The Most Important Thing
July 2
It was no use the chapter just would not come. Ive still got a month left to hand it in, strict deadlines set, and, well, it would be embarrassing to let down the department. Im not some slacker, after all. Honestly, what would they think of a fellow like me, Edward Andrew, so close to failing at his own research?
This is not a joke, my dear chap! Its your thesis! grumbled my supervisor, Professor Michael Sadler. Privately the lads called him Mike, but for laggards like me, it was always Professor Sadler. I sat in front of him, pale as lichen and looking thoroughly miserable. And youre not even up for a PhD for them, the rules are looser, youthful mischief. But you, man! Have you heard about Jenny Richardson?
I nodded. Jen, the ever-cheerful, pleasantly round woman, was well known by all.
Of course you have, Sadler grimaced, clearly tasting Jens name as though it were sour. Well, shes off on maternity again! Defence postponed, and I tell you, how does she find the time for all this?
Sadler, dedicated as he was to his field, barely paid mind to the world outside academia. Pregnancies, resignations even hair loss, for all he cared, was unremarkable. Now, right before me, he watered a dying rubber plant, oblivious to water soaking the old parquet. Once his secretary, Sarah, came running to mop up, earrings jangling. Mike wouldnt notice, destined as he was for greatness, unmoved by such trivialities.
I wished I was the same pure, driven by research. But something always distracted me, lifes little interferences, and a peculiar emptiness in my head; an intellectual fog, as if someone had replaced my knowledge with thick treacle. I splashed about in it, getting nowhere.
Rumour had it that Professor Sadler had written his thesis in a single month: beautifully dishevelled, tie askew, eyes ablaze, and, boom, a shining dissertation on everyday life in the Roman Empire. Id read it, forgot most of it. Forgetfulness was, it seemed, becoming my new habit.
Well, Richardson is a woman fair enough, Sadler said, somewhat indulgently. Let her tend to the baby and nappies; well give her the lower degree anyway. But a doctorate, Edward! Thats not something you drag out. Only a hopeless case does that. And dont explain, I dont want to hear it! His hand slammed the desk. This fuss about not getting it down on paper save it for the Vice Chancellor. I need results!
Yes, I know Its all here, Im sure, I mumbled, prodding at his desk. But I get distracted, Michael. Hopelessly distracted!
My wife, it was all her. Id be working, typing, when Annie would peek through the door, smile and whisper, Eddie, tea? Coffee?
Id refuse, busy as ever, waving her away, but the thought slipped away regardless sinking below the surface of a cup of tea, drowned
No matter my protest, Annie would burst in anyway, tray in hand, and everything perfectly placed a cup of real, strong Indian tea, her home-made raspberry jam, rich and beautifully dark, with each berry intact, and little shortbread biscuits, my absolute favourites.
I knew you wouldnt have time, so I brought everything here! Annie beamed, nudging aside my papers, closing my laptop, clearing the dust from the polished table and plonking the tray right in front of me.
Shed always drink first, and scatter little crumbs on her saucer. Id want to touch the same spot on the rim where her lips had touched, and well, just touch her in any way Even now, at thirty-seven shes three years younger wed married only two years ago, still as besotted with each other as newlyweds.
Annie! What are you doing, love? I would say, scolding her in the style of Dickens or Thackeray, sternly banishing all improper thoughts. This is all out of place! Cant you see Im busy, bursting with ideas I cant get down in time? Why hang around, tempting me with these biscuits? Im soon not going to fit my lucky suit! Take it all away, right now!
Shed sigh and go, perhaps even softly apologising, but always left the food. The tea still perfumed the room, the jam still glittered, the biscuits oh, those biscuits were heavenly
And then Id break, eat and drink, even smile a bit, but later, spotting a jam stain on my cuff, Id frown, bristle, pushing the tray aside. Biscuits, indeed, with a defence pending!
Wed begun to argue often, Annie withdrawing, turning her back on me
Yes, she was a bother definitely in the way!
