Love Your Enemies

She picked up her pen again and wrote down the name Descartes (although she spelled it Deycart), then threw the pen down, tore off the top page of the pad, crumpled it up and threw it at the paper bin in the corner of the room. The paper missed the bin and hit the wall. She got up and went into the kitchen to finish making her cup of tea. While she was pouring in the milk Jason returned carrying a couple of bags of Pampers. He pinched her arm, ‘Tea! Yes please!’ She grimaced and bent down to get out another cup.

That night when they were both lying in bed waiting to go to sleep and listening out for Charlie’s whimpers from her cot nearby, Sammy Jo took hold of Jason’s arm and said, ‘Jason, have you ever heard of Descartes?’

Jason yawned and turned over on to his back, ‘I don’t know, Sammy Jo. I have some vague ideas about him. Probably read him at college at some point. Why?’

Sammy Jo shrugged. ‘Is it rude?’

Jason laughed. ‘Not so far as I know. He was French, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that he was a kinky writer.’

Sammy Jo sighed. ‘Oh.’

Jason paused for a moment, then said, ‘Sammy Jo, I didn’t mean to be off-putting. If you’re interested I might have a book on ancient philosophy downstairs that features him, but I can’t be sure.’ Sammy Jo smiled. ‘I don’t think so, Jason. Apparently Descartes was the founder of modern philosophical thought.’

Jason opened his eyes and stared at her in the dark.

The following afternoon Sammy Jo had just returned from taking Charlie out for a walk in her pram and was taking off her coat and combing a hand through her rather windswept short, red hair, when the telephone started ringing. She picked Charlie up and went to answer it. It was the man again. She pulled the telephone over towards the sofa and sat down, balancing Charlie on her knees, supporting her with one hand. The man said, ‘Hello, Sammy Jo. I suppose it would be optimistic of me to expect you to have read that chunk of Descartes’ Meditations that I recommended to you last night? The first chapter, remember?’

Sammy Jo snorted. ‘Why don’t you just sod off?’

The man continued, ‘After I rang off yesterday it occurred to me that I hadn’t been particularly encouraging towards you, and that was very wrong of me. I think you did extremely well, all things considered. You are obviously an intelligent woman. I think you just need stretching.’

Sammy Jo shook her head, ‘No, I don’t need stretching. The only person who needs stretching around here is you, and by that I mean stretching on the rack. Ancient forms of torture. I like that idea.’

The man said quietly, ‘Try not to be so combative, Sammy Jo. Let’s just get back to Descartes and his Method of Systematic Doubt.’

Sammy Jo hung up. As she tucked Charlie up in her cot a good fifty seconds or so later, the telephone started to ring again. Sammy Jo finished arranging Charlie’s covers and then, grabbing hold of her pizza pad and pen, went to answer it.

‘Yes?’

The man said, ‘Do you understand the word ‘scepticism’, Sammy Jo? Try and give me a working definition.’

Sammy Jo was writing on her pad in untidy capitals. She wrote: I WILL NOT GIVE IN. I CANNOT GIVE IN. I SHALL NOT GIVE IN. I MUST TAKE POSITIVE ACTION … TELEPHONE JASON? TELEPHONE LUCY COSBIE? WHISTLE DOWN THE TELEPHONE?

The voice said, somewhat more harshly, ‘Sammy Jo? Do you understand the meaning of the word scepticism?’

Sammy Jo threw down her pen and ripped the top page away from her pad. She shouted, ‘Of course I do. Don’t patronize me. Of course I do.’

‘Well, give me a working definition, then.’

‘Why should I? Why?’

He sighed, ‘Just to prove that you know.’

She laughed. ‘I don’t need to prove anything to you.’

‘Well, prove it to yourself then.’

Sammy Jo hesitated for a moment, then picked up her pen again. She said quietly, ‘All right then, I don’t really understand what it means, properly. Tell me and I’ll write it down.’

That night during dinner Sammy Jo asked Jason if he could get her a proper lined writing pad from work and a couple of spare biros. Jason was cutting up his fish fingers with one eye on the television, watching Wogan. Wogan was interviewing Candice Bergen. Jason put a mouthful of the battered fish into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully without replying. Sammy Jo glared at him. ‘Jason, do you mind paying me some attention? I’m talking to you!’

He turned towards her. ‘Something about paper and pens, right?’

She nodded. ‘Would you get me some from work? They supply you free don’t they?’

He frowned. ‘What do you want them for?’

Sammy Jo turned her eyes towards the television screen and focused on Wogan’s tie. ‘Nothing in particular. Telephone messages, addresses, sometimes on daytime television they have interesting babycare tips and recipes and stuff. They’d just come in handy.’

Jason carried on eating, ‘OK, I’ll try and remember.’

The following day Sammy Jo left the house at eleven o’clock with Charlie tucked up in her pram, and went out shopping. She collected Charlie’s child benefit money from the post office, then caught a bus into the centre of Milton Keynes. In her pocket was a piece of the pizza pad with the address of a bookshop scribbled on it. She found the bookshop and pushed her way clumsily inside. The short, dark man standing behind his desk in the shop came forward to help her. He said, ‘These places aren’t designed with prams in mind.’

Sammy Jo smiled. ‘Next time I’ll remember that and leave the baby on the bus.’

He grinned. ‘I didn’t mean any offence. Leave the pram here by the till and I’ll keep an eye on the baby while you browse.’

Sammy Jo let go of the pram and strolled around the shop. After several minutes she returned to the assistant and said, ‘If I keep an eye on the baby, would you mind finding copies of these books for me?’

She handed him her piece of paper which he took from her and perused. He smiled – ‘No problem’ – and quickly located the volumes in question. She held the three thin books in her hands and looked guiltily at the prices. The assistant noticed her concern. He said, ‘Specialist books are expensive on the whole, but I think you’ll find that those are quite reasonable. Russell was a bit of a popularist – excluding his works on mathematical logic, of course – so his more general works are very reasonably priced. The Descartes is a fraction more expensive, but the Sartre isn’t too bad. That’s fiction though, The Age of Reason, it’s a great book.’

Sammy Jo smiled at the assistant. He seemed enthusiastic and well read. She said, ‘One day I hope to be as well informed as you are. Which book do you think I should read first?’

He shrugged. ‘It depends on what you’re after. If I were you I’d read The Age of Reason first. It’s good to introduce yourself to ideas in an informal sort of way. Then the ideas just pop into your head and it’s no strain to pick them up.’

Sammy Jo looked at the synopsis on the back of the Penguin paperback. ‘It looks a bit heavy going.’

The assistant smiled sympathetically. ‘You haven’t bought it yet. You could always change your mind.’

Sammy Jo looked at him quizzically. ‘Do you think I should?’

He chuckled, ‘I’m playing the devil’s advocate. The story is about free will, about a man’s search for personal freedom. You should use your free will to decide whether you really want to buy it or not. If you choose to buy it then you will have made a commitment to the book. In fact you will have involved yourself in the book’s fundamental dilemmas.’

His face glowed as he explained this to her. His green eyes shone and he seemed excited. Sammy Jo handed him the three books and said, ‘All right, I’ll have them. I’ll read the …’ she paused. ‘Why are all these names so hard to pronounce?’

He took the books and put them into a bag. ‘Say the word “start”.’

Sammy Jo repeated after him, ‘Start.’

‘Then take out the first letter t so it’s “sart”.’

She copied him: ‘Sart.’

‘Then say the word “rough”.’

She smiled. ‘Rough.’

‘But forget about the “ugh” part and just say “ro”. Then altogether it’s “Sartre”. Obviously that’s the simple English pronunciation, but people will know who you mean.’