Jerry

Jerry

 

Intro

October – and it’s getting to be late October, too.

A ‘ber’ month, as his friend was pleased to call it. Constant polar star as she was. Maybe due to hailing from The Philippines is why, he supposed.

Christmas was a very sacred time for them, or so it seemed to be, whilst in pince-nez England, Jerry was tasked with getting ever more expensive presents from an ever more expensive economy - which was ironic, given the country seemed to have been permanently in its death throes.

Sixty-three years of depression? As long as he’d been alive to remember.

Is that what they called it? Stagnation? An economic downturn?

How could people afford it?

Stagflation too, whatever that was. A cruel and horrid thing begot of beetles.

Jerry twitched his fishing rod, staring across The Corniche. The sun had set over Doha about twenty minutes ago. It was nearly dark. Dark at five o clock.

“How’s that,” he called softly to nobody, because there was nobody to hear him.

He wound the reel a couple of clicks, mostly to check the hook was not snagged in a rock or caught in seaweed.

Jerry, a teacher and  life-long Labour voter – no, not true – he had once voted for Margaret Thatcher after he’d been part of the Falklands Task Force and for David Owen after attending an SDP conference in Plymouth (what a guy) – rarely visited the Kingdom these days, although, he knew he would have to return some day.

Christmas and summer. That was enough.

The place bemused him on these occasional visits – swamped by a lot of people on sickness benefits bent on taking action and bickering about a handful of poor sods who arrived by boats, looking for sanctuary. There seemed to be a permanent discontent in the country – but not about anything that amounted to much or challenged the brain.

As though there was no understanding of anything more than what was superficial. Had it always been that way? Jerry supposed that it always had.

He noted that his writing – over there – became infected by some trivial and mean spirited virus.

Jerry attended to his rod and reel again. Some days, nothing would tempt them – or they simply weren’t there. How he wished he could return home to Al Sadd in some sort of triumph – hauling a shark, a manta, an octopus. Instead, he imagined he would bag nothing.

Still, that was not the reason for the season. The breeze from the sea was soft, taking the edge off the heat, and as the night switched on the lights from the skyscrapers, they called across the far side of the bay, always rising, always striving.

Fertilizing the desert, making it flourish.

No, it was the solitude, the quiet, the chance to compose in his head. In England, everything diminished into something paltry, measly and cruel – but here? Everything soared, became bigger, tunneled deeper. The effect takes time, Jerry guessed, but it was palpable.

Jerry’s mind cast itself. It explored the oceans, the reefs, the coasts, the channels, the inlets, the whirlpools.

The windmills of the mind.

Here was a poem yet to write, there an epic undeveloped, or definitely a song that lacked a chorus or a shift in key. He had bigger fish to fry, that much was certain, but, gazing across the rippling bay, he knew what it must be.

It must be this.

He would write this.

Part 1:

“And this term, this term, we have challenges as a school that I know you will do your best to help us with. We are family.” Anita’s smile was frosty. It was always frosty. Jerry knew that she could be very frightening to the new intake.

“But not to you,” muttered Derek, once, during a crisis after which Derek had been admonished. To his chagrin.

Derek, from Kenya, was tall, young, married and Head of Academics - a job that mainly consisted of inventing new and complex spreadsheets for staff to fill in in order to distract them from teaching. In one of his more lucid moments he’d told him: “Not for you, because you know how to flirt with her.”

Did he? Jerry supposed he might, not being very good at flirting. If asked, which he wasn’t,  Jerry would claim, “I’m not one of life’s flirters.” Just kept himself to himself, and when asked, smiled and said yes. He was good at that. Saying yes.

Occasionally he would tell her, “Splendid idea.” Or, if he wanted to put something in her head would offer a suggestion then pretend it was hers. “You remember that splendid idea you had?”

But mostly he just made her laugh. When you’ve worked with someone for a long time, you can do that. Get away with it. “Splendid! Splendid! But, of course!” laughed he, channeling his inner Mr McKinnon.

Mr McKinnon? Jerry’s Latin teacher from when he was a boy, way back in the dark days of Helensburgh, Scotland. If you got an answer correct, it was what he would always say. “Splendid! Splendid! But, of course!”