I must have spoken aloud, for Professor Sadler nodded sympathetically.
I understand yes he murmured, drumming his fingers. Then, with sudden enthusiasm, Here! Go up to my cottage in Norfolk! Havent visited it in ages, nothing impressive, but I do keep my entire library there. Go on! Heres the key, and Ill write the directions. He scribbled them on an old prescription, handed it over.
Wouldnt it be odd, me going without you? I asked, uncertain.
Nonsense! Neighbours have seen it all before. Once, a friend stayed over, arrived late, left all the lights off, windows open, and dear Mrs. Johnson next door thought he was a burglar. Came round with the old shotgun! Just arrive in the daylight, say hello, youll be fine. Off you go, Ive things to do! He shooed me out. I hurried, gathering my crumpled pages, stuffing them into my bag, my nerves jangling. Oh, and take your wife Annie, isnt it? Can she handle a scythe?
A scythe? I stammered.
Yes, a scythe. The gardens grown wild, and my arthritis wont allow it. Help an old man. Might just help your thesis too
I shruggedfine, I could scythe. Itd been a while, but Id manage, for the sake of the doctorate.
Annie took leave from her job, packed a mountain of bags, fried up cutlets, fetched bread and sausages flustered, yet oddly delighted for the little country escape.
Whys he lending us his cottage, Eddie? she kept asking. Ought I bring my swimsuit? Shall we go to the woods?
I frowned, shrugged, Dont count on it, love. Ill be buried in his books, need to find sources for my thesis, and theres the garden to mow he asked me, for the doctorate, actually. I sighed, my shoulders aching with the mere thought of it.
Oh, well, I can help grandma taught me to use a sickle! Annie chimed in. What shall I pack, Eddie? We havent even got any wellies, or a basket either
Enough of this fuss, Annie, please! I muttered, rummaging pointlessly through paper piles. Where are the car keys?
On the hook in the hall, as always, she called back, off to hunt for her bathing costume. If she was going countryside, shed at least get some sun
We found the village Dunfield soon enough. My battered old Austin, inherited from Dad, drew curious stares from tethered goats, barking dogs behind picket fences and old ladies at their gates, hawking the years first apples. Annie smiled and nodded to everyone, growing fond of the bleating goats and the crisp, dew-sweet air.
Well, this must be it, I said, turning off the lane and cutting the engine. But surely professors cottages arent like this?
A mossy, sagging little house with a listing chimney, lilac bush on one side, tumbledown shed on the other, set in a sea of chest-high grass, abuzz with bees and fluttering butterflies not at all the sort of place Id pictured for an esteemed scholar. Where was the neatly paved path, the lace curtains?
Bit neglected, thats all! Look, flowerbeds once were here. Annie parted the grass, showing a brick circle amid dead rose stems. Veg beds too. Why does he never come anymore?
She turned; I stood silent, gazing at her as if for the first time, pale, almost translucent, in a light cream sundress, her auburn hair spilling over freckled shoulders
Eddie, whats wrong? she whispered.
Nothing lets go in, I rallied, leading the way.
Inside, the two-storey place was surprisingly homely. In one room stood a hutch brimming with crockery, a stove, iron fireplace in the corner, and a big, round, carved table with sturdy, matching chairs everything neat, ready to use.
Next room was a bedroom, rug hanging on the wall, sun filtering through the gnarled apple tree by the window, its branches heavy with rosy fruit.
Across from the bed, a framed photograph: Whos that? Annie wondered.
Not sure. Professor Sadler, maybe, and his mum?
Oh, theyre standing right outside this cottage! Annie smiled. What a pretty lady his mother was.
And indeed, she had striking features: long raven hair, olive skin, brave green eyes. She looked a woman who knew her worth.
What about his father? Annie asked once Id brought the bags in.
Bit of a sad story. Died when Sadler was just a lad, I think, I replied, brow furrowing as I tried to recall. Annie sighed a pity.
