I Am Employed

You can measure my Uncle’s self-confidence by the fact that the tutors he had spoken of in such a theoretical manner - that first night - were sitting there, at our breakfast table, the very next day.

 

I didn’t know if they were “starving” or not. But they were certainly very hungry young men. Hungry for all the good things that my Uncle had. But they couldn’t get to that particular kind of paradise until they finished their graduate work and had the right number of initials after their names.

 

In the meantime, they volunteered to help out their thesis advisor - make a little extra money - and get at least one free hot meal a day by telling me all the things that I should have known already.

 

 

I began with Adrian for literature, arts, and history. At first, he seemed like a man who might be charging by the word - and wanted to charge as little as possible.

 

Here’s the complete transcript of our first conversation:

 

“Hi.”

 

“Hi.”

 

“Hi. My name is Adrian. These are the books we’ll be starting with....”

 

“That’s a lot of books....”

 

“We don’t have a lot of time.”

 

“What am I studying for?”

 

“You aren’t studying. We are civilizing you....”

 

“Are you a gay person? You seem like a gay person.”

 

But Adrian didn’t even dignify that with an answer.

 

 

 

My meeting with Gupta was a little more engaging, even though his curricula - math, science, physics, etc. - appealed to me even less than the humanities.

 

“Hello. I am Mr. Gupta.”

 

“Gupta?”

 

“Yes. Mr. Gupta.”

 

“And you are from India?”

 

“Yes ... naturally... of course....”

 

“What brings you to England?”

 

“I am a student, of course.”

 

“Do you like it here?”

 

“What does that matter? If I like it here?”

 

“Just wondering. What’s India like?”

 

“Very warm. And quite crowded. It will assist me, to assist you, to know how far you have progressed in your studies. So we will begin with some examinations, tomorrow, to see what you might know.”

 

“I can tell you that I don’t know much.”

 

“Yes. That is the impression I am getting.”

 

 

 

My Uncle adores Routine - and so our routine began: the days passing in the kind of regular rhythm that annihilates time.

 

Adrian in the forenoon. (Starting with the Odyssey, in which the sorceress Circe turns most of the men on the ship into pigs. I thought the symbolism of that to be very apt.)

 

Lunch was in Adrian’s contract, but he was such a slave driver that we usually worked through lunch, as well. He always ate everything that was brought in for him - then he finished what I didn’t have the appetite for - then he ate everything else that Kelley prepared.

 

I began to think that my Uncle’s reference to “starving” grad students might be accurate, after all.

 

I had a brief interlude to myself after Adrian left - then Gupta equated and equilateralled in the afternoon. We owed him a meal, as well, but he preferred to take his “tea” in the form of a basket that Kelley handed him at the end of his shift.

 

The fact that she was “Mrs Kelley” seemed to suggest that there might be a “Mr Kelley” - and she was much older than he was, from a different part of the world. All the same, Gupta gave her a fawning kind of attention as he accepted his dinner basket.

 

His flirtations with her were so outrageous that I asked my Uncle about it. Which prompted him to put aside his newspaper for a moment.

 

“In love with her? I believe Gupta’s family is quite traditional. I’m sure they already have a bride chosen for him after he’s awarded his degree and goes back.”

 

“But what if he was free to choose for himself?”

 

“Choose for himself? And stay here?”

 

“Right. Let’s say he did that....”

 

“Then I’m quite certain he would ask for her hand. Her curries are true works of art.”

 

“But she’s pretty fat.”

 

“Never trust a skinny cook, Rebecca.”

 

He laughed.

 

“Or a penniless lawyer, either....”

 

 

 

For his part, Uncle James moved to the beat of Academic Time.

 

Most days he would throw a leg over his outdated English three-speed and pedal off to the University while the sun was still pushing through the horizon.

 

My classes occupied the Hall’s library. But he had a smaller study of his own, and lunch was taken to him there - if he was back in time for it - and he would stay there through the afternoon. Editing a book. Or writing a book.

 

Or typing up an incomprehensible article for publication in one of those small, incomprehensible journals so full of dense equations that you had to look at the cover to know if you were holding it upside down or right side up. (Just the kind of plain, but very expensive, little publications that regularly appear in my mailbox now.)

 

From time to time he would leave for several days to collect more income. This would be for a speaking engagement (“like finding money on the street”). Or a professional conference (“snore derby”).

 

 

 

Present or not, the gears he had assembled meshed soundlessly. Particularly after I took over the Dog and Cat Operation. Which brings us to the topic of “strays” - of which I was only one of many at Baskerville Hall.

 

The fact that I took early responsibility to make sure that all the animals were cared for pleased my Uncle more than anything I did - during that time - and brought us much closer together.

 

I never took the next logical step of becoming a vegetarian, like him, but feeding the animals every day brought me into the range of their uncritical love. A new feeling for me, which I enjoyed.

 

 

 

There was a certain series of steps which needed to be followed each morning - and it was important that things happen in order. If I started by lugging the cat food around to the different feeding stations, the hungry dogs would eat that - and be less interested in their own food.

 

So the dogs came first. Then I filled all the cat bowls: without knowing how many cats were dining.

 

Since Gupta also didn’t know how many felines were wandering the property, either, he recognized this as an algebra problem, and instructed me to compose an equation based on the amount of cat food consumed each day (according to my measurement), related to the estimated average food intake for an “average” cat.

 

After working on the task for a while, I came up with the answer of 18.35: which made Gupta frown.

 

“There cannot be one-third of a cat out there. That is ridiculous. Numbers cannot be ridiculous. Other things can be ridiculous, but numbers cannot be. They describe everything"”

 

“Adrian says that philosophy describes everything"”

 

“Humanity could live without philosophers. But not without numbers. It is numbers that make sense of reality. And there cannot be a fraction of a cat....”

