Lingua Franca Page 5

  On each desk, they make an effort to swivel their chair and look towards me. Everyone wants a distraction. They look at me like the President of the United fucking States. They’re the press assembly, waiting for my verdict. I approach what amounts to the lectern – the desk behind which I can stand and begin my address.

  ‘Afternoon, folks.’

  It’s rare that the whole office listens to me at the same time. They can see I’m having difficulty in my attempts to smile.

  ‘I know that many of you witnessed what happened earlier. We’ve since spoken to the police…’ It’s a manageable situation until I get closer to the actual subject. My voice begins to tremble. I feel compelled to put my hand in my pocket. ‘I’m sorry to confirm that Eden Darby, our colleague and friend, has passed away.’ Passed away is the right term. You shouldn’t announce that someone’s dead. I make a conscious effort to stop my eyes from watering. If I were to cry, it would break their faith in everything. This is the moment. It only seems real at this particular moment. I can feel Nigel’s hand against my back. Most of them ditch the professional conceit – they permit themselves to break down. They sob into their hands and hold one another. The emotion has wrought its damage. Almost everyone has blotched skin. ‘We’ve been hit by a tragedy this afternoon. I want you all to go home. An announcement about the Barrow project will be made in the coming days. It goes without saying that Eden will always be in our thoughts.’ There’s no official cue for the silence. It just happens because people want it to. It feels better that nothing is said.

  Everything seems to intensify. On my mobile phone I have five missed calls from Kendal. The press team puts out a statement, which pays tribute to Eden. The web manager transfers our files to a back-up server in the event our building were hit by a mortar bomb. Nigel answers his mobile phone, and tells a journalist we won’t make a further statement. The main objective concerns exiting the building, and how this might be achieved. From the window we can see what awaits us: a press assembly. A real one. And news cameras. I consider making a joke about how popular we are, but think better of it. Nigel pulls on a fluorescent yellow bib and tells everyone to form a queue in the corridor. Half the team are told to evacuate via the stairs, the other half via the back elevator. ‘This is not a drill!’ Nigel says. No one seems to know what it is.

  We’re the last ones to leave. We walk through the underground car park and exit through the security gate, showing our passes to the guard. Darren is there. He opens the back doors to a white transit van. He asks if I’ve had a good day, then corrects himself with ‘sorry, sorry’. His conversational template has let him down. Nigel and I sit cross-legged in the back of the van. Darren drives. We manage to travel into the centre of Stella Artois, through the press scrum. I know the cameras are there, and I know what’s coming next. Still, I turn to face them just in time for the flash. I’m sure they have a good shot. I’m sure they’ll have a headline ready, a story to run. I’m making a getaway, a cardboard cut-out villain. Cut me out and stick me on the tabloid. Press down with glue. Turn the page.

  We make time to mourn, which involves suspending work, speaking to no one, lots of sleep and the unwelcome realisation that I don’t have a life outside of my job. I make unnecessary appointments with an electrician and a bathroom fitter. The bathroom’s fine, but it would be good to know this for certain. The spotlights in my living room need to be replaced. I decide my new life mission is to replace the spotlights. I get a replacement bulb from the drawer. I pull out a chair and set about tapping the spotlight, loosening the metal spring. Then I pull it out, letting the wire dangle.

  Ptolemy rubs against the chair. In times like this, Ptolemy is more of a nuisance than something to cherish. She makes out that she needs to eat, when really she’s forgotten there’s a bowl upstairs. My mobile rings. The only thing more important than fixing the spotlight is to answer the phone.

  In my brief telephone call with the Barrow officials, we come to an understanding that we should rearrange the launch. Barrow will be Barrow for another week. The councillor offers his condolences and we agree it’s a tragedy that could have struck any company.

  Later that day I get a call from Kendal, who wants to know if I’ve heard the news. ‘Twenty-three, Miles! He was twenty-three.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s all I can fucking think about. Do you know what he said to me in year ten? He said I was his favourite teacher. Isn’t that nice?’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘He was twenty-three, Miles.’

