The Big Frog Theory - 2
The weekly serialisation of my Magic Realism novel.
THREE
‘Where to, Sir?’
The driver’s voice roused Neville from his general state of paralysis which had been induced by the fleeting sight of the tea shop exploding into the road. He looked along the aisle of the bus (he was sitting about half-way down) and saw the driver wrestling with the ancient controls.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘Where to, Sir?’
There was some attempt at cheerfulness in the literal repeat, but Neville wondered whether — despite this — he detected a fading note of enthusiasm in the voice of the speaker. He wondered how long the Old Boy had been ferrying people around like this. In his pocket he could feel the firm edge of the now-folded menu, and — lifting his fingers to his nose — was reacquainted with the smell of the cheese straw. Those last few moments came back to him.
‘Where do you usually go? I mean, what’s your route?’
Conveniently, the traffic lights ahead turned red with a sly wink. The bus stopped, and the driver shifted in his seat to face his solitary passenger.
‘Route, Sir? I don’t “usually go” anywhere. I mean it’s entirely up to you; begging your pardon.’
Neville marked the contrast with Hans; the subservient tone, the deferential air. Despite his still unresolved situation, now that he was out of the tea shop he felt a little more in control.
‘Well, I need to go back to my car.’
‘Your car, Sir?’
‘My car, yes. I parked it in that pay and display place down by the station. Take me there. That’ll be fine.’
The driver hesitated.
‘Sorry, Sir; but I don’t think you quite understand...’
‘Lights.’
In front of them the green now shone and Neville’s observation forced the driver to return to his duty and press on. The bus swung unsteadily left, then gradually downhill (a little right all the time) until it came to the car park. As they pulled in, Neville notice two things: the first was that someone appeared to be examining his car, and the second that his was the only car there. This latter fact seemed strange as he distinctly recalled there had been just a few spaces left when he had originally parked. Indeed, he now realised that, apart from the old bus in which he was now riding, he had not seen any other vehicle since he had left the tea shop.
‘How much to do I owe you?’
The driver looked quizzically at him as he prepared to disembark.
‘Owe me? Nothing, Sir. Really.’
Neville, a little exasperated at the seemingly constant repetition of every question he posed, shrugged his shoulders and stepped down onto the tarmac.
‘I’ll wait,’ the driver called after him.
‘There’s no need; I’ve got my car.’
‘I’ll wait anyway, Sir; if you don’t mind.’
As he walked towards his car, Neville realised that he was beginning to feel a little better; a little more “normal”. Perhaps it was the fresh air, or the accumulation of coffee he had drunk in the café. He remembered the menu in his pocket and the cheese straw; and he remembered his conversation with Hans, and the three options. But here, out in the open, he now felt much less inclined to believe what had happened. The notion that he might have been hallucinating came back to him, but this was only partially satisfactory as an explanation; there were too many unanswered questions — such as where were all the other cars?
Ahead of him, the figure — cloaked in a long fawn raincoat — was bent over the bonnet of his car; he appeared to be rubbing the headlights. As Neville approached, he straightened and turned towards him.
‘Your car?’
Neville was confronted by a well-built man who, he guessed, was in his early fifties. From what Neville could see, he was smartly dressed beneath the raincoat and carried himself with a remarkably upright stance. He boasted a stunning handlebar moustache which was so long, it seemed to leave his cheeks and disappear behind his ears. Neville guessed he might once have been a military man.
‘My car? Yes, it is.’
‘Um.’ The man paused. ‘Fine machine.’
‘Not really. I mean, it’s only a bulk standard Ford. There’s nothing spectacular about it.’
‘Nothing spectacular?’ The man stared at Neville as if he was verging on insanity. ‘Nothing spectacular?! I’ll have you know that this is one of the finest vehicles ever made.’
‘Really?’ Neville felt he could only humour the other man.
‘A superb example of British craftsmanship. Magnificent! And such a wonderful colour!’
Neville looked at his maroon Sierra (which he suspected had been manufactured in Spain) and wondered exactly how long the old soldier had been drinking. As he moved towards the driver’s door, the man tried to block his way.
