The Private Side of Friendship, page 16
Ian walked back across the Meadows. It was a warm night, and there were small groups of people still sitting out on the grass, although the light had largely gone from the sky. From one group, huddled under a tree, came the sound of laughter and the tuneless strumming of a guitar. Another bad player, he thought; the country was full of bad guitarists. He strained his eyes against the darkness, trying to make out the figures. He saw the shape of the guitar. He saw that a couple of the people listening were sprawled out on the grass. Two figures lay together, arms about one another. A small point of light showed where somebody was smoking. He would have liked to go across and ask them if he could join them, if he too could sit down on the grass and talk about whatever it was that they were talking about, and feel happy in their friendship.
He thought of the half-hour he had spent with Stewart in The Captain’s Bar. It had been a very bad idea, and he should have come up with some excuse. Stewart would not have minded had he called off, because the meeting had not seemed at all important to him. You can tell by the look in people’s eyes if they would like to be somewhere else. It always shows. They’re just not there – or not altogether there.
It was obvious that Stewart did not regard the friendship they had had as being anything significant. Why should he? When you were young, friends were easily made and just as easily abandoned. And even if the friendships at that stage in life were intense ones, it was a mistake to regard them as profound. They were, by their very nature, transitory – preparations for something else, something more important that would come later – if you were fortunate. Those intense friendships were like little love affairs, although they were completely innocent. You could easily think of nothing but your friend. You could easily want to spend every waking moment in his company. And then suddenly it might be as if a door had closed and the friend was no longer your be-all and end-all.
For a brief moment he had imagined that Stewart was inviting him to go with him to Colonsay. For a brief moment he had entertained the thought that it might be possible once again to spend time with his friend in that place that was inextricably linked with happiness, and sun, and the smell of gorse. But he had been quickly disabused of that notion, and he was back in a present in which Stewart had grown away from him; in which he seemed like a stranger; and in which he belonged to somebody else.
Ian felt almost light-headed. He felt that he had brought something to an end. He had closed a chapter, which was the right thing to do, and he felt relief at having taken a decision. He did not mean anything in particular to Stewart – he was just somebody he had known when he was younger – that was all. This was no David and Jonathan friendship – and perhaps it never had been, other than on his side, perhaps. It was unequal, as so many friendships are. He had thought that he had something, but it was illusory. Stewart had no inkling of what their friendship had meant – he was incapable of understanding it.
By the time he reached the flat, his mood had changed. Now he felt an emptiness within himself – the sort of surprised emptiness that comes when one is subjected to rejection or rudeness. He had not felt that when he had left the Captain’s, nor when he was crossing the Meadows, but it came upon him now as he climbed the stairs to their landing at the top. And when he entered the flat and made his way to his room, it was even worse. He was not sure who was in, but the kitchen and the living room were both in darkness. People could be out – it was still relatively early – or they could be in their rooms. There was no sound of anybody.
He went into the kitchen and switched on a light. The table had a couple of dirty plates on it – somebody had forgotten to wash these up, or had simply not bothered to do so. Georgia was the main culprit in that regard – Julie had made one or two pointed remarks about people who left things lying about, but they had had no effect. “She probably had somebody at home to clear things up,” Julie muttered. “I’m not pointing the finger, but it looks like that.” Now Ian made himself a cheese sandwich. He had a loaf of bread in his cupboard – they each had personal storage space – and he had a block of strong Cheddar in the dairy compartment of the fridge. He cut a couple of slices of bread before opening the fridge to find his cheese.
His eye was caught by a small jar on the middle shelf of the fridge. He had not seen it before. It was painted in bright colours, in the style of a Clarice Cliff ceramic, and it had a spoon sticking through a slot in the lid.
He peered at the jar and then took it out to investigate. Opening the lid, he saw the thick creamy substance in which the spoon had been inserted. He dipped a finger into the jar. He did not think before he did this – it was as if it were an automatic response. And then he raised the finger to his lips and tasted the small yellow-white dab he had extracted. He wrinkled his nose as he tasted the sample. Then, on impulse, he reached for the spoon, dipped it further into the jar, and extracted a spoonful. This he spread on one of the pieces of bread that he had cut. There would be cheese to be added to that, and he would then have his sandwich. He did not think of the unwritten rule that everybody in the flat understood – that you did not eat other people’s food without their permission. Mayonnaise was different. He would not have eaten somebody’s pie or anything like that – but this was simply taking a smidgeon, a taste, that could not possibly be missed by whoever owned the mayonnaise? Georgia? Possibly. She liked sauces and had jars of things like tahini or Greek taramasalata that she kept in the fridge.
He sat at the kitchen table and ate his sandwich. It did not take long, and within a couple of minutes he was at his door. As he switched on the light inside, Neil came by in the corridor.
“You’ve been out?” Neil asked.
Ian nodded. “I was in The Captain’s Bar.”
Neil knew the place. He now said, “Meeting friends?”
Ian hesitated. “A friend. Somebody I knew at school.”
Neil watched him. He waited for Ian to say something more, but he did not. Nor did he step further into his room.
