Swimming Upstream (3 page)

Once or twice he came to the bar but Karen always
served him and chatted away easily with him while I hovered nearby self-consciously,
smiling and nodding in agreement as she complimented him on the set. Once or
twice he smiled back at me but we never spoke.

Then, late one Sunday evening when the club was
all but empty and we were near to closing, he appeared out of nowhere, standing
at the bar. I pushed shut the till, turned and looked up to find him looking
straight into my eyes. His were a deep blue-grey, with laughter lines in the
corners. When he smiled you could see all his teeth. It looked as if he still
had all his baby teeth, like Peter Pan.

“So, what are you drinking?” he asked, fishing in
his jeans pocket for his wallet. I gazed back at him, and cleared my throat
softly. “Me? Oh, well… a pint of Harp, please,” I said in a voice that didn't
sound like mine.

“You don't wanna drink that gnat's piddle,” he
replied, leaning over the bar towards me. His blond hair flopped forwards. I
glanced down at his muscled forearms, which were resting on the sticky bar top.
“How about a pint of Kronenbourg?”

“Okay then,” I agreed. Larsen watched me closely
as I moved down the bar to the tap.

“So, what’s your name, then?” he asked.

“Lizzie. Lizzie Taylor.” I waited for him to give
me the “Not
the
Elizabeth Taylor” line, like most people did, but he
didn’t.

“Lizzie Taylor,” he repeated, as if it meant
something really special.

I felt myself flushing. It felt really intimate,
him saying my name like that. I thought it would sound false and stupid if I
asked him his, but “I know who you are” would sound even worse, so I didn’t say
anything, except “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Larsen, clinking glasses with me. “Nice
to meet you at last. So, you’re a student, right?”

“Isn’t everybody?” I was still reeling from the “at
last” comment. Did this mean that he had been watching me, after all, like I
had been watching him?

“Nope. I’m not. I
was
. At the College of
Arts.”

“That’s where I am!” A person to whom I didn’t
have to explain, “It’s not the University”. “So, what happened?”

“I packed it in. Failed my first year exams. Never
looked back.”

“Really?” I said, hope rising inside me. I wasn’t
alone. Larsen had trodden this path before me, and survived. “I think I’m going
to fail mine. It’s really hard. It seems like a big leap between sixth form and
studying for a degree. For me, anyway. Everyone else seems to get it. It’s just
me. I don’t seem to fit in.” I stopped abruptly. I had surprised myself with my
confession. But Larsen was already nodding, as if he understood.

“Leave, then,” he said simply. “It’s an elitist
institution anyway.”

I laughed. “Well, you could argue that the Tech is
the institution of the underclass, since it’s not part of the University.”

“Right. So, how many poverty stricken students
from working class backgrounds are there on your course?”

I smiled. “Point taken. So what are you doing now
then? Apart from…” I waved my arm in the direction of the stage.

“Apart from wasting my time playing music?” Larsen
smiled and raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t think that at all. I think you’re
brilliant.”

Larsen looked at me for a moment, then in one
swift movement placed his hands onto the bar, vaulted up, leaned over and
kissed me on the lips. I was so stunned that I couldn’t speak. I glanced around
the near-empty bar but no-one appeared to have noticed. Karen was busy playing
on the Mad Planets machine.

“I work for the council,” Larsen continued, as if
nothing had happened. “Ents. The Entertainments Department, that is. It’s a
good job. And we have a laugh.”

“That’s Entertainment,” I said.

Larsen laughed. “You’re funny. You know what that
song is about?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Listen to the lyrics,” said Larsen. “If you get
it, you’re working class. It’s the true definition.”

“Well, I don’t know if I am working class,” I
said. “I just don’t seem to be truly middle class either. Are there any classes
any more?”

“It’s like saying, “How old are you?”” said
Larsen. “Everyone says you’re as old as you feel. I think it’s the same with
class.”

“How old do you feel?” I asked him.

“Ageless,” smiled Larsen.

I smiled back. “So why do you live here,
surrounded by all the students, if you don’t like them?”

“I was born here,” said Larsen, simply. “It’s my
home. I’m town, not gown. Hey, do you know about the Rock against Racism gig on
Midsummer Common?”

“That’s next month isn’t it?”

