A Growth On The Mind?

A Growth On The Mind?

The empty frustration evoked by the simple note on the door was profound. I had travelled six hundred miles with growing expectations, only to find that the position I had worked so hard to secure no longer existed. The company had closed. They had not even taken the time to notify me.

A tired security guard let me into the foyer of the building where the detritus left by hastily departing employees of a defunct business was depressingly normal. A few loose papers lay scattered on the dusty floor, a telephone had been ripped from its connection on the wall and a small book the size of my palm lay on the counter. I picked it up, trying to dispel the feeling of being obsolete.

The book had a single page of names and telephones but no hint of ownership. I turned it over but the matt black cover gave away no further clues. In a world of futility it held no promise of relief. I slipped it into my pocket without any clear idea of the reason for doing so apart from the feeling that someone needed to adopt this orphaned remnant of a what had so nearly been my gateway to a new chapter of life.

Back at the boarding home, I sat on the bed and pondered my options. I was not totally destitute but my limited funds would not last long. I would need to look for another position, but perhaps not just today. I needed time to lick my wounds. That decided, the problem of filling an evening in a strange city presented itself.

For lack of any purposeful idea, I opened the little book and called the first number on the list. A cautious greeting from a faceless ‘Graham Smythe’ answered. No, he could not throw any light on the identity of the book’s owner, not had he any idea why an employee of Richards and Peterson should have his contact details.

Ten of the dozen names answered in similar fashion, with responses ranging from polite curiosity to guarded suspicion. The last three names did not answer. I closed the book and sat looking out of the window for a long time. Perhaps a more dynamic individual would have been breaking down doors in an attempt to salvage something from the ashes of Mr Richards or Mr Peterson, although I suspected the owners of the names had long since moved on after selling out to younger and keener entrepreneurs.

When I opened the book for the fourth time, I was perplexed to find that the list of names seemed to have been erased and instead I was looking with disbelief at a recipe for an exotic dish. Mangoes, Litchis and a pot-pourri of herbs and spices suggesting an oriental delight of seafoods. Was I hallucinating? How had Graham Smythe and co been replaced by this page of instructions.

On the spur of the moment, I decided to call the list of names again and then sat looking at the page in the book feeling foolish. How was I going to ring them if the numbers had faded mysteriously. After a few minutes, I turned on my phone and opened the list of recently dialled contacts. The relief at finding them all present was surprisingly profound. Why should it matter to me? I had no idea.

Of the ten that had answered the first time, eight responded to my second call and five of them hesitatingly agreed to meet me in the courtyard of the defunct company for an impromptu meal that evening.

I spent the rest of the day hunting down the makings of the meal and persuading the owner of the boarding house to allow me to prepare it in her kitchen, for a fee. I felt a curious air of avante-garde bohemian freedom. No-one knew me in that city and I was free to do whatever I wished. A lifetime of scholarly dedication and economic striving gave way to a relaxed spirit of adventure. I turned to the recipe as a tourist would follow a travel guide.

Finishing the cooking, I once more opened the booklet and felt a crack of disbelief. The recipe had dissolved into a list of wines.

Wine. I had not thought of providing liquid refreshment for the night. Hastily I left the owner of the establishment anxiously clucking over the meal and ran to the off-sales I had spotted two streets away. Fortified with several bottles from the list, including soft drinks, I returned to the scene of my labours and packed the meal onto a trolley hesitatingly offered by my host.

Richards & Peterson was only a block away and the small garden in the forecourt contained several concrete benches and a fountain that no longer held any water. I was not the only one denied the waters of remuneration; it seemed even the birds in the nearby park would go thirsty. I placed the food around the edges of the fountain and then turned to greet the first of my guests.

No-one seemed to know what to make of the event, but a free meal, which turned out to be surprisingly delicious, and an unthreatening few hours in the open did not seem to be too disagreeable to any of the assembly.

‘Now then James. What is all this about?’ The self-chosen spokesman had a distinct air of importance, not disagreeably so, but clearly aware of his status. All the other eyes turned towards me and I could almost see little antennae whirling in five pairs of ears.

‘Well,’ I began, ‘I found this little black book in the office over there and I thought I would try and trace the owner.’ I ended a little lamely, causing a small frown to crease the earnest brow on my questioner. He held out a hand, with an obvious, though unspoken demand for a look at the evidence. Opening the manuscript, he read for a few minutes and then looked straight at me. Suddenly I knew what the fish on our plates must have felt like as they struggled in the nets or beat their fins in an attempt to escape the hook in their mouths.

