Decline and Fall: a tale of unemployment (part 2)

The first two weeks of her redundancy were utter bliss. The simple joy of not having to go to work on Monday morning was like an elixir. She went to bed calm and tranquil late on Sunday night, enjoyed the most relaxing of sleeps, got up lazily at nine, and going downstairs in her dressing gown, spent a leisurely morning watching daytime TV. Daytime TV! What absolute rubbish and yet it was so, so good to simply sit back with a cup of tea in your hand and watch it! In the afternoon she toodled off to town and after a hard days slog shopping, went and had a coffee and a sandwich. It was lovely to sit down in the plush, newly refurbished café, to soak up the atmosphere of other shoppers, and to just recuperate and drink that coffee, and feel yourself stirred into life. It was wonderful.

And so the days went by. But two weeks in and life was beginning to change.

She felt as if she had lots of energy and wanted to make something of her life. She had lots of unfulfilled ambitions and she now intended to have a go at these. She went to the local community centre and picked up a leaflet that advertised various free courses one could participate in. And you name it they ran it: pottery, basket weaving, flower arrangement, origami, art classes, amateur dramatics, French and Spanish, martial arts!, cookery classes and so on. She took the leaflet home and sat awhile caught up in thought. She’d always wanted to learn French or Spanish properly. Or art. Wouldn’t she like to have a go at that? And flower arrangement as well – that was something she’d always had an eye for, she thought. There were so many options, she was spoilt for choice.

In addition to this she decided to volunteer to work at a charity shop. They were desperate for volunteers apparently and she would be doing a good turn, putting something back into the community. And a local dog kennel, a shelter for homeless dogs, were on the look out for volunteers as well, to help walk the dogs. She loved dogs, always had, and it would be a pleasure to go and see all those dear little pooches in need of affection and take them for walkies. No, really, when you considered it, there was so much one could do, if only you had the time.

She enrolled on some of the courses at the centre and applied to be a volunteer at the charity shop as well as at the dog kennel. And soon she had her life planned out.

‘On Monday morning I’ll work in the charity shop and then in the afternoon I can go shopping and hang around town. Tuesday afternoon will be flower arrangement, and Wednesday evening Spanish. On Thursday afternoon I’ll go to the dog shelter and then Friday morning is my art class. And besides all that I’ll still have plenty of time to relax, to watch daytime TV, go on the internet or read a book, and when I fancy it I’ll still have the money to go and do a bit of shopping or go and have a coffee and a sandwich.’

And so this new routine began. And at first it was ever so good. Spanish classes were really exciting and she met lots of new people who all greeted her ‘Horla’ and ‘como estas?’ and she learnt to say her name and where she came from. Flower arrangement she found therapeutic and she impressed people by her skill on the very first day. And she even had a go at art and didn’t do too badly there.

And the charity shop? The people there all seemed friendly enough, she wasn’t overworked at all, and she got her bus expenses paid for. Yet it was the dogs that were her greatest joy. They were lined up in kennels as though in prison: Labradors, sheep dogs (old English and true), little scotch terriers, a dash-hund, Alsatians and so many more! And they were all so truly lovely and affectionate, and Janet would spend ages mollycoddling and talking to them, and they adored it, they so needed the affection.

So did her life progress. Except a few weeks down the line and things were starting to fall apart.

Spanish class had been the first hobby dropped. By week two, the class had become too hard and she’d gotten completely lost and couldn’t understand what anyone was saying. They’d made an exception for her on her first week and helped her out, but now she would have to fend for herself more, and she was clueless as to what they were saying. It seemed so difficult.

As for art, she dropped that shortly after. She felt she had a passion for it in theory, but in reality it was too hard, required too much concentration and she felt she didn’t have any natural skill. The reality was very disappointing and was miles away from how she imagined she could be as an artist, what she envisioned she could draw. She felt immensely about it, but her efforts were feeble. It was all a bit depressing. And the instructor had lost patience with her.

