The Gesture

Stanley had a neighbour. Towards the eve of his 52nd birthday, this neighbour became the predominant focus of his life – he used the neighbour as a bookmark of his aspirations. His trained eye noted with canker the harsh disparity between the suave leather loafers he envied and his own worn lace-ups with sensible rubber soles which squeaked on plastic floors; the suit of casual elegance, cashmere coat slung carelessly over shoulders, while painfully aware that his own man-made fibre apparel gave a tell-tale shine under strong overhead lighting where it had worn. He cursed the day he had started to notice, for it is a cruel torture indeed to be perpetually dissatisfied with one’s life. But it was not the material assets of his neighbour he yearned for most; it was his very person, his easy manner, his good taste and his general benevolence which endeared him to all, without for a moment compromising his masculine authority which created an aura like cologne around him.
The neighbour had moved in shortly before Christmas, and soon after knocked at Stanley’s door. He bore a large and sumptuous, beribboned hamper, and was accompanied by a small and angelic child. Stanley stood awkwardly, his mental faculties clocking error messages at such an unaccustomed social situation.
“Merry Christmas! Just a small token of friendship from us all – and an excuse to get to know our new neighbours!”
The basket stood on the beige formica, incongruously ornate, mocking him for weeks as it sat in showy contrast to the tins of value baked beans and sliced white. For Stanley did not know what one did with truffle oil or saucisson.
Stanley shopped on a Saturday morning at the Co-op down the road. He enjoyed overhearing snippets of gossip that didn’t concern him – so long as he was up to date with the grievances and ongoing soap-opera dramas of local nonentities he felt part of the community, and yet by studiously avoiding any contribution to the conversations around him he retained what he felt was a position of moral superiority. Sidling too close to the glassy licentiousness of the liquor aisle was a covert thrill, but actually purchasing anything was definitely beyond the pale. That was the realm of those despicable beings who caused a rumpus on a Saturday night, and left unspeakable things on the driveway.
Towards the end of December, while pausing thoughtfully by the shelves of patisserie, deliberating over a suitable treat to celebrate the New Year, Stanley happened to overhear Audrey, the aging check out girl, exclaim in a conspiratorial super-whisper that the new gentleman in no.24 had been in buying whole casefuls of wine – “the good stuff, not the special offer, mind. He knew his stuff – was asking me about vintages and what have you, not round ‘ere I said, it’s all brand new, no mouldy old vintage stuff here… Having a party he said, to bring in the New Year.” She paused to smile coquettishly and pluck her Primark blouse. “AND,” she imbued the words with dramatic effect – not for nothing was she a lynchpin of the Amateur Dramatics Society, “just as I was almost finished putting it through the till, he grabbed a box of Black Magic, there, and said ‘just by way of a Happy New Year to you, Audrey!’ – imagine that! He knew my name, and there’s some as have been here regular for 20 odd years and still don’t know that much!”
Stanley felt this as a personal rebuke. It was strange, but he had always considered Audrey as simply part of the process by which food got to his plate, much like the anonymous people who squirted pink icing on the doughnuts and sealed the plastic wrappers, making his life that little bit more convenient. He braced himself and approached the counter, placing his paltry selection of comestibles on the battleground.
“Mornin’.”
“Good Morning - ” He stopped. Audrey. Audrey. But no, it stuck in his throat, the forced conviviality going against his sociopathic nature, the habits of a lifetime proving resolutely unbreakable. The purchase was complete, and the moment had passed. Stanley allowed himself a swift kick at the kerb to vent his mounting frustration, a rare show of anger only witnessed by the postman, whom Stanley disregarded as a useful paper shifter rather than a person.
The festivities had subsided and on Monday morning Stanley set off for the office, feeling a calm and satisfied sensation envelop him at the thought of life returning to its normal routine. To his irritation, the postman was late meaning that Stanley had been unable to check his mail over breakfast. As he locked the front door, animated voices drifted over the hedge.
“My wife says thanks very much as well – she was really touched.”
“Well, my husband and I just wanted you to know how much we appreciate all your hard work – it’s too easy to take for granted, but can you imagine, everything would go completely to pot if the post wasn’t delivered, wouldn’t it?!”
“Well yes, but you’d be surprised. No-one thinks how their letters get from A to B, it could be magic for all they care.”
The post became routinely late, a fact that began to take on an absurd importance in Stanley’s mind. He consoled himself with self-righteous tutting at the collection of empty wine bottles waiting for a council recycling initiative beside his neighbour’s wheelie bin.
Stanley worked as a clerk in a law firm. He felt proud to pass by a shining brass plaque every morning in the private belief that the general public would be sure to mistake him for a solicitor, a purveyor of justice and superior being. His employers were tolerant of his obtuseness and he was by now an established fixture there. He felt each official correspondence he franked or filed was a personal triumph of vital importance to the continuation of civilised society.
However, on this particular morning, his edifice of self-belief was dealt a fatal blow. Stanley had just arranged the in-tray into perfect cuboid block and swept the excess debris into the bin, and sat awaiting his 11 o’clock coffee, which was usually presented with pleasing regularity. The clock ticked in anticipation. Then the door of the inner sanctum opened with a jerk and an impatient rejoinder hit Stanley’s ears with force as if the volume control had just been hit.
“Can’t you give it to the clerk to do? Isn’t that what he’s there for? What’s the use of these people if they can’t get the tedious admin done so we can get on with our jobs?”
His head protruded from his collar like a vastly swollen abcess, angry puce, his jutting nose the only aspect giving definition to the mass of mottled skin. He had a gaze that crushed beetles and Stanley cowered, cringing with humiliation as it swung his way.
The mortification was wholly unaccustomed and Stanley felt light-headed with effort as he tried to pick out from among the smashed fragments of his self-esteem some recognisable scraps to cling on to. He felt strangely empty and his senses deadened, short-circuited and fused by the sudden charge of emotions. The afternoon passed in clockwork fashion. Five o’clock duly struck and Stanley presently found himself driving home, pulled by the magnetic force of habit. On impulse, he stopped the car by an empty park bench and sat in that anonymous spot until the dew became uncomfortable. Then he continued his journey on autopilot, the familiar street corners appearing just as they should but flat and distant as if the eerily beautiful compositions flowing across his vision were on film. He was shaken out of this mesmeric state by the sudden stalling of the car. He had hit the pavement, an uncharacteristic aberration, for which he berated himself half-heartedly. The car’s headlights caught the glint of bottles outside no.24 as he swung into his driveway, and Stanley caught himself sighing virtuously, and felt more like himself again.