“Are you all right?” Neil asked. “You look . . . Well, you look a bit down.”
Ian met Neil’s gaze. “Do I?” His voice was unsteady.
Neil moved forward. “To be honest, yes. Has something happened?”
“I’m all right.” Ian turned away. “It’s nothing.”
Neil’s voice showed his concern. “Can I come in?”
Ian did not resist. “I’m all right,” he repeated. But now he moved aside to allow Neil to come into his room. He closed the door behind them. He indicated for Neil to sit on the chair at his desk while he sat down on the bed.
Neil fixed him with an enquiring gaze. “Do you want to talk?”
“About?”
Neil shrugged. “About anything you like.” He smiled. “The weather? The miners’ strike?”
Ian smiled weakly. “The strike . . .” he began, but did not finish the sentence.
“Yes,” said Neil. “It’s getting brutal, isn’t it?” He paused. “But I suspect that’s not what’s bugging you. It’s something else.”
“It’s everything,” said Ian. “Everything.”
Neil looked doubtful. “Existential angst? The state of the world? I don’t think so. Everybody lives with that. You get by in spite of all that, don’t you think?”
When Ian did not reply, Neil continued, “We’ve lived with the threat of being blown to bits all our lives. The Cuban Crisis and so on – not that we were around at the time, but our folks were. My parents said there were a few days when they were convinced that it was the end. People were given a leaflet telling them to take shelter under the kitchen table. We’ve lived with that, but we carry on with our lives, don’t we? It’s like living under a volcano. You act as if it isn’t there – because if you don’t, you can’t lead any sort of life.”
“No,” said Ian. “I suppose not.”
“So it’s not that, then,” Neil continued. “It’s personal, isn’t it?” He paused again. “Look, it’s none of my business. I don’t want to pry. We all have issues. We all have things that get us down. And we often don’t want to speak about them – which is fine. But we shouldn’t let them make us too miserable.”
Ian sat back, then lay out on his bed. He put his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “Do you ever get the feeling that you’re waiting for life to start?”
Neil frowned. “I’m not sure. It depends what you mean. I sometimes feel that I’m not sure where life is taking me, so to speak. I sometimes wonder whether I’m on the right track – or any track at all.”
“I know what you mean,” said Ian. “And I just feel . . . well, I feel that I’m a bit lost, I suppose I know that sounds pathetic, but it’s true. I just feel a bit unhappy. And it gets me down from time to time. Maybe it shouldn’t, but it does.”
“Like now?”
Ian nodded. He closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Really badly.
I feel really on my own.”
There was a silence. Then Neil said, “You aren’t you know. You’ve got all of us. Me, Julie, Angela. All of us. We live with you. You aren’t on your own.”
“I know, but . . .” muttered Ian.
Neil got up off his seat. Crossing the room, he switched off the light. “It’s easier to talk in the dark,” he said.
Ian said nothing.
Then Neil was beside him. “Move over,” he said. “Give me a bit of room.”
They lay side by side in the darkness.
“Just this,” said Neil. “Just this, okay?”
Ian remained silent.
“Just company,” said Neil. “Do you mind?”
“No, of course not.”
“And we can talk,” said Neil. “About anything – it doesn’t matter. And if I stop answering, you’ll know I’ve gone to sleep.” Neil kicked off his shoes. “Take your shoes off,” he said. “Go on. I don’t want you to kick my shins at two in the morning.”
There was light from the night sky. There were shadows on the ceiling. Outside, somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and then faded.
They talked, but not for long. Neil’s voice revealed his drowsiness. After not much more than ten minutes, it faded altogether. Ian heard his breathing. He looked at his friend’s face in the darkness; we are all so vulnerable in repose, the proudest of us, the most blessed, the most unfortunate are much the same – there is complete equality in sleep. He shifted slightly to give him more room. He felt a strange joy at Neil’s presence. The world was kinder now, it seemed to him, although he knew that this would not be repeated. This was an unplanned, spontaneous act of friendship on Neil’s part, but it was for this moment, and this moment only.
He watched the shadows on the ceiling. He felt sleep come over him. In the small hours, he awoke briefly. Neil had shifted in his sleep. His arm was over Ian’s shoulder, innocently, protectively. Ian did not move it.
And his friend’s arm was there when they woke up in the morning to see Julie at the door. It had not been closed properly, and a slight breeze from an ill-fitting Victorian window somewhere else in the flat nudged it open during the night. She had been walking down the corridor and had stopped at the open door. She stood quite still as she took in the room, the bed, the two of them, still fully clothed but in each other’s arms. She said, “Oh, I’m sorry,” and moved away.
Ian looked at Neil. “The door,” he said.
Neil scratched the back of his head. “I was deeply asleep. I must have been tired.”
“Julie?” said Ian.
Neil shrugged. “So what?” he said.
Sixteen
Are you serious? No.
THAT MORNING, WHEN NEIL went into the kitchen to make his breakfast, Angela and Georgia were both already there. Angela was finishing a bowl of muesli, scraping the last oat flakes from the bowl; Georgia was spreading marmalade on a slice of underdone toast. Angela had switched on the radio and was listening to the news. Georgia had an open magazine lying on the table in front of her.