Neville, whose perceptiveness seemed heightened, shouted ‘ATTENTION!’ as loud as he could — and while the other drew himself to his full height, clamped his feet firmly to the tarmac and straightened his back even more, Neville slid round him and opened the door.
‘I say,’ a large hand landed on the open door frame, ‘that was rather cunning, you know. Still, I admire a man with a little guile.’
‘Thank you. Just a hunch, you know. Now, do you mind?’
‘Look. How would it be if I offered to buy the car off you?’
‘Buy it?’ Neville felt a stab from the cheese straw which was suddenly awfully firm. ‘But it’s only an old Sierra. It’s not worth very much.’
‘Perhaps not; but all the same...’
Neville hesitated.
‘I need to get back to Birmingham.’
‘To where?’
‘Birmingham. I’ve got things to do.’
‘Yes; of course.’
Slowly, the old Soldier unbuttoned his raincoat. For a moment, Neville expected to see a sawn-off shotgun or some semi-automatic weapon of Eastern European extraction hanging from an inside belt loop. Instead, the coat revealed eight internal pockets — four on either side — with bundles of cash peeping out from the top of each.
‘I can pay.’
‘Yes, evidently.’
‘What would you want for it?’
Now it was Neville’s turn to straighten. He faced the man, eye to eye.
‘What’s it worth to you?’
‘Five thousand?’
The car was, at best, worth no more than fifteen hundred pounds. He would never expect to get two thousand for it, let alone five. Was there a catch? He eyed the soldier cautiously; the offer seemed genuine enough. He remembered his deal with Hans. If it wasn’t true, if he had imagined the whole affair and there was no such thing as “3A” or “3B”, then selling the car would still net him a cool three-and-a-half grand profit. He couldn’t lose.
‘Very well, I can see you drive a hard bargain,’ — Neville had said nothing — ‘I’ll make it six thousand, and throw in two thousand for the lights.’
The man extended his hand. Neville paused but a moment, then shook it. Seconds later, the Soldier was divesting himself of the cash from his pockets — a thousand pounds from each — and depositing the money into Neville’s hands.
‘Any idea how I might get back to Birmingham?’
‘To where?’
‘Home?’
The Soldier turned and glanced at the bus. The driver was standing by the door, watching the conclusion of the transaction. Neville nodded. The driver nodded back.
‘Yes; of course.’
A few minutes later, Neville was once again back on the bus. He had removed the Menu and the cheese straw from his pockets and wrote
Car: Eight Thousand Pounds
under the previous entry. As the bus jolted into life again, he could see the old Soldier standing by the car, stroking its lights.
‘You know’ — this time Neville had chosen to sit at the front of the bus, almost alongside the driver — ‘that guy gave me about five times what the car was worth.’
‘To you, Sir.’
‘What do you mean, to me?’
‘Five times what it was worth to you, Sir; or what you might have paid for it yourself. He simply paid you what it was worth to him.’
‘But it was only an old Sierra.’ Neville was inclined to debate, but sensed that might be futile. He changed tack. ‘Did you see the way he stroked the headlights?’
‘Always does, Sir.’
‘Always does?’
‘The Colonel; that’s what we call him. Loves cars. Always buying them — though he can’t drive of course.’
‘Of course!’
‘He had a son who used to work in the Rover factory just down the road. He died when a two litre Vitesse fell from the over-head conveyor. Squashed him flat. It was his job to put the lights in you see; but he never quite managed it on that Vitesse.’
‘But that was a Rover, not a Ford.’
‘Ah well, Sir, the poor old Colonel can’t tell the difference. He just loves cars because they remind him of his Son. That’s all. So you see, your car was really worth much more to him than it was to you.’
Neville looked away from the driver and out of the front window of the bus. They were, to his surprise, already out in the countryside, rattling along an open and empty road. The speedometer showed twenty seven miles an hour.
‘Oh Sir, almost forgot. You had a phone call.’
‘A what?’
‘A phone call, Sir.’ The Driver pulled a mobile phone from a recess in the dashboard and offered it to Neville. ‘Someone calling himself “Your Broker”. Could you call him back, please.’
