Enduring Legacies

Since the onset of his mature consciousness Sixtus had never come close to establishing any definitive sense of meaning or direction – he had drifted obediently along the path assigned to him from early childhood, fulfilling what was expected of him, – no more, no less – and so the weeks, months and years elapsed undramatically. He did not feel wronged or coerced yet was burdened with a persistent longing for something intangible of which he had been deprived so far – some creative outlet which eluded him.

Often in the dormitory after the others had fallen quiet at last, he would trace the contours of the ceiling in its embalmed darkness, and unto its clean surface his mind would project the images of his deepest longings and desires. These, of course, he had no intention of pursuing, but it was a comfort to him to be able to imagine things differently, to think that one day he might be free of the shackles of conformity.

His school days had been his life and Sixtus had never fully understood that they would come to an end; of course, he entertained this distant prospect in his mind at times, but more as a faraway certainty, like death – it could be simultaneously frightening and alluring. Come to think of it Clairhaven had been the focus of all his major anxieties and a great share of the humiliations he had experienced over the past 12-or-so years – he had developed no permanent, fulfilling friendships during this time, and had been generally speaking quite unhappy. Of course, until the last few years he hadn’t noticed it; there were periodic episodes of depression where he withdrew from his unwitting peers into the depths of anguish, but they were isolated and often seasonal occurrences, and he came to accept them as a condition of life.

In those final summer months of school, he developed a totally uncharacteristic kind of amiability which rather startled those around him, who were more accustomed to a kind of weary aloofness and hostility. This was not as might be assumed an attempt to round things off on amicable terms with everyone; rather, Sixtus had come to the realisation that from that moment on nothing would be required of him, he would live on his own terms from the allowances Oz would be forced to give him once he came of age. Naturally, at the insistence of the latter (his guardian-cum- ‘benefactor’) arrangements had been made for Sixtus to attend Balliol next year -of course there was no question of it once the money came through.

‘What then?’ Matt and Rex asked him the same question over again, subject to variations in tone and phrasing. Sixtus was evading their questions the best he could.

‘You want a concrete answer, and I can’t give you one – I don’t even know myself,’ he answered ambiguously.

‘Any kind of answer would do at this rate Six,’ Matt commented wryly.

‘Well, to be perfectly honest I don’t know myself – and I don’t see why I should – after all, its not as if I’m short on time,’ – he viewed cross-examination of this kind with greater animosity than anything else.

‘In any case you’ll have to live somewhere,’ Rex interjected, conscious of his prior silence. ‘and I can bet you won’t be willing to stay on with Oz and have him pining at you day and night - so where will you go?’

‘There’s no question of me going back - I’d sooner share a bedsit with one of you two, though hopefully it won’t come to that…the investitures Oz has made on my behalf are all over the place and I’ll certainly have to go down to London to get things in order and find out where I stand – after that, who knows. . .’

Matt sighed contentedly, ‘Makes me feel better about myself listening to you; I feel like I’ve got direction.’

The conversation faltered after that; this little cross-examination was a regular feature of this trio, – held together by habit and circumstance rather than any commonality between them – a custom that had emerged whereby one of them would be subjected to a torrent of questions they didn’t expect to be answered. After it had come to an end, they simply relapsed into the comfortable silence of good friends.

Even in the last days of his life Sixtus would have no trouble recalling the image of the three of them sat round-table under the deceptive glow of the morning sun – invincible, detached, steeped in optimism. They occupied a haven from the harsh realities of life to an extent which they could not fully appreciate. In the great library they were overlooked by the relics of their forefathers; the solemn, grey eyes set in oil which glared down on them with the judgemental airs which are an inevitable product of longevity, the acquired wisdom of a lifetime. Any accurate memory of these men was long gone; it could be left to the imagination to ask what, if anything of value they had drawn from the anonymous wealth of experience.

Sixtus would have to learn his own lessons, and unfortunately without the discipline of a fixed trajectory, such as the one he had been subjected to thus far, and which Oz hoped to maintain in the years to come, it would be exceedingly difficult for him to do so. Learning from life when one has severed all connections and chooses to live independently through a series of spontaneous orgies and obsessions is near impossible; there is no accountability, nor guilt nor possibility of failure and humiliation, only freedom.

