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Furies
'It's never the fall that
gets you,' said Banner, slowly, clearly and conclusively. He had finished
his Irish whiskey a few seconds earlier, which had only increased the
surety and smugness of this, his momentary ecstasy.
The dog jumped to its feet, the record clicked to silence and Furrow
turned his head toward the flames.
'I have something to show you,' Furrow replied.
Furrow had invited Banner to his house earlier that day following a chance
meeting in the park behind the Town Hall. It was lunchtime and Banner,
accustomed to taking his packed lunch here, was making his way to his
favourite spot, his favourite bench, when he heard his name announced from
somewhere close behind. He did not at first recognise the voice and in the
sharp midday sun of July his eyes dazzled, until, like a vision waving out
of a crowd there stood the unmistakable stature of Furrow.
‘Banner, I thought it was you.’ Furrow greeted his old friend with a smile
and an outstretched hand. They had stood motionless before each other for
what seemed like an age, taking in the new face that concealed the known
face of many years before. Spectacles, wrinkles, receding grey hair and
the paunch of wealth-fuelled successful living had not destroyed the
greater truth of their appearances.
‘Furrow, it is you.’ Banner reciprocated the hand and they shook, stiffly
and sternly like the businessmen they were. ‘How are you? It must be
thirty, forty years since I last... How are you?’
‘It’s been a very long time,’ he smiled, ‘and I am as well as can be
expected, but let’s not talk now.’ Furrow handed him his card. ‘Come round
for dinner, tonight. I’ll expect you at eight.’
‘Tonight? I’m not sure. I don’t... ’
‘Eight o’clock!’ Furrow interrupted and began to walk away. ‘Tonight! We
can talk then. I must dash now. I am afraid I am expected elsewhere for
lunch,’ and he was gone.
Both had been 'taken on' straight from school, sharing an office in the
early days and after work pints at the local pub, nights out on the town,
sometimes a girlfriend or two. They were close back then, forty years ago.
They were ambitious and idealistic – those were the post-war years where
they and thousands like them would change the world someday. Like
thousands of others their ambition and ideals would be forgotten, put
aside on back-burners burnt dry and replaced with burdens and routine.
They had worked their ways up the local government ladders and met women
prepared to marry them. As their careers and families had grown they had
drifted, at first slowly and then completely apart. Their families sent
cards at Christmas, automatically from a list, never with sentiment, never
any message, simply a card with indecipherable names, sometimes just
initials. Their children grew up and moved away. Later, they heard on the
grapevine of the deaths of each other’s spouses and sent cards of
condolence without need to attend the ritual. It was at this time that the
Christmas cards stopped arriving.
At work they had become semi-important people with large budgets of public
money, which they spent, maintaining the status quo. And these were lives,
their lives, lives spent in much the same way as those thousands of
others, lives lived out to nothing, until a chance meeting brought the two
men back together.
Banner duly arrived spot on eight and he and Furrow seemed happy to spend
the evening knee deep in nostalgia, creating and half believing the
adventures they’d never really had; imagining and enhancing some
treacherous, dark, mysterious pasts. Whiskey flowed fast reaffirming the
myths they made and the memories contrived out of a past absent others
could not confirm or deny. And somewhere Mahler played endlessly on an
antique gramophone, massaging the air with soft hypnotic sounds.
They had dined sophisticatedly, if not a little old fashioned, like a
couple of old generals remembering the Raj from the comfort of their
Kensington club. Dressed excessively for their cares, each in black tie,
somewhere between mourner and diner, but no one now, no one here, would
see them or care for their efforts and idiosyncrasies. They were in every
way their very own solitary selves despite the present company. Both
living alone, both widowers, neither a beacon to any living, caring
satellites, except the dog lying careless by the fireplace, Furrow's dog.
Was it a successful evening?
Well, the two men were obviously used to less expressive times. They spoke
with the confidence of experience and the knowledge of their
unflappability, until...
'What have you done with your life?' asked Furrow.
'Oh, I don't know? I've been so busy,' Banner replied. 'I've never really
thought about it.’ Banner looked over at Furrow and could see from his
dark expression that this was not just a throwaway question. He was going
to have to answer it and for some reason this made him very uncomfortable.
‘I... I suppose I have achieved most of the things I set out to do. The sort
of things we people do. Yes. Have we not maintained things and passed them
on safely to the next in line?'
'No! Banner. I mean what have you done? What will your life mean when you
are gone? What have you achieved beyond living, beyond the oxygen you have
inhaled, beyond the bills you have paid? I mean something beyond those
simple memories. Something beyond expectation? Not just a simple man’s
pleasures,' Furrow retorted.
Banner sat back, momentarily stunned at the sudden harshness in his old
companion's voice. He was not used to being pressed, or indeed having it
suggested that he had missed the point. No one had accused him of that in
twenty, maybe thirty years – perhaps the last time he had spoken with
Furrow. He remembered now how Furrow had talked back then. Furrow had been
the radical, dragging along Banner, often mocking him for his lack of
understanding; a foil where Furrow had been the only one who mattered.
He quaked slightly and rolling his head on his shoulders, he rebalanced
his natural posture and, although not sure what he was about to say, made
ready for speech.
'What about you? What is a life, eh, Furrow? You talk of something,
something beyond. I have something real. Yes, I have had hard times and I
have had fine times and what is more Furrow, I have my memories.'
'Your memories,' laughed Furrow. 'You mean, your falsehoods and your
fantasies. Your failings and your compromises. We are old, tired and lost.
We cannot even remember our real pasts. We lie, we mislead, we deny our
real memories and for what. For fear of seeing the truth, for fear of the
knowledge that we have fallen to nothing. Our wives are dead, our children
never call and the plans we made in youth have fallen to nothing. We have
fallen to nothing. We will all fall to nothing!'
Furrow was so precise, each and every word exacted for full effect, a true
statesman in his prime. He could still scare Banner after all these years
with the hang of his head and some well chosen phrases.
Banner laughed nervously and then coughed to hide his heightened emotions;
something he was very skilled at. He took the last sip of the whiskey in
his glass, recovered slightly and once again sat back.
'It's never the fall that gets you,' said Banner.
The dog jumped to its feet, the record clicked to silence and Furrow
turned his head to the flames.
'I have something to show you,' said Furrow. 'Come with me.'
They left the warmth and comfort of the lounge and with Furrow leading the
way. They proceeded down the corridor to a door set into the side of an
upward flight of stairs. The door was locked, in Banner's eyes, a little
over cautiously, but Furrow, producing a collection of timeless keys one
after another, was able to gain entry. One final click and the door opened
allowing the darkness of its inner secrets to flow freely between the two
previously closed off worlds.
They said nothing.
Furrow turned to Banner and silently gestured his companion forward into
the place where no light shone. Banner, normally a cautious man, felt the
whiskey warming his yellow heart towards an unknown richer hue. He stepped
forward as desired, past the threshold, past expectation and deep into the
realm of Erubus, the darkest and most deepest of pits. He was gone and
nothing remained.
Furrow did not follow. Instead, he replaced the door in its frame, locked
it and returned to the comfort of his lounge with the spirits sated
somewhere deep beneath him.
'Sometimes,' said Furrow to his dog, 'it is indeed the fall that kills.’
© Jon
Andriessen
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