They both looked up when Neil came in.
“You’re looking dishevelled,” said Georgia.
Angela gave him a cursory look. “He hasn’t shaved.”
Neil shrugged. “Why should I? Shaving’s a form of repression targeted at men. We’re enslaved to the razor. Look clean-shaven if you want a job. Whatever you do, don’t look as nature intended you to look.”
Angela laughed. “Nice try, Neil. You didn’t shave because you couldn’t be bothered. Admit it. You’re lazy.”
“Or giving up,” Georgia suggested.
Neil smiled. “What if I said to you that expecting men to shave was like expecting women to wear make-up?”
Angela’s response came quickly. “I’d say false equivalence.”
Georgia chuckled. “I’d say the same thing – once I’d looked the words up.”
Neil cut himself a slice of bread. “I’m going to shave. It’s just that . . .” He did not finish. Julie came into the room. She stopped, only for the briefest moment, but Neil noticed. She had not expected to see him – and he had not thought he would see her. Julie often had nine o’clock lectures and was first out of the flat in the mornings.
Angela looked up. She pushed her empty bowl to one side. Georgia, closing the magazine she had been paging through, said, “This is rubbish. Pure gossip. These people do nothing but have their photographs taken. They’re airheads.”
“Of course they are,” said Angela. “That magazine is for people who’ve got nothing better to do than follow what happens to these useless celebs.” She paused. “Who bought it?”
Julie seemed relieved to be involved in the conversation. She had glanced at Neil, and then looked quickly away. The magazine was a welcome distraction. “I’ve never bought that trash,” she said.
“Don’t look at me,” said Georgia. “I found it here. It was over there, near the bread bin.”
“It wasn’t me,” said Angela. “I wouldn’t be caught dead reading that.”
Julie crossed the room to a cupboard. She took out a mug. She was famous for her frugal breakfast – a cup of black coffee and a single oatcake spread with marmalade. Over her shoulder she said, “So, if it wasn’t me, nor Angela, nor Georgia, that means it’s one of the boys.” She addressed Neil over her shoulder, still not making eye contact with him. It was obvious to Neil that had either of the other two been paying attention to what was going on, they would have detected the electric current of awkwardness crackling between him and Julie.
“Not me,” he said. “I admit I’ve seen that mag before, but not here. And I doubt if James—”
Georgia interrupted him. “Oh, James is far too serious for that sort of thing. He left The Philosophical Quarterly in here the other day. Next to the butter. I had a read of it – well, a couple of pages. There was an article about shared responsibility. I became quite involved.”
Angela looked interested. “You mean, whether we’re responsible for things that are done in our name?”
“Collective responsibility,” said Neil. “There are some tricky questions there. Who was responsible for what happened under the Nazis?”
“That would depend,” said Georgia. “People would have to look at what you did. There were plenty of people – Germans – who opposed Hitler, and nobody could blame them for what happened.”
“Yet they still felt the consequences, didn’t they?” said Angela. “And they couldn’t really complain – because they were German, after all, and Germans had done those terrible things.”
Neil threw a glance in Julie’s direction. “What about the things we’ve done? Or our grandparents, for instance. Do we have to answer for colonialism and everything that went with it? Dispossession, land theft, the occasional massacre?”
“Nothing to do with me,” said Angela. “I had nothing to do with that. And my parents and grandparents didn’t either.”
“But they benefitted from it,” said Georgia.
Angela shook her head. “My grandfather was a miner. He went down the pits at fifteen. His own father, my great-grandfather was a miner too. He started even younger, I remember being told. They sent children down – children – and made them carry coal in baskets.”
Georgia winced. “I know . . .”
“And where did the money go?” Angela continued. “The profits from the coal? It went into the pockets of the owners – the people who owned the land. Those massive, big houses you see in the countryside – how were they built? Money from coal mines and from slave plantations in the West Indies. That’s what paid for them.”
“Nobody disagrees with you, Angela. But that’s what happened everywhere in those days.” She half-turned to Neil. “What do you think, Neil?”
He thought for a moment. “I’d probably agree with Angela. All that I’d say, though, is that it’s not easy to disentangle what’s rotten and what’s all right when it comes to money. In a society like this, everything is tainted, I suspect, because of the unfairness of the past.”
“Perhaps we should pay a bit more back,” said Julie.
“That’s what overseas aid is meant to do,” said Georgia. “At least it’s a start.”
Julie ladled a couple of spoons of coffee into a percolator. She returned to the magazine. “I don’t think James would have bought it. So that leaves Ian.”
There was a brief silence, broken when Neil said, “Ian’s the last person who’d read that stuff.”
“How can we be so sure?” Georgia challenged. “I feel I don’t know him all that well. Do you?”
Neil felt Julie’s eyes upon him.
“I think I know him reasonably well.” He kept his voice even.
Angela agreed with Neil. “It’s unlikely. It’s not his style.”
Julie shrugged. “So it just appeared? Blew in?”
