Authors: Ross Gilfillan
That was how the invite list got a bit longer. A lot longer, in fact. Then Diesel suggested that it might be a good idea to invite a few people who were actually old enough to get served in the offie, so they could buy the booze. So we added one or two safe
people from the year above. Booze sorted; what else? We wouldn’t want any drugs of course, but it would be terminally uncool if there wasn’t a token amount of weed, so Manic Mick was invited, him being St Saviour’s tried and tested traveller in pharmaceuticals. But that would be it, no one else, just us and this hand-picked crew.
I would be in charge of the invitations, which I’d email to the lucky people on our exclusive list. No problemo. But then, looking through my contacts, I realised that I only actually had the email addresses of four people on the list and two of them lived on our street anyway. I admit I went into panic mode for five frantic minutes – it was Wednesday evening and the party was scheduled for Friday night. So I was more than a little relieved to remember that all I had to do was post the invite on Facebook and all my friends would see it and no one else. Brilliant. And those who weren’t one of my 39 Facebook friends, would be given the nod by mutual acquaintances.
Of course, I now see how it’s possible for some of those friends to extend the invite list simply by forwarding the details to their own list of friends and acquaintances and also how the less scrupulous might elaborate on the party plans, so that anyone reading them would feel they had to go to that party or die trying. It now appears that some people arrived fully expecting a free bar, live music and strippers. But back in my bedroom on that Wednesday night, I bigged up my party as BJ’s Big Bash, promised an evening of fun and frolics, entered the address and time it would kick off and hit ‘Send’ in the full expectation that my invitations would be seen only by the eyes of those I wanted to come.
The party was supposed to start at 8pm, though we didn’t expect anyone to turn up quite so unfashionably early. The cooler kids would want to come when they were sure that things were under way. As we sat on the sofa in the living room, washed, waxed and waiting, with the dining table laden with all the
booze and plates of nibbles we could afford and listening to Diesel’s party mix on Dad’s music centre (my stereo having inexplicably caught fire earlier that evening), we reckoned that 9–9.30 was a much more realistic time to expect company. By 10.00 we were having doubts about our popularity. No one? Were they all now in the Queen’s Head, that notorious den of underage drinkers but would be piling in at closing time? Or was it more fucked up than that – was there some other party, which had been deemed cooler than ours? And which we hadn’t been invited to?
Where the fuck was everyone, we asked? Had I sent out the invites, Diesel wanted to know? Faruk said I had, because he’d heard people talking about the party at school that very day. So was it something one of us had said? Was it somehow possible that one or all of us had somehow managed to offend the whole school? It was possible, we conceded, but not that likely. We paced, we ate, we drank plastic cups of cider, which was all we had, until people started arriving clutching bottles of something better. And then it got worse.
We heard a car pull up, doors slam and footsteps on the path and all rushed to the door to greet our first guests with the customary, ‘All right, you wankers!’ which we delivered loudly and in perfect unison, but into the faces of Mum and Dad, who had come back home after the England v Pakistan game had been cancelled because of an unspecified security threat. I don’t think they understood what we had shouted, I think they just thought we were pleased to see them. They were too tired anyway and Dad was still obviously miffed that he’d not been able to see Andrew Strauss in action. They dropped their bags in the hall and made for the living room.
‘What’s all this?’ Dad says, looking at the three big bottles of White Lightning on the table and the little bowls of Twiglets and Doritos. ‘Not having a party, are we?’
‘Oh, Charles,’ Mum says. ‘The boys need to blow off a little
steam now and then. All that studying for their end of year exams can’t be good for them. So let’s not get this out of proportion. It’s just apple cider and there’s only the four of them. Heavens, any other child left alone for a weekend would probably have thrown a real party and invited the world and his wife.’
Dad considers this for a moment, and brightens. He’s got off lightly, he’s thinking, but he doesn’t know how lightly (and nor do we, at that moment).
‘I suppose you’re right, dear,’ Dad says, as he claims his usual chair by the fireplace. ‘I don’t often say this, Brian, but I think we’re lucky to have you. We’ve brought you up well, Violet and me. Vi, get these young men a glass of that cider. And you can pour me one too. No reason to spoil their evening, is there?’
Diesel, Clive and Faruk sit on the sofa sipping their ciders and accepting nibbles when Mum offers them. Dad tells them about the last England tour of Australia, game by game, ball by ball, and all about the origins of the Ashes. I sit in the armchair next to Dad, wondering what exactly would happen if I’ve got the time of the party wrong and everyone arrives all at once, at 11.00? I can only wait and see. Meantime, I’m wondering why I sometimes hear a helicopter clattering above.
