Authors: Sebastian Faulks
But perhaps he hadn’t seen that film either, because after an hour or so it was still quiet. Then I went to the drinks cupboard and opened a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label I had duffel-bagged from the Arthur Cooper’s on Sidney Street while the manager popped out the back for a moment.
I did it properly in a clean glass with ice from the fridge on the half-landing and a couple of inches of cold Malvern water. I lit a Dunhill King Size, drew the curtains and put on the first side of
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
by Elton John.
I sat back in the armchair and watched the smoke rise up to the paper lantern-shade round the central bulb that hung from the ceiling. The instrumental ‘Funeral for a Friend’ gave way to ‘Loves Lies Bleeding’.
I thought of Hannah/Jennifer walking off into the mist towards Maid’s Causeway.
At the end of side one, I refilled my glass, flipped the record over, turned out all the lights, lit another cigarette and crashed back into the chair.
That sway of the hips – modest, not exaggerated, just necessitated by her frame. Slim, straight back, clean, fair hair pushed back, just touching the shoulders of the coat. Her step: light, but unafraid.
That flair for living.
Then into the darkness, the singer’s voice: ‘When are you gonna come down? When are you going to land?’
Sensational tune.
Five
I was walking up Sidney Street yesterday and this beggar came towards me. He was only about twenty-five.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’m talking to you and let’s get that straight from the start. Don’t let’s do that thing where you pretend you haven’t seen me, OK? Don’t look the other way and hurry on as though you didn’t hear. Is that clear?’
Dear God, a facetious beggar. A postgrad wino. I didn’t feel like giving him money. I felt like
taking
his money – like elbowing him in the teeth, clearing out his pockets and selling off his dog for dog meat.
There’s an alley down the side of Christ’s Pieces. It’s called Milton’s Walk, after the poet, who presumably used it on his way to and from his college. ‘The Lady of Christ’s’ is what the other boys in college called him at the time, though I don’t know why; it’s not as though they were even considering co-res in 1628. At the other end is King Street, which may have been more than a pub run in Milton’s day. Cemented along the top of the wall on the right of the alley as you go down are bits of broken bottle to stop you climbing into Christ’s garden (Gethsemane?). Below are graffiti. But they don’t say ‘Rovers For Ever’, ‘THFC Skins’ or ‘I love Tracy’; they say things like ‘Life is not a Rehearsal’ or ‘All Things Must Pass’. Sometimes it’s wearing to live amid such banality.
I’m worried about my mother. She’s had a hysterectomy and hasn’t been able to go back to work at the Waverley hotel. Julie says she hasn’t got out of bed for a week. I’m not sure what I’d do if she didn’t have any income, as my father’s pension from the paper mill barely keeps her in tea bags. I’m going to have to stop this life and get out to work.
We’re nearly at the end of term, and that means I’ve got only one term left. Most people are anxious about their final exams, but I’m not. Waynflete has more or less told me I need only turn up to get a first and Woodrow has fixed me some sort of interview in the last week of April.
The situation with Jennifer Arkland has become clearer. Officially, the ‘missing person’ case remains open. The police files are still growing as, day by day, further interviews are made with people who knew her less well – with casual acquaintances, boys who met her once at tea, girls who twice played volleyball against her on a Tuesday afternoon. So the ripples spread further from the point of impact, until, presumably, they’ll vanish.
Robin Wilson is under psychiatric supervision at the hospital in Fulbourn, formerly the county pauper lunatic asylum. The fifth time that Peck and Cannon did him over was apparently too much for him to take, and now he spends more time in group therapy than in lectures.
Unofficially
, Jennifer’s parents, friends and college have been told by police to assume that she’s dead.
The college held a service yesterday in its 1880s chapel.
I have the printed order of service on my desk in front of me as I write. ‘Jennifer Rose Arkland (b. 10 January, 1953): Service of Hope. 3 March, 1974.’
Although the organisers tried to keep the valedictory note out of it, there were two talks on Jennifer that inevitably sounded like eulogies. Anne talked about Jennifer the Student, and a girl from Lymington called Susan Something spoke about Jennifer the Schoolgirl.
