Chapter Twenty-Six
The rest of the week at Cabot Farr progressed well. A makeshift desk was created for Theo in Rick's office using an antique table cabinet that had previously displayed tourist information leaflets in front of shop. When not out showing houses, Theo spent his time sat at his desk reading books that Rick had given him to familiarize himself with the wonderful world of estate agenting: An Estate Agent's Guide to English House Styles by Geoff Winton, and The Estate Agent's Bible by Valerie Steadham. He was also given The Illustrated History of Bath - knowledge of which was essential if you were to successfully flog high-end houses to rich folk from London. Theo bought himself an A4 pad from W H Smith and began taking notes from these rather weighty tomes. The process reminded him of studying for his O-levels.
On the Wednesday Theo took full advantage of his hour long lunch break and headed to Mr Hall's hairdressers on Henry Street. Normally Theo cut his own hair, with passable results, but you could only self-cut a maximum of three times before things started to get a bit too shambolic. A glance in the mirror confirmed that a critical level of shambolic-ness had been reached. The barber's was predictably busy when he arrived and Theo had to wait for fifteen minutes before it was his turn. When he finally sat in the chair he asked for his usual: "Half an inch off the top and just a tidy up on the back and sides please." The barber tutted at the mess in front of him as his scissors went to work. After about five minutes of careful clipping on the mostly uniform hair on the top of his head, the barber started on the back and sides. Clip clip clip! Snip snip snip! He seemed to be taking an awfully long time back there, and Theo began to feel anxious. Once the barber had finished, he sprayed water all over and combed it through. He then reached for the mirror and showed Theo the results.
It was a short back and sides - precisely what Theo did not want. He equated short back and sides with the army, or with science boffins and public schoolboys. Not with rock 'n roll, rebellion and generally looking cool.
"Oh." Theo said, the disappointment in his voice very clear "I wasn't really looking to have that much off the back and sides."
"Sorry sir, but it was a right mess back there. Best to just tidy it up and start again. It looks very smart now."
Yes, it did indeed look smart, but Theo didn't want smart. Theo didn't like smart. Theo doubted that anyone ever told Eddie Cochran that he looked smart.
Dejected, he paid for the cut and headed back to the office, his neck and back itchy with hair. When he arrived, Margaret told him how smart he looked, to which Theo managed to shrug a begrudging thank you. At home that evening he looked at his new style in the mirror and decided things weren't actually that bad. He still had plenty of length on top, and that was the main thing, surely.
The next morning he took some black & White and ran it through his hair. On a whim, he reached for his brush and gave himself a side parting, something he'd never tried before. It seemed to work. But this new hairstyle was rather severe, and coupled with the white shirt and red tie he had elected to wear, he worried that his look might be deemed a bit too 'Hitler Youth-y', so he changed into a more relaxed checked blue shirt and matched it with a dark blue knitted tie bought from a jumble sale for 5p.
When he arrived at work, Rick was 'out of the office', so he busied himself studying his estate agenting literature. He learnt about:
- Negotiating the Contract and Closing the Deal
- The Ten Biggest Mistakes and How to Avoid Them
- Discovering The Skills of a Successful Agent
- Developing Sales Ability to Win Customers.
Next he picked up The Illustrated History of Bath and learned of King Bladud's pigs, the goddess Sulis, the Roman invasion, the curing waters, the ancient abbey where the first king of all England was crowned, Beau Nash, the Pump Rooms, the Assembly Rooms, London society, crescents and squares, museums and galleries. Fascinating stuff, but by the mid-morning coffee break, he found his mind wandering and his hands doodling.
He flipped to the back of the A4 pad and wrote out the words 'Van Gogh Song', this time in lower case letters. He stared at the page: lined this time so not quite as blank as the paper from his previous attempt. He closed his eyes to try and to clear his mind. Then he opened them and wrote:
Open your eyes and visualize/ the swirling tumult in your eyes.
No no. Repetition of the word 'eyes'. He tried again:
The burst of a flower/ brings out your power.