“Yup. I’m organising it. It’s a great line-up. We’re
playing. You should come. It’s going to be mega.”

“Sounds great.”

Karen appeared. It was time to close up.

“I need to change the barrels,” I told Larsen. “Ready
for tomorrow.”

“Need a hand?”

“I can do it. It’s okay.” Idiot, I told myself and
added, “I do need another crate of cokes though.”

Larsen followed me down the steps into the cellar.
Unnerved, I tripped on the second step and Larsen caught me.

“Steady!” He put his arms round me. “You okay?” he
asked, stepping back and surveying me, his hands still round my waist.

“I’m okay,” I smiled. “Now.”

He held me a little longer than necessary, looked
at me for a moment then said,

“Tell you what, do you fancy coming back to my
place? There are a few people coming back, a bit of a party? Karen’s coming,”
he added, as if I needed persuading. “It’s only about five minutes from here.”

I nodded. “That would be great.”

“Good,” said Larsen. “You
get and close up while I pack up my gear. Then we can grab a few beers and head
back.”

I washed glasses and Karen dried them while Larsen turned
off the stage lights, shut down the PA desk, boxed up microphones and wound up
leads. All the while I felt my heart thumping in my chest with excitement, feeling
somehow that this short time - which included all three of us, together inside
the empty building, calling out and laughing as we worked - was a joyous
prelude to something momentous that was about to happen in my life; an end to
the isolation of my student world. Karen and I turned the plastic chairs upside
down on the tables and pulled down the shutters. Once all the glasses had been
stacked neatly on the shelves and the ashtrays emptied, I picked up my coat and
Larsen set the alarm and locked the door while Karen and I stood outside
shivering, our breath making foggy clouds in the cold night air.

“Poor Larsen,” whispered Karen. “He needs a bit of
cheering up. He’s just split up with his girlfriend.”

“Really?” I asked, hope rising up inside me.

The party was in full swing when we arrived and I
felt heady as the wall of heat and smoke rose to greet us in the hallway. Music
was blaring from the living room. I followed Larsen and Karen into the kitchen.
The floor was sticky and the soles of one of my shoes had picked up a fag end. I
lifted my foot and pulled it off.

“Larsen, man, you made it,” said a huge dark-haired
guy wearing a checked shirt and jeans. He took a beer out of Larsen's hand,
stuck his fingers up at him, and took the top off with his teeth. He turned to
look at me with friendly curiosity.

“Of course I made it, I live here, you fool,” said
Larsen and put an arm round his shoulders.

“Doug, this is Lizzie. Lizzie, Doug.” Doug took my
hand and kissed it.

A girl appeared in the doorway. She was tall, with
light brown shoulder-length hair and green glassy eyes, oval-shaped and slanted
in the corners like a cat's. I thought she looked sophisticated, even though
she was casually dressed in a baggy black jumper and jeans. I looked at Larsen
who was taking off his leather jacket and felt suddenly overdressed in my mini
skirt and tight-fitting jumper.

“Tyler, You're here,” said the girl, accusingly,
as if someone should have told her. She looked straight through me, bounced up
to Larsen and flung her arms round his neck. He caught her with one arm as he
swung round.

“Jude, meet Lizzie,” he said brightly.

I smiled. Jude responded with a vague nod and,
tossing her hair, disappeared back into the crowd. Doug and Larsen exchanged a
furtive glance.

“Come on,” said Larsen and we all trooped into the
living room.

The guy beside me passed me a joint. His name was
Jeff. He had something of a cross between a mohican and a footballer’s haircut
going on; short at the front, long at the back and shaved at the sides over his
ears. He talked interminably about music, reeling off the names of various
obscure bands that I guessed I was supposed to have heard of, while I sat and
nodded at him in silence. All I could think about was Larsen, who was leaning
up against the wall next to Jude, deep in conversation.

“Don't get back together,” I pleaded at them
inside my head, feeling hopeless. I wondered why I cared that much. After all,
I barely knew him. I must be crazy. I wondered if I should go home, but knew I
wouldn't, not yet.