 

“All right ... then I guess that makes 19 cats. How’s that?”

 

“I believe that to be a viable number.”

 

“How many cats do you think there are?”

 

“I have no idea. I only know that Mrs Kelley will not allow them into the house. And her judgments are altogether righteous.”

 

“Are you in love with her, by the way?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous. We are just very friendly....”

 

 

 

Kelley didn’t allow the dogs in the house, either: of which there were six. All of them greyhounds, and all former racers: like parentheses turned on their sides, balanced on high impractical legs. They were so dainty - and their expressions so mournful - that I thought they might be the daughters of a foolish king who had all fallen under some evil spell.

 

It was hard to believe that someone was simply going to kill them because they couldn’t run as fast as they used to. But that’s what someone was going to do, until James stepped in.

 

And hard to believe that they were ever any faster than they were when I met them.

 

On the occasions when we went out for walks, their acceleration from a standing start was astonishing. They hunted by sight, and - when one of them saw something - they all took off: moving like relentless angels over the ground.

 

One second, they were standing right next to me. Two seconds later: a hundred yards away, their thin bodies folding and unfolding almost faster than the eye could see.

 

 

 

The greyhounds - and whatever cats wanted to sneak in - lived out in the stable: along with five rescued donkeys, and three rescued horses.

 

The stable was the highest job I could aspire to: since my Uncle loved to work out there, and usually cared for the large animals himself.

 

To borrow Hemingway’s phrase, it was (and is) a clean, well-lighted place. And yet a melancholy venue: sheltering defeated animals - inclined to philosophy - who spent their time mostly going back and forth to pasture.

 

The donkeys were very sweet and subdued. They were just plain worn out, and my Uncle was happy to let them do nothing.

 

We had two horses - Daisy and Clover - who could be gently ridden, if we wished to ride.

 

And one monumental old draft horse, Atlas, who came to mean more to me than just about anything else in my life.

 

 

 

Atlas was the largest living thing I had ever spoken to, and was the pure essence of Horsepower. Alfalfa and oats into bone, and hoof, and heavy muscle. An energy equation in the shape of something alive that you could touch, and which would respond to the sound of your voice.

 

Compact, and still rippling with strength, he had hooves the size of pie plates - covered by long filaments of white hair - and the top of his back was higher than the top of my head.

 

I remember my tutor Adrian’s astonishment, the first time that he saw this majestic animal (Adrian told me that he was a horse lover, but he’d never been back to the stable - I was fed up with Chaucer, so I took him back there).

 

Adrian walked up to Atlas without the least hesitation, while the horse stood patiently, listening to our conversation.

 

“Fantastic. Just fantastic. A shire draft horse. There were horses like this all over England, Rebecca, doing the work of the world. And not so long ago. He was going to be killed, wasn’t he?”

 

“So I’m told.”

 

“And all for dog food.”

 

Glancing at the dogs, quietly circling us, I hoped they didn’t take that personally.

 

“The world needs dog food, Adrian.”

 

He didn’t seem to hear me as he ran his hand across Atlas’ flank.

 

“He deserves better than that, thank God. I’ll have to assign you Gulliver’s Travels soon. Dr Gulliver is shipwrecked, and lives in a land of horses for a time.”

 

“Lives with them? What do you mean? You mean: they act like people?”

 

“They act better than people. They create a reasonable and gentle society. While it is human beings who are dumb brutes in that country.”

 

I hadn’t heard of that book, but it sounded interesting.

 

“Could I ride a horse like this?”

 

“Not very fast, you couldn’t. This one was bred to pull and to lift. But, as far as your weight, he would scarcely notice. If you’re happy with 3 miles an hour, his back is probably wide enough for you to sleep on.”

 

“Lift me up then....”

 

With my tutor’s help, I leveraged myself up in the air: and found myself on a warm, broad surface - almost like a table - sitting about six feet in the air, my legs resting on the horse’s ribs.

 

“Quite a view from up here.”

 

Adrian nodded.

 

“And too broad for a saddle. Give him a bridle, of course, and you could direct him. Although if he ever started to gallop, you’d be in trouble. This would be a hard animal to stop.”

 

Adrian caught me as I jumped down, as Atlas shook his mane.

 

“While we’re out here, I’m wondering how I can start taking care of him. My Uncle usually does it, but I’d like to start doing it instead. Could you help me with that?”

 

“To be sure. He was probably worked very hard when he was younger. He deserves someone to take care of him, now.”

 

 

 

Naturally, it wasn’t long before Uncle James discovered me grooming one of my new friends. He had just returned from a conference when he found me busy with the brush in Clover’s stall.

 

“I’d been wondering when you’d get curious enough to come out here.”

 

“Well ... here I am....”

 

“Is there a particular animal you like?”

 

If Uncle James was planning to give me a donkey, I was going to disappointed.

 

“The big one. Atlas....”

 

“That one? The old plow horse? I didn’t even know he had a name.”

 

We walked back to Atlas’ stall: where he was waiting for us at the door. 

 

“Seems appropriate, though? Right? Even though he might be kind of old....”

 

“No. I think it’s a name that fits. He was given to me, you know.”

 

“No one wanted him at all?”

 

“No one wanted him at all. Sadly, a tractor is much more practical. Well ... since you’ve named him ... do you want him?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Would you like to own him? Would you like him to belong to you?”

 

“Belong to me?”

 

“Yes ... would you like me to make a gift of him ... to you?”

 

“Of course. Who wouldn’t?”

 

“Splendid. We have a bargain. He’s yours.”

 

And, just like that, I had a horse of my own. Conditional on the expectation that I - the latest stray animal that my Uncle had taken in - start caring for all the other stray animals that had come before me. 

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