Flower arrangement was the last to go and she did it for a total of five weeks. She really had an aptitude for it and had impressed, felt a lot more relaxed doing this activity than art, but some of the older ladies who’d been coming here longer were rather put out by her. There was such an aurora of old-ladyness about them, this clique of would be guide leaders, as if they ran the centre, a ‘we were here first’ attitude, and such an undercurrent of nastiness and hostility. Really, they were all such sour old grapes and not only did Janet not wish to be around such difficult fuss-pots, but she felt, forty-two as she was, that it didn’t do her good to be in the company of such old fogies. After all she was still young.

And if the community centre had been rife with petit egotism and a sense of old people going nowhere with their lives, then the charity shop was worse. Though they regularly had a sign outside the shop saying ‘volunteers urgently needed!’, from day one this had borne absolutely no resemblance to reality and she’d been working at the till with two other volunteers, all three of whom stood there chatting trying to stave off boredom, as a desultory dribble of customers slowly trickled in. The whole place was fetid and stuffy and had the appearance of being run down. There was utterly nothing to do except look busy by rearranging the books or putting all the coat hangers in the same direction! Tedious, stressful, pointless chores that tended to irritate both the staff themselves and the few customers in the shop, who were trying to browse at leisure. And no sooner than you’d lined up the coat hangers than some idiot came in and rearranged them! Time and again the lady in charge would shout through and ask if they wanted a cup of tea, and each time they would all have to politely say no. She was a lovely lady, the lady in charge, pushing eighty as she was, but very active and enthusiastic and pleasant – at least on good days. On others, and when you got to know her, you found she was also a petit, egotistical, irritable taskmaster and she spent her time squabbling and backbiting with all the other volunteers, especially the women in the backroom. Everyone who’d volunteered had done so with the thought of helping their third world relations, but in reality it just amounted to a load of boredom and ineffectual labour peppered up by petit-bickering and clashes of egos.

The whole shop seemed steeped in stuffiness and there was a malodour of death, a sense that life was over. The volunteers and clientele were largely taken from the aged and those on the fringes of society. Old people would come in, and, hoping that here in a charity shop they could at last have a conversation with another human being, regale Janet endlessly with stories and bits of gossip, which, polite and sensitive person that she was, she would make an effort to listen to.

However after six weeks she’d had enough. She’d wanted to leave after three, but didn’t like to shirk her commitment. Yet in the end she thought it pointless to carry on. She did nothing, she wouldn’t be missed, in fact all she was doing was wasting resources by claiming expenses. And she couldn’t stand to be caught up in the choking atmosphere of stuffiness and petit egotism, that feeling that here life was over. It was a place meant for older people and she was, after all, still young.

The work at the dog shelter – that at least did work out and she loved to go and see the dogs and take them out for a walk in the fresh air of the countryside. This she remained doing every Thursday.

But more and more she didn’t know what to do with her time and wondered where her life was heading. Now that she had the time to think, she was starting to be philosophical. What was her life about? What was important to her? How could one be happy? What indeed was happiness? What did she want from life?

She spent more and more of her time simply watching TV. She didn’t especially like it and actually found herself getting worked up over some programmes. She spent long periods surfing the internet, doing nothing really, except hoping that here she would, rather miraculously, find the answers to her questions. She overate whilst in the house and would still go to cafés and drink coffee and have a nice sandwich – all to cheer herself up, but it wasn’t quite the same joy as it had been when she’d first left her job. In fact she was getting into the habit of overdoing it. But she couldn’t think how else to cheer herself up.

She would often be downcast and out of humour now, depressed some days and on others she would feel angry against society, especially the media and all the circus of celebrities and cosmetic breasts. She really felt angry. And when she thought about it, whole days went by and she talked to nobody! Surely that wasn’t right? It didn’t make for a seine lifestyle, surely? She found that she was talking to herself more often, her only companions the TV and radio.

