The Private Side of Friendship, page 15
She drank her coffee quickly, even if it had been served too hot.
“You look as if you’re in a hurry,” said the young man with the round glasses.
She dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief. It bore the stains of the previous cup of coffee. “Not really.” She looked at her watch. She was not sure that she would have time now to go the National Gallery. That did not matter – the paintings would be there next week.
She made an effort to say something to her table companions. She did not want to be thought rude. “Are you at uni?” she asked.
The other two nodded. “History,” said the young man.
“And I’m doing psychology,” said his friend.
The young man smiled. “She knows how people feel,” he said. “She understands how people’s minds work.”
Julie laughed. “I suppose that’s what psychology’s about.”
She gave the young woman an appraising look. She noticed that she was wearing a light red jacket that looked as if it might have been part of a trouser suit. It had a dated appearance. It was from the sixties, she decided. And then, as the young woman shifted in her seat, Julie smelled the fabric. There was the unmistakeable smell of mothballs. “Armstrong’s,” she muttered.
The young woman looked puzzled. “What?”
Julie had intended her remark as an aside – made to herself, rather than to anybody else.
“Did you buy your jacket at Armstrong’s?”
The young woman’s face broke into a broad grin. “Of course. Who doesn’t get their stuff there?”
“I don’t,” said the young man. “The men’s clothes are gross. Thick, heavy tweed. Trousers with turn-ups. Everything belonged to people who are dead now.” He wrinkled his nose. “That’s how they get a lot of their things, you know. They do clearances of people’s houses after they’ve died. That’s why it’s all so retro. The people who owned those things are so retro that they’re dead.”
The young woman laughed. “That’s seriously retro.”
Julie said, “Mothballs. Some of the clothes they sell have been stored with mothballs. You smell it as you go in.”
The young woman frowned. She sniffed at her sleeve. “Not this, I think.”
Julie said nothing.
“You were looking at those people,” the young woman said, nodding in the direction of the table at which James and Lizzie were sitting. “I wondered why. I know it’s none of my business, but I wondered why.”
Julie was taken aback. She had been unaware that her interest had been so obvious. She hesitated before she answered. “He’s my flatmate. One of them.”
The young woman looked across the café. “And he’s with that girl . . . Is that the problem?”
“It’s not a problem,” Julie said quickly. “I was just surprised.”
“And you like him, I take it. You fancy him, even.”
Julie gave her a discouraging look. “I don’t, actually.”
“Because you can tell when somebody is jealous. It’s one of the easiest emotions to read.”
Julie drew in her breath. “I’m not jealous.”
“But you still wish she wasn’t there – am I right?”
Julie shook her head. “I’ve got nothing against her. I’ve only met her once.”
“Well, maybe I’m wrong,” said the young woman. “I’m not always right.”
“Almost always,” interjected the young man. “You’re almost always right, Jenny.”
Julie looked at her watch again – pointedly now. “I have a tutorial at twelve,” she said.
“On what?” asked the young man.
“I study history of art,” explained Julie.
“Do you enjoy it?” asked the young woman.
“Yes. I love it.”
There was a silence. Julie rose to go.
“Good luck,” said the young woman.
“Good luck with what?” Julie asked herself. But to the young woman – Jenny – she said, “Thank you.”
She moved away from the table, feeling the eyes of her two new acquaintances follow her. She felt empty. James might have told her that he was going out with Lizzie. Did he really think that she – or anybody else for that matter – would judge him? None of them was a snob, although Georgia might, just might, be on the borderline when it came to these things. She felt a slight sense of betrayal. It would have been no effort for him just to walk down the corridor and tell her that he was now seeing the Mayonnaise Assistant. It would not have been a complicated thing to speak about. People said that sort of thing to their friends every day. Hers certainly did, in what they called their goss sessions. I like so-and-so. He’s asked me out. I fancy him. Nothing was at stake here – it would just have been nice to know. That was all.
Fifteen
Just sleep, okay?
I AN HAD WALKED PAST the bar in College Street many times before – it was cheek by jowl with one of the main university buildings – but had not taken particular notice of it. It had a narrow frontage, and its signs, one painted on the stonework across the frontage and the other a small board suspended above the entrance, were discreet and weathered. The Captain’s Bar consisted of a single room stretching back the whole depth of the building. On one side was a long mahogany bar behind which were brewers’ mirrors, a range of bottles, and the ornate taps of the draught beers. There were benches along the other wall, and leather-covered stools at the bar itself, but for the most part the clientele stood in small clusters, students and locals alike. The ceiling, high, as almost all Edinburgh ceilings were, was stained yellow with the deposited tars of years of smoke. There was a certain rough vigour about it; the customers now included women, but the bar seemed to make no concessions to femininity. In that respect, The Captain’s Bar was part of a tradition of Scottish bars that was very different from the welcoming warmth of an English pub. This was where, in the past, men came to talk to other men, and to drink whisky.
