Mr John Peters

by John Mansfield

Mr John Peters left the office early, gathering a few relevant papers into his briefcase, and bestowing his brief goodbyes upon a few of his nearby underlings. The company which Peters managed, GentleCare, ran a string of daycare centres around Adelaide. It was a good business, something one could tell people about with pride - he was overseeing the care of children, and allowing liberated women to work. Sometimes, when he spoke about his business, Peters even began to take on the tone of someone who had found a sacred mission in life. And indeed, he was a Christian man.

Before descending the stairwell, Peters ducked into the toilets to consult the mirror. He was leaving work early because he had a doctor's appointment: he wanted to know why he was developing a small, very clearly defined bald patch on the left side of what was otherwise a full, thick head of hair. He didn't want people to think he was going bald, and he was sure that he wasn't. But there was a ten-cent sized circle of naked skin that he had noticed rather suddenly one morning - and it seemed to be growing. Peters just needed to know what this meant. He checked it quickly in the bathroom mirror, hoping none of the employees would come in to use the toilet. It seemed to be about the same size as before - though it was very hard to tell. Perhaps he should have measured it and marked it on the calendar? But he hardly had time for that sort of thing, with his work absorbing all his waking hours.

On his way out of the building, the receptionist detained him with her winning smile. Peters had a warm sense of humour, and did not look down upon those of lower rank, so they respected him and sought his conversation. Teri the receptionist wished him a good afternoon, and teased him that he might be leaving early to go and see his 'girlfriend'. Peters chuckled, and played along:

'Oh yes, she loves it when I leave work early to buy her ice-cream.'

Did that come out strange? I didn't matter - the receptionist seemed to get the joke, elaborating further on this fictional mistress:

'She's a lucky girl then. Bet she must be a sweet young thing, isn't she?'

Peters chuckled again, and turned to leave, but Teri had something more to say, asking:

'Oh, Mr Peters, did Mr Davis catch up with you?'

'No. Who's he?'

'Oh I thought you must know him. I think he was from the Department. I guess he'll ring you tomorrow.'

'Okay, good-o. I'll see you tomorrow.'

Peters left the office, wondering with a gentle smile if Teri fancied him. Poor young thing, she seemed to get bored sitting by herself all day down at reception. Peters made a mental note to try and organise some more variety in her work.

 

'John Peters.'

The voice was half announcement, half question. Peters got up from the cushioned chair and quickly stowed the reports that he had been diligently reviewing during his ten minutes' wait. He followed the doctor down a hallway to the consulting room.

Peters explained his hair situation to the doctor, tipping his head slightly and parting his hair at the appropriate moment, to demonstrate the symptoms. Peters was so practiced in giving this precise description - how the condition had suddenly appeared, how it seemed to have subtly progressed - that he almost expected the doctor to give the same ignorant shrug that all his colleagues had given. But the doctor hardly missed a beat, in fact he seemed a little impatient for Peters to finish the narrative. The doctor looked at his hands and, as if he were addressing himself in some bizarre soliloquy, began by saying:

'Now, I'm going to go for total reassurance here.'

He then proceeded to address the patient directly:

'This is nothing to worry about, it's a common condition known as alopecia , it's simply caused by stress. I'll explain it to you.' He looked at his hands again, as if he needed a moment to prepare a plausible explanation.

'Now at any given time, five percent of the hair follicles on your head are inactive. Five percent of them don't grow any hair. Alopecia occurs when those five percent all gather together into one spot, creating a small bald patch like the one you're experiencing.'

The doctor had commenced his explanation with his hands widely spread, but as he reached his coup de grâce , he brought them very close together as he were cupping them around an injured bird, illustrating the concentration of inactive follicles. This final gesture drew Peters into the narrative - the doctor's hands so close as if caressing something small, and with all the sincerity of prayer.

'But why do they do that?' asked Peters.

'We don't know,' replied the doctor, bluntly, 'the inactive follicles - about five percent of the total number on your head - just seem to gather together in times of stress, causing a small bald patch known as alopecia . The condition will clear up in nine months, a year at most. If not, come back and see me.'

Repeating the explanation without hand gestures, the doctor suddenly appeared vastly incompetent. The spell was broken, but Peters dutifully played the part of the 'reassured' patient.

'Ah that's good to hear. I'm not worried about it at all really, I just needed to know. I'm sure you're right, and it will clear up.'

For good measure, and without prompting, the doctor repeated his alopecia narrative again, now seeming even more ridiculous. He appeared to gain confidence from repeating the tale, explaining things as much to himself as to the patient. Then he quickly brought the appointment to a close.