‘This is the details about a fund raising attempt to finance the medical treatment of a child with a brain tumour.’ he announced. The bolt of amazement that electrified me did not totally obscure the tickling feeling that he seemed to know more about it than I did. They all seemed to have some prior acquaintance with the subject. The collective interest sharpened.

‘Where did you get this?’ he demanded, more forcefully than before.

‘I found it in the office over there.’ I pointed at the closed door that now reflected a faint echo of the streetlight behind me. ‘You seem to know something about this attempt to collect money?’

He considered me for a few minutes and then said abruptly: ‘My company promised a large sum of money towards the research into brain tumours in children. I am concerned that you ended up with this information.’

I turned to look at the rest of the assembled group. Several of them nodded. ‘We also agreed to stump up a considerable sum towards cancer research.’ announced a dark-haired young woman.

‘Was any of this money paid over?’ I queried, not sure why I was asking. It had nothing to do with me.

‘No. At least not from our company.’ the self-styled leader replied. The others agreed silently.

‘We seemed to lose contact with the fund-raising organisation. We were waiting to find out where to send it.’

‘Well then. No harm done. If you pay it directly to the charity, then you will all have the security and knowledge that no-one like me can get between them and you.’

I finished a little lamely as all eyes turned towards me. It suddenly dawned what they were waiting for. None of us had the details of the destination of the money. I felt a little foolish.

Suddenly a thought flashed through my food and drink satiated mind. The book. The book would hold the answer.

Holding out my hand, I raised eyebrows in the universal body language of a request. The group spokesman held out the book toward me and then suddenly seemed to think twice about it. Withdrawing his hand, he opened the front cover once more, all the while watching my face. His eyes dropped to the page and then widened in surprise.

‘The bank details are here.’ he commented. ‘How did you do that?’

‘I did nothing.’ I assured them. ‘I just found the book and it has been doing odd things every time I open it.’

‘Well.’ he said. ‘I’ll just take this with me and investigate it tomorrow.’ He tore the page from the little book and dropped it back on the water feature, folding the page and slipping it into his pocket. As he strode off, the dark-haired young woman picked up the book and once again turned the cover over. Far from being blank, the second page held exactly the same information as the first one had. Silently she too tore the page out and then handed the book to the next person behind her. The entire group followed suite and disappeared off into the growing darkness.

I made my way back to the boarding house, to warmth, a shower and sanity. Not expecting to get much sleep, I lay down to think about the events of the day, only to wake a few minutes later to find that it was after nine in the morning.

The landlady served a traditional English breakfast that got me thinking about the pounds I must be amassing after the meal the previous evening. My thoughts turned to the book that I had slipped into my pocket. Opening it again, I noticed that the contact details for the charity were still on page one. Without any expectations, I rang the number.

‘Ah, you must be the fund-raising agent that everyone seems to be talking about.’ the middle English accent commented when I got through. ‘We’ve had a number of large donations this morning. Excellent work. Funds have been a little slow in coming in just recently and we had already committed ourselves to a big project that promises to deliver a lot of information. Well done indeed.’

I started to try and explain the events of the previous day but he seemed a bit bewildered about it all and at the end just brushed it aside.

‘Our board of directors will be in touch to extend our gratitude shortly, I am sure. I really cannot thank you enough.’ I shrugged and then realised that he could not see my silent gesture.

‘No need for any thanks. It was the book that did it all.’

‘Er… yes. The book. If you say so then. Well thank you and we will be in touch. Oh, by the way, the usual commission will be forthcoming.’

‘Commission?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I think the total this time comes to twenty thousand, if I am not mistaken. We’ll see that you get it as soon as possible. If you can just let me have your bank account details.’

‘How would you like me to do that?’ I queried.

‘Oh, just send me the black book. All your details are in it. Our address is too.’

With a feeling of growing disbelief, I turned the front cover for the last time and there in the centre of the page was my name and the number of my bank account. Below it was an address in central London.

I walked lazily over to the defunct firm of Richards & Petersen. The glass door now brazenly announced that ‘Flora Bell’ now sold bouquets and pot-plants from the premises. I walked in to find several young women busy marshalling green stems into oasis foam supported bunches.

‘Have you just opened, then?’ I asked. They looked at me curiously.

‘Been here five years next month.’ one of them took a few seconds from her task to let me know. ‘Mrs Johns opened the shop all those years ago. She would be here today except her grand-daughter is in hospital. Poor little mite has a growth on the brain.’ She sniffed. ‘Doesn’t seem fair. Such a tiny little waif. It’s easier to accept when you’re old, but at that young age?. I just hope the new procedure they are talking about works for her. Something experimental they are going to try. Needed to raise the funds first, before they could go ahead.’