This Susan person had what I took to be a New Forest accent. She was funny about Jen’s sporting expertise at school. She was apparently quite good at hockey and lacrosse but didn’t like the divided skirt, or the gymslips, or whatever. (Girls are always bitter about the frumpy games clothes they were made to wear at school, though it’s not as if any boys were watching.) She was good at swimming, but hated being cold. So she ended up playing tennis because when she was eleven she admired Maria Bueno and liked her clothes. I’d always understood Miss Bueno was a lesbian, but this didn’t seem to spoil people’s appreciation of the joke, and I suppose there was something funny about the idea of this girl turning her back on the games she was good at so she could zoom about the tennis court in a white dress. Susan was also funny about Jennifer’s attempts to sing in tune and her refusal to be excluded from the school choir. ‘singing was perhaps the only activity where her sense of humour failed her.’
Was. Though I think Susan would have defended her use of the word on the grounds that the school days were in the past.
Anne’s picture of Jennifer was more austere. No gym skirts, no tennis. ‘A clear-thinking and idealistic woman’ was Anne’s phrase. ‘No doubt, she is destined for a serious career. She will do something where she can make a difference.’
No ‘was’ for Anne. She squarely inhabited the present tense. Anne’s talk was also well delivered until she came towards the end and tried to address Jennifer personally. Then her voice wavered. Then it broke. She clung to the edge of the pulpit, sobbing, while the candles were reflected in the green Pugin tiles behind her.
The college chaplain, a birdlike man whose hands came out beneath his white surplice like claws, climbed up and half-guided, half-carried her back to earth.
I wondered how Anne had got to know Jen so well and care about her so much so quickly. I mean, they were just student pals, weren’t they?
As I went past the National Westminster in St Andrew’s Street this afternoon I remembered it was Friday. I looked at my watch: twenty past three. I’d forgotten to withdraw money and this meant I would be broke until the bank reopened on Monday at ten. This happens surprisingly often. Cashless weekends mean a blizzard of small debts (I owe Stellings 50p) unless you can persuade a barman to cash a cheque for you. I’m not on speaking, let alone money-lending, terms with the tranny in the Bradford. Since Stellings has anyway gone to London, I’ll have to go into the jungle atmosphere of the cellar bar in Caius and help myself from a wallet in the heap of coats. I used to find cash flow easier to manage in the communal living of Chatfield with its open doors and empty changing rooms. I suppose I could just duffel some gin from Arthur Cooper’s and use chits to eat in hall, but I still need cash for cigarettes. Also, Robin Trower’s playing at the Tech on Saturday and I’ll have to buy a ticket.
I’ve stopped going to History lectures. I’ve found that since Jen’s disappearance I’m not that interested in the past.
And Waynflete was getting edgy about my low attendance rate at some obligatory experiments. I’m specialising in genetics for Part Two, but there are still some lab boxes to be ticked. Thank God I’m through with the ‘Maths for Biologists’ course, which was harder than it sounds and heavy on homework.
My final exams are going to be on 20–21 May and I’ll have four weeks’ vacation, starting 15 March, in which to revise. I suppose I’ll have to go back to Reading because they’ve started using undergrad rooms for conferences when we’re not here, so K. Jones, West Midlands Division (Sales) will be sleeping in my bed. I used to have a deal with the senior tutor that I could stay over the vac pretty much free, but they won’t do that any more.
What am I going to do tonight? I’ve got to get out. I can feel a headache starting. I’ll take the car and drive somewhere. Maybe that place the Tickell Arms with the crazy landlord and the Wagner tapes. He hates women so much he makes them pay for the paper at the bar before they use the toilet.
First, I’m going down to the half-landing for a read from my favourite book.