And what about friends, who were they? She’d always had lots of friends, hadn’t she? Always been popular? And yet who exactly were they? Sheena had left and gone to London. There were others she liked at CPIS, but they weren’t really close. And who else? Who else outside of work? Most of her friends were now married and had families of their own and they’d lost touch. She passed pleasantries with her neighbours, but that was all. And her family? Her parents were dead. She had two older brothers each with their own families. They were her friends that was for sure. But they didn’t see each other that often.

Janet began thinking back on who her friends had been. What about her old friend Marjorie? Yes, Marjorie and herself had gotten along so well together, famously as they say. They’d been very intimate. They’d discussed everything together, talked of life, of love, of all sorts. Spent so much of their youth together, gossiping, joking or simply banging the world to rights. Marjorie had been such an intelligent, thoughtful person, and they’d been the best of friends. That was some ten years or so ago. But then hadn’t Marjorie sent Janet a Christmas card last year? She went and dug it out. There was a missive inside:


Dear Janet,

So long no see! What have you been doing with your life? Dave and I have just been down to collect Christina from Kent University – It’s her first year – and it’s so good to have her back for Christmas. Tom will be twenty-one in May. I can’t believe how time flies! It seems only yesterday since he was in nappies.
Dave and I are thinking about buying a new house. They’ve put up some new executive flats on the old Carlton industrial estate. We had a tour around one of the show rooms – it was absolutely fabulous. And so plush as well. We’ll have to see, but I know Dave is keen.

And how are you Janet? Do you remember our old days together. Going to the boat house club every Saturday evening and discussing everything under the sun, from men to politics and drinking those cheap cocktails. Ha! And that reminds me, I saw Ron Harris the other day – he’s got a beard! No really, it suits him.


Anyway all the best for Christmas and the New Year

Marjorie, Dave and the kids.

P.S. Please keep in touch! We used to be such good friends.


And as Janet read all of this her heart warmed toward Marjorie. What friends they had been, although she’d never quite appreciated it at the time. Now, in her current position, she valued this friendship dearly.

She decided to ring Marjorie. She would tell her everything, tell her how her life felt as if it were crumbling apart, talk to her about the world in general and how it all appeared to be going to the dogs in this day and age; and she’d invite her over for coffee or even a dinner party.

She rummaged around for the telephone number. As she searched, she imagined the conversation, the things she would tell Marjorie, and she rehearsed it in her mind. She wouldn’t start by saying she was at the end of her tether and despondent, she’d gradually build up to that. She’d start by asking Marjorie a question about her thoughts on the Richmond scandal – a political impropriety that was currently receiving a lot of attention in the press and which Marjorie was bound to have an opinion on. Yes that was it, the Richmond scandal. Ha! You could count on Marjorie to have her say on that! Se felt cheered just by the thought of it. Eventually she found the number and with trepidation dialled. Her heart was pounding.

Marjorie answered and Janet introduced herself in warm and sensitive tones.

‘Oh Janet? Oh hello. I was just thinking which Janet that was……Dave? Could you turn the television down’ she said irate.

She sounded really out of sorts and depressed as if she didn’t want to speak to Janet or have any trips down memory lane. Janet sensed this immediately. Her heart quivered and she felt she’d made a mistake. She would have liked to have put the phone down immediately. Nevertheless she persisted with her polite, sensitive and warm tones, trying to disguise the fact that she was upset by her friend’s lack of interest.

There was some desultory chat for a few minutes. Clearly Marjorie was feeling low in one way or another and – completely contrary to her tone and feelings of friendship as expressed in the letter – it was too much for her to rekindle the old friendship. It obviously felt somewhat nauseous to her to do so. And Janet recalled how she, when she’d first received the card at Christmas, had, despite Marjorie’s good wishes, felt nauseated at the thought of old friends and old times. In fact she had rather hoped that Marjorie wouldn’t get in contact with her. She kicked herself for having phoned.

