The Slow Death of Europe

Part One-3

George appreciated the irony. All graduates had learned about democracy and Edgar had mentioned something once, so he made a mental note to ask him more about it one day. He then felt his personal messenger vibrate from the inside pocket of his jacket. Glancing down he saw it was Mira again, 'Hello babes, how's your first day going?' George wasn't quite sure how he felt about Mira. When they met she was just about to enter her first year-long marriage contract, and George was signing his own. Both had contracts with other partners. But George knew he was dismayed when he chose not to renew at the end of the first twelve months with his wife and yet Mira went ahead and renewed hers for a second year. That was a blow and when she did finally end after the third year she blamed George for not revealing his real feelings for her properly. She said she didn't know how he felt about her and that was probably true; he wasn’t sure himself. He made a mental note to skyphone her later as he preferred to talk rather than personal message all day long, which was something of a habit of Mira’s. He would try to speak to her later, although she rarely answered his calls, unless he caught her on a good day.

George wandered through the work zone and selected a desk close to the window on the far side of the room. Placing his hy-dev on its surface the screen woke up and prompted him for his unique password. George tapped upon the keyboard and became aware of a presence at his right shoulder.

‘Hi, I’m Tibha,’ said the girl with the dark eyes.

George turned in his seat, offered his hand and replied, ‘I’m George Willoughby, I noticed you earlier.’

Tibha’s eyes began to smile again, ‘I know, and I noticed you too, mind if I take this table?’ she asked as she pulled out a chair and sat down without waiting for a reply. George felt his natural anxiety rise up again and his marrowbone appeared to vibrate within his bones. He reached for some more diazepam in a manner he hoped she wouldn’t notice. ‘Vitamins,’ he explained when she did notice.

George wasn’t comfortable in the company of women as beautiful as Tibha. She had elegance about her, a friendly aloofness, and looked as though her ancestors were from the area of the old British Raj he had learned about when he corrected a book called A Passage to India during his ASPP final training. He loved the look of the women he had seen in the illustrations and one with a similar appearance had been on his curriculum for a couple of years before transferring to one of the ten Western Divisions. George remembered Jalini well, but had never found the courage to ask her out when he had the chance. He pretended to read his induction PDF as he tried to think of something to say to Tibha that was intelligent, funny and appropriate all at the same time. He had nothing. In truth George wasn’t comfortable in the company of any woman, let alone an example as beautiful as Tibha. As usual, he would have to leave it to her to do all the hard work, if there was any to be done.

‘So what is your specialist area?’ Tibha asked quietly.

‘You are a damned i***t,’ thought George, ‘even you could have come up with something like that.’

‘Nineteenth century of the old calendar,’ he smiled.

‘I know when the nineteenth century was,’ she teased. George reached for the diazepam once more.

‘Yours?’ he countered. Tibha turned to face him and George felt her warm, dark eyes penetrate his soul.

‘The Romantics, the poets,’ she said tenderly and then followed that with, ‘somebody has to make sure that Shelley wasn’t telling f*****g lies.’

Tibha turned back to face her screen and, once again, a smile spread across her perfect features. George stared at her in disbelief; he hadn’t expected that. He was, for a moment, mesmerized but then started laughing.

‘Somebody certainly has,’ he agreed. ‘And keep an eye on Byron too, that one was always up to no good.’

Tibha laughed out loud and George felt the anxiety drain from his body as he turned to face his own screen, pressed the download prompt and received his very first assignment.

‘Great,’ he announced, ‘A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.’

’Boring,’ replied Tibha, ‘And easy. You can start with the title; he invented Christmas and look at all the trouble that has caused over the years.’

‘True,’ George replied. ‘But he didn’t exactly invent Christmas. That was done long ago and he just made more people believe in it. With this particular book as it happens.’

George had been given A Christmas Carol to update and correct during his ASPP training and so he knew the story well. He had received the top mark in the academy for his re-write which was why, he imagined, he was given the task to do again for real this time. He also wondered how many other writers throughout the Corporation were tackling the same novel at the very same time, or had done so in years gone by. It didn’t matter. Today, this was his to work on. He had a beautiful girl who had chosen him to sit next to and it was going to be a perfect day.

He turned to his keyboard and tapped in the words, ‘A Winter’s Tale of Morality.’ That was it, he had started proper. It was his first unsupervised contribution to literature and history. George studied his work, considered his new title for a moment and then deleted the words ‘of Morality.’ He then read on; ‘Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker and the chief mourner.’ George paused, considered the passage and then replaced the word clergyman with the word ‘doctor.’ Next to him Tibha chuckled to herself, ‘hey I got London 1802 by William Wordsworth.’

George laughed. ‘I don’t envy you having to take references to England and London out of Wordsworth,’ he told her. ‘You won’t have much left will you?’

‘It’s easy,’ she replied. ‘You just have to replace every mention of England or London with the word Albion. That’s it, job done.’ He thought about that for a moment, turned back to his work and continued reading.