~

From where he sat Sixtus observed the procession of people and places passing the window on his left with content detachment; the electric rhythm calmed him, and his mind closed in on itself. There was nothing special to be seen, just the rolling untamed countryside interspersed with occasional accumulations of soot-stained brickwork, terraces and workshops which signalled the passing of one of the provincial towns. At least, when Sixtus arose from his slumber he could sympathise with their tedium and innate melancholy. The idea that this would be the last time he would be obligated to make contact with Oz was elating. Such visits had been the bane of his existence for as long as he could remember – so many times had he been deprecated and forced to make completely unreasonable concessions before his uncle – his memories of them, surprisingly few, were vividly embedded and a source of great anguish.

‘Well,’ announced his uncle, ‘this is only a case of formalities – the terms of our agreement were that I would cease to be custodian once you came of age and that you will therefore gain ultimate control of your assets - $20,000 in total as it stands, but that could snowball rapidly assuming you put it in the right places . . .’ his monologue trailed on to detail other particulars of the arrangement ‘. . . there remains only one obligation on my behalf my dear boy, and that is to relay this to you – at your father’s insistence.’

‘And what would that be?’ inquired Sixtus with nonchalance; he doubted it to be anything of significance. Oz removed a leatherbound, textbook-size journal from the draw on his right and slid it across the blotter on the desk towards his nephew. The latter, apparently rather disinterested, inspected it casually. Aside from the imprint of a crest – painted in with now faded gold leaf – the leather surface was bare and worn.

‘Ought I to know what it is?’ the former asked.

‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ replied Oz, ‘it’s a journal, sentimental value and all that, I imagine; there’s something written in there, for your eyes only it specifies.’

‘And what do you suppose I do with it?’ asked Sixtus.

‘How should I know – it’s not my place to read what is on the inside,’ he replied, gesturing towards the writing desk.

On the back page, a short memorandum went as follows:

‘It occurs to me in this moment that this is the only opportunity I shall have to convey any advice; such would be the appropriate, if rather predictable thing for someone in my position to do. However, in reality people only do such things to reassure themselves that their lived experiences are of not only interest to those they leave behind, but also of enduring value. That is rarely the case, and therefore after some consideration I have decided to omit the thousands of anecdotes, prosaic trivialities which constitute an individual life. I’m sure you will rejoice at this. Nevertheless, I shall advise one thing – in the moment where your fate is assured and you are certain of it, take the time to reflect on the events and ambitions of a lifetime and put them into black and white. Ask were they squandered or satisfied?’

Sixtus wasn’t long in reading it. The memo didn’t strike him particularly and soon afterwards he parted with Oz for what must have been one of the last times. Afterwards he proceeded to live life on his terms.

~

‘December 10th, 1999, Kingston, Surrey. Thinking of it now, forty years must have elapsed since I was first shown the journal by my uncle. It didn’t mark me at the time, and though it has remained in my possession all these years I haven’t treasured it as one could expect a son to do with the final relic of his father’s legacy. Now, more than ever before its words do resonate with me more than I could ever have imagined in my youthful naïveté, and I feel the urge to see my life unfold before me for the last time.

. . . After leaving Clairhaven I took time to organise my affairs – the $20,000 I inherited that year served only to help establish myself in certain circles where opportunities would be abundant so that I shouldn’t have to seek them out myself (in hindsight this was a poor way to start off). By the following year most of my attention and capital was going into a paints and plastics firm; it was minor enterprise to begin with but quickly grew profitable and I reckoned within a decade of what seemed to me to be fairly undemanding work I would be able to attain a high degree of financial independence. That ambition was fulfilled without any interruption, and those years more or less blurred together.

I led what could be called a life of decadence where I concerned myself with the immediate satisfaction of my desires and neglected all the other ambitions, however vague, which I had harboured secretly since childhood; womanising ventures, drunken antics and much more were what the days would generally culminate in. In this I was naturally accompanied by a coterie of ‘friendly acquaintances’ with whom I shared a minimum of personal affinity. When this golden era came to a close, I become increasingly conscious of my aging, and developed an almost puritanical obsession with fulfilling my duties as a man, as a loyal son of Christendom.

My marriage was the inevitable consequence of a frenzied infatuation which afflicted me at this sensitive time of moral turmoil; after a few months, the passion burned out and the sham marriage became an arena for both parties to vent their respective struggles. It did not last long after that. By this point I was approaching middle age, and, not having been blessed by a graceful aging process stretched out over decades like certain men I made the decision – whether conscious or not I do not know – to gradually step back from the stage with dignity. There’s little to tell after that; the life of an ageing recluse eschewing any opportunity for a return to a normal, fulfilling existence is one that is rarely told in detail. I suspect there are good reasons for that.’

(Signed)

S.H.K. (1940 – 1999)