‘Richie? How did he know where I was? I mean...’
Neville took the handset. It was incredibly light, and appeared not to possess all the usual buttons. Undaunted, he rang Richard Robinson Associates (Stock Brokers) on their office number. The purr of the phone, then loudly — ‘Nev!’
‘Richie. How did you know it was me?’
‘Expecting your call, Old Boy. Chap said you’d phone back.’
Neville glanced at the driver who seemed intent on the road ahead.
‘How did you get hold of me?’
‘Got a message. Look, can’t explain; we’re in a flap here! Bloody shit’s hitting the proverbial, and I’ve got a tip that the whole bleedin’ market’s just about to collapse. Nev, you’ve got to sell everything! Get out!’
‘Get out? What do you mean? I thought things were pretty stable at the minute?’
‘Didn’t we all, Chum! My source — bloody reliable chap — says there’s a major disaster on the stocks’ — pause — ‘in about seventeen minutes actually. So you’ve got to sell. And fast!’
Richie sounded a little different; perhaps it was the pressure. Perhaps he too was going bananas. But, despite the odd eccentricity or two, Neville had never known him to be wrong. He may not have invested much over the years nor had much at stake, but Richie had never let him down. All this — along with the vague sense that he was riding some unstoppable roller-coaster — meant that his hesitation was minimal.
‘OK, do it.’ There was silence at the other end. ‘Richie?’
‘Yep?’
‘Do it, Richie.’
‘In the pipeline, Chum!’
‘What’s it worth — all of it?’
‘Hang on.’ Another pause. ‘After tax?’
‘Forget the tax; what’s it worth?’
‘Well, couldn’t get top dollar for the Utilities, but we’ve cleared three two seven five. OK?’
It was a little less than Neville had expected which — given his recent experience with the car — came as something of a surprise to him. Richie sensed his disappointment.
‘OK, I know it’s less than four — but in about ten minutes you wouldn’t even get two. Trust me!’
‘Thanks Richie.’
‘OK. Must dash; more Suckers to save! Money’s on its way to the bank. Ciao!’
The phone seemed to go limp in Neville’s hand as Richie rang off. He handed it back to the driver.
‘Everything all right, Sir?’
‘Yes, I guess so.’
‘You sound a little disappointed, Sir.’
Neville said nothing.
‘Funny how things can change their worth isn’t it, Sir? Depending on how you look at them, I mean.’
Neville had withdrawn his Menu and was already writing
Shares: Three thousand two hundred and Seventy Five pounds
For a short while there was nothing but the sound of the tired old engine breaking the silence. Outside, the hedges rolled by (at twenty seven miles per hour) and occasionally Neville thought he could see Birmingham skyscrapers in the distance. But then a hill would rise and the image would be lost.
‘What’s your name?’
‘My name, Sir?’
The driver seemed slightly thrown by such a personal question. He glanced at Neville, then back to the road.
‘Samuel, Sir. That’s my name.’ It sounded more like an impromptu decision than a fact.
‘And how long have you been doing this — whatever “this” is?’
Slowly the bus decelerated from its standard speed. Ahead there was a lay-by, and it was evident that Samuel was making for this.
‘We’re stopping?’
Neville’s question remained unanswered as Samuel concentrated on grinding down through the gears and slowing the complaining bus to a halt. The rumble changed in tone once they were stationery, then, as the engine was turned off, it spluttered and coughed like a dying man as it faded to silence.
‘Now then Sir, what was it you said?’
‘How long have you been doing this?’
‘And what do you mean by “this”, Sir, if I might be so bold?’
‘Driving this bus. Looking after people like me; people in my “situation”. I don’t know. Any of it.’
‘Ah, I see Sir.’ Samuel paused. ‘Not sure I could rightly say to be honest. A long time, I suppose. It must be.’
‘And all of this — Hans, the car, Richie. What exactly is happening Samuel?’
Samuel coughed, and was then silent. Having stopped the bus, he seemed intent on giving the impression that he was reluctant to say anything.