The local gossips and the community at large were set alight by the tragic occurrence that had befallen in the proximity of the Co-op. A hit-and-run driver had knocked down a frail customer, departing with her purchases. The victim had lingered a while, allowing speculation and inquiry to take root and foment, before passing away, to even greater proclamations of grief and distress which had been stored up in anticipation of a dramatic moment of display. Audrey was in her element.
“Oh, it’s horrible to think, it really is, and round here too! How could anyone be so heartless to just drive off and leave her in the road like that? Imagine, it could have been me! I bet you it were one of them drunken drivers, back from a party, didn’t even notice…”
Stanley’s ears were on stalks. He scoured the newspaper assiduously for information relating to this grim event. His morbid curiosity led him to assemble a meticulous cuttings file, which he treated as a complex game or cryptic crossword, making notes to himself in the margins. Work continued as usual, but he felt no pleasure in his daily tasks, once so vital to him, and instead found his attention caught by trivial/banal observations which lurked in the back of his mind all day, growing in significance. When he returned, these mundane statistics would have germinated into fully-grown clues to be noted with glee in the investigation file: …recent scratch to rear bumper of suspect’s car… He had soon convinced himself of the necessity of rifling through his neighbours’ rubbish and, on weekends, lurking behind hedges or hovering in the supermarket aisles, jotting down notes. 6 bottles of red and 3 white + 1 bottle gin read Saturday’s report. He applied the same scrupulous methods to his new hobby as he had once done at work, and soon his hyperactive mind flew to seemingly unquestionable conclusions. He stopped and surveyed the shining files of paperwork, unsure what action to take. In his position he felt he should place the matter immediately in the hands of the law; he would surely be rewarded well for his rigorous investigative skill and upright communitarian spirit. Yet, to his vexation, he still felt in debt to his neighbour. It was a moral dilemma.
He came to a magnanimous decision. He would tell no one his suspicions, but would keep the evidence he had accumulated, in case action was needed in the future. What sort of action he could not have explained, but the laying aside of this damning report seemed to him a silent and timely recompense for the hamper; it’s reproachful presence would be banished and his conscience would finally be assuaged.
He gave the hamper to the tea lady, in recognition of her sterling work in consistently fortifying him with caffeine almost daily for decades, before handing in his notice and making his way out into the glassy sun of mid-February…

In a flash of inspiration he stopped outside the cemetery where the poor unknown, felled by a wayward car, had been interred. He chose a tasteless bunch of garish blooms, guaranteed to catch the eye of any chance passer-by, and placed it with studied reverence on the fresh mound of earth, card facing upwards. Just a gesture.