S
ATURDAY
12 J
AN
Train drivers’ strike meant had to come back by car. Term starts Tue, but Dad only free at weekend, so three days early. Love being early, can enjoy place with no work to do and time to sort things out, e.g. stock up on food and get
boiler
working. Had to be Sat as Sunday is Dad’s tennis – over-forties doubles semi-finals day. Journey took ages as we could not exceed 50 mph speed limit (new E. Heath law to save petrol). But as usual Dad was v nice about it in the end. As we got nearer and nearer he became more and more solicitous. ‘Now, Jen-Jen, have you got all you need? Do you want to stop at Boots?’ Pretty sure ‘Boots’ is euphemism for Pill. ‘Don’t worry, Dad, everything’s fine.’ I don’t know if he thinks am virg. int. Can’t bear even to imagine how upset he would be. So do not think about it at all. (Almost.)
But did good stock-up at Sainsbury’s, rice, spag, tea, tins, stock cubes, long-term stuff and dear Dad paid all. All seemed much better between him and M, which is a great relief. Tilly tells me she pretty sure he has dumped bitch at work. (T very knowing for 16-yr-old.)
Gail Martin still clearly has hots for D but he treats her with distance bordering on disdain. Clearly excites G even further.
Xmas was great in the end. Robin came down afterwards. We all went skating at Southampton rink. R very polite to M and D, though noticed quiet scrutiny from D. Not sure he really approves, but nothing I can do. Still keen on R and all going well. Don’t know what will happen in June, but that still seems a long way off. Jill in Homerton apparently became
engaged
over Xmas! Will I ever feel that grown up?
Alone in house tonight. Slightly creepy atmosphere. For first time v much wish had TV. Went for drink alone in typical tiny pub with coal fire and jukebox. Had two halves beer and got kebab with mountain of raw onion later on Mill Road. Not v good start diet/healthwise, but bicycled vigorously home to compensate.
Had left gas fire on while out, so bedroom lovely and warm while rest of house arctic. V tempting to sleep late tmw, but lot to do so dutifully set alarm for 8. Hope Catty will drop in.
I am looking forwd to this term. Life v settled – viz. house, Robin, work (know what necessary), friends, projects – but also enough variables to keep gloss on it. Leaving aside June and End of Era, still so much unpredictable to be had from friends and their lives, and parties and meetings etc. Feel v lucky and
not that cold
. Goodnight Dad. Thank you for everything. Sleep well back in Lym. x
M
ONDAY
14 J
AN
Rang phone people to reconnect. First appntmt not for
three weeks
. . . Anne says have to pretend to be pregnant – ergo needing emergency line – to get anyone to help.
Train strike, coal strike, power strike. V hard to get anything done.
Catty no show at first but looked in later and I gave him milk. He a bit stand-offish. Perhaps punishing me for absence.
As I was crossing St Andrew’s Street, saw Charlie from Emma. He invited me for tea. I like him, but he’s very nervous. Wonder if gay? What wrong with all these boys that only fancy each other? Mind you, not sure about C. Many heteros wear eyeliner – Roxy/Bowie fashion thing. Some look good, though not as good as B. Ferry or B. Eno.
Went to Sidgwick, got full lecture schedule and borrowed books from fac lib. Didn’t see anyone. Had cornish pasty and orange-and-lemonade at Mill for lunch. Mike (!) from Tipperary was at the bar. Never discovered what actual college he from, therefore known only as ‘Mike from Tip’ or ‘Irish Mike’ as though he not at uni at all but emerged from Emerald Isle. Robin unkindly calls him ‘Prufrock’. Managed to finish lunch and slip out without being seen. M looked as though in for long Guinness afternoon. Where does he get his money from? Dope, I suppose, of which he always has a hell of a lot.
Beautiful day. River sparkling in cold winter sun. Wheeled bike through Queens’ just for pleasure of looking at. Can’t wait for everyone to be back. Went and bought food for welcome dinner tonight for Anne, Moll and Nick (I think). Also litre of Sainsbury’s Moroccan red.
Had tea with Charlie in Emma Old Court overlooking paddock with ducks. He played some v heavy band on stereo. Offered to lend it to me. Declined. Nice rooms, though, large with two bedrooms. Myles came back from vac in Leeds. V funny about.