THE ACCEPTERS

“My poor Lucy.  I’d be in bits if I were her,” Caroline said, “but she’s so stoical.  Every day she goes to the job centre and looks, but there’s nothing for her.”

Paula looked across at her friend sympathetically, “It’s the same with my son.  He spent years studying and now he can’t get work.  He doesn’t complain, he just does everything he’s told, like a robot.  He’s done extra courses, an internship ...”
“Lucy did unpaid work – a contract for a supermarket that only paid her expenses ...”
“Jack did 40 hours a week for that internship and at the end of it, it was ‘see ya’ ...”
“It was the same with Lucy and the supermarket.”
“It’s scandalous!”
“They just accept it though.  When we were young we went on protest marches.”
“Remember the poll tax riots?  We were there, we didn’t break any shop windows mind, but we marched.”
“It felt so good when they changed the law; because of direct action by the people.”
“We’d have been up in arms about zero hours contracts and wages being so low.”
“Absolutely.  Lucy and Jack just accept it though.”
“And if they accept it, we should too.”
Caroline looked at her watch; “It’s time.”
The women left the cafe and crossed the street heading towards a white building, the sign outside it read; “THE ANTI NOSTALGIA PROGRAMME”.
“Good of the Government to do this for free,” Paula said as they walked through the door.
“It’s best if we don’t remember how things used to be.”
The two women hugged and wished each other luck.

Two years later, Jack returned from his zero hours contract cleaning job.  His mother was in the kitchen muttering furiously to herself.  She was trying to get the oven to light, it had been faulty for weeks.  She clicked the ignition then suddenly swore and slammed the door shut, kicking it repeatedly; “Stupid fucking thing!  Stupid fucking thing!” she yelled.

“Mum!” exclaimed Jack, “why are you so angry?”
She turned to him, her face collapsing into tears; “I don’t know Jack, I really don’t know.”

FARAWAY

Musgrave is a slimy bastard and I hate him.  I watched as he minced towards the table I’d reserved for us, my body language open, a smile on my face.  I stood and grasped his limp, damp hand in my strong handshake; “Musgrave, old chap, good to see you!”

“Jarvis, my dear fellow!” he simpered, taking the seat opposite mine, “how are you?”
I didn’t answer his question, because the honest answer would be that the sight of his pale face and dead eyes made me sick.  We were social enough to order wine and sensible enough to make one glass last through the meal.  We discussed the company my bank was representing and the offer it was making to the organisation Musgrove stood for.  He made what should be a simple transaction difficult.

At the office I wrote a report and e-mailed it to Smeaton outlining the conditions that were likely to be accepted.  Smeaton marched into my office without knocking; “You’ve screwed up, Jarvis, there’s no way the client will accept this.  Go back to Musgrave and tell him he’s dreaming.  In fact, fuck it, Jarvis, as you’re so obviously incapable, I’ll do it.”

I stared at Smeaton’s florid complexion and pig ignorant stare, feeling bile rising inside me.  I wished he would drop dead of that heart attack everyone said was waiting to happen.

Thursday night in the City had lost its thrall for me.  I didn’t go to the pub with Smeaton and the rest of them afterwards.  Why should I when all they did was posture and belittle each other.  I went to the airport and took a flight to my most recent personal acquisition - a terraced fisherman’s cottage far from all of them, on a rugged, remote island a thousand miles from London.  Nothing would touch me there all weekend.  I’d have perfect solitude.  No limp handshakes, no arrogant stares, no aggression, just silence.  I felt myself relax as the plane took off.  I was leaving it all behind.

Friday I woke to silence, I breathed in the clean air coming in from the open window.  I stretched my tired limbs and hauled myself out of bed.  The quiet was eternal.  The landscape stretched away from my window as I pulled my curtains; rough grassland leading down to a turquoise sea.  The sun managed to break from the grey clouds.  Before I worked, I would go for a walk.  I dressed quickly and rushed out to my front door.  I opened it and stepped into the garden.  At the same time, I heard the door of the house next door and turned to greet my neighbour.  I stared at him for a full twenty seconds, then I smiled brightly; “Musgrave old chap, good to see you!”  In the garden opposite the large red faced man turned round and the look of horror on his face was quickly replaced by a grimace.  “Smeaton, dear fellow!” Musgrave and I chorused.

PEDESTAL

“Wow!  Look at ‘er, up there!”

“She’s so beautiful!”
“I love her dress.”
“She’s perfect.”

Yes, smile and wave at them, try hard not to look like I’m about to fall off.  It’s so hard to keep my balance on this wretched thing and if I do ... well, it wobbled the other day; I slipped and only just managed to stay on my feet.  I must appear poised and regal and perfect to the crowd that’s always there.

The pedestal is shaking, people are gasping and pointing, but I can’t see what they’re looking at, it’s directly under me, I’m slipping this way and that.  Oh my God!  My heart is in my throat, finally I’m falling.  Oh it feels so free to fall, I love this part ...  Someone catches me and it’s almost disappointing.  However, here he is handsome, smiling and full of self confidence.

“You looked kind of sad all the way up there,” he said, “I wanted to see you close up.”
We walk together arm in arm, through the dispersing crowd.

The six months of bliss begin, when I can be truly myself.  I laugh at rude jokes, sometimes I even tell them.  I drink alcohol and smoke a cigarette or two.  My rescuer and I make love at night in satin sheets, the taste of champagne in our mouths.  I have never been happier.  Then one day a frown appears on his face; “You’re so perfect, I don’t deserve you.”

“Of course you do.”
We walk through the town that evening and my rescuer becomes all the more gloomy as I strut along the pavement, smiling at everyone, small children, women, other men.  They all smile back.
“Everyone looks at you!” he suddenly exclaimed, “and then they see me and think what the hell is she doing with that idiot!  I can’t bear it.  Come on!”  He is guiding me towards the park.
A horrible feeling of dread descends on me.  I stop smiling; “Please!” I beg him, “I can’t help being this way, but please don’t ...!”
The pedestal is rearing up before us in the dying light.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I love you, but you’re safer up there where no-one can touch you!”

 

Smile and wave at them – when I’ve jumped one of them has always caught me.  Try hard not to look like I’m about to fall off - a fall from the pedestal always ends with my return to it.  I must appear poised and regal and perfect to the crowd that’s always there.