Mr McKinnon also had a tawse, but we don’t mention such things now.

Anita’s voice whipped him back into the library from whence he had strayed. “Would you be first, Jerry?”

“First?” Jerry blinked. Damn his wandering mind. It had an uncanny ability to stray anywhere but here. That’d always been his way. Problem. Difficulty. Crime.

He stood up. Pursed his lips. Affected an over-serious, over-English tone. “The challenges that lie ahead. Yes, indeed. Well, as challenges go, these are splendid challenges, first rate. Goodness me, only the other day, a man came up to me in New Slata and said, er, by Jove…”

Jerry could see Anita trying not to laugh. “Not that, Mr Jerry. Introductions.”

The penny dropped. An annual ritual. Introducing yourself to the new intake. “My name is…and I do…as well as…” Jerry was always the icebreaker. So, he performed, sat down and waited until it came around to the new table.

No, the table wasn’t new – it was the staff sitting around it. They’d been here a couple of days now being inducted and here it was, the big day.

The inductees. That would be a good way to put it. All crisp and fresh and trembling, like a plucked lettuce dripping in dew.

He’d seen him.

Of course he’d seen him, dominating the inductee’s table - old, paunchy, bespectacled, balding.

An old man.

They were so rare, old men or women. New intakes from abroad, bussed (planed?) over here, generally very young, cheap and from Ireland, South Africa, Portugal – nothing remarkable about that, Jerry supposed, you get what’s available, of course you do.

But an old man?

Jerry waited until that man’s turn came, intrigued. Perhaps they could be friends?

He stood up, the large belly pushing itself above the tabletop where it rested, comfortably. “My name’s Thomas. I’ve come here to teach History. I will be working in the Humanities Department.”

That was it. No age, interests or general knowledge.

Jerry blinked. Thomas, eh?

He wasn’t one for being precipitous, but he nudged Barry, the Head of Humanities, who he detested, due to an ancient altercation about The Crusades that both had largely forgotten and yet still nursed in the nuclear winter of their hearts – in that peculiar British way. “Who’s that?”

Barry, a middle aged Brummy, repeated what he’d heard. “That’s Thomas. He’s a History teacher. He’ll be working in my department.”

“Has he come here to teach?” Jerry hissed, with a smattering of sarcasm. Lost on Barry, of course, who simply ignored him.

Ignoring the ignorance, Jerry proffered a smile across the room, that flew past unnoticed. Never mind. During the inevitable team building that was bound to come later, he would make an effort. Put himself out there. Try to be friendly.

Jerry could do with a friend.

Someone to share a beer with. Perhaps he liked football, music – maybe even reading? Yes, reading. A historian was bound to like reading. Or fishing.

At lunch and not teambuilding – because disappointingly it had to do with the exciting challenge of a forthcoming inspection and they’d been put in Departments – Jerry made a point of sitting opposite Thomas.

“I’m Jerry.”

“Thomas.”

“Thomas? Not, Tom or something?”

“Thomas.”

“Ah.”

Part 2

While your fish, incidentally, still hadn’t bitten. Not a nibble.

Every so often, the fisherman reels in; checks the bait to see if it’s been taken. Mostly, it has and all that’s left is the exoskeleton of the shrimp. Do shrimp have such a thing? Jerry couldn’t be bothered to check.

He knew a hard bitey shell thing when he saw one and the fluffy stuff you jabbed the hook into beneath it. If there’d been nibblers, the fluff was gone and the hard, translucent exterior remained.

More often than not, he’d pass the hook to his Filipina friend and she’d refill it. Job, as they say, done, under the moon - a crescent of lemon peel floating atop a strong gin amongst the flaking ice.

Meanwhile, Thomas had not endeared himself to the family, over the last 28 days.

“Thomas, not Tom, blast it,” he had scalded anyone with a fondness for the diminutive. And there’d been hassle about classrooms, too.

Now, let’s get this straight, Jerry thought. What we have here is an inspection coming, too many children, not enough staff and rooms are going for premium prices. Especially noticeable during pinch points like – say – change of lessons.