Flower and power together? Not a good idea. Oh dear oh dear.
And again:
Surround yourself with nature/ become a living creature
Better, better. But he was already a living creature...
Painting fields of gold/ the paintings remain unsold.
But now he is reminded of McLean's paintings hung on empty walls, so he scrunched up the paper and placed it firmly at the bottom of his wastepaper basket.
Start again:
The sun blazes in the night sky/ workers sleep in fields of fire
The swirling skies reflect in your eyes/ the brush is true, art never lies
You paved the way/ but you didn't know/ the art you created/ out in the snow
All the art that came before/ fall like dead flies on the floor
Early mornings, shimmering skies/ all reflect in your steel-blue eyes.
No wait, repetition of 'reflect in your eyes'. And isn't there something about 'eyes of blue' in Don McLean's song?
It seemed that all roads led back to Mr McLean and his infuriatingly comprehensive 'Vincent'. Perhaps there just wasn't enough room in this world for another song about Van Gogh. Dejected, Theo picked up The History of Bath and continued to read.
-
Upon his return later that afternoon, Rick took Theo to a showing on Widcombe Hill, a large three-storey townhouse with shuttered windows and a yellow front door. They had been waiting on the pavement for five minutes - Rick pacing up and down smoking a cigarette, Theo sat on the knee-high front garden wall tapping out a rhythm on his knees - when Rick exclaimed "Fuck, I think I've double-booked myself."
He looked at his watch. "Yep, three o'clock. I've got a bloke coming down from London looking to convert the old Gas Board building into a McDonald's. You'll be alright on your own won't you?"
"Ummm."
"Course you will! Just spout the same bollocks you've heard me talking all week. The guide price is one hundred K."
With that, Rick handed Theo a bulky wadge of keys. "She's a Mrs Hannah, lovely lady. See you back at the office."
Theo watched as Rick ambled down the steep hill towards the centre of the city, unsure which question to ask first, and ending up asking none.
He stood there, the keys warm in his hand. He looked up and down the hill; no pedestrians and no cars. Would she come by foot or by car? Should he say "Mrs Hannah?" to every woman that walked past in case it was her? And when she did arrive, should he shake her hand? Or kiss her on the cheek even? No, this wasn't France.
He was still pondering greeting etiquette when he heard the sharp sound of stilettos on flagstone. He looked up to see a beautiful woman in her late-fifties. She wore yellow canvas shoes, white cotton shirt and trousers, and a bright yellow scarf. She stopped outside the house, checked a piece of paper in her hand, and then looked at Theo.
"Cabot Farr?" She asked.
"Um yes, that's right. I'm Theo Hanlon, pleased to meet you Mrs Hannah." He stuck out his hand and she looked quizzically at him. It was the wrong hand. He quickly withdrew it and held out the right one, and she accepted it with a glowing smile. Her hand was cool for such a hot day.
"You're a bit young aren't you?"
"I'm sixteen Mrs Hannah, I'm the youngest member of staff by a few years. Shall we?"
Theo looked at the bulky mass of keys and realized that he did not know which one opened the front door. Perhaps it would have been a good idea to check that while he was waiting. The lock on the door was bronze in colour, so he tried the first bronze key
on the ring, but this didn't fit. He tried the next, which didn't fit either. He tried another but he had failed to make a note of which one he'd already tried, so he wasn't sure if he was retrying the same keys. Finally, after half a dozen attempts he got one to slot in. "A-ha!" he said in mock-excitement, inwardly breathing a huge sigh of relief. But although the key went in and he was able to turn it reassuringly to the right, the door wouldn't open. He turned the key clockwise and anti-clockwise but still the door remained shut.
"Oh for goodness sake," came a voice from behind. Mrs Hannah took the keys from him. "There's a mortice lock as well silly." She found a likely-looking candidate and tried it. It worked first time. She opened the door and handed the keys back to Theo.
