BEHIND THE LINES Stephanie Buckle

Tea trolley in position, curtains open, seven chairs occupied.

I noticed that the shoelace was missing from my shoe. For a while, I could not understand the nature of the problem. My foot was not secure. It floated in an uncomfortable space. I drew up my knee to get a closer look, surmising that I had been given the wrong shoes, but closer inspection satisfied me that these were in fact mine. White sneakers, the leather split over the top of one of them, a cheap brand, serviceable. Definitely mine. But one had a lace in, which was tied in a knot as usual. The other had no lace. The holes were empty. The flaps were hanging apart, gaping.

I cannot be considered to be fully dressed without both shoelaces tied. If I had slippers on, it would be a different matter. Slippers would in fact contribute appropriately to my situation. However, my slippers are not here. I am satisfied that everything else is as it should be, after checking carefully, - shirt, trousers, jacket, cap, all are in place. There should, of course, be a tie; however, I am reconciled to the absence of this, having been persuaded of the relative informality of my situation here.

The problem of the shoelace needs to be addressed, and I must consider

carefully how this is to be achieved. Too much alarm may produce a contrary effect. Too little, and the problem may be entirely overlooked. It is notable that the shoe has been placed on my foot, and left. Possibly the staff are even now making enquiries. I shall wait, and see.

Tea trolley removed, morning light flooding room, bald headed TV host chatting, nine chairs occupied.

I had a short nap, and on waking, discovered that a cup of tea by my chair was almost stone cold. I have drunk it regardless. Tea has the power to refresh no matter what its temperature.

Returning the cup to its saucer, I braced my foot against the footrest of the chair, and remembered immediately that there was a problem with my shoes. I set myself to the task of finding a solution.

Reflection, indeed concentrated thought of any kind, is difficult in my current situation. There is continual noise. Like the noise of a battlefield, it is composed of many disparate, jarring sounds that blend to a background roar both monotonous and unpredictable. There is the continuous clatter and jingle of the TV, the volume of which is never altered. The steady whine of the floor cleaner. The voices of the staff.

The idiot sounds of a parrot in a cage, which never ceases talking to itself. Likewise, the occupant of the chair next to me. A phone ringing, that rarely seems to be answered. Chairs scraping on the floor. The continual drone of the air conditioning.
In addition, there are frequent interruptions and distractions; one never knows when the padre may appear, or the sweet seller, or even the doctor! to ply their various trades. I am fortunate in having trained my mind over many years in strategic focussing, and this now stands me in good stead in applying myself to the problem of my shoelace.

A possible solution is to remove the shoelace from the other shoe. The appearance of both feet would then be the same. However, I feel certain that there are good reasons for retaining the shoelaces in both shoes. Also, I have spent some time attempting to undo the knot in the other shoe, without success; so I will leave this plan for the moment.

Pert breasted pianist at her post, clear daylight, five chairs occupied

I decided upon a strategy to attract attention to the problem. Timing was important. It must happen at a moment of maximum impact, and therefore I decided to wait for the pianist to finish her gyrations on the piano stool, and the wheel out for lunch to begin. Then I pushed the heel of the unlaced shoe hard against the footrest,

until I was able eventually to push it right off my foot, whereupon naturally it fell to the floor. This effort was quite exhausting, and I must have fallen into a doze while the wheel out was in progress, because the next thing, one of the staff was kneeling over me and remarking to someone across the room to the effect that “the General was up to his tricks again.” She was placing the shoe back on my foot. Her preoccupation with the General may have prevented her from noticing the missing shoelace, but I remain optimistic.

In my current situation, I have developed an understanding that things may happen at times and in ways over which I have no control. This is a different modus operendi from the one I have been used to for most of my life, but I find myself slipping more and more readily into the way of it. It requires one to predict multiple possible outcomes, to keep an open mind, as it were. In fact, it needs to be accepted that one may not have predicted some outcomes at all, they may be wholly unexpected. The trick is to allow oneself to contemplate and explore these developments as if they were hidden goldmines which had not been marked on one’s map of the enemy territory. In this frame of mind, I find I can quite happily amuse myself with the most awkward situations for long periods of time.

And so I passed the time after lunch, which had been, as usual, an indifferent meal. There were many intricate aspects of the problem to explore. How had the shoelace become detached from the shoe? Had there been intent on the part of some person or persons unknown, or had it been a purely incidental occurrence? And where was the shoelace now?

Tea trolley in position, curtains drawn, Fritz’ female visitor in armchair opposite, eleven chairs occupied

I had been scrutinising the occupants of the chairs within my range of sight in the hope that some clue as to the whereabouts of my shoelace may come to light. I am becoming reconciled to the fact that the staff are not pursuing the matter, and indeed may not even now be aware that the lace is missing, (although this last is hard to comprehend; how could they not be aware when they have twice placed the shoe on my foot?)

A shoelace, of course, is not an easy thing to identify from a distance. But luck is on my side here, because this shoelace is long, white, and quite wide. Relatively easy to pick out, in fact. I began by studying the occupants’ feet. One elderly female had her feet hidden beneath a rug; I would return to her later. Most of the other occupants seemed to be wearing slippers.

Fritz, of course, has no feet. However, this did not exclude him from my scrutiny. One cannot be said to have conducted an enquiry into anything unless all possibilities have been thoroughly looked at. It is quite likely that a man with no feet could find another purpose for a shoelace.