Lunch sorted, I went upstairs and vanished for a while.
Once the plates were cleared, Annie came up too, climbing the carved banister stairs.
I stood in the middle of a small study, with a writing desk, green lamp, bronze statue of a Roman legionnaire, and a fountain pen mounted on a tiny rocket.
Maybe the doctorate was written right here, in this room, at this very desk, in a month flat! I thought with envy, sighing. Not that Id found a single moment of inspiration in weeksmy mind a heap of porridge, panic encroaching round the edges. It felt like stalling halfway through building a house, or losing the map on the way to your goal, stuck in a soupy darkness.
I scanned handsome spines of books behind glass: collected works, handbooks, essays, monographs even one volume, unexpectedly, of John Betjemans poetry. Someone mustve misplaced it; Id never known Sadler to be fond of poetry or anything remotely romantic.
Eddie! Oh, Eddie, what are you doing? Annie slipped her arms around me, kissed my neck.
I shivered, Nothing. Annie, do something else. Go for a walk, perhaps. Ive got to work thats why we came! But I cant manage a thing, you see? I pulled away, stepping to the window. Go, Annie. Really, I shouldnt have brought you. Only
Turning around, I found her gone, not hovering, not brushing her soft fingers on my arm. Away
After another hour of frustration, I deleted everything Id tried to write, snapped shut the laptop, cursed. Stuffy! The room was suffocating.
I jerked the window open. A fat bumblebee zoomed in, blundering about the dark corners, bouncing off my forehead.
Go on! Out you go! I shooed it about. It finally left, a black dot in the brilliant blue.
I leaned on the sill the garden, absolute wilderness. Well, the grass needed cutting
There went Annie down the lane, off who knows where. Ah, yes, Id shooed her away for being in the way. But now
I nearly called her back but thought better of it best not to shout across the whole village.
Twenty minutes later, I headed for the shed, fumbling with the rusty padlock, catching the smell of turpentine and paint.
The bulb was dead phone torch it was.
My flash reflected in a car mirror hung on the wall, blinding me for a moment. I scanned the shelves jam jars, tools, bags of fertiliser. Ah, a strimmer. Sadler did mention it was faulty. Wed see but how was this supposed to help my research?
I sweated and swatted horseflies for half an hour, cursing as the strimmer spluttered and died after just a few reels of cord.
Rustling from behind the fence, someone peered between the slats, grunting a greeting.
Afternoon, I nodded at the neighbour.
And to you. You one of the professors students, then? asked a bent, weathered man in a flat cap and sailors top, gesturing at the house.
In a way, yes. I replied. Im Edward Andrew Eddie.
Writing the thesis as well, eh? Im George. Call me Uncle George.
I introduced myself properly.
Ah, these academics! Uncle George exclaimed. Always writing, never living! And is that mower broke? Typical He shook his head sympathetically.
Seems so engine trouble, I said, ashamed.
Try a scythe! Sadlers dad used to mow this place every year. Look about.
He nodded to the shed, then vanished into leaves.
I hesitated. Scythe not used one in years, but why not?
Sure enough, there it was, propped against the ceiling, blade carefully wrapped. I took it, tried the weight
And suddenly I was thrown back sun beating down, fields ablaze with the whirr of grasshoppers, a boy knee-deep in meadow, father bare-chested and tanned, muscles moving smooth under the skin as he swung the scythe, wet grass scent everywhere.
Dad, can I try? Id asked, years ago.
He turned, sweat shining on his brow. Wont make a mess? Mind your feet. Go on, gently now
He guided my hands, showed me, then stood back, lighting a cigarette, proud.
I was sent to his country place only occasionally, when Mum was off on business trips. Parents separated; I lived with her. Still, I missed my father and always treasured those visits.
He smelled of tobacco, woodsmoke, petrol, a hint of loneliness.
Doing alright, Dad?
Spot on! Just watch out in front, hed say, smiling proud I was like his father. He wanted all to go well for me.