There was nothing for it but to see the phone call out and Janet persisted in her plan and Marjorie sounded out of humour. And it came to an end when Janet, perchance, enquired about the Richmond scandal. Marjorie sounded totally uninterested, as if she’d heard enough of it, but gave her opinion nonetheless, after which, without asking for Janet’s views in return, she said she must be getting along and the phone call ended, with Janet being excessively polite and thanking Marjorie for her time. They would not be meeting up then.

Janet sat in her chair feeling desperately sad and began sobbing. She felt like such a fool. She’d been so kind, so sensitive, so aquiver when speaking to Marjorie and she in turn had been miserable and unresponsive. And fool that she was, she’d persisted with her planned discourse, despite the fact that she could see Marjorie was not in the mood for any of it. And what a disaster it had been. She’d started with the Richmond scandal, and it had gotten no further. And when she thought of how she’d practiced her thoughts before hand, how she had hoped to tell Marjorie everything, how she intended to start crying on her shoulder as it were, and how she imagined they would have a good laugh about it all as well, just like in the old days – when she thought of all this she felt humiliated. Why had there been such a gulf between how Marjorie expressed herself in her letter at Christmas and how she had been tonight?

Her life was slowly falling apart and she could see it. She spent her days watching TV or on the internet, or going shopping simply to be around people, in a hub-hub. She felt out of tune with the world, would often feel in a rage against society and people and knew that she was deeply unhappy. There was something missing in her life.

And then one day she decided she would start going to Church. She’d gotten a leaflet through the post from the local parish and they sounded very welcoming.

‘No, I need help, I need love, I need human interaction’ she thought to herself. ‘What is the point of spending my days in a rage with the world, hating people and getting worked up about the shallow lives of celebrities and superstars; watching the news and getting depressed over the misery in this world; or listening to the radio and reading the papers, and jumping on the band wagon, moaning away my days saying that society’s gone to pot, that the youth of today has no values and acting as if nothing good ever happens and that the world is made up of muggers, scoundrels and benefit cheats! No there’s no point to it at all. I have so much to give to life, so much love, so much energy. I can no longer waste it on hate. I’m a good, loving person, and all I want in my life is some friendship and happiness, some human companionship, some love. ’

And on Sunday she was there. And immediately, as soon as she stepped through the door and a pleasant and genuinely friendly old lady handed her a hymn book, she felt happy in a kind of sad, deep way. The large cold building; the uncomfortable wooden seats, the leather bound hymn books – it was all so Churchy, yet so comforting as well. And the organ music was like balm to her soul. That deeply sad, sad music as if it were saying that nothing in this world really matters, and that we’ll all come to an end one day, so we might as well not care, but simply give in and surrender to the happiness and the sadness of the organ music; escape for a fleeting moment from all that was miserable in this life – all of this deeply touched her. And she felt a steady flame rekindled in her soul. Just a calm, steady, even flame. A sad flame but nevertheless a joyous one.

She sang the hymns and then listened to the minister. She ate the body of Christ and drank the blood of Christ which swam hotly through her whole body bringing her to life, warming her deliciously so that she shivered, and she said prayers and was sombre. And when half way through she turned to those around her and said ‘peace be with you’ and shook hands, tears started to stream from her eyes and she was overcome with emotion. The people were so genuinely pleasant and it was such a genial act between two human beings. And as she left the church that day she made a silent prayer to God once more and thanked him for such beautiful things, for such human kindness and friendship, for such quietly sombre moments in such an awful, mad and pointless world.

She went again the next Sunday and the one after that. There still remained that feeling of purity and that sense that nothing mattered in this life but the sad organ music. But the feeling was beginning to wear. Moreover in the days in between church, her life sank back into its usual abyss and her old problems were there as they always had been.

The fourth week she went she was out of humour.

‘What can the church do for my life, my actual life’ she thought to herself. ‘Where is God or any of these people, when I’m wiling away the hours, depressed and sick of my life, doing nothing and getting worked up about all that is false and disgusting in the world?’