Those young ones need a base. Somewhere to hang their posters, with a desk to sit behind so they can flick through stuff on their phones while sucking liquid through the sucky teats on top of those giant mugs that are in vogue this year - but will soon go the way of all really bad ideas dreamt up by some executive who’d had his lucky fifteen minutes.

“Good morning, Anita,” Jerry purred, tapping on her office door. Deputy Principal, you know?

She looked up, irritated, but almost immediately softened as she saw him. “Mr Jerry.” And, as always, she could not help but smile.

“That idea you had?”

“Which one was that?”

“It was quite splendid. Allowing the girls to be taught on the boys’ side and vice versa. To alleviate the rooming crisis. Allow the young teachers to stay in their own classrooms rather than crossing the bridge.”

“You think it would work?”

“It would avoid a meltdown.”

“Snowflakes?” Anita detested them but hired them anyway.

“Well, the inspection team are from the UK. Not here.”

“A temporary solution?”

“I think you were right, Dr Anita.”

Jerry had scurried back upstairs and had just made it to his classroom in time. He was logging onto the computer, to take his register, when a giant frame in the doorway blocked out the rectangle of sunshine. Yes, exactly like Curley’s Wife.

Except this one was fat, male and big. No red shoes, nails or hair - like sausages.

Actually, no hair at all.

Jerry looked up. “Tom? How can I help you, old chap?”

“Thomas.”

He looked grim. Jerry could see that one month had knocked anything like good nature or humour out of him. If he had once been possessed of a good nature or humour. And perhaps he had, perhaps he hadn’t, who knew?

Still, if he had any stuffing, his face suggested he’d just been taken out of the oven. Piping hot, as recommended by all good manufacturers of ready meals.

Thomas was consulting his phone and squinting at the small screen, his face suffused in ley-lines.

Jerry sympathized. They make you have one here. He’d resisted for many years. Not at all swayed by some woman on the M50 breaking down, he’d continued to resist. Until the contract stipulated it. And, sure enough, virtually every transaction involved an I D card and a phone.

Finally, Thomas looked up. “Says here, on this spreadsheet, that I can have this classroom.”

“Does it?” Jerry could hear the oncoming storm of some Year 10 girls and, judging by the commotion, they were going to take no prisoners.

“I have to have a classroom, you see?”

“Well, quite.”

“To teach in.”

Jerry’s own class was also arriving on an opposite bearing and were on a collision course. It would be carnage. Hockey sticks akimbo. If they had hockey sticks here. Or anywhere, anymore.

“Listen, old chap. This is actually my classroom.”

Now, to be fair, Jerry felt that perhaps he should, you know, give way. Thomas was a good foot bigger than him for a start – and plenty bulky. Also, he was new, past the inductee stage, to be sure, but perhaps not so firm or fleet of foot.

Then again, Jerry was always good at saying yes. Perhaps too good. And a distant voice floated in his memory from a year or two ago when Derek had been promoted to Head of Academics and he hadn’t. “You don’t have the cojones, my friend.”

So Jerry’s naval training kicked in. “I’ve had a word with The Quartermaster and he tells me this isn’t your part of ship – so sling your hook before I deploy the fenders and repel all boarders.”

Well, in truth he didn’t say that, but it’s easy to slip into cliché when you’re writing.

What he actually said was, “Sorry, old chap, but you could try next door. I think it’s empty this period.”

Thomas bristled. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Well it had better be.”

Part 3

It is a Wednesday afternoon, maybe a week later.

How does Jerry recall that it’s a Wednesday? Not just because he keeps a diary, which he does but he doesn’t check – no, better than that. It’s because Jerry nearly always visits Dar Al Salam Mall after his tutoring.

Here is now.

The Pajero has just pulled up, it’s perhaps 4.30, an hour before sunset and the sun is roasting ground grit.

The poor sods whose job it is to clean cars all day don’t complain, but, after showing vehicles to available spaces stand grinning outside hoping to earn a bit of cash by cleaning desert from burning metal and scrubbing windows clean of grime.