Ian had never particularly liked bars. He would from time to time meet his fellow students in pubs, but he had never taken to standing at a bar. If he wanted to meet friends, he far preferred a coffee house of the sort that were now beginning to proliferate in the city. But Stewart, his closest friend at school, was going to be in Edinburgh and had asked if they could meet in The Captain’s.
“You know the place?” Stewart had said.
“I know where it is,” replied Ian.
“It’s a great bar,” said Stewart. “I was there last time I was in Edinburgh. Easy to get to. You can hear yourself speak – unlike some places. Let’s meet there.”
Stewart was studying economics at St Andrews. He was not enjoying the course, and was thinking of changing, but was yet to decide what to choose as an alternative. Ian had not seen him since they had parted company at the end of their last year at school. There had been plans to meet on one or two occasions, but they had never materialised. Then Stewart had called Ian unexpectedly, to tell him he was coming down to Edinburgh for an interview for a work placement, and would have time on his hands. He suggested The Captain’s, and the arrangement was made.
Ian arrived first. He ordered a drink and stood at the end of the bar. Stewart had always been punctual, and Ian expected that he would not have to wait much more than ten minutes. He looked about him, feeling awkward that he was by himself and everybody else, as far as he could see, was in a group. He stared down into his glass and tried to remember how they had parted on that final day at boarding school.
“I’ll see you some time in the summer,” Stewart had said. “Perhaps we could go somewhere. I’d like that.”
Ian’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes. So would I.” He paused.
“What about Italy? You can get these rail passes. You can travel as far as you like.”
“Great,” said Stewart. He frowned. He had thought of something. “I’m not sure, though. My folks are talking about going to Canada. My dad’s brother is there – in Toronto. They’ve been talking for ages about going to see him. My uncle has a cottage on a lake. I’ve seen photographs. They have a couple of canoes that the Canadians use – you know the type. They’re quite wide.”
“So you’ll go too?” asked Ian.
“Yes. Me and my sister.” His sister was in her second year at the University of Aberdeen. She was a pianist.
“Of course.” Ian knew Janet from the occasions when he had gone with Stewart and his family on summer trips. He would have liked all that to continue, but he knew it would not. It was too late now for friends to be taken on those family holidays.
Nothing more was said about Italy, and he realised it would not happen. They had stood there in the quad, along with others, waiting to go into the chapel for the final service of the term. It would be attended by parents, and there would be a lunch afterwards, with speeches. And then the pipe band lined up outside and they started to play: some of the girls cried; some of the boys fought back tears too. The pipers had at least their work to do; the music could express how they felt.
They went their separate ways, and he suddenly found himself getting into his father’s car and realising that he had not said a proper goodbye to Stewart. But it was too late, as he could see that he had already left.
“A bit sad?” asked his father from the driver’s seat.
He fixed his gaze on the hills behind the playing fields, and on the sky above them, which was largely cloudless now, as it was one of those rare days in Scotland when the air was still and there was no sign of rain. A few wisps of white hung in the upper atmosphere – ice crystals falling in attenuated curtains.
His father asked, “Are you all right?”
He replied that he was, although he felt as if he was choking. It was an effort not to cry, and he struggled to suppress the sobs that he knew were just below the surface. Because this was the end of a chapter that he did not want to end, because he feared that he would never again make such friends as he had made at school, and one friend in particular. It would have been different had he been able to talk about it, but he could not do that because there was nobody who would understand. You should not feel all that sad about saying goodbye to friends – you should not. You should not make such a big thing of ordinary friendships, because if you did that you were bound to be hurt when they came to an end, as friendships did.
He had come across some lines of Burns that seemed to him to resonate with the loss he felt. It had been a moment of recognition. Here was Burns saying the things that he, all these years later, felt in the depths of his soul. We twa had paidled in the burn, from morning sun til dine, but seas between us braid hae roared . . . Broad seas had come between us since then – that would happen; he was sure of it. At least Burns understood. At least he knew how friendship could be a bittersweet thing – something precious and yet at the same time something that seemed destined to end. Which was what our human lot amounted to. We were alive, but we knew we were dying. Everything we made about us was ultimately impermanent. We were the inhabitants of a dying planet.
“You have a lot to look forward to,” said his father.
He nodded. That was undoubtedly true. But he felt his loneliness like a weight upon him, unshifting, always there. Other people had the freedom to be themselves, safe in the knowledge that there was no reason for others to disapprove of them. It was different for him. He was somebody who felt at odds with the world as it was, even as he had to pretend that he accepted the whole edifice of expectations and beliefs by which most people lived. His father was an understanding man – not somebody who was harsh or censorious. And yet his father did not know what his own son wanted in life. He did not know. He stared out of the window. People did not know, but that was because he did not tell them. And yet it was not easy to tell others when for some reason or other the time never seemed quite right. Or when you felt that what you had to tell them was exactly what they did not want to know. Or when – and this was possible, it occurred to him – they already knew what you had to tell them, but could not, for their own part, tell you that they knew.
He turned. He had felt Stewart’s presence even before his friend said anything, in the way in which we know some things. There he was, standing behind him, holding a small overnight bag that he put down on the floor before he offered to shake hands.