  ‘I know.’

  She describes what I already know – that Eden jumped from the roof, and that no one could see it coming. She says that Lingua Franca should make a contribution to the funeral costs and I find myself nodding. I say a few words about Eden. He was a credit to the company. It seems like anything I say is a cause for irritation. I’m losing the contest for who liked Eden the best.

  ‘I don’t think you should feel guilty,’ Kendal says.

  ‘I don’t feel guilty.’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That he was suicidal working for you.’

  We meet that afternoon at a small dirty café. It’s an occasion that necessitates the presence of Darren, who sits outside with a cigarette and a copy of The Sun.

  ‘Doesn’t he want to come inside?’

  ‘He’s fine out there.’

  Kendal looks like she hasn’t slept. In the silence, the café seems louder than it should. Every clink of a glass seems to matter. ‘The Lord builds up Jerusalem. He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds.’ She rubs her eyes with the small, insufficient piece of tissue that came with our bacon bap. ‘I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

  She holds my arm. Were it not for the annoyingly tight seating, we would hug properly. She presses her face onto my arm. There’s snot on my sleeve. A part of me wonders whether she brought me here so that I’d have to show emotion in front of builders.

  ‘I’m making a speech at the funeral,’ she says. ‘I thought you should know.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘You don’t know what I’m going to say yet.’

  I look at her with my best don’t you dare face.

  ‘I won’t mention you.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ll mention what you represent.’ I frown as hard as I can. This is the best way of registering my anger. ‘Don’t look at me like you’re constipated,’ she says. ‘Something like Eden was waiting to happen. You think you can hide in your fortress and never think about anybody. Well, you know what? There’s a world out there and you’re responsible to it.’

  She’s quoting something, but I don’t know what. It’s how she gets the upper hand. It’s how we used to argue.

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Yes!’ She punches the air and looks around, deciding whether it’s the time or place to do a victory dance.

  I want to make a confession. ‘He wrote to me. I’m in the letter.’

  She looks at me like I’ve said something offensive. ‘Whose letter?’

  I stare.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I haven’t read it yet.’

  ‘Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins be wiped out!’ Kendal lifts her arms and laughs. Despite being an atheist, she has an obsession with religious proverbs. She sees the beauty in it. ‘You’ve got to read it, Miles.’ She’s got hold of something. She’s onto it. ‘You can change. You can repent!’

  I put my hand inside my coat pocket. I can feel Eden’s letter. I decide, on this occasion, to do nothing. ‘Shall we get the bill?’

  Kendal flings her arms upwards. ‘Fine.’ She brushes my shoulder to remove a fleck of something. She frowns at my badly knotted tie. I remind Kendal that she doesn’t need to think about this stuff anymore. ‘You can’t look like shit though,’ she says. ‘People might think we�
��re still together.’ She’s trying to remember if there’s something to be angry about. ‘Are you coming round on Friday? Please say you’re coming. I need a date.’

  ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘It’s the worst idea I’ve ever had.’

  ‘How romantic.’

  ‘If you’re lucky I’ll pay for your taxi home.’

  ‘I haven’t missed you.’

  We walk down Midsummer Boulevard, which is like a never-ending car park. There are too many open spaces in Stella Artois. I want to feel hemmed-in. I want the blind corporate reassurance of tall buildings. Darren walks alongside us. I tell him it would be nice to be left alone. He doesn’t detect the signal until I place a twenty-pound note in his palm.

  A lady dressed in a ski suit and earmuffs passes us a leaflet. ‘Ice skating, guys?’ I look at Kendal, who lifts her arm so that I might take it – a mock-courtly love sort of thing. We’re going ice skating.

  I slip on my boots and walk along the rubber, losing my balance as the blade gets caught in the groove. Kendal laughs and I give her a look that says like you’re any better! She sticks out a tongue and starts to walk, more elegantly than me, as it turns out. We lock arms again.