 

Sophie and David were playing on the carpet in front of the television. David played the character of Mack Apple, which involved him squawking and squealing foolishly, while Sophie poked him and repeated the words: 'How do you do, Mack Apple?' Or when David puffed out his cheeks, she would call him 'Mr Billings', and clap him on the cheeks, making a popping sound. David was laughing so much that he was in serious danger of wetting his pants, when their game was interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the front door. The children got up off the carpet and ran into the hallway.

'Hello children,' said Mr Peters, as Sophie and David lingered awkwardly in front of him in the hall.

'Hello Daddy,' they both said at once. As Peters walked down the hall, gathering letters from the telephone table, David awkwardly ambushed his thigh, throwing himself against his father and gnashing his teeth.

'Come on David, let Daddy go,' said Peters, prising himself free of the child's small hands. David looked dejected, but his father quickly added, 'Now what would you kids like to eat?', to which they immediately responded with implausible suggestions.

'Biscuits.'

'Birthday cake.'

'A unicorn,' David giggled.

Opening the fridge, Peters asked his children, 'Where's Mummy?'

'She's gone to the parish meeting,' volunteered Sophie. 'She says dinner's in the fridge.'

'Yes I can see that,' replied Peters, distractedly. He was staring at a dish of lamb chops, the cold fat congealed ickily around the base of each.

Peters ushered his children through their meal, and then settled them officiously - but not unkindly - in front of the television, so that he could get on with the reports. Half an hour later there was another turn of a key in the door, and his wife, Angela, arrived home from her church duties. She kissed her children, then went and found her husband at his desk. With her hands on his shoulders, she asked him about work, to which he gave the standard reply for an unremarkable day. The children sat quietly in front of the television, treasuring the lateness of the hour, and wishing that the 8:30 movie would begin before their mother ordered them to bed.

 

Two hours later, John Peters was settled in his own bed - the children long dismissed - reading a new book about government education policy. Angela lay beside him, and kissed him on the cheek, taking his hand from the book and kneading it with a certain urgency. She was a few years younger than him, a plain and sensible woman, but with a certain unrequited passion for her husband. Peters kept reading, but Angela continued to lie facing him, grasping his hand, and again she kissed him on the cheek. He read for a few seconds longer, carefully finishing the paragraph and placing his book-mark between the pages. Then he switched off the lamp, and turned to Angela, who now lay on her back, while Peters lay on his side, facing her, and gently slipped his hand between her legs. His fingers began to stroke and circle rhythmically, while he calmly stared up at the enlarged photograph on the wall, illuminated by the streetlight seeping in between the blinds. The photograph showed the entire family in bathers on a beach, Sophie in her mother's lap, and David sitting with a look of angelic contentment on his father's knee. While his fingers kept circling between his wife's legs, Peters contemplated the photograph, calmly, bathing in the happy expressions of his children, and noting again the rather forced smile with which he had faced the lens that day. Thinking back to that day on the beach, something began to stir in his own loins.

Angela's legs tensed and her stomach quivered. She exhaled profoundly. Then, without saying anything, both partners made themselves comfortable, and settled into the first stages of sleep.

 

The next day, Peters only visited his office briefly in the morning, leaving the reports with his assistant, and quickly checking his email. He then left again, embarking on his weekly visit to a daycare centre: this week it was the turn of GentleCare in Parkside, a reasonably well-off suburb that was only just outside the city centre.

Peters walked in the front door of the centre, a converted sandstone house that might have been built in the 1940s. Colourful posters, pictures and streamers adorned the walls, while the sounds of young voices could be heard from various rooms leading off to either side of the hall. One of the carers poked her head around a doorway, saying, 'Hello Mr Peters!'

She stepped forward to offer her hand, and Peters, adroitly recalling the young woman from his last visit, exclaimed 'Hello Susan. How is everything?'

'Great, great. We've just been practicing a song, would you like to hear it?'

Susan led Peters into the room, where about a dozen children of pre-school age sat neatly on the carpet, most of them now looking up at him with frank curiosity. Peters beamed.

'I'd love to hear it,' he replied to Susan, then said to the children, 'Hello everybody, I'm Mr Peters. Does anyone remember me from last time?'

'Yes,' bleated a few of the children in unison. Others just continued to stare. Looking around the room, Peters recognised from his last visit a small boy with dark curls, who sat there staring with particular intensity.

'Yes,' said the little boy, falteringly, a frown still holding his face.

'Well how about we sing Mr Peters our song then?' said Susan, and then she started on the first words herself, most of the children quickly joining in.

Incy-wincy spider climbed up the water spout
Down came the rain and washed poor Incy out
Out came the sunshine and chased the rain away
So Incy-wincy spider climbed up the spout again.