On the sofa, Diesel is making it clear he wants to go, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, yawning and checking his watch. Faruk and Clive look equally awkward, but no one has an exit line handy and it seems rude to interrupt my dad, who has gone on to describe the conditions at the Oval when England were victorious in 2009. And so we sit there while the night wears on, until at last Dad says it’s time for him to ‘hit the hay,’ but that it’s quite all right if we boys want to stay up another half hour or so. He wishes us goodnight and goes upstairs. Quite an evening, you’ll agree.
It wasn’t until the next day that I find out what has happened, when a reporter from
The Sun
calls up to ‘get my side of the story
first’. Before I have properly woken up and understand why a national newspaper might be calling me, of all people, she’s asking me about a riotous party and a fire and about police helicopters and an anti-terror squad. I really don’t have an idea what she’s on about and I’m just about to tell her she’d dialled the wrong number when she asks me, straight out, why I had given 111 Laurel Gardens as the address, rather than Number 11?
C
HAPTER
13
Lust For Life
Mr Dawson, who takes me for English, says, very loudly, and clearly, ‘Time’s up, put your pens down.’
Not that I had been holding one. I finished my English exam at least twenty minutes ago. It was much easier than I had expected and maybe Mr Dawson is right after all and I do have some competence in this area (just don’t ask about maths, sciences, practical subjects or anything involving common sense). Across the crowded hall, one or two chodes are still trying to scribble a few more mark-salvaging words before Mr Dawson and Miss Smith collect in their papers.
At lunch break, Mr Dawson catches me outside the library, where I’ve gone in the hope of finding Ros. Mr Dawson is the last of the old-school teachers. I don’t mean that he only teaches at old schools like ours, or that he’s an old school teacher, which he is, in fact, I just mean that he has that tweedy, leather-elbowed look which has you imagining him smoking his pipe and listening to classical music in the evenings, not gaming and clubbing like some of the younger ones claim to do. He may not know what an app is or even that he’s the subject of a surprisingly good-natured group on Facebook (Rowley Dawson Rules KO) but he’s a good teacher, he loves his subject and he takes a real interest in as many of his kids as his dodgy memory will handle.
I tell him I thought the exam went quite well. Mr Dawson nods, pops his empty pipe into his mouth and says I should practise my writing, make it a habit. Who knows, he says, perhaps you might do something with it in later life? He advises me to write for pleasure, to write stories or articles for
Smile!
the official school paper (you can see how the samizdat
Smeg!!
was
born), and to keep a diary, or a journal and to be sure and take it with me wherever I go. He seems to have forgotten that he suggested this writing malarkey to me last year. He probably says something similarly encouraging to anyone who shows a flicker of interest in his chosen subject. And I don’t tell him that I have indeed been writing a journal, this one.
Which is good writing practise, I suppose, but the last thing I’d want to do is upload or publish it. I’ll maybe show it the Horsemen one day when we’re older, and we’ll have a few beers and a laugh about the old days. Clive saw a page which I’d carelessly left up on my computer screen one night (not, thankfully, one that mentioned him or our suspicions about him) and he reckoned I should take it further, too. Clive, our resident specialist in English, says there’s nothing like writing for improving your command of the English constabulary.
Mr Dawson is impressed to see the titles of the overdue books I’m returning to the library. Top of the pile is Great Expectations, which was recommended by Nana and – once I’d got used to sentences which could fill a flyer – was actually okay. Then, in case Ros is still on the “K”s, I have some poetry by Keats along with a double “K” whammy,
Kim
by Rudyard Kipling. I’d meant to read these too but couldn’t get around to them, what with having so much exam work and Clive having lent me
Call of Duty 7
.
Mr Dawson says I really should think hard about doing something in the field of writing, consider becoming a serious journalist, perhaps, and putting the world to rights in print. He sucks on his pipe, producing a spittly whistle in the mouthpiece, as he stares out of the window, lost in thought. ‘You might even write a novel,’ he says, indicating the books in my hands. ‘But always remember, Brian, that in order to write well, it is imperative that you read well, too.’ He peers over his glasses, expecting a reply, and I promise him that I really will think about it.
And I do, for all of two minutes, as I give in my books, renew
the Keats, scan the library and see that though Teresa Davenport is there, cramming for her next exam, the swot, there’s no sign of Ros. I’ve not seen her for days now and I’m a little concerned. Writing, Rowley says. That’s what I’m thinking as I cough up a 20p fine. Does he know how much time and effort it sometimes takes me to write a postcard, let alone a novel?
I pull a few books off the K shelves, some K Fiction, some K Drama and, it seems, some K philosophy, though I’m holding
Fear and Trembling
by someone called Søren Kierkegaard only because I’ve mistaken it as a sequel to the totally exceptional
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
, by Hunter S
.
