By Mark Keane

Of all Peter Cherry’s accomplishments, having his name on The List had to be the most pleasing. It brought him an unfailing sense of achievement and belonging. That ended when he received the e-mail.

Dear Mr. Peter Cherry: We wish to inform you that your name has been removed from The List. Yours sincerely, The List Administration.

Underneath, in smaller font: This is an automated message. Please do not reply.

Peter replied anyway, knowing his response would disappear into the e-mail ether. He had every right to demand an explanation, and submitted his question: Why has my name been removed from The List?

It was a catastrophe, something he’d never envisaged. Peter recalled the day, nearly twenty years ago, when he learned his name had been included on The List. Not an e-mail then but a letter in the post. He pictured the envelope, stiff and official, and the notification typed on thick vellum; the honour of having his name on The List, the recognition it represented and the benefits that would ensue.

He needed a point of contact other than The List Administration and an automated e-mail address. Of course he had kept the original letter in a filing cabinet or one of the boxes in his study, but he couldn’t face going through all that old stuff. Why not ask Tom Nugent who had been on The List since the start? Broaching the subject would be tricky. He’d have to play it by ear—he couldn’t tell Nugent he was off The List. That would be too embarrassing, impossible to live down.

Tom Nugent lived in the big house at the bottom of the road. Peter found him on his knees in the front garden, weeding one of his many flower beds. They traded chit-chat about the weather and the best times to plant geraniums and phlox. Then, Peter got to the matter at hand.

“You know The List?”

“Yes, indeed.” Nugent stood up. You couldn’t discuss The List on your knees. 

“Well,” Peter continued, “have you heard anything from The List people recently, The List Administration?”

Nugent frowned. “Has something come up?”

“No, nothing at all.” Peter hesitated, dismayed by how weak he sounded. “I was just wondering how to get in touch with them.”

“Why do you want to do that?”

“Oh, you know, to see if there’s anything in the offing.” Peter stumbled over his words. “Anything I can help with.”

They stood in silence. Nugent dropped the weeds he had been holding and shook his head.

“It’s not a good idea to go bothering The List Administration.” 

“I just thought I could help.”

“What you need is a hobby.” Nugent patted him on the arm. “Try gardening, it’s a great way of passing the time.”

Nugent bent down and continued weeding, plucking out a dandelion and dusting soil from its roots.

​

That evening, Peter searched for the letter. He went through every filing cabinet and box twice. The first time, a quick scan to check names and dates. The second time, re-experiencing events he would prefer to forget. 

Where would he have put that letter? It must be somewhere safe. The trunk in the spare room—it had to be there with his birth certificate and the deeds to the house.

He found it; a plain white DL envelope with his name and address handwritten in block capitals. The letter was printed on standard A4 paper.  

Dear Mr. Peter Cherry: We wish to inform you that your name has been added to The List. Yours sincerely, The List Administration.

If anything, the letter upset him more than the e-mail. He had lived so long with the belief that it was a remarkable document, unquestionably impressive. No matter, it was the fact of his inclusion on The List that he cherished. What was a letter, but a piece of paper and this one brought him no closer to a solution. No signature or contact details, other than The List Administration. 

He read the letter again. This time, he noticed a footer in small font. The List Executive Board: R. Bull; T.N. Nugent; D.K. Singh; S.B. Wharton. 

​Tom Nugent. It made sense. He had always struck Peter as Board member material, so authoritative and assured. Why did he pretend he knew nothing about the e-mail message? He even claimed not to be in contact with The List Administration. Maybe they rotated the Board membership. A lot can change in twenty years. Or else, Nugent knew but was unwilling to say.

Peter had no intention of going back to Nugent. A trawl through the internet unearthed a hundred or more possible candidates for R. Bull and D.K. Singh. He concentrated on S.B. Wharton and put together eleven possibilities with phone numbers. The fifth call found the target.

“I wish to speak to S.B Wharton.”

“Speaking.”

“Are you on The List Executive Board?”

A pause, then, “Do I know you?”

“Peter Cherry. I received an e-mail from The List Administration.”

“I see.”

“Why has my name been removed from The List? It’s been there for twenty years.”

Another pause. “Leave it with me. I’ll look into the matter and get back to you as soon as possible.”

​

A week went by with no response. Peter vacillated between optimism and gloom. It was surely a good sign that Wharton had not come back with a quick answer, but why was it taking so long? Maybe Wharton had ignored his request. Peter waited another day, then called him.

“Have you looked into my case?” he asked.

“A technical error.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A question of a middle initial.” Wharton spoke with a breeziness that suggested it was a matter of no concern, a minor detail. “Do you use a middle initial?”

“No, just P. Cherry.”

“There you have it. The wrong P. Cherry received the e-mail or, I should say, P. Cherry, that is you, should not have received that e-mail. An unfortunate mix-up. The message was intended for a P.K. Cherry.” 

Wharton’s cheery tone made Peter uneasy when he should have been relieved to hear the e-mail had been a mistake.

“So, I’m still on The List.”

“It’s not that simple.” 

“You said it was a technical error.”

“Yes, I did. However, once a name is officially removed from The List, it can’t be returned.”

“But my name shouldn’t have been removed. It was the other Cherry, with the extra initial.”

“P.K. Cherry.”

“Him. What did he do wrong?”

Immediately, Peter regretted the question. It made no difference what this P.K. Cherry did. 

“Well, that’s just it.” 

Peter imagined Wharton grimacing when he said this, and pictured a man in his early sixties, neat grey hair parted at the side, thick glasses. A man, in other words, very like Tom Nugent.

“A technical discrepancy, I’m afraid.” Wharton paused. “It transpires that P.K. Cherry was never actually on The List.” 

“Why does that matter?” Peter looked around him as if he’d find the answer written on the wall of his living room. “Are you saying, I’ve been removed and can’t be put back on?”

“Only officially.” 

“But that’s what matters.” 

“A moot point. The Executive Board and all the members will know you’re on The List. Nothing has changed. You’re a bona fide member.”

“Can’t you put me back on officially?” Peter gripped the phone, his other hand forming a fist. “Just send another e-mail, telling me I’m back on The List. 

“Sorry, we can’t do that. The system won’t permit a reversal.”

Peter clenched his fist tighter. It was unfair, senseless, inexplicable and any number of other things but, above all else, beyond his control.

“I wouldn’t get too upset.” Wharton was back to his breezy self. “When you think about it, what has being on The List meant for you? What good does it really do?”

Peter had no answer. Being on The List was too fundamental to question.

“I don’t want to be off The List.” 

“And you’re not. As I told you, everyone will accept that you’re on The List.” Wharton cleared his throat. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No.” Peter watched a woodlouse emerge from a gap in the wainscotting, antennae twitching. “I suppose not.” 

He heard the click as Wharton hung up.  

The letter lay on his desk. He thought about tearing it into pieces or burning it. In the end, he put it in the filing cabinet along with his disappointing exam results, knock-backs from job applications and promotions, his old diaries, cards and notes from forgotten schoolmates, past girlfriends, one ex-wife, siblings, parents and in-laws.

In the weeks that followed, Peter slipped back into his routine. He didn’t attempt to contact Wharton again and avoided Nugent. He went to work, had his meals, read the newspaper, watched TV and listened to the conversation of others, their endorsements and criticisms. Occasionally, he expressed an opinion but what he had to say lacked credibility. The correct words, strong and convincing words, dangled out of his reach.