(Fritz may not be the gentleman’s actual name, but it is the name I called him when I dragged him from the mud, and discovered that both his legs were missing.

He was sobbing like a child. “Come on, Fritz, pull yourself together man!” I shouted, or something to that effect.)

And now there he sits, the stumps jutting forwards, and the spittle oozing from his mouth. He is looking straight across at me with an expression that I can’t fathom, but it is not pleasure.

Electric lights on, voice of the grey haired newsreader.

My chair has been moved round, thereby restricting my view of all the occupants. I can no longer see Fritz.

There was an altercation, which I instigated. Instigating it was the easy part. The really tricky thing is maintaining control over the flow of events which ensues, in order to bring about one’s purpose. I believed that I had spotted my shoelace tied around a bundle of letters that lay in Fritz’ lap. I had a number of options. I could have waited for the next wheel out which would have brought me into closer proximity to Fritz’ chair and a better look, perhaps even a raid. I have achieved notable success in the past by grabbing with my right arm at the right moment. (The left, of course, is useless, like the leg. They might as well both be cut off.) I decided this strategy was too risky however, because I feared that the letters might be

removed, by the staff, or perhaps by Fritz’ female visitor, before the wheel out commenced. Then I would have lost my opportunity.

Initiating an altercation was my second option. I directed the full force of my determined purpose upon the bundle of letters, raising my arm and aiming it at my target, and allowing my vocal chords their full expression. The sound is not an articulate one, but nevertheless has its own satisfaction, and produces a prompt response.

There was a flurry of confused activity. Several staff were engaged immediately upon the problem, but their efforts were unfortunately unfocussed and misguided, being largely directed at Fritz, who was said to be upset. This did not concern me: I had, after all, saved the man’s life. If he now found himself under fire in enemy territory he must do his best, as we all must. I redoubled my efforts, knowing that if I allowed myself for a moment to be distracted, all would be lost. At some point, the staffs’ efforts would focus, albeit only briefly, on discovering the reason for my outbreak.

This happened. Questions were fired at me. A cushion was removed from under my arm. Someone shouted in my face. The lights were turned out briefly. A bag of liquorice allsorts was thrown into my lap. Earphones were pushed into my ears, (it was Johann Strauss again, they were not aware that my utter contempt for the

Skater’s Waltz would only add to the power of my vocal chords). But the bundle of letters remained in Fritz’ lap, and no one noticed that my shoelace was missing.

Then my chair was turned to face the wall.

Tea trolley in position, curtains open, nine chairs occupied.

I can hear only one sound, and it is the sound of an orchestra playing the familiar and monotonous tune. I can see the mouths of the staff moving, they are looking at each other and gesturing, but no sound is emerging. On the TV, a young woman is dancing, but not in time to music that I can hear. The parrot is pecking the sides of its cage, but has ceased to talk. All is silent, except for the orchestra.

It is possible that the orchestra is a remembered sound, that my troublesome brain replays this unwanted tune to fill a void, to provide an irritant to keep the neuronal pathways oiled, as it were, in some awkward, and I hope temporary, lapse in normal activity. I shall await developments. I shall in fact, close my eyes, and think myself crouched in the bracken in the Staffordshire woods. I am a child again, looking down onto the large mound of earth outside the entrance to the badger set, at the beginning of that freezing autumn night; the night, finally, that I will see the badgers.

To see them, I must make no sound at all. Even my breathing, the very blood running through my veins, must sink into silence. I become only a pair of watchful eyes. And I see the badgers just before the moon sets, hours into that long night.

Can this wait now be longer?

Tea trolley removed, morning light flooding room, bald headed TV host chatting, nine chairs occupied.

I knew that sound had returned to normal when I heard a female staff voice. She was bending towards me, saying that she “hoped I was going to behave myself.” I had no idea what she meant by this, as I believed I had been sitting completely motionless and silent, my eyes closed, for some considerable period of time. The orchestra, thank God, had gone.

The shoelace was still missing from my shoe. The shoe lay loosely on my foot, the other one tied up with its lace as usual. I reviewed the several strategies that I had executed for resolving the problem; none had worked. Some had in fact resulted in the kind of negative effects that I had been anxious to avoid. Where would I go from here? I had to consider the possibility that I might give up the whole campaign. Admit defeat. Cut my losses. Retreat. Lick my wounds and return to base camp.

The odds, after all, were so stacked against me that an argument could readily be made for directing my energies into a project more likely to succeed.

But I am convinced that success is still possible. The moments when one might be persuaded to give up are often simply the times to switch to a longer-term strategy, to dig in and wait it out, in fact. It is possible to outwait almost anything. The cows, eventually, will come home, moaning to be milked. In the leaping shadowy light of the fire in the trenches, the enemy will raise his head.

The badger too, will poke his head out of his hole and sniff the air, however suspicious he may be that something is not right; the air carries the taint of the enemy. So I set myself to wait, crouched and still, body frozen into the mud as if it will never move again. Only the brain stays alert, assessing, analysing every scrap of detail that the watchful senses gather.

And now the badger’s whole body emerges; the moon picks out the silver grey sheen of his fur. The black and white stripes on his face are barely visible in the light and shadow of the moonlit wood. He lifts his snout high in the air, sniffing, sniffing. Snuffling gently, he starts to amble towards me. Victory, finally, is mine!

EJ BRADY