I looked around the room. It was unmistakably a
student pad - minimalist, quirky. A chipboard table and chairs were pushed into
one corner and a stolen road sign “No U-turns” - took pride of place near the
door. Underneath the window opposite me was a sagging green sofa with lots of
people I didn’t know spilling off its edges. There were several interesting-looking
pictures on the wall which I would have liked to get up and contemplate, but I
was sitting on the floor in a bean bag and not at all sure that I could get up
without drawing huge amounts of attention to myself. I was suddenly feeling
very stoned.

“What about Jellybelly?” asked Jeff; at least
that's what it sounded like.

“What?” I turned my head slowly. The rest of the
room did a lightning dash to catch up with me.

“Jellybelly,” Jeff persisted, leaning against the
bean bag and wedging me even more deeply into its contours. My forehead felt
cold and prickly. “You must have heard of Jellybelly.”

He turned to Karen who had sat down in front of us
with a bottle of vodka.

“She hasn't heard of Jellybelly,” he said.

“Stop it,” I stammered faintly.

“Stop what?” said Jeff, looking confused.

“Saying Jellybelly. Please.” With a concerted
effort I lurched up out of the beanbag and stumbled into the hall, past Jude
and Larsen and up the stairs. Larsen watched me go and looked as though he was
about to say something but Jude was talking to him, her mouth pressed up
against his ear.

I stood at the washbasin, squinting under the
bright light at my reflection in the mirror. I looked a mess. There were dark
rings of eyeliner under each eye. I licked my finger and wiped at them, but it
only made it worse. Then my mascara started coming off as well. I turned the
tap on and splashed cold water onto my cheeks.

Someone banged on the door. I opened it and a tiny
girl with short blonde hair shot in, hoisted up her raincoat and pulled down
her knickers.

“Sorry. I’m busting.” She stared at me from the
loo. “Are you all right?”

“I think so.” I smiled, steadying myself against
the sink.

“I like your hair,” she commented. “Red’s my
favourite colour.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I prefer to call it auburn.”

She grinned at me. She had a tiny elfin face, with
big blue eyes, a turned up nose and a pointy chin.

“You look like a pixie,” I observed. I was still
feeling very stoned. I sat down on the edge of the bath. Her eyes twinkled, amusedly.
She flushed the chain and squeezed past me to the sink. “Although I have to say
you're not dressed like a pixie,” I continued, looking down at the black
stockings and shoes under her navy raincoat. “I'd say you were ... a traffic
warden?” I guessed.

“Not quite right,” she said, turning round and
opening her coat with soapy hands, to reveal a light blue uniform. “A nurse.”

“This isn't fancy dress,” I pointed out.

“I know,” she said, and winked at me. “Got a kinky
boyfriend, that's all.”

“You’re kidding? He makes you wear that to
parties?”

The girl in the raincoat laughed. “It was a joke. I
am actually a nurse. I work at Addenbrookes. I’ve just finished my shift.”

I put my head in my hands. “I’m so gullible. What
an idiot.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” said the girl. “I am the queen of
gullible. I used to think that the stars could talk.”

I lifted my head up. “The stars? As in the ones in
the sky?”

“Yes. I was told that by the matron at the….the
home. I was brought up in a children’s home. Out in the countryside, near
Saffron Walden. In the middle of nowhere, it was. And at night I couldn’t sleep
for all the…well, the noise. There was always this noise going on outside the
windows, crickets, I think, and I don’t know what else. I told matron and she
said it was just the stars chattering.”

“That’s kind of cute.” I smiled.

“Not when you’re sixteen it isn’t.”

“What?”

“I was sixteen before anyone told me that the
stars can’t talk. I was kissing my boyfriend under the moonlight and I said, “Aren’t
the stars quiet tonight?” He looked at me like I was crazy. Then he dumped me.”

“That’s harsh,” I said.

The girl in the raincoat nodded. “So, who are you?
I’ve not seen you before. Are you a friend of Jude’s?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think we’ve
established that.”

“Oh, right. Don’t take it personally. If you’re
not a friend of Jude’s then you’re not a friend of Jude’s. The Girlfriends’
Club, well, they’re all a bit cliquey. Anyway, I’m Zara,” she said, and held
out her tiny hand. I took it.

“I’m Lizzie,” I told her before I lost my balance
and slipped backwards into the bath, still clinging onto her hand. Zara tried
to pull me back but she was taken by surprise and she flew forwards and landed
up on top of me. We both cracked up laughing so hard that neither of us could
stop.