Thompson. So there I am in the library reading, but not reading, a bunch of books and plays by Charles Kingsley, Thomas Kyd and Dean R
.
Koontz and wondering just when I’m going to be able to put my sketchy knowledge of authors whose names begin with K to its intended use.
I think about this for a while, imagining Ros’s surprised and interested expression when I tell her that I read the same stuff she does. Then I get that feeling you have when you’re being watched. It’s Teresa Davenport, who seems more interested in my choices than I am. ‘I didn’t know you read so widely,’ she whispers across the table. ‘Kierkegaard to Koontz is quite a leap.’
Five minutes later, we’re occupying a couple of seriously uncomfortable chairs in the Sixth form common room, separated by a small table. We lean across it, trying to communicate over the jungle rhythms pumping out of communal speakers. The music’s turned up so loud I can’t hear what Teresa’s saying, though I’m nodding and making what I think are appropriate faces as she speaks. It’s not often I have a one-on-one with a woman, though, and I’m making the best of it.
As a matter of interest, she’s really not that bad looking, now that I’m up close and personal, and she smells quite nice too. She’s wearing an open necked shirt with a pendant on a slim gold chain, which draws my attention downwards, where I can
just see the lace edging of a deep pink bra. She’s wearing faded jeans again, which hug her trim figure and accentuate her small, boyish bum, which is probably enveloped in a pair of satin knickers of a matching colour, I guess. It’s funny how I hadn’t really noticed her before. Never noticed she was sort of fanciable, anyway. All I had noticed, in fact, was her fiery protectiveness of her best friend and my ideal, the mysterious, the beautiful and the worryingly well-read Rosalind Chandler.
‘So that’s the way it is,’ Teresa is saying as the bell rings and half the common room drifts out and I can finally hear what she’s saying. ‘It’s because of this that I have to look out for her.’
I nod, but I’m wishing I had the nerve to ask her to repeat everything she’s just said, because I’m pretty sure that most of it was about Ros. But at least it appears that I’m not in her guardian’s bad books any more. Maybe she sees me as someone interesting now, a vegan who reads Kierkegaard, rather than a weirdo who just likes getting other people’s stomachs pumped. And, come on, winning her approval can only boost my chances with Ros.
She sits back and looks at me like it’s for the first time. ‘You know,’ she says, ‘I didn’t have you down as the school intellectual. Not that you look immensely thick or anything, but you know, the people you hang out with? But, hey, if you’re reading Kierkegaard, I must have got you wrong. I have to say, I’m impressed.’
I smile shyly, modestly.
‘What is it you like about him anyway?’ Hmm. I wasn’t expecting this.
‘Who?’ I say.
‘Søren Kierkegaard.’
Which puts me on the spot, as I haven’t even opened the book. But I’m not going to admit this and lose the points I may already have racked up with my newly acquired go-between.
‘Søren, yes,’ I say, weighing my answer. ‘Good old Søren K.’ I
wish I had Mr Dawson’s pipe to snatch from my mouth as finally, after much ceiling gazing and nodding thoughtfully, I say, ‘It’s like you either get him – or you don’t.’
‘Wow,’ she says. ‘His existentialism, you mean?’
‘Exactly,’ I say. She nods, like she’s totally interested.
‘Or his humanism?’ she adds, annoyingly.
Again, I’d take a good draw from Rowley’s pipe if I had it here. That would add gravitas. As it is, I wait a moment before I make a measured reply. ‘That too, to an extent,’ I venture.
‘Interesting,’ Teresa says. ‘And what about those tendencies we now interpret at post-modern?’
I smile, as if acknowledging a well-known problem in the study of Kierkegaard.
‘I think we have to take them for what they are,’ I say. She nods again, like I’m really impressing her. I think I might be enjoying this. As she leans forward to hear what I’m saying, I get to see more of her deep pink bra and I’m hoping this conversation can go on a little bit longer.
‘And what about Keats?’ she says. Another loaded question, if she did but know it.
But I think I’m getting the hang on this now, so I reply almost straight away. ‘What about Keats?’
I say, employing my wry smile. ‘What is there left to say about him? Hasn’t it all been said before? I think we just have to enjoy him…’
‘For what he is?’ Teresa chips in, eagerly.
‘Exactly,’ I say. At which point, I would have upturned my pipe and emptied it noisily into a glass ashtray.
Amazingly, Teresa Davenport appears to be enjoying this as much as I am. It looks like she’s having fun. She seems to like my company.
‘What’s your all-time favourite poem by John Keats?’ she asks.