"Right. Thanks. Shall we begin the grand tour then?" he said, trying to restore a modicum of authority. He held the door open and she entered behind him. "Your scarf is the same colour as the front door - a good omen!" Mrs Hannah looked at him coolly.
It was only then that he realized how utterly unprepared he was. Not knowing whether to shake this woman's hand or having the right key ready was just the tip of the iceberg. Save for the asking price, he did not know a single thing about the house they were now standing in - the number of bedrooms, bathrooms, whether it was freehold, what the nearest schools were like.
The air in the hallway was cool, with just the faintest hint of damp. Mrs Hannah looked around, and Theo did the same, hoping to garner some information.
"How long has it been on the market?"
A-ha! A Good start - he did know this, as he had put the advert in the window just yesterday.
"It's a new instruction; I believe you are the first to see it. The family that own it are moving to Dallas. He's in the oil business." Theo had made this bit up, but he had learnt from Rick that people never leave houses because of a problem with the house. Always say that the current owners are relocating or downgrading. "Shall we begin in the kitchen and work our way up?"
They made their way to the back of the house, where Theo assumed the kitchen to be. Rick often started tours in the kitchen as it was one of the most important rooms, and often looked out onto a back garden, making the house feel bigger. Plus in these well-appointed houses, the kitchens tended to be pretty high-end.
He was in luck. The kitchen looked like a page from House & Home, and beyond it a well-maintained, colourful garden. There were lots of gleaming objects in the kitchen that he'd never seen before. What could all these things do, he wondered? Maybe they were dish washers or spin dryers.
"Is there waste disposal?" asked Mrs Hannah.
"Yes, I believe the bin men come once a week."
"No, I mean in the kitchen, a waste disposal unit?"
"Oh right. Ummm..." Theo didn't know what one of those was. He looked around in panic.
"Oh for goodness sake." This was the second time Theo had heard this reproving comment. Mrs Hannah looked in the sink. "Yes, there is."
"Great, great" he managed to say, his confidence suddenly flagging. Then, realizing that his best option might be to just not let this woman speak, he launched into a non-rehearsed sales onslaught:
"If you'd like to follow me, perhaps we can take a look at this property." (It's never just a house Theo, Rick had told him) "floor by floor. As you can see from here, the garden has been well maintained with the majority laid to lawn and a selection of hardy perennials in the borders. It's the sort of garden that you can be involved with as little or as much as you like..." on through the ground floor "...utility room with downstairs loo, large spacious entrance hall, two receptions and study..." up the stairs "...two further well-appointed double bedrooms with large sash windows - nice and light and airy - and another reception/diner at the rear with commanding views of the garden and city beyond..." up the stairs once more "... and finally an attic space with master bedroom with en suite and study area..."
He felt quite out of breath. This was the most he could remember speaking in a long time.
-
On Thursday he arranged to meet Pete for lunch. Pete's summer holiday had thus far consisted of little more than hanging out at the fountain and occasionally helping his dad with the family antiques business. Pete McCaulder Snr owned a couple of antique shops, one on the Portobello Road and one in Bath. The family had settled in Lyncombe as it was convenient both addresses, the M4 in constant use to ferry 'pieces' from one shop to the other. Pete was off to Ibiza with his family in a week's time, so the two friends were making the most of each other while they could. They met outside the Cabot Farr office at one o'clock and wandered round to Orange Grove to pick up a sandwich and a coke from a cafe there. Then they found a momentarily empty bench in the Abbey churchyard and made themselves at home. Pete was complimentary about Theo's new haircut, and assured him that it didn't look too smart.
As always, the churchyard was packed. They sat opposite the entrance to the Roman Baths and watched the hundred metre queue for admission move at seismic speed. The mostly American queue-ees were a cacophony of white shoes, sunglasses, loud shorts, shoulder bags and beer guts. The queue was good-natured though, and the occasional bout of raucous laughter could be heard. A couple of men had rolled-up towels underneath their arms. Perhaps they had misjudged the nature of these baths.