  ‘Look at the ice, you idiot!’ She bends her knees to demonstrate the best position. ‘You’ve got to bend your knees and glide. You’re not gliding. You’re stuck in the mud.’ I grasp for the rail. A couple of children skate past. Is there anyone worse than me? I look around but there’s no one worse. ‘Come on.’ She takes my hand and we become a duo. I manage to balance a little. I move my legs like a lamb learning to walk. We walk to the middle of the rink. Behind the barrier a crowd of mulled-wine drinkers are beginning to watch. We’re the object of their gaze, the thing to notice. Some of the children look at us. Kendal holds my hand while she does a twirl. ‘Now you try.’ I feel myself wobble. I start to move my legs and she lets me free. I begin to totter, flailing my arms like a mad swinging drunk. My foot begins to slip and suddenly I’m falling; all I can think is to clench my fists. I land hard on my right shoulder. It’s only when I limber up into a sitting position and lay out my legs that I can see Kendal laughing. She lifts me to my feet and ruffles the ice from my hair. ‘Come on, Bambi. Let’s get you some stabilisers.’

  We take an early exit and walk to the mulled wine. One of the kids gives me a high five.

  06. EXPRESSION SESSION

  We stand with the mourners, circled around the entrance. Most people seem to know each other. No one has any inhibition about sobbing in the company of friends. Some have assigned themselves the role of giving hugs; others need to be held. No one cares if they’re being watched. No one is required to control their emotion. It’s all there. The arrival of the coffin brings us all together. Someone approaches the hearse and opens the passenger doors. Eden’s family emerge. Everyone steps out of their way.

  The coffin is carried into the church. It’s not a building that inspires awe. The only reason you know it’s a church is the fact that it has a cross on the front. Otherwise it could be a school gym. It doesn’t feel like you need to wipe your feet before entering. The church must have been chosen by Eden’s parents, who want to remind us that Eden was once a good Christian boy. He wasn’t always the Eden we knew at the end. The Eden we actually liked. Everyone smiles at the clergyman, who passes a sales brochure and a pamphlet. The coffin is positioned on a platform in view of the congregation and gallery. I find a position at the back of the room, which will allow an unobstructed escape. If I sit any closer I’d be in the speakers’ line of sight. Kendal is sitting a few rows in front but I avoid getting her attention. I don’t need a distraction. The event gives us an excuse not to look at one another. Nigel is wearing black gloves, which has the benefit of being good for driving and good for public displays of sadness. By the time Nigel has positioned himself next to me, I’ve gone through the process of taking it all in. I’ve thought about what’s happening and confronted the event itself – the death. I’m a few seconds ahead of everyone else. The reverend is the first person to speak. He says thank you for coming and asks if everyone can ensure their mobile phones are switched off. One or two people are feeling their pockets for their phone. According to the pamphlet, the first contribution will be made by Eden’s father. He emerges from the back of the room. A man with soft white hair that doesn’t cover the full length of his scalp. He stands in front of the lectern without making a fuss of anything. There’s no applause. To clap would seem inappropriate. He looks at the audience for a moment and smiles to acknowledge their presence.

