Escape Velocity

 

It was nearly midnight, and while an episode of "Rumpole of the Bailey" murmured on the Talking Pictures television channel, Richard Troup, M.D. retired, was lost in a very pleasant daydream though day was long over.  He had put a deposit down on a holiday in the eastern Mediterranean, where he would soon be on a terrace overlooking the Aegean from Rhodes, the water a kaleidoscope of unnameable blues and greens, with just the right sprinkling of jolly cotton-white clouds drifting by.  He would make the acquaintance of an olive-complected lady, worldly, distant, even dismissive at first.  One could see in her visage the heredity of centuries:  Greek, Roman, Anatolian, maybe some ancient Phoenician.  Things to guess, not to know.

The phone was ringing, rudely evaporating his reverie.   What now?  A distressed-sounding son Arthur needed him, he said, and could he bring a certain sum of cash?  He gave the location to meet but no further explanation.  Click. No lawyers or guns? 

There was, of course, only one source of cash (not only at this hour but due to circumstances Richard faced these days after the divorce):  the holiday fund.  He was going to enjoy spending it on a delightful trip since, as it had been built up from his cash-paying private patients, and neither ex-wife nor the Revenue  had any knowledge of it.  One had to keep some things for one's self.  Well, maybe not.

Next door, Mrs. Swann was also up unusually late due to the Agatha Christie in her hands.  There was little point in going to bed before the ending -- how could there be any sleep!  Neighbor Dr. Troup's headlights swept an arc by the window.  What could that be about? she thought, always on the alert for an intriguing story.  Turning her attention back to the old paperback, she would at least find out what the deadly party guest was really up to.   Mrs. Swann had been up to something herself, with a mortifying, but not mortal, result.

 Upon Richard's arrival at the old church he drily called Our Lady of Modest Aspirations, the man present (who most closely resembled a potato)  explained the situation while Arthur kept silent and fiancee Helena glared.  Arthur, a freelance advertising rep for several local publications by day, ardently pursued his passion, a music career, at most other times.  He had recently convinced this promoter (instant relief at this revelation -- not a kidnapper, drug dealer or loan shark) that he would bring enough of a crowd to bigger venues beyond Cranleigh village -- Barnstable and Woking, for example, then on to London -- to make an investment in him worthwhile.  Ever the salesman! thought Richard.  The crowds had not appeared.

"I should have known better, even with a signed contract; I'll admit it.  But I'm out a considerable amount.  Considerable.  You can make it -- some of it, anyway -- good or I can go public with a civil suit.  My lawyer has had these want-to-bes for breakfast before."

Richard, after a frozen moment of hesitation, handed over a thick envelope.  

"Well call it even, then," the potato allowed.  "Best not to say another word, all of us."

After a straight gaze lasting several seconds directed at Arthur, the promoter got in his small van and headed back home, smacking both his forehead and the steering wheel.

"I am beyond embarrassed," Arthur said to his father.  "And I just wrecked everything, Hels.  I'm so sorry."

"Yes, you are!  And don't call me 'Hels' ever again! I hate it.  Better -- don't call me again at all."  She would have thrown her engagement ring in his face before she stomped over to Richard's car, if she'd had one.  It looks like none of us is going anywhere but home.

Mr. Swann, retired from HM Revenue and Customs, happily spent time working on the detailed Waterloo diorama which had taken over the den and at The Richard Onslow with his mates.  The silence around the house discomfited his wife not so much in itself, but did allow for too much solitary time for regret.  After years at the newspaper writing articles that quickly ended up in dustbins, she, in retirement, finally finished her mystery novel (with some added romance threaded in) and her agent got to a publisher.  

Then the roof fell in, or so it felt.  Her manuscript was rejected; some junior reader there found it was too similar to one of Emma Frances Dawson's short stories.  She could not argue her case.  It was.  The rare, obscure 19th Century volume she had found in a village used bookstore should not have been known to anyone anymore.  What luck.

Mrs. Swann had an even grander plan than a big city book signing or two.  With the proceeds from what she was sure would be at least a modest success, she was going to visit a good friend from youth who was now living in Queensland.  Tropical trees, flowers and birds...

Having to tell her husband she was not going to be published (carefully editing out the reason why), or going to Queensland, was deflating.

"Well, we can all just enjoy who we are where we are," was Mr. Swann's honest attempt at comfort.  Ugh.  Old Sartre got it right.