The two friends ate their sandwiches and watched the flurry of activity that was a constant in Bath during the summer months. To their left, a rather earnest-looking busker stood at the Abbey entrance and belted out sixties covers on a 12-string guitar. The open case in front of him seemed to be devoid of coins. To their right, another busker was busily coaxing a crowd together with promises of "Spectacle and wonderment." He joked with the Americans and cajoled the kids into persuading their parents to stop and watch. He eventually got an audience together that took up practically half of the churchyard.
The sun was beating down, so Theo took off his linen sports jacket and loosened his tie. He resisted the temptation of rolling up his shirt sleeves for fear of derailing the on-going even tanning of his arms. Pete was wearing jeans, flip flops and a black Marillion t-shirt. As far as Theo was aware, Pete didn't actually own any Marillion records, and on a previous occasion he had professed a liking for the t-shirts more than the band itself.
Both boys finished their sandwiches and settled back to watch the buskers. The earnest young man to their left was currently torturing Ticket To Ride and the 'spectacle and wonderment' guy was getting the crowd to count along as he did press ups "to get himself warmed up". Theo put his hands in his pockets and crossed his legs to reveal electric blue socks beneath his grey flannel trousers. Using knowledge gleaned from the morning's revision session, he educated his friend on the history of the Abbey - its 7th century beginnings and its unusual carvings: a ladder to the right and left of the main door that stretched up most of the Abbey's facade. The ladder to the left featured angels making their way to heaven, whist the ladder to the right featured fallen angels making their way to hell. The angels on their way to hell were descending the ladder upside down, their heads facing the ground - the only way the medieval stonemasons could make a clear distinction between the two sets of figures. Pete had never noticed this before. Nor had Theo for that matter.
"Ha! Well I never." said Pete. "Which way are you going Theo?"
"Down with a bit of luck pal, down."
"Me too."
Just then, a group of about thirty Italian exchange students led by a teacher holding a closed red and white umbrella above her head came to a halt directly in front of them. As there were no spare benches, the leader instructed her group to sit on the ground, which they did with much laughter, shouting and general high-spirits.
By now, the 12-string busker had given up his losing the battle with the Wonderment and Spectacle guy. A crowd of about two hundred stood in a circle around the busker, completely obscuring him from view. The crowd was being encouraged to begin a slow handclap, which they did with great enthusiasm. The clapping got faster and faster, loud
er and louder until finally Theo and Pete could see a flurry of juggling balls make their way into the sky. Ball after ball after ball. How many did this guy have in the air? The two friends estimated at least six. After 20 seconds or so, the balls went out of sequence to a massed "Aawwwww" from the crowd.
Theo heard giggling coming from the group of students sat in front of them. He looked down to see two girls, who quickly looked away, their shoulders still shaking. He could feel his cheeks begin to redden. The girls sat cross-legged and seemed to be about his age. Both girls had jet black hair and skin the colour of muscovado sugar. The girl nearest to Theo looked over at him again, revealing equine features, with eyes of dazzling green and full lips that parted to show perfect white teeth. Her hair was long and straight and shone brightly in the sunlight. She wore dogtooth-check pedal-pushers, blue daps with white ankle socks, and a pink t-shirt. The pink of her t-shirt against the brown of her skin reminded Theo of some luxurious sweet he'd loved as a child. The other girl was slightly plump, wore white Rayban Wayfarer sunglasses and had her hair in pigtails.
"Ay ay," said Pete, "We could be in here."
Theo cringed at the thought of being forced to chat up these two beauties in broad daylight, with no booze to loosen his tongue, and the added obstacle of no shared language. But Pete had no such concerns and launched in with:
"Ciao bella!"
Both girls giggled, looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
He continued undaunted: "Il mio nome e Peter, e questo e Theo." The girls nodded politely at both of them, and then giggled some more.
Theo looked at his friend: "I didn't know you spoke Italian."
"I'm doing it for A-Level twat-head."