  ‘I know it’s hard,’ he begins, ‘but the only way we can get through this is to remember Eden as he really was. He was a kind and generous spirit. And a bloody great pain in the arse!’ Everyone laughs aloud. Mr Darby has unchained them. He has let some light into the room. ‘If we look at Eden’s life with an open mind, we can understand what he really meant to us. We can remember him in the most truthful way. And we’ll remind ourselves there was no one else quite like him.’ He manages to keep himself steady. ‘I don’t think any of us have accepted what’s happened. No matter how hard it is, we need to accept it.’ Eden’s body will soon belong to the earth, he says. But it doesn’t matter. He’s still with us. He’s positioned himself in our thoughts. He has laid claim to our neural pathways. ‘If I have one regret – ladies and gentlemen – it’s that Eden would never have imagined the love that we see in this room.’ Eden’s father is an eloquent speaker; he probably went to one of those private schools where they hold oratory classes. He probably works as a lawyer or a high court judge, not for the sake of money or power, but in the benign, paternalistic sense of using one’s influence to help those without any. Mr Darby makes a reference to Eden’s job, which made him tired and ill. It weighed him down. It reduced him to being a foot soldier in someone else’s empire. ‘When I think of his last few months, I think about a man of great intellect who wasn’t able to show it. He knew he could do better.’ Mr Darby, a post-war child who never had it so good, probably never thought his son would make sales calls for eight hours a day. ‘Yes, it was tough for Eden over these last few months. He wasn’t especially proud of his work for Lingua Franca, an organisation that seeks to franchise and rename British towns under corporate sponsorship. We used to laugh about it together. But in many ways, Eden’s story was about courage and integrity. He knew that his daily life brought little in the way of satisfaction, or even personal reward. But he never got sucked into the system. He made a pact with himself that if he couldn’t live the way he wanted – which was to live in the service of the world he loved – then there wasn’t much point in living at all. His passing is a lesson in how to live. As Eden might have said himself, to live an authentic life is the only life worth living.’

  I should avoid looking at Nigel, who doesn’t want to acknowledge what’s being said. He doesn’t want to accept that we could be guilty of anything. It’s like Tony Blair listening to Nelson Mandela’s call for peace. He doesn’t want to hear it. These are the instances where Nigel’s presence is required. Nigel knows the patter better than I do. He takes it upon himself to defend the company at whatever cost. He can make the case for why we’re not evil, despite all evidence to the contrary. I’m unable to make this argument, or summon the strength.

  Mr Darby asks everyone to rise from their seats and join him at the front. It becomes a spectacle, which involves the entire congregation walking towards the coffin. Some people simply touch it with their hand. Others watch from a distance, and mumble whatever needs to be mumbled. The mourners are as one – they’re part of a mass, which assembles itself in silence. There is a table of framed photographs of Eden. I know him more intimately now. I can feel Eden as a presence, someone who’s staked a position in my unconscious. He hasn’t existed in such a way before. Death brings him closer. Mr Darby announces that anyone who wishes to say a few words about Eden’s life is welcome to do so. A woman with a peroxide fringe makes an attempt to begin a speech.
She makes a false start – stuttering over her words – and finally admits she can’t speak. Someone lets her nuzzle into their shoulder. The silence is interrupted by Kendal, who introduces herself as Eden’s old English teacher. She taught Eden in his teenage years and knows all about his qualities. For someone who speaks in front of classes every day, Kendal has difficulty keeping her hands still. She doesn’t have the same natural style as Eden’s father, but she knows what she wants to say.

  ‘People like Eden reminded me of why I became a teacher. He was kind, generous and sweet.’ She addresses the whole of the room when she says what a popular person Eden was. She says you’re not supposed to have favourites, but it was difficult with Eden because he inspired love by the way he was. He made her job more straightforward than it would otherwise have been. ‘Eden was a natural teacher himself. He shared facts about history, or science, but never in a condescending way. He wanted you to learn something and marvel at the world’s beauty. He wanted to enrich your experience of life.’ The longer she speaks the more confident she seems. It’s like she’s suddenly able to recollect things she hadn’t cared to remember. She tells a story about how Eden once announced to the class that the dot on top of the letter ‘i’ is called a tittle. The last time Kendal saw Eden was outside a cash machine on the high street. Eden talked about his job. ‘It’s a real shame that his final months were spent doing stuff he hated.’ I manage to look at the floor. I bow my head and keep my hands clasped. Lingua Franca, renowned for its callous business ethic, will never arouse feelings of affection among the mourners. For Nigel, it’s just another procedure – something we have to get through. ‘Lingua Franca wore him out. He was made to feel that he wasn’t worth something. But he was. And while we can’t hold his employers directly responsible, we can politely remind them that no man is an island, every man is a piece of the continent.’ The applause accounts for the gratitude felt by Eden’s family and friends. Kendal spoke well. The church has become a courthouse. We’re on trial on suspicion of ruining Eden’s life.