‘Would you like to go on, Sir?’
It was a feeble attempt, and Neville resisted it. Samuel had obviously chosen to stop in order to allow them to talk, and Neville was determined to get some sort of answer from him.
‘Not yet; not until you tell me — something, anything.’
‘I see.’
‘Please?’
And then, in an instant, Neville got the distinct impression that all this had been rehearsed; that Samuel went through these same motions every time; and that there was nothing unique about this situation whatsoever. But before he could interject, to protest — maybe about the vague sense that he was little more than a specimen in a vast and sophisticated laboratory experiment — Samuel started speaking.FOUR
‘Of course, at this precise moment in time — where we are, here and now — you aren’t really sure what’s going on, are you? So far you have had a rather bizarre experience in a tea shop, a man has bought your car for a vastly inflated sum of money, and you suddenly get a phone call telling you to sell all your shares — which, had you kept them, would now be worth two thousand pounds, if that.
‘In addition to all of this, you find yourself sitting in a rather old bus (but a faithful old bus, I must say) talking to the driver — myself — who is probably at least old enough to be your grandfather.’
He paused to offer a slight smile. Since Samuel had begun to speak, Neville had perceived something of a change in him. The smile was the same as the first he had given Neville in the shop, but the man who delivered it now seemed so much more than a shuffling old bus driver.
‘I am here to help you, Sir. That’s my job; that’s all I do. You are actually a very lucky man. You have been given a rare opportunity. Hans helped of course; but even Hans — despite his wonderful qualities and that abrasive style of his! — isn’t able to help everyone. Do you realise Sir, that some people never actually make it out of the Tea Shop? I say Tea Shop in this instance, but it needn’t be of course.’
Neville marked the “of course” again, as if what was happening was so self-evident as to make explanation redundant.
‘In any event, you have been given a chance to see your life. Do you mark my words, Sir? To “see“ your life. Most people simply live their lives, don’t they? They have a pattern, a plan if they’re lucky — most often drawn out for them by some force or other — and they try to live to that plan, that formula. They rarely see their lives, see what they are living. Do you understand, Sir?
‘You have been given a special chance; the chance to see your life for what it is. Perhaps it is too late, perhaps not. I cannot tell you. Hans certainly could not either. At least you have begun to see something of it yourself, and that is a good beginning.’
‘Money?’ It was Neville’s first offering in the conversation. Samuel smiled. It was an old smile; lips parting with the tired wisdom of many journeys.
‘Indeed, Sir. That was a very good start, but it is not enough, not on its own. You must realise — in both senses — the goal you have set for yourself.’
‘The third option?’
‘And make no mistake Sir, there is nothing unreal about that. All of this may seem very strange, but there is nothing light-hearted about what awaits you. You have — unwittingly or not — set out on your quest, and you must endeavour to succeed. You must, Sir, you must.’
There was, in Samuel’s delivery of those words, a quiet insistence that Neville found absolutely unnerving. For a moment he seemed unable to control his voice.
‘Or else?’ he said, in a whisper that was not his own.
Samuel raised his right arm, and slowly extended it to point out of the windows on Neville’s side of the bus. There, beyond the hedge and as far as the eye could see, were row upon row of white tombstones.
‘Hundreds and thousands of fading monuments to anonymous people; millions of forgotten and unfulfilled lives.’
And as Neville looked, from amongst the gravestones a sudden wind raised a moan that encompassed all that could be said and felt about loss in a single note. It lingered but a moment, and then was gone.
Neville looked back at Samuel who was lost in his own private reverie. He waited. Eventually Samuel turned to him again.
‘There.’
Neville did not know what to say, or even if he was expected to say anything. He was struggling with the sense that he might be lucky; that he might be on borrowed time; that he might, in some unusual way, have a purpose to fulfil or a chance to take. His eyes, he suddenly realised, had filled with tears.
‘Please look at your menu, Sir.’
Neville pulled the menu from his pocket and looked at it. There was a new entry at the bottom of the page:
House: Five thousand three hundred and Seven Pounds 53 pence
and beneath it the final line
Total: Nineteen thousand and Eighty Six pounds
Although he had written neither, both were in his hand.