After the song was finished, the children were allowed to play with toys and lego, while Susan took Peters on a brief tour of the facility. There was an office, and three different rooms in which the children could be variously entertained or subdued, while other rooms in the house were kept locked, being used for storage space. When Susan showed David what she called the 'video room', they were both surprised to see the small boy with dark curls was sitting in there alone on a small chair, staring out the window at the light rain that was just beginning to fall.

'Hamish, are you alright?' asked Susan.

The boy looked over his shoulder at the adults, then quickly back out the window, without responding.

'Shall I talk to him, so you can get back to the other children?' asked Peters, gesturing down the hall to the larger room, where the rest of the children continued to play, now rather loudly.

'Oh thankyou, that would be great,' replied Susan.

Susan hurried off to the children, and Peters walked slowly into the video room, noticing none of the brilliantly coloured crayon drawings that were stuck up to his left and right. He crouched down in front of the chair, and looked intently at the child's face. The child continued to stare out the window. Then Peters put his hand on the boy's thigh, desperately trying to control his quivering nerves, trying to make his touch solid and reassuring. He tried to speak, but all he could manage was to murmur, 'Hamish'.

The boy now looked at him in confusion, and squirmed uneasily in the chair. Peters' pulse was racing, and his gaze flickered between the boy's thigh and his small, pouting lips.

There was a heavy step in the hallway, then a care worker walked into the room. Peters quickly shifted his hand from the boy's thigh to his shoulder, saying, 'You feel better now, don't you Hamish?'

Peters stood up, smiled, and introduced himself to the care worker. He shook her hand warmly, explaining, 'Hamish here isn't feeling too well, but I think he'll be fine if he has a quick lie down.'

 

In a taxi on the way back to the office, Peters carefully composed his report on the Parkside centre, diligently including every detail, even down the unfortunate indisposition suffered by little Hamish. 'Poor boy,' thought Peters, smiling as he sketched out a very positive summary of the centre's performance. The attendance figures were certainly quite respectable. And the children seemed happy; well cared-for - which was always the important thing.

As Peters re-entered the office block, Teri the receptionist looked up and greeted him cheerfully.

'Mr Davis has come in to see you again,' she said, 'but he's just gone out to get.'

Teri broke off as her gaze diverted to somewhere over Peters' shoulder. Mr Davis walked in and immediately enquired, making firm eye contact, 'John Peters?'

'Yes, that's me. How can I help you?'

'I'm Detective Frank Davis - I need to have a few words with you. Is there somewhere we could go?' Davis gestured back out the door, and maintained his firm eye contact, suggesting the gravity of the situation. Peters acceded:

'Of course,' then he said to Teri, 'I'll be back in twenty minutes.'

Peters suggested that the two men might go to a nearby coffee shop, but Davis replied, 'Actually it would be better if we go down to the station, just for the sake of privacy. It's only a few minutes' drive.'

'What's this all about?' asked Peters with concern, 'It's not anything that's happened to my wife and kids, is it?'

'No, they're fine,' replied the detective. 'We'll talk about it down at the station.'

They drove to the station in silence.

 

Peters denied everything.

I could never do a thing like that. That would be. it would be. monstrous. I'm a carer, and a Christian.

And don't be so cynical, I mean I'm a true Christian, I'm not some. some pervert.

Where are these. these 'accusations' coming from? This is disgraceful. You need solid evidence before you start throwing these accusations around.

Peters was visibly shocked, and offended. After almost two hours questioning, he was allowed to leave.

 

With almost perfect composure, Peters went back to the office, smiled ruefully at the receptionist, cleared up a few things, and then went home. But by the time he was there, he could not even manage a greeting for his children waiting in the hallway. As they looked up at him, so trusting, his body went cold and he began to shake. He could not bear to look at them; this evening, for once, he couldn't summon the strength to play Mr John Peters.

Peters dumped his briefcase and left the house again in a hurry, but with no idea where he might go. He got in this car and drove, as the rain began once again to patter on the pavements, and the last light was leeched out of the sky. After some twenty minutes' driving, in a daze, not knowing where he was going despite the familiarity of the streets, Peters found himself outside a bowling alley. This suddenly made him think of people - happy, laughing groups of people. He needed that. He went inside the warm lighted space, where he was quickly enveloped by the smell of popcorn and the loud clatter of skittles falling. He sat down and just watched - the middle-aged men away from their wives, the groups of teenagers out for the night, the parents taking their kids or a mid-week treat. For a while, Peters managed to invest all his attention in the subtle interaction of these people, and forget the demon from which he was trying to escape. But gradually, his attention began to focus on the younger boys - the lithe movement of one as he cast his ball down the alley, the way another kept his hands between his thighs as he sat waiting for his turn.

 

This poem is taken from Total Cardboard issue 6, and remains under copyright. For more information see www.totalcardboard.com