Not flies. Jerry often wondered about that. Take a trip up the M5 to Bristol on a summer’s day and your car is besmirched in black death. Here? Not the case. No spiders either. I mean there had to be spiders, but where were they?

After jumping from the car, he closed the door firmly.

His friend, all four foot ten of her, also jumped down and waved the hopeful employees away. “It is clean, my friend. Finished. Already clean.”

And they walked towards the steps leading into a cool interior. He fell in step behind the diminutive small frame with its dark, perfectly bell-shaped mid crop and tightly packed peaches.

As he came alongside, she slipped his arm through his.

“You’re so small,” Jerry remarked, puffing up the Mall’s steps, his right knee twinging.

“Don’t bully my height.”

They’d been friends four years. Coming up to a 48^th Monthsary. Jerry had made the typical British mistake of scoffing at the first one. She’d blocked him on WhatsApp for a day. He’d retaliated.

Later she’d told him; “What man blocks a woman on WhatsApp?”

“You did it first.”

“Woman is allowed.” Maria had told him.

He’d bought her some gold earrings and that settled it. Sometimes they’d discuss what she was. Her label, so to speak. But mostly she was just splendid.

They passed Early Learning Centre.

“You want Early Learning Centre?”

“No, dear.”

In front of them was the man selling knock off football tops.

“You want knock off football top?”

“No, dear.”

On the right was Carrefour.

“You want Carrefour?”

“They have promotion?”

“They always have promotion.”

“Wait, I will check it.”

“You’re so thrifty.”

“Good you have a thrifty woman like me and not bilmoko.”

He watched her walk into the supermarket, approvingly. “Nice ass, dear.”

She looked back at him with a frown, finger on her lips.

In the centre of the wide walkways, for some reason, the original architect thought it would be a neat idea to have seats at regular intervals. Thoughtful. Except these were designed to be illuminated translucent doughnuts made of a hatd plastic material.

They didn’t warm the backside as you might think – being lit from the inside – but the reposer had to avoid being jabbed by pot plants that decorated each doughnut’s center especially where these were cacti.

About to sit himself down on the nearest one, Jerry became aware that someone was staring at him.

A portly, bald and familiar figure.

Jerry arrested himself, mid squat. ”Afternoon, Tom.”

“Thomas.”

“I see that you’ve found Dar Al Salam, then. Well done.”

“It wasn’t actually very difficult,” Thomas sniffed, condescendingly.

Internally, Jerry scowled. He felt he had only tried to be friendly again, and it seemed as though Tom was having none of it. He flicked through the list of prior encounters but could think of none particularly distressing or antagonistic.

So, he tried again. “I only meant that this is a lesser-known place. Off the beaten track, so to speak. It’s nice. Small. Intimate. Takes a bit of nous to find.”

“That so?”

“Ah, yes. Yes it is. Actually, I can recommend some very nice restaurants. Upstairs. In the food court. Jamaco. Mr Moustache…very nice Arabic Sandwich.”

“Are you following me around?”

“Of course not. Why would I do that?” Jerry almost spluttered.

“Well, I was here first. Waiting for the bank to open. They shut until four. Stupid country.”

“Yes, but I’ve been coming here for years,” Jerry replied. He was aware of Maria, back from Carrefour empty handed, nudging his arm.

“Come on dear, I’m hungry.”

Tom was still glaring, somehow affronted. Jerry felt he should introduce his friend, but didn’t, torn between two frames of mind, and allowed himself to be dragged away.

At the last minute, just before the travelator that ascended to the food court, he dashed back, smiling unconvincingly. “Look. Why don’t you eat with us? You’d be more than welcome.”

“No, thank you all the same. I’m not hungry.”

Part 4

Jerry checked his shrimp. They were getting less. Some sea creatures or other were enjoying free food, that much was as damn sure as mustard?

Wasn't that always the way, though? In advancing years where once there was lobster, now there is shrimp?

I suppose, if you asked him, last week the shit hit the fan.

Now there’s a freshly typed cliché. Why would shit hit fans? Was it worth checking, changing, or should he just go with it?

Momentarily frowning, Jerry was reminded of a scene from Lost where some unsuspecting fellow was sucked into the jet engine of a crashed plane on an island beach. That was an image that, once seen, you could never forget.