‘I’m afraid we couldn’t get as much as you might have liked for the house; they charge so much for fees and legal expenses these days, and by the time we paid off the mortgage... But at least it has been sold and so you don’t have to worry.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Neville, unconsciously adopting the literal acceptance of the obvious, wondered again who Samuel might be referring to when he said “we”.
‘So you see, Sir, you now know that your life is worth just a little under twenty thousand pounds. That’s what it translates to; the bottom line, if I might be so bold.’
Neville found himself focusing on that single line — the bottom line indeed — and the words began to slowly blur into a single scrawl that was nothing more than a meaningless smudge.
After a short while, Samuel cleared his throat. Neville had been given enough time for reflection. He looked up and sensed — now, as in the tea-shop — the need to get on; that, even in this strange new world, time was passing and waiting for no-one, least of all a temporary visitor like himself.
‘Yes. Yes, I see. So, what happens now?’
‘Well Sir, it is really up to you. Perhaps you should consider what you have.’
‘Apart from the money, you mean?’
Samuel nodded, and from within his pocket Neville felt the cheese straw dig him in the leg. He had never considered cheese straws to be sharp, either physically or intellectually, but this one appeared to be the exception.
‘My Menu, I guess. I can’t think of anything else.’
‘Indeed, but perhaps it is only half a menu; only half of the equation. The first half. The means, perhaps.’
‘To the end?’ Neville offered, having been led towards that inevitable conclusion.
Samuel seemed pleased, and his face broke into another reassuring, grand-fatherly kind of smile. Neville reflected for a moment how he had been seeing echoes of ancient relatives: the Conservative Lady in the tea-shop; now Samuel...
‘So I need to decide what the end might be?’
‘Indeed.’
‘To write down what I want to do with the money?’
‘You need to think about how you might like to “see” your life; what you would like to experience in order to put it into context.’
Neville was beginning to get a picture of how the game might be played.
‘A frame of reference?’ It had been an expression he had first heard on a late-night Channel Four talk show, and since then had kept it in the wardrobe of his business vocabulary where it hung, nicely ironed and ready for use.
‘Ah.’
‘Another list.’ Neville imagined how, at the end of all of this — and how soon that might be, he could not tell — the two sides of his menu would probably need to either balance or cancel each other out. He suspected that he may have little or no control over what he would be left with. Indeed, he failed to conceive how there could possibly be a judgement or on what his future might be decided.
‘I’m sorry, Sir. I’m afraid I can’t help you; I don’t know.’
Neville smiled. Of course Samuel could read minds too.
‘Thanks Samuel. I’ll just try my best.’
He looked out of the window. In the fields, crops now swayed gently in the breeze where the solid tombstones had been, and across a hedge, four Friesian cows, dressed as a Barber Shop Quartet, began to gently harmonise a cappella accompaniment to the rhythm of the wind.
The reverse side of the menu was completely blank. Neville hesitated, thinking for a moment of scrawling his own heading “Menu” at the top. The cheese straw was shorter than it had been originally. The writing had evidently worn some of it away. The numbers from his “bottom line” danced on the paper, rearranging themselves into ever less meaningful combinations, distracting him from the task in hand.
‘Samuel?’
‘Sir.’
‘How do I know how much things cost? For my list.’
‘For example?’
‘Paris. I’ve always wanted to visit Paris — despite Mirelle being French. Or perhaps because of it. How do I know how much it will cost me, or how much I will have left afterwards?’
‘How much would you expect it to cost you?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe five hundred pounds.’
Samuel smiled.
‘Yes, I would guess you might not be far off there. It does, of course, depend on what you decide to do while you are there. And what the visit might be worth to you.’ Samuel paused for a moment. ‘But for the moment, don’t worry about that. We’ll look after the costs for you. That’s the way it is, and I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust us, Sir.’
Neville was tempted to ask about the reference to the “we” again, but decided to let it pass. He turned to the menu and entered
Visit Paris
at the top of the blank side. He paused.
Samuel sensed the hesitation.