And as she got to know them better, the people seemed not so angelic. Either she found them, like the vicar, to be so divorced from reality that she hated them for having no conception of her own miserable plight, for not having any advice to proffer about how to cope with life or get through it, or, she thought them smug, superior and supercilious, or again, she simply found them to be miserable, joyless people, spiritually dead and dissatisfied, people without an ounce of wisdom, who followed none of the Christian tenets, but who nevertheless came week in week out to church. One woman in particular fell into this last category.

She was rather old, never smiled, and came across as an utter misery. She thought nothing of Janet, but attempting to do the Christian thing, had gone out of her way to make cheerless small talk with her, something that had really irked Janet. She had a miserable, joyless old face and unlike Janet was incapable of being genial. She would often go around gossiping after the service. And on this particular Sunday it was too much for Janet. Over the past few weeks the Church had been preying regularly for a two year old boy who was fighting for his life. He had heart complications. Only last week his father had been in church (the parents had become ‘honorary’ members since the child’s illness began) and he had been saying how positive he was for Sam’s, the boy’s, future, and how he wanted to thank everyone for their prayers and kindness. And everyone had warmed to him, and to the family, since they were not typical churchgoers, would probably not have come otherwise, but, in their hour of need they had come, and no one had thought otherwise but to welcome them with open arms. It was such a lovely story.

However this week the vicar announced that in fact the boy had died. And no sooner had the service ended than the joyless old woman went over to another old dear sitting behind Janet and started gossiping about it.

‘Eeeh, did you hear that about young Sam? Eeeh, never in the world. His father was only in last week saying he was recovered. Eeeh never in the world. It’s so terrible.’

And the excited way she went about gossiping, desperate to talk about the whole story, was just too much for Janet and she turned to address this woman.

‘How dare you gossip about the death of a child, you revolting old bag’ she shouted. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. You’ve had a full and easy life, and yet you’re completely miserable and joyless and have nothing better to do at your age than gossip, gossip about someone who’ll never experience life. You disgust me, you really do! You should have died! But instead you’ll still be around in ten years time, healthy and alive, still wasting your time doing nothing, being miserable and dissatisfied and gossiping about dead children.’

A complete hush had descended and her words echoed throughout the lofty church building. She stormed out the church, looking at no one, her heeled shoes banging on the stone floor, echoing throughout. She never returned again.

When she got home she sat down and had a cup of tea.

‘What a load of rubbish the church is. It can’t do anything to actually solve the problems of the world and it sure as hell can’t solve mine. It doesn’t even care really. It’s just good for organ music once a Sunday. And the people! What a lot! What smug, superior people, how false and pretendy they are, they haven’t got a clue about reality or everyday and spend their time arguing about meaningless passages in the Bible, all of which of course never happened. No, whoever said that ‘church is great, but it’s the people that are unbearable’ had it absolutely spot on.’

But in her heart of hearts she knew she was wrong. There might be some bad eggs in the church and there was a lot of pettiness and back-biting, smugness and superiority. But still, at its core, there was a group of genuinely decent, friendly, welcoming people who had good hearts, or who at least wanted to have good hearts, who wanted to care for something more in this world than the usual shallow and vein pursuits, people who worried about the world and its people, who wanted everyone to have food, shelter and love.

And she knew all this. Yet she’d let herself get worked up by the bad minority. Why was that? Why did she not care for the kindness and friendship of the good many? Why did she dislike them so much and find them false and annoying? Why did she hate the bad ones, but feel herself unable to like the good? Why was that then? She disliked them (and she knew this herself) because they didn’t – as far as she knew them from church – go in for things like fun and flirting and having a good time, all things that she herself enjoyed. No, they seemed stilted and boring to her. Yet even if they were, how else would she want churchgoers to behave? Would she have them all cool as cucumbers, oversexed and flirting, so that Church became like a night club? Of course not. The way they behaved was exactly the way they ought to. They were exactly as they should be, and she disliked them for it. She knew she was contradictory, she knew she was wrong. At the end of the day, perhaps it wasn’t the people who spoilt church, but rather people like herself, who said things like ‘it’s the people who spoil church.’