Yes. He would change it. Change it to this.  Last week, the man was sucked into the jet engine.

Standing in front of his class - 23 Year 10 girls of various cultures - but mainly Qatari, Egyptian and Pakistani - Jerry was doing impressions of Thomas the Tank Engine. “Shh. Shh. Shh. Now come on girls, you only make my job more difficult, you know?”

A hand shot up, the hubbub continued. “Mister?”

“Yes, Maryam? Shh. Shh…”

“What did you have for lunch, yesterday?”

Damn. Caught out again. Why did she always ask this? Why, fruits, of course. Always fruits. But, none of her business. He would not tell her. “Fruits, of course. But not really an appropriate topic for an English lesson, Maryam?”

She giggled and whispered something to Aisha.

“Now, now…ah, girls…could you please find a clean page in your books…girls, pay attention…ah, girls…the lesson objective is on the…ah…smartboard.”

It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. Now he would have to change the slide and the din would worsen. Jerry began to sweat and lose his composure. There was a loud knock on the closed classroom door.

“Damn,” he snapped, crossing to open it.

It was Tom. He ushed into the room, totally blocking the exit and refused to move.

“Says here this is my classroom.” Once again, tapping that smartphone.

Fleetingly, Jerry wondered what hat happened when the bank had opened. Then, dismissed it as tommyrot. “No it isn’t,” he snarled, infuriated. There was a line of girls behind Tom, gazing into Jerry’s occupied room. “And why you think it is beggars belief, quite frankly.”

Tom shoved the phone in Jerry’s face. “Well, what’s this then?”

“Give me that.” Jerry snatched the phone violently from Tom’s grip, resisting the urge to push him out onto the bleaches, portly though he was. Grinding his teeth venomously, he glanced at the phone’s touchscreen. There was some sort of knocked up rooming schedule, an amateur,  botched job. “This is bollocks. Where did you get it?”

Tom was still refusing to move.

“Fine. You stand there. I have a lesson to teach. In my room.” And Jerry turned his back on him in order to go to the computer.

Finally, Tom moved forwards and snatched his phone back.

Jerry took advantage of the unblocked doorframe and strode out. He jabbed with his finger at a notice pinned on the top. “See that, Mr Thomas? See that? What does it say? Oh, yes, that’s right, it says English Classroom. Even a complete, bloody-minded nincompoop could read that, I would have thought.” By now, he was seething. A deeper shade of red flag. Vermilion. Crimson. Blood. Gore. You name it.

“What did you say?”

“Come to my office.”

“I will do no such thing. You cannot speak to me like that.”

“Come to my office and I will show the room booking spreadsheet as created by Mr Derek himself.”

“That halfwit? I certainly will not come to your office.”

And he didn’t.

Instead, Tom marched off as well as his frame would allow, his bald pate steaming – followed by twenty or so girls.

Now, it transpired perhaps thirty minutes later – towards the end of the lesson - Barry appeared at the door, clutching his Aston Villa mug and looking somewhat embarrassed.

By this time, Jerry had regained his composure and was sitting with a group of girls coaching the finer points of summary writing. Nevertheless, his hackles rose. Old habits. “Head of History? And what can I do for you?”

“He came to see me.”

“Who?” Jerry knew exactly who, of course. Rising from his seat at the desk, he joined his colleague at the door.

“I’ve tried to stop him putting in a complaint. To Anita.”

“Oh, yes? Decent of you.”

“Well,” Barry mumbled, “Thing is, he’s a bit of a twat.”

“Really? Well, you need another of those, don’t you. In History, I mean.”

“Yes. I had problems with him. From kick-off. Refused to teach the curriculum I planned. Said he knew better and what I was asking for was too much.”

“The Crusades, was it?”

“Look, I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry about him too. It was my fault – I gave him that timetable on his phone. Look, this classroom is yours, I told him that. I’m sorry. It was my mistake – I thought I’d – er – try to minimize the fuss.”

