Tastes differ. You may favour the 'bitter', the 'sour' or the 'salt'. If you do, my story may be found unpalatable. But I would ask you to remember that life has sweet seasons, too. Can I invite you, therefore, to follow me into a London park, where a man and a woman sit side-by-side on a wooden bench.
May.
Spring is coming to an end; summer is about to begin.
—Can I offer you an aniseed ball, Miss Blancheflower, he says, taking from the left-hand pocket of his coat a plain brown paper bag.
—Thank you, she says.
—Take two, he says.
And she does.
—I hope you did not object to my invitation, Miss Blancheflower, he says, but it seemed to me that, this being your first day at Soskin & Mooney, you might enjoy the tranquility of the park.
—Yes, she says.
A young man, brightly dressed, walks briskly in front of them. With him, straining at their leads, are three black dogs.
—I come here every lunchtime, he says. No matter what the weather, no matter what the month. I find the morning's stresses disappear. The tension lessens. The knots unloose.
He pauses.
—If I am not mistaken, he says, it seemed that Mr Erskine's introduction to the work of our section may have caused you some confusion. Mr Erskine is such an energetic man but his explanations are often less than clear. I am not an energetic man, Miss Blancheflower. I am what the world terms 'steady'. The description is used dismissively. "You're a stick-in-mud." That's what Mr Erskine tells me. He may be correct. But when—not infrequently after lunch—he has a problem, I am the one Mr Erskine calls upon to solve it. What I am trying to say, Miss Blancheflower, is that I have worked for Soskin & Mooney for many years—longer, in fact, than Mr Erskine—and, if I can help you in any way, I hope you will not hesitate to ask me.
—Thank you, she says.
Two joggers, breathing heavily, run behind them.
—Mr Erskine plays squash, he says, but darting backwards and forwards does not suit me. Sitting still is what I prefer. The park, of course, is not for everybody. On one occasion, I invited Mr Erskine to join me. He had not yet been promoted to become our section supervisor. A mistake, I'm afraid. He brought with him six cans of lager and behaved rather badly, whistling at girls and shouting rude remarks. Since then I've invited no one else. Not many people appreciate the tranquility of the park but, Miss Blancheflower, I felt sure you would.
—I do, she says. I do.
August.
Summer is coming to an end; autumn is about to begin.
—Can I offer you a liquorice stick, Elizabeth, he says, taking from the left-hand pocket of his coat a plain brown paper bag.
—Thank you, she says.
—Take two, he says.
And she does.
—I hope you are not feeling overburdened, Elizabeth, he says. At Soskin & Mooney the summer is always the busiest season. There is so much to be done that it sometimes seems to me we are in danger of drowning. "A frightful fusspot." That's what Mr Erskine calls me. He may be correct. By working steadily, we usually keep our heads above water.
Two mallards make their way to the pond and stop at its edge.
—It is, of course, unfortunate that Mr Erskine always chooses to take his annual holiday on the Costa Blanca at this time of the year, he says. But, as our supervisor, that is his privilege.
He pauses.
—Unlike Mr Erskine, he says, I am not a widely traveled man. I speak no foreign language. I had an uncle who lived in the Algarve. I began learning Portuguese but I found it difficult. The words slid into each other and confused me. When my uncle died, I saw no point in continuing. Now I study German. German has a multitude of rules. I feel that German and I agree with each other. There are fairytale castles in Germany. And forested mountains and magical lakes. It is my plan someday to visit the country. I have purchased a guide to the Black Forest. May I lend it to you, Elizabeth?
—Thank you, she says.
A party of foreign students is playing football on the grass, shouting joyfully to each other.
—I hope you won't mind, Elizabeth, but I would like to express my admiration for you. Doing both your own job and Mr Erskine's is not something I could manage myself. Not when he has left so many tasks uncompleted. The muddle would panic me. Yours, however, is a safe pair of hands. You take everything in your stride. But I feel you need this time in our park.
—I do, she says. I do.
November.
Autumn is coming to an end; winter is about to begin.
—Can I offer you an acid drop, Lizzie, he says, taking from the left-hand pocket of his coat a plain brown paper bag.
—Thank you, she says.
—Take two, he says.
And she does.
—Forgive me, Lizzie, he says. I am still so upset. May we sit in silence for a little while?
—Yes, she says.
A girl on rollerblades passes in front of them. Followed by a boy on a bright red bicycle.
—That Mr Erskine should blame me for the confusion, he says. That he should hold me responsible for his chaos. That he should shout and blaspheme. That he should bellow and wag his finger under my nose...
He pauses.
—I am a quiet man, Lizzie. Except in the park, I seldom speak. I am not the sort of person who will be bold in his own defence. I withdraw into silence. "Cat got your tongue?" That's what Mr Erskine asked me. Inside I was dying, Lizzie. The injustice, the ingratitude. It was too much to bear. I don't know what I might have done. That you should take up the cudgels on my behalf. That you should defend me as forcefully as you did. That you should demand from Mr Erskine such an apology and brook no refusal. I am, Lizzie, forever in your debt.
—Thank you, she says.
Two Norland nannies park their perambulators and seat themselves on a nearby bench.
—I would like it so much if we could celebrate your victory, Lizzie. A special gesture to express my gratitude. May I invite you to a restaurant I greatly favour? A modest establishment where I feel myself welcome? Do you drink Weissbier, Lizzie? Do you like Kartoffelsalat mit Speck?
—I do, she says. I do.
February.
Winter is coming to an end; spring is about to begin.
—Can I offer you a sherbet lemon, my dear, he says, taking from the left-hand pocket of his coat a bright white paper bag.
She looks at the bright white paper bag. Then she looks at him.
—I'm so sorry, my dear, he says. The wrong pocket. The wrong bag.
He places the bright white paper bag between them on the bench and takes from the right-hand pocket of his coat a plain brown paper bag.
—Thank you, she says.
—Take two, he says.
And she does.
—I try never to hold a grudge, he says, but I could not bring myself to accept Mr Erskine's invitation to his leaving party. Drinking strong lager in The King of Bohemia I would have found hateful. "A killjoy." That's what Mr Erskine called me. I hope you will agree I was right not to go.
—Yes, she says.
In the distance, a father and daughter are flying a kite.
—I won't pretend otherwise, he says. It pleases me that Mr Erskine is leaving Soskin & Mooney. It pleases me still more that you will be taking Mr Erskine's place. With you as our supervisor, we will become a model operation. I predict that the fortunes of Soskin & Mooney will be transformed.
He pauses.
—May I assure you with all my heart, he says, that I will forever be your loyal servant.
—Thank you, she says.
Two lovers, hand-in-hand, feed the pigeons and whisper to each other.
—I hope...
He pauses.
—I hope so much more than I can say that your new responsibilities will not alter things very much. That at lunchtime you will still join me in the park. That you and I...
She waits for him to continue, but his words have deserted him.
She looks at the bright white paper bag that lies between them on the bench. She looks at him.
—May I? she says.
He nods.
From the bright white paper bag, she takes a package wrapped in tissue paper. From the tissue paper, she takes a neat black cardboard box. From the neat black cardboard box, she takes a silver ring in which is set an opal. She places the ring on her finger. He is watching—or so it would seem—the kite in the sky. She touches his arm.
—I will, she says. I will.
Do you find my heroine too sedate, my hero insufficiently 'heroic'? As I have said, tastes differ. But—if you will indulge me a little longer—can I invite you once again to follow me into a London park where they sit together, studying a highly-coloured brochure, planning their visit to Bavaria.
Title graphic: "Gifts" Copyright © The Summerset Review 2014.
