Along with the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, I'm writing a very different story - a fairy tale - and these words were in my head, this morning, and just flowed down my arm, through my pen and here they are. I have no idea where they come from ...As that sweet giggle, that contagious chortle, started out on its merry way, it released Happiness - long held prisoner in the dank, grey walls - to spread among the people and upon the land I lightened the air, Happiness did, It lightened peoples' hearts and the sky seemed vaguely less grey, slightly less foreboding.
Just as Adam, Son of God, forgot to laugh and then learned of pain and loneliness, so this gentle ripple being happiness and release from loneliness. People began to look up from the sharp stones of their daily walk to the freshness of the trees, the hills and the sky. As their eyes rose from the depths of their worries, they saw the eyes of others, shining and inviting connection. As glorious little giggles raised eyes to loving eyes, the illusion of separation began to draw aside to reveal that there was nothing to compete for, to fight over. In unity, in connection, there was - quite strangely - enough for everyone. Neighbours, long silent and distant from each other, began to smile then talk then understand. Few knew what they were understanding but a dawning in connected minds simply knew something else, something long forgotten. This understanding was simple and right and complete and it needed no words. Some did try to explain the expansion occurring in their brains but found words got in the way. Words complicated this simple truth, this ancient knowing of brotherhood, sisterhood and personhood.
The illusion of pain, the pretence of isolation they had all kept up for so long did not need to be and the fires of hatred quietly died to the warm embers of comfort in one another's presence.
And so back to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, continued from the previous blog ...
"And where is it etched in stone that life should be fair? It jolly well isn't," said Sam. "Once we recognise that life is unfair, we can look it in the eye, as it really is, and make a better world from the unfairness."
"I don't know what to say," said Mary.
"You can take heart, Mary, that you're in good hands," said Sam, leaning forward. "I may do things that seem devious but I do them to help people. There's lots of chumps doing good works for all the wrong reasons. Look at the activities of our Colonial Agents Bank - lovely government servants giving our money to dictators and swindlers, calling it foreign aid and all feeling mighty pleased with themselves."
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And so it was that Mary tripped up a step and stumbled into a room of finery and grace, nods and winks, favours and effortless action. The room she'd emerged from - the lower room of her life and that of her parents and everyone she knew - was one of toil and obedience to laws imposed from above; of watching the rich and famous as though through a window, unreachable and slightly unreal. Now, however, she'd found herself on the other side of the window, in this upper room, where laws didn't restrict but provided opportunities. Here there were no application forms, uncertainty or queues - just discrete chats, snap decisions and instant action.
Mary was appalled, initially, and argued with the implacable Sam, who took on the role of a patient and wise teacher with a reluctant but quick student. Unapologetic and defenceless, he simply explained the ways if life in this upper room and allowed her objections and protestations of injustice to float past him, knowing she would eventually come to acceptance, which she did, haltingly, defiantly.
She came to realise that Sam was not a bad man. From what she saw, he wasn't involved in drugs or arms dealing or anything else unwholesome. He was simply helping those who had been dealt savage blows by life. What he got in return for his interventions she could not discern - perhaps he got his lawn mown for nothing or something - but it certainly didn't seem to be for fame or riches. Many of the people he helped had neither money nor influence (though some obviously had much of both) and she wondered if he got perverse satisfaction in finding interesting ways through the ass of the law, as he called it. She didn't have the courage to ask what he got for his efforts or how he'd come to acquire his influence and chumhood. She though that, one day, she'd find out. As she observed carefully, she learned nothing of this but the mantle of indignation and injustice slowly fell from her shoulders and she grew to respect this man in her life.
She also came to realise that the people in this upper room, who seemed to glide through life with such grace and ease, also left it for the lower room, at times, to their dismay. They, like other people, had arguments with spouses, fears with health, problems with children and all the stresses of those who inhabited the lower room permanently. These people, however, were able to pop back up to their natural abode, the quieter and more plush room; for their money and influence would get them the best lawyers for their divorces, doctors for their illnesses and holidays and toys for their diversions.
Sam split his time between the central office and her branch office with frustrating irregularity. He was right - she was effectively in charge of the two hundred people on seven floors and, initially, leaned on Stephen Lawrence, the Finance Director, and Ahmed Shayan, Chief Assessor, an African with an Oxford accent and Oxford suits. Both were men of numbers and were refreshingly free of emotional interest. They gave her the facts and stayed above the office politics she knew were brewing below her.
Without Sam to rely on for guidance, when she needed it, she was forced to dive in, learn things she'd never learned about insurance before and to make decisions with minimal information. It frightened and thrilled her. With Stephen's and Ahmed's help, she drew up a plan of education for herself. Chunking down the branch office functions into logical pieces, she systematically spent time with every section (every person, in fact), learning exactly what they did, why they did it and how each piece fitted into the whole. This, of course, enamoured her to the people she commanded and they came to her, more and more, for advice. This she welcomed for, as she got to know them, she was able to formulate succession and promotion plans - some were clearly unsuited to the work they were doing and some had ambitions and talents beyond their current roles. She stared shuffling and sifting and, as productivity grew, less people were needed and branch profits rose.
Sam was impressed and thanked Mary with many lunches and dinners, not always at the Executors Club but always at equally plush establishments. Out of the office she got to know him a little better.
In the office, they dealt with matters as they arose - she told him what had happened, he gave her advice … well, approval, really … and passed on directives from head office. Out of the office they still talked work but she did start to penetrate the wall he kept round his private life. She discovered he'd had a wife but didn't have one now and that he had a daughter and granddaughter he doted over. He visited them every Thursday evening. He enjoyed folk music and that was a great surprise as she expected his tastes to be in classical music. He didn't explain but Mary surmised that part of the attraction was the raw, amateurish feel of it - a welcome change from his other polished and perfect life.
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