And it was just a handshake. He wanted it to be an embrace. He wanted to wrap his arms around his friend and hug him, rather than restrict himself to this restrained, polite gesture. He wanted that, but he did not do it. He moved forward slightly, though, which would have to do. There could be no embrace between friends in The Captain’s Bar.
Stewart said, “You found it.”
He replied, “Yes. I’ve walked past this place often enough.”
Stewart looked about him. “I like these old places.”
Ian wondered whether this was how it would be. He wondered whether their conversation would be limited to these banalities – to small talk – when he wanted so much to talk about other things. Had Stewart changed? Would he no longer be interested in the sort of things they talked about when, at school, it seemed so important to discuss those big issues of how one might lead one’s life.
He ordered Stewart a beer. When it came, they raised their glasses to one another.
“It’s been a long time,” said Stewart.
He nodded. “Yes. Ages. Sorry.”
Stewart shook his head. “No, I’m the one who should say sorry. I meant to be in touch, but you know how it is.”
Ian smiled. “Life gets in the way.”
“Jeez,” said Stewart, “doesn’t it just?” He paused, and looked about the bar. “Odd place this, isn’t it? Those old guys look as if they’re built in with the furniture.”
“Yes.”
“Then, those boys over there . . .” Stewart nodded to a group of four young men standing near the door. “They’re law students. The law faculty’s just across the road, isn’t it? I recognise one of them. His brother was at Coll with us. Remember him? A guy called Pritchard.”
Coll was how they referred to the school.
“Pritchard? He was a swimmer, wasn’t he?”
Stewart nodded. “Won everything. Played the guitar – badly.”
Ian laughed. “Everybody played the guitar badly. It was sort of expected, wasn’t it?”
Stewart did not answer. Ian noticed that he glanced at his watch. Then Stewart said, “I never think about those days, you know. Or hardly ever. Now and then, I suppose, when I meet one of the guys, but . . .” He shrugged. “Some people keep up with the people they knew there, but I’m not really one of them.” He stopped. “Of course, you’re different. I mean, we go back a long way, don’t we? How many times did you come on holiday with us? Four?”
“Something like that. Yes, four, I suppose.”
“That was great,” said Stewart. Then he frowned. “My mother had the idea that you were unhappy. I suppose it’s because you lost your mum. I suppose that was why she thought that. But I never thought you were, you know.”
Ian said nothing.
“I told her you were fine,” Stewart continued. “I told her that you had got over it and were . . . well, you were just like everybody else – getting on with things.”
Ian lifted his beer glass to his lips. Across the room, the law students laughed at something.
“Colonsay,” Stewart continued. “Do you remember it?”
Ian lowered his glass. “Of course. That house your folks rented.”
“Yes. I love that island, you know. I’d like to go back some time. In fact, I think I might even try to get over there later this summer. Just for a few days. Get the ferry over from Oban and go for a walk to that bay – the one where we caught a whole stack of mackerel.”
Ian hesitated. “I’d like that.”
“You too?”
“Yes.” Ian paused. “Going back to places you were happy in – well, I think it works. Not always, but often, perhaps.”
Stewart took a sip of his beer. “You’re right. I’m going to speak to Kirsty. Talking about it has made my mind up. Colonsay it is. Maybe camping. I’ll speak to her about it.”
Ian looked down at the floor.
“She’s at St Andrews too,” Stewart said. “We’ve been going out for six months. She’s great.”
Ian nodded. “That’s good.”
“You should come up to St Andrews some time and meet her. You’d like her. Just let me know.”
“I will.”
Stewart brushed a strand of hair from his brow. “I need to get to the barber. There’s this Turkish guy I go to. Except he’s a Kurd, he tells me. He gives you a close shave if you want, although these days they don’t use the cut-throat razor. Just as well.” He shuddered.
“Oh, well,” Ian muttered, unsure as to what was expected of him here.
“I’ve bought a car,” Stewart said. “Or rather, my dad bought it for me. It wasn’t expensive because it’s twenty-five years old. It’s a Morgan. Have you ever been in one?”
Ian shook his head.
“Their suspension is fantastic,” said Stewart. “It gives you a really firm ride. A Morgan always hugs the road.”
“Do they?”
“The bodywork is made of ash, you know,” Stewart continued. “They’re wooden cars – well, partly wooden.”
“Amazing.”
“Yes. The gearbox is a bit rough, but you always get that with an old car. God, it drives really well. I drove over to Ullapool the other day. The road was almost empty. It was fantastic weather. The sky was empty – not a single cloud . . .”
And Ian thought, we walked along that road on Colonsay. We walked for miles – right to the other side of the island. It was a day like that, and there was no wind, which meant the sea was calm – like a blue field stretching out to the distant horizon, to other islands we could not see . . . There was a fishing boat, and a line of wake behind it, and gulls circling above it for the scraps. The gorse was in flower – patches of yellow against the green – and it smelled of coconut. You said that. I remember it. You said: There’s a smell of coconut from those flowers – just like coconut, but they’re gorse, aren’t they?