I blinked, coming back to the present bracing against the ache of nostalgia and warmth of the old milk can that Granny Annie used to bring us at noon. That world was gone.
I checked the blade, rolled up my shirt sleeves, threw my tee onto a currant bush. Now then it was coming back
The grass, thick and wild, fell under my steady swing, blade whispering through dew-stiff stalks, head-strong scent rising.
My mind emptied: no more dissertation, deadlines, failed chapter, Sadlers rebukes, niggling doubts or self-criticism just the ache in my back, distant church bells, the clack of a passing train, a robin chirping in the apple branches, and the lowering sun.
Suddenly I wanted Annie to see me working, muscles moving under sunburnt skin, to bring me milk in a tin mug, to flick the grass from my shoulder. Maybe more, later
Flushed by my own bold thoughts, I swung faster.
When the whole section was neat, I wiped my brow and spotted Annie perched on the porch steps, just as Id imagined. Shed been watching, now she approached with a mug of milk, courtesy of the neighbours, waiting till Id drunk before wrapping her arms round my neck and laughing at my white moustache. She smelled of currants and apples, lips sweet and ruby red
I only found my bearings two days later, waking past midnight. Careful not to disturb Annie, I slipped from under her arm and crept to Sadlers study.
Opening my laptop, I began to type, then deleted half, and started over, whispering to myself, leafing through books, taking notes. Only one book was missing from the shelves Betjemans poetry, which Id taken that first evening when we had tea on the porch.
Moths battered their wings at the lamp, grasshoppers chattered, an owl hooted, someones radio hummed, and I, with Annies head on my shoulder, her wrap around us both, read poems about love. Nothing else mattered then the burnt-out mower, the unwritten chapter, Sadler awaiting my call. In that moment, another chapter of my own love life was being written: gentle, shared, as warm as her lips.
I understood then why the poetry book was in the study. Without love, even scholars are lost.
When I returned to town, sunburnt and grinning, hands rough with calluses, Sadler met me at the door.
Break yourself, did you? he chuckled.
Nothing serious, I boomed back, feeling proud.
So, have you written it? He raised an eyebrow, reclaiming his key.
Sent it to you last night, I said, hesitant.
Havent received anything, he stared, then grinned. Just kidding. Read it already. Disagree on a few points, but thats nothing. Well done! Country air, eh? You were looking dreadful before, like a ghost. But you see, Eddie, these manuscripts, theyre only important when youre really living life. Abandoning life, your wife, the chance to breathe in and out for mere work? All for nothing. I learnt this myself. That story about writing my thesis in a month? Tall tale! I struggled for two years, nearly drove my wife off, fenced off a corner of the house and called it a study, and when everyone finally left me alone so as not to distract, I realised Even I went back to the countryside, hand to the scythe from dawn to dusk. Then my wife returned, and well, you get it.
Does your wife, Mary, like Betjeman? I ventured, feeling awkward.
She loves me, Eddie, he shot back. Right then. Make those small changes, Ive marked them, and well talk next week. Off you go.
I nerved myself, then confessed, I ruined your strimmer. It justwellstopped
Broken for five years, dont trouble! he waved me away. Go home, I need to chat with my wife. Thanks for tackling the garden Id never have managed
I tiptoed out, catching Sadlers laughter from behind. He looked years younger.
It was a blessing hed sent me to his cottage, yanked me out of my stagnation, helped me find myself again. Is that not what a true scholar is? Or simply a GOOD person perhaps thats the right word.
Yes, love, theres no force in the world like love! I declared that evening, as we sat down for dinner. It cant be studied, whatever the chemistry says. It just is. Take it away, and nothing else matters but trivialities
Annie nodded. All the fuss fades. Love is the lamp above it all. If its shining, alls well. If not, the worlds dim. And everyones love is their own you cant swap it, and if you lose it, its the end.
Looking at Annie tonight, I remembered again: work matters, but only when you share your life, your love, your laughter. Thats the most important thing of all.
