mental and physical change. He had become aware of it on a fateful day in February.

   During the mid-morning break he had peered into his holdall to discover that Helen had forgotten to pack his thermos before he left for school. So, he made his way to the vending machine which stood opposite the staff room. He placed his twenty pence piece in the coin receptacle and pushed the button labelled white tea. Nothing happened. He tried to retrieve his coin but again the machine refused to comply, after which he offered the gadget a couple of light blows with his palm and waited for his drink to be dispensed. There was nothing untoward in this. Robert had often seen members of staff hitting the machine in order to secure their drinks order. On one occasion he’d walked past and seen Trevor Atkins, the geography tutor, merrily thumping away with a rubber mallet.

   Robert thumped the machine again. Still nothing. More blows followed but it stoutly – obstinately – continued to refuse his command. By this time a small crowd of onlookers had gathered – a few malingerers from 4b and one or two of the younger children too frightened to venture out into the playground. The more that Robert hit the dumb apparatus the more he felt himself engaged in a trial of strength. A sort of universal battle was beginning to play out with Robert in the role of galactic warrior, pitting his wits against the mechanised forces of evil, epitomised by the square, lifeless hulk before him.

   ‘Avin trouble, sir ?’

   ‘Can’t you get your hand up high enough, sir ?’

   By now Robert had indeed tried to push his hand up into the opening which dispensed the plastic cups. His intention was to thrust his middle finger into the machine’s pelvic region where, he suspected, a rogue cup might have become lodged. Instead he found his hand wedged between the sharp edges of an internal chute and his whole body contorting in an ungainly attempt to free itself. Sweating, panting, reddening around the gills, the heckling from the adolescent crowd – which was becoming increasingly salacious in tone – all caused Robert to shed thoughts of propriety and instigate the action which would eventually change his life.

   In a fit of uncontrolled anger, having finally released his hand, Robert hit the machine with such severity that the Perspex front shattered. There followed a loud hissing and whirring of mechanical intestines after which hot liquid gushed forth from five separate udder-like pipes, dousing Robert as if carrying out divine retribution. Right on cue Mrs Hipkiss, head of English, revealed her ample form in the staff room doorway. Her precise words on seeing Robert and the pulverised machine were: ‘Good grief! What on earth do you think you’re doing, you silly little man!’

   Robert was still hunched and his left hand was pushing against the machine’s thoracic region. His shoes and trousers were soaked in a sticky cocktail of tea, coffee, and chocolate, his legs simultaneously burning but devoid of pain. He turned to the stern-faced harridan and said, with a ferocity that took even Robert by surprise…..

   But we will not hear what Robert said to Mrs Hipkiss. Suffice to say it was vulgar, indecent, and base. He seldom insulted people – at least not to their faces – but Mrs Hipkiss had always irritated Robert and for good reason - she was an outsider who had been appointed head of English over the heads of incumbent members of staff. What’s more, Robert had applied for the post but it was made clear to him by the board of governors that his leadership qualities were, in their opinion, somewhat ‘lax’. And as a final indignity he wasn’t even granted an interview.

   Many times he had wanted to vent his true feelings towards Mrs Hipkiss but had, of course, found himself mouthing nothing but polite, subservient phrases in honour of his departmental head. What joy he felt as he launched his well-chosen missiles in her direction. But every action has a reaction and the following day Robert was summoned to the headmaster’s office and promptly suspended. (Was he suspended for wilfully damaging school property or for conduct unbecoming a member of staff ? Robert remains, to this day, unsure.)

   Ordinarily the prospect of dismissal would have given him cause for concern. For years he had laboured to stifle that working class insouciance regarding work and affected, instead, the resolute manner of the paternalistic middle classes. Yes, despite pretentions to the contrary, that is what he had become. And he despised himself for it. In Robert’s new middle class world appearances had to be kept up - friends, neighbours, acquaintances from undergraduate years, and, worst of all, Helen’s despicable parents. Oh, how he could see them gloating at his downfall! Helen’s mother, perched on the edge of the sofa, a cup of tea within easy reach, chirruping the party line that Robert was a dreamer, a soft touch, always had been – well below par for her perfect daughter. If the incident with the vending machine had happened a year previously, Robert would have been suicidal. Instead he was relieved. He felt like a man suddenly presented with limitless opportunity. And yet he was also aware that something odd was going on. He wanted to feel suicidal – or at least a failure – but no matter how hard he tried he found himself unable to do so. He searched for clues as to why he was feeling this way. Then he realised – he was deluding himself. There was no reason for Helen’s notebook and pen, no reason for desperate, artificial self-analysis. Both of them knew the root cause of his crisis but were simply too afraid to admit it.

   The truth was that when Robert punched a hole in the school drinks machine it had been a year to the day since he’d last experienced an erection.