Jerry smirked. “Good grief. You’re sorry? This…kingdom…is mine? That’s remarkably amenable of you, Mr Barry. Quite astonishing. Could it be that after all these years of enmity, we’re about to bury the hatchet?”

Part 5

Now, you, see? Jerry’s poking around in his tackle box. Not actually his, Maria’s – but she’s at the medical centre. Varicose veins.

The sun was well below the horizon now and there were a few other fishermen and women – because your Filipino loves fishing – in his vicinity casting quietly from the jagged rocks of The Corniche.

Airliners soared overhead from Hamad Airport, on their way from here to somewhere and Jerry could hear the Muezzin’s calls, drifting eerily from amongst buildings, calling supplicants  to their knees from all corners.

Somewhere out there, the fish were teeming in boiling masses, shoals and shoals of them, but not here. Jerry’s bag was empty, but his mind was full.

The Radisson.

One quiet, Friday night. How did he know that? He always knew.

The bar was not dark, but it had dark corners. And tables scattered everywhere, like seed corn. Jerry had long ago discovered it, a sports bar, dominated by huge screens vying for your attention. Here, La Liga, there, Roland Garros and basketball, kick-boxing, cricket.

But most of all it had dark corners.

Here, if the fancy took you, you could plug your laptop in, put your headphones on, write whatever felt good and be served pint after pint of cold Heineken.

Not that Jerry had much call for that, you understand. An aged body cannot take it, the hangovers are horrendous, and the bowels suffer. No. Just a couple to take the edge off and get the juices flowing.

Jerry looked up, feeling somebody at his elbow.

“Another one, Mr Jerry?’ It was Sheryl, a constant who had brought him beer for many years now. She had a quaint smile, slightly too many teeth – but kind eyes.

Removing his headphones, Jerry looked at his empty glass. How had that happened?

It is what it is. Drinks arrive.

You don’t sit at the bar. It is not done to sit at the bar. Nobody sits at the bar. Not here.

Someone was sitting at the bar.

“Who’s that?” Jerry asked.

“Not know, sir. He wait for his wife. He talk a lot. We trying to work.”

“English is he? What a git. Been drinking a lot, has he?”

“Don’t know, Mr Jerry. He is noisy. Too much noisy.”

As so often is the case, when somebody is talking about you, you instinctively know. The portly fellow shifted his buttocks and gazed over, penetrating Jerry’s dark corner. Recognised him instantly. Shifted his weight. Put down his glass. Feet on the floor. Began to stride over.

“Shit. It’s Tom,” Jerry muttered, in a statement of fact that would surprise no one. Had he been following him?

Before he could do much more, Tom was upon him. “Well, fancy seeing you here.”

Jerry’s mind flitted to Peter Cook. Something about ‘no I don’t fancy that. I don’t fancy that at all’. But he quickly shoved Peter aside. “Tom.”

But, surprisingly, Tom was smiling. A weak smile, certainly. Clearly something he had not practiced recently. “Do you come here a lot?”

“I was here first.”

“Ah…I’m waiting for my wife.”

“Been waiting a while, have you?”

“Yes. Quite a while.”

“Well, I must say, it’s nice to see you looking…er…more cheerful, for a change.”

“Well, it’s nice to see you looking more cheerful.”

“Is it?” Jerry later wished he had thought of a stronger retort. But words failed him. The infernal neck of the man. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your wife, Tom.”

Tom checked his watch. “Yes, OK. Enjoy your drink.”

“See you around.”

Epilogue

Now is the time for all good men…

What does that mean? Jerry hadn’t a clue but recalled it was a memory test for a scouting badge. All he had to do was repeat it to Akela at the end of the meeting. He’d failed the badge, of course. And the only one he did get – bronze arrow or something – had never been sewn onto his jersey.

Still, Doha’s good. It gets into you, you know. You catch it, without ever realizing you were sickening for something.

No fish today. Jerry decided to give up, go home, do something more useful. Write this, why not?

Just to his left, he heard a familiar cough. “I say old chap. I’ve – run out of shrimp. Can I ask you…”

Jerry shrugged, “Sure, Mr Thomas. Why not. I’m just leaving. Sometimes nothing will tempt them.”

“Tom. Call me Tom.”