I consider her question. ‘It’s hard to say,’ I tell her and this is very true. ‘He wrote so many blinders.’
I’m not sure that ‘blinders’ is an appropriate expression in this context, but she seems pleased with my answer. In fact, she laughs with pleasure. I am a hit.
I really want to steer the conversation towards
Great Expectations
, something I’ve actually read, but there seems to be no need, as Teresa is telling me it’s so nice to talk with someone as widely read and obviously intelligent as myself. She’s smiling like I have genuinely entertained her, if you can call a serious discussion about philosophy and literature entertainment. She gets me to write my phone number on the back of her hand. Then she writes hers on mine.
‘Ros’s friends need to stay in touch,’ she says. ‘Call me if you see her doing any of those things I mentioned.’ I have no idea what she is talking about. She gets up to go. ‘Next time I want you to tell me about what we can take from the philosophy of Dean R
.
Koontz.’
I’ll be sure to do that, I say, as she swings open the doors. ‘And you’ll remember what I said about Ros, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will,’ I assure her, wishing I knew what on earth it was. ‘You can count on me.’
I’ve not seen Ros lately and none of us has seen much of Diesel, either. Obviously, we’ve scoped him at school, but he always seems to be with Lauren and as we don’t always feel like discussing the
The X Factor
and
Britain’s Got Talent
, or what Faruk will do in the army, we let them get on with whatever they’re doing, which doesn’t look like a lot of fun anyway. Lauren is always talking and Diesel is always looking like he’s about to kill himself.
Just the other day, we saw him coming out of Mothercare with Lauren. He looked like he might be about to throw himself under a supertram at any moment. We can see that our friend needs help, needs the benefit of advice based upon our impressive total of 42 years of solid experience. Besides, we urgently need to ask him if we can hold a party at his.
There’s still another week of exams, but this Saturday, Diesel’s mum says he’s at the shop as usual, so Clive and I decide to intercept him after work, before Lauren can get her claws into him. Faruk is paying one of his irregular visits to his mosque. Diesel worked in the record shop on the eve of his first exam, when if anyone needed to be locked in his bedroom cramming, it was Diesel. He’s naturally very bright, but ‘almost completely lacking in interest and application’ according to the last report card we saw. Unless it’s at the record shop, where he seems to really make a difference. It doesn’t take us long to see that the shop has changed.
Since his visit to Narnia, Diesel’s widened his musical interests, which has led to some interesting changes at the Caterpillar, where Magic Mick is pleased to give his enthusiastic Saturday lad a free hand. Diesel’s rearranged everything, we see. It’s no longer necessary to go in the back room to find the old or rare vinyl, because it’s been filed in with everything else, so that Mark is now with Mick Ronson, Wu-tang Clan share a crib with Wishbone Ash, while Grandmaster Flash is with someone called Grand Funk Railroad and GD’s favourites, the Grateful Dead. Magic Mick says it works surprisingly well. People come in for MC Hammer and leave with MC5 as well. Selling a supposedly defunct format at a time when downloading is putting other shops out of business, Alice and the Caterpillar isn’t doing so badly, Mick says.
Mick asks me about his friend and my grandfather, GD. I’m not sure what to say to him but he tells me he knows all about Ruth’s illness and that he’s been doing what he can. I ask him what he means. ‘Your grandmother wants a good death,’ Mick says. ‘And GD will do anything to see she gets one. Ruth wants to die at home with your grandfather and we all hope that’s what will happen.’ He turns away, to file some vinyl discs in the shelves behind him. ‘But GD’ll have his hands full then and he’s going to need all the help we can give him with the arrangements.’
‘What arrangements?’
‘Her funeral,’ Magic Mick says, turning to us again. His cheeks are wet but his voice is firm. ‘GD’s told me exactly what Ruth wants and how it should all go down. What I’m asking is this: can I count on you? And your friends?’
‘Of course,’ I say, and the others nod – they all like Nana. But I’m not sure what sort of help we could provide at a funeral. I hope we don’t have to be pallbearers – it’s hard not to imagine the most awful of accidents. I hate talking about it. The thought of Nana’s death is always with me. I try and get on with life as best as I can but whatever I do, it’s always there, lurking in a corner, ready to ambush me when I’m least prepared for it. Now Mick asks me to jot my number on the inside of his outsize Rizla packet and says he’ll be in touch when the time comes.
I don’t want to think about this business of the funeral, not until I have to, anyway. I distract myself with another trawl through the re-ordered record bins while Diesel helps Mick to shut up the shop. Soon, the three of us are slouching past the Wheatsheaf, where Diesel stops and says that the best place to talk on a hot day like this would be in a pub garden, with four ice-cold pints of Kronenbourg.