‘If it’s any consolation Sir, this bit is often the most difficult. You should try and think of the things you have always wanted to do but never have because money held you back; because you couldn’t afford to do them.’
‘And nothing else?’
‘For example?’
‘To be honest…’ He paused, uncertain whether honesty was prudent — never mind avoidable — in his new circumstance. ‘Well, to be honest I’d quite like to fall in love again. After Mirelle, you know. Just once more.’
Samuel shook his head. The lilt from the cows had a distinctly Parisian air, and from somewhere Neville could hear an accordion playing.
‘If you can’t buy it, Sir...’
Neville nodded. He knew Samuel would read his resigned, but unspoken “okay”.
The task seemed immeasurably difficult. Perhaps he didn’t have that much money to play with after all; perhaps — and this was something of a shock — an historical lack of money was not the issue he had imagined it to be. He tried not to analyse. What had he always wanted to do? He wrote:
Eat a really expensive meal
Fly an aeroplane
and then stopped. He could certainly buy all of those, but it did not seem to be much of a list. And how much of his twenty thousand had he allocated so far? He wondered about a cruise. It might be too expensive; it might denude his reserves too much.
Neville told himself that there must be other things; there certainly would have been with Mirelle around. Indeed, he would have needed pages and pages to include all of her ideas! Thinking of Mirelle led him again to thoughts about holidays away from Birmingham, and in consequence
Go on a Cruise
was added to the list.
‘How am I doing, Samuel?’
Samuel had been watching him all this time, saying nothing. Neville had the sensation that the old boy had been mentally calculating as each item was added to the list.
‘Fine, Sir. Presumably you were only thinking of a short cruise; nothing too elaborate?’
Neville smiled, pointing to the last entry with the ever-shortening cheese straw.
‘I guess am now!’
‘Indeed. And I should warn you that, just because you put something on your list, there is no guarantee that you will be able to have that wish fulfilled.’ Samuel paused. ‘Might I suggest, Sir; is there anything you would like to possess? Some little extravagance, perhaps?’
‘I had assumed that having something material was out of the question.’
‘Not necessarily. For example, have you ever wanted to buy yourself an expensive hat, or a half-hunter watch? I’m sure such things might be acceptable. And you could take them with you on your trips if you wished.’
‘And after?’
His question found no response.
Neville thought about a hat and discarded the idea. Yet he had always fancied owning his own tuxedo; something that might be appropriate for the expensive meal. With his scope thus broadened, he continued
Tuxedo
then stopped again.
Neville looked at the remains of the cheese straw which was now so short he was having difficulty holding it. He might have only one choice left.
He thought again of Mirelle and how she had nagged him constantly to do things, to take her places. “Nagged”. She had wanted him to take her horse riding, and had once pestered him for weeks on end. He did not like horses; indeed, he did not trust them. But having thought of the idea, he remembered how he had occasionally talked about going to the Derby. Despite his failed flutters on the ponies, was this to be it? Determined, he gripped the cheese straw for one final time and wrote
Go to the Derby
finishing the last word just as it vanished from his hand. He sniffed his fingers; only its smell was left.
There was almost instantly a rumble from beneath his feet. Samuel had started up the bus.
‘Is that it?’ Neville asked.
‘It?’
‘The end of my list? Can I add nothing else? Is all my money gone?’
Samuel smiled.
‘I think you have enough on your list to cater for most of the money you have. Perhaps you will get the opportunity to add something else later, Sir. Who can say?’
Neville caught a glint of playfulness in Samuel’s eyes as he said this, as if he knew all too well who could say; as if he could already see the future and was keeping its secrets hidden.
For the first time in a long while Neville suddenly laughed. Perhaps it was the same laugh that had begun to brew back in the tea shop. It was enough, however, to signal the movement of the bus which Samuel now swung back onto the road. Sedately — at twenty seven miles per hour — they began their journey forwards. Neville, preparing to sit back and enjoy the ride, was amazed when, after only a few moments, Samuel pulled the bus round a corner and revealed Paris stretching out below them in the distance.
An absorbing read Ian.