Chapter 4: Philanthropy
Should happiness be what we strive for, anyway? Rose Thomas looked up at the vaulted ceiling, and hymn numbers spaced out on pillars. Solo worshippers leant forward, chins raised, expressions identical. Candles burned on either side of the lectern, and behind, the vicar’s voice rose and fell in waves of determination. The air tasted earthy, she thought, and the soupy half-light made the trees beyond the windows a vivid green.
A child in a helmet sidled up to her on a scooter, as a woman leapt after it from the crèche. The child turned to give Rose a smile, a cruel reminder of what she had done four days earlier. And to think she had come to church to feel a sense of eternity; to hear words as comforting as the sound of the sea. She lowered her head.
At the end of the service, a list of the sick was read out by a woman with outsize glasses. Names without stories: what tragedy crouched behind them? Ethel, Margaret, Peter, Francesca, Nina, Rupert. Rose wanted hers added, too. Pray for Rose, please.
Peace Be With You. People stood up and were shaking each other’s hands, sharing this greeting under thick clouds of organ music. She joined them. No, she wouldn’t let anyone make her feel guilty. It was her body, after all. But no need to tell Archie. In fact, she planned to return to London tomorrow and apologize. He would do anything for her, she knew that. The vicar raised the silver goblet higher; just enough to catch a beam of sunlight.
*
Midday. The buzzer sounded. To the uplifting strains of Summer Holiday, a band signed to his label Get Better Records, Archie vacuumed, tackled the washing-up, and stacked the fridge with bottled beer. He prepared his biggest smile. You can bluff happiness, he knew that much.
“Benedict!”
They embraced, Ben’s lemony aftershave so insistent of their student days.
“Nice place.” He was the same as ever: dark cropped hair, honest face, bright eyes.
“Beer?”
“Thanks.” They walked through the living room.
“And here are the grounds,” announced Archie. They sat thigh to thigh on plastic chairs, the two of them filling the terrace, the day grey and humid. “So what’s been going on?” he asked, stuffing a handful of crisps in his mouth. “Sorry, want some?”
Ben helped himself. “Well, as you know I’ve been putting my hand up a cow’s bottom forty times a day for the last three years.”
Archie pulled a face.
“And you know what they say? It’s nice and warm in winter, and cool and shady in the summer.” A hand reached for the crisps again.
“Hope you’ve washed them.” Archie swigged his beer. “So what happened with Daniel anyway?”
Ben shrugged. “I caught him with someone else, in the flat. It’s not funny−” He slapped Archie on the knee, smiling. “He was doing my head in. Arguing the whole time. Sitting on his arse, using the recession as an excuse.”
Archie shook his head. “Sounds like you’re best off without. Rose ain’t coming back, either.”
“Why?”
“Don’t understand it one bit.” Sadness threatened to engulf him − “We’d even talked about having a kid.”
Ben pulled out a packet of cigarettes, and lit one. “Maybe she’s pregnant already.”
Archie shrugged. They were quiet for a moment, the smoke curling around the bump in their minds.
“Two weeks in London!” Ben stretched back, arms hitting the flimsy bamboo fence. “Two whole weeks without cows’ bottoms!” He laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t put you out that long. Anyway, how’s the music business?”
Archie snorted. “Are you having a laugh?” He stood up and nodded down the road. “There’s a great pub round the corner. You can buy me a pint.”
*
If you take away sadness from life then you’re removing a big and good thing, Marianne thought, hopping down the stairs two at a time to an empty kitchen. Her flatmates, Laverne and Henri, who she had found online, were not a couple but were always out together; filling the kettle she imagined their laughter in the bars along Kingsland Road. Still, if other people are happy, I’m happy.
She sighed. It had been nearly twenty four hours since she’d emailed this Archie Bryant – “You wrote in my notebook, remember? If you’re a real person, drop me a line. Wouldn’t that be fun?” – and there was, as yet, no response. Now she had to face the hours, the long hours of waiting; punishment for her bad habit of expectancy. Anyway, she reasoned, it was the weekend, people were busy. And she should really revise her notes on Lean Green Cars, the eco taxi company in Highbury where she was starting tomorrow. If only Dalston market was open on a Sunday, to distract her with its pigs’ trotters, spices, mint leaves, booming reggae music, and fish lined up like ties of different colours – pink, silver, golden, grey, white.
Spoon clinking in mug, hand on her hair, she had a brainwave. She would help people. A pensioner across the road. A blind man stepping off the train. Philanthropy, she said aloud, enjoying its sound. Could it be the start of a blog?
Serendipitously, the email clocked in shortly afterwards.
“Hey Marianne, it’s Archie – I didn’t think you were real either. But who are you?”
Too short! And quite strange. Who was she? How could she answer that?