"Oh yeah." Theo had forgotten that.
A large "Ooooh!" came from the crowd watching the busker.
Then from the long-haired Italian girl: "Neek Eyward!"
"Excuse me?" Theo replied, his blush returning.
"Neek Eyward. Aircut One Underd. You look like eem yes?"
Pete roared with laughter. "Nick Heyward! She thinks you look like Nick Heyward! Ha! Must be that new haircut. What a fantastic day!" He slapped Theo on the back on roared with laughter again. The two Italian girls joined in. A large cheer came from the crowd watching the busker.
Theo had never been told he looked like anyone else before. His vanity was momentarily wounded, but then he recalled from a recent issue of Smash Hits that Nick Heyward was constantly being mobbed by girls as he made his way through London, so maybe it wasn't such a bad thing after all.
On a roll, Pete continued. "Girls, you have made my day. Quali sono i vostri nomi?"
The long haired girl replied, her English slow and hazy: "My name eez Adriana and zis eez Lucia."
Pete got to his feet and shook both their hands, his demeanour like a character from Jane Austen. He then looked round at Theo, urging him to do the same. Theo dutifully got to his feet and shook hands as well. Adriana offered Theo a dazzling smile and her emerald eyes dancing underneath jet black eyebrows. Her hand felt cool and clammy and he could feel her sweat in his palm long after their hands had parted.
A voice shouted from the centre of the churchyard. It was the group leader. "Okay everybody. Time to go. Tempo di andare!" With that, the rest of the group started to get to its feet. Theo watched as Adriane got up. She brushed herself down, put her rucksack on her back and smiled his way. He couldn't get over how clean she looked. Everything about her looked brand new. She was like a page from the Benetton catalogue. He felt scruffy in his second-hand clothes.
Pete took the initiative again: "Ladies, ladies, you cannot leave without giving us your phone number! We could help you with your English, and you could help me with my Italian. Lord knows I need it!" The girls looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders once more. Adrianne took her backpack off and brought out a postcard and fountain pen. She used her thigh to rest on and wrote on its reverse. She handed it to Theo. He looked at the postcard: her name, an address in Florence, but no phone number. He flipped the postcard over: a photo of Bath abbey, with the same angels making their way to heaven, making their way to hell.
"Arrivederci" said Pete, and leaned over to give them both a kiss on each cheek. Theo had no choice but to do the same. That sugar brown skin was as soft and warm as he imagined it would be.
He said his "arrivedercis" too and watched them walk away. After a couple of steps, Adrianne turned round and shouted out "Bye bye Neek! I like your style." And then the two girls ran to catch up with the rest of their group. The crowd let out an appreciative "Oooohh!!" and burst into loud applause.
-
That evening, Theo sat on the edge of his bed looking at the postcard that only hours earlier had momentarily rested on Adrianne's dogtooth-checked thigh. He studied her looping italics - her name, her address in Florence, the kisses beneath. That perfect confection of pink and brown, that page torn from the Benetton catalogue and made corporeal in the Abbey churchyard. Would he write to her? What would he say?
Then he flipped the card over and looked at those good and bad angels of the Bath Abbey. He recalled his juvenile conversation with Pete about "wanting to be bad", and going straight to hell. This was true to an extent: he wanted the sex, the drugs, the rock n roll, the thousand girls that The Stranglers had apparently already made their way through. But more than that he wanted to be good - really good. He wanted to achieve, to be regarded, to climb, to soar. Oh Lord let me soar!
And this sounded like a hymn to Theo; O Lord Let Me Soar! Maybe he should write a hymn. Was there money in that? Presumably there would always be a need for new hymns. Did you get paid every time it got sung in a church, the same way that you get paid if your song is on the radio? He wasn't sure. But he did recall from his parent's Gilbert & Sullivan days that you had to pay for sheet music (you weren't allowed to photocopy it), so presumably there was money to be made somewhere. He decided to dig out a bible from somewhere to get some inspiration.