Every Man an Island

He wasn’t really what I expected when I arrived. Over the phone he had mentioned that he had worked in law for many years, it was a strange thing to throw into the conversation – I took it to mean he might be a bit strange, strange or just a little drunk. I would learn that he had been a senior barrister’s clerk to a London based chamber, a very well paid job indeed, and something that clearly meant a lot to him.

He sat with me on a bench beside the window as I cut out the old putty from around the broken glass. You can usually tell when people want to take part in a little conversation, so I asked him the usual: renting or purchased; been here long; where did you move from; what do you do for a living; do you enjoy it… I’m not good at small talk so these stock questions seem to serve me well in situations like this. He reciprocated with similar questions and seemed genuinely interested, even a little intrigued. I could see him edging down the bench as I worked, looking up at me with puzzled eyes and an approving smile.

What seemed to have him so mystified was how it came to be that an architecture graduate was happily repairing his broken window. I think it’s the happiness part that he had the most difficulty with. I learned a little about his life as a barrister’s clerk, and how that came to be a story from his past. It was a past he was proud of and he still hadn’t come to terms with their decision to let him go, despite the passing years.

I tend to notice where I am, it is the architectural eye, and his spacious Victorian flat had the feel of faded wealth; it was starting to make sense. Something else I had noticed was the small white box marked Mirtazapine on the bureau. It just caught my eye, the familiar proportions of that little white box with its coloured banding. I might never have noticed it if I hadn’t known it so well.

He wanted to know how I it was that I had broken with a white collar career to become a handyman - how I had managed to start all over again. His curiosity stemmed from his own need to start again, to overcome the wounds and make a new living. Our conversation reminded me a lot about the emotional and financial trappings of our old life. I wonder how many of us, when we look back across our life’s decisions, can attribute the choices we made along the way to the will of others. The choices we made to make others happy, proud, to feel some worth in the eyes of others. He asked me a quite unexpected question; he asked if he and his partner could come to our wedding.

While he was in the bathroom the door bell rang. I answered it to a man with a beard so thick that I could barely understand anything he said. He spoke in mumbles, but somehow managed to get by communicating. He came in and made himself comfortable, taking out his tobacco pouch and cigarette papers. He was warmly welcomed. While I continued working these two men sat in the lounge making stop start conversation, seemingly eager for me to finish up. When it came time to present the bill he drew out his cheque book and very carefully touched his fountain pen to the page. What he the tore out and gave to me looked like the doodles of a three year old; it was anyone’s guess if the bank would accept this cheque. Actually they didn’t, and I wasted no time in returning to the flat to ask him to draw up another.

The bearded friend answered the door and ushered me in mumbling some more. The barrister’s clerk lay asleep across the sofa… a deep sleep. When does falling asleep become passing out? It took some time to wake him, and longer still to explain why I was there again. In the brief time that I had been away, he had downed a few drinks and passed out. When he woke he was disorientated, and then he began talking about his job again, only this time he broke down into tears. He sat there, apologising and sobbing and angry at it all, grimacing through the tears, hugging me.

He wasn’t coping, and what I was glimpsing were his habits, the daily routine that involved self medicating around 11am and the anesthetised day that followed. He wasn’t talking to anyone professionally, he wasn’t taking his medication, and his difficulties were compounded by alcohol. Wow, if I knew the hole that I had scrambled up from to get to where I am, then this was a man who had further to climb. For everything I know about my own journey, I realised then I knew nothing about the challenge that he faced or about where to start in helping him. Alcohol makes everything so complicated.