“Not work. Experience.”
“Yeah, well, I'm very happy in the University of Life, thank you very much,” says Tone.
“I applied for the University of Life. Didn't get the grades,” says Spencer.
“Not the first time you've said that, is it?” I say.
“Obviously not. So what about politics?” The question feels like being poked with a stick.
“What about it?”
“Been on any good demonstrations lately?”
“One or two.”
“What for?” asks Tone.
The sensible thing would be to change the subject, but I don't see why I should compromise my political views just for the sake of an easy life, so I tell them.
“Apartheid …”
“For or against?” asks Spencer.
“… the NHS, gay rights …”
Tone perks up at this. “What bastard 's been trying to take away your rights?”
“Not my rights. There's a move by the Tory council to try and prevent schools from portraying homosexuality in a positive light; it's legislated homophobia …”
“Is that what they do, then?” asks Spencer.
“Who?”
“Schools. Because I don't remember anyone teaching it at our school.”
“Well, no, they didn't, but—”
“So why's it such a big deal, then?”
“Yeah, I mean you turned out gay without being taught it,” says Tone.
“Yeah, well, that's true, Tone, that's a very good point.…”
“Well, I think it's a scandal,” says Spencer, with mock indignation. “I think it must be taught. Tuesday afternoons. Double gayness …”
“Sorry, miss, I forgot my hom-work.…”
“Gay-levels! …”
We all try and think of another joke and can't, so instead Spencer says, “Well, I think it's great that you're making a stand about something important, I really do. Something that affects us all. It's like when you joined CND. Have we had a nuclear holocaust since? Nope.”
Tone lurches to his feet. “So. Same again, then?”
“No gin in it this time, please, Tone,” I say, knowing that he'll put gin in it.
After he's gone, Spencer and I sit and fold up the empty crisp packets, into little triangles, knowing this is not quite over yet. The gin has made me bad-tempered, and sulky; what's the point of going out with your mates if all they're going to do is take the piss? Eventually I say, “So what would you protest against then, Spence?”
“Don't know. Your haircut?”
“Seriously.”
“Believe me, it is serious—”
“But, really, there must be something you'd actually make a stand about.”
“Don't know. Lots of things. Maybe not gay rights, though.…”
“It's not just gay rights, it's other stuff, things that affect you too, things like cutbacks in the welfare state, cuts in dole, unemployment …”
“Well, thanks for that, Brian, mate, I'm glad you're making a stand on my behalf, and I look forward to receiving the extra cash.”
There's nothing I can say to that. I try something more conciliatory, in a matey tone. “Hey, you should come up and visit me next year!”
“Sort of like a Careers Day?”
“No, just, you know, for a laugh …” And this is the point where I should change the subject to sex or films or TV or something. Instead I say, “Why aren't you retaking your A-levels anyway?”
“Ummmm, because I don't want to … ?”
“But it's such a waste …”
“Waste? Fuck off, it's a waste! Reading poetry and wanking into your sock for three years, that's a waste.”
“But you wouldn't have to do literature, you could do something else, something vocational …”
“Can we change the subject, Brian?”
“All right …”
“… Because I get enough fucking careers advice at the dole office, and I don't necessarily want it down the pub on fucking Boxing Day.”
“All right, then. Let's change the subject.” As an olive branch, I suggest, “Quiz machine?”
“Absolutely. Quiz machine.”
The Black Prince has invested in one of those new computerized quiz machines, and we take our fresh pints over to it, balance them on top.
“Who plays Cagney in TV's Cagney and … ?”
“C—Sharon Gless,” I say.
Correct.
“The Battle of Trafalgar was in … ?”
“B—Eighteen-oh-five,” I say.
“The nickname of Norwich City Football Club is … ?”
“A—The Canaries,” says Tone.
Correct.
Maybe this would be a good time to mention The Challenge …
“What did Davros create?”
“A—The Daleks,” I say.
Correct.
“Whose original surname was Schicklgruber?”
“B—Hitler,” I say.
Correct.
I could just drop it into conversation, casually: “By the way, guys, did I tell you? I'm going to be on University Challenge!”
“Which American holds the record for most Olympic … ?” “D—Mark Spitz,” says Tone. Correct. “You know, University Challenge, on the telly … ?” Maybe they wouldn't
take the piss. Maybe they'd think it was a bit of fun—well done, Bri. We are old mates, after all.…
“One more question, we win two quid!”
“All right, concentrate …”
I'm definitely going to tell them about The Challenge.…
“Star Wars was nominated for how many Oscars?”
“B—Four,” I say.
“D—None,” says Tone.
“I'm pretty sure it's four,” I say.
“No way. It's a trick question. It didn't get any …”
“Not win, nominated …”
“It wasn't nominated either, trust me, Spence …”
“It was four, Spence, I swear it, B—four …”
And we're both looking at Spencer now, pleadingly. “Choose me, please, me, not him, I'm right, I swear, choose me, there's two quid at stake here” and, yes, he chooses me, he trusts me, he presses B.
Incorrect. The correct answer's D—Ten.
“You see!” shouts Tone.
“You were wrong, too!” I shout back.
“You twat,” says Tone.
“You're the twat,” I say.
“You're both twats!” says Spencer.
“You're the twat, you twat,” says Tone.
“No, mate, it's you that's the twat,” says Spencer and I decide that maybe I won't tell them about The Challenge after all.
The fourth pint of gin and lager makes us sentimental and nostalgic about things that happened six months ago, and we sit and fondly reminisce about people we didn't really like and fun we didn't really have, and was Mrs. Clarke the PE teacher really a lesbian, and exactly how fat was Barry Pringle, and then, finally, finally, they call last orders.
Outside the Black Prince, it's started raining. Spencer suggests maybe going to Manhattan's nightclub, but we're not that drunk. Tone nicked a new video recorder for Christmas, and wants to watch Friday the 13th for the eighty-ninth time, but I'm too depressed and drunk, and decide to head home, in the opposite direction.
“You around for New Year?” asks Tone.
“Don't think so. I think I'm staying with Alice.”
“All right, mate, we'll see you around,” and he smacks me on the back and stumbles off.
But Spencer comes over and hugs me, his breath smelling of lager-with-a-gin-top, and whispers wetly in my ear, “Listen, Brian, mate, you really are my mate, my best mate, and it's great that you're out there, meeting all these different people, and having all these experiences, and new ideas, and staying in cottages and everything, but just promise me something, will you?” He leans in really close. “Promise me you're not turning into a complete cunt.”
19
>
QUESTION: If a burn that affects only the epidermis is defined as first degree, what is the term for a burn that reaches the subcutaneous tissue?
ANSWER: A third-degree burn.
No matter how predictable, banal and listless the rest of my life might be, you can guarantee that there'll always be something interesting going on with my skin.
When you're a kid, skin is just this uniform pink covering: hairless, poreless, odorless, efficient. Then one day you see that microscope cross-section in the O-level biology textbooks—the follicles, the sebaceous glands, the subcutaneous fat, and you realize there are so many things that can go wrong. And they have gone wrong. From the age of thirteen onwards it's been an ongoing medicated soap opera of blemishes and scars and ingrowing hairs, spreading from region to region, taking on different forms, from discreetly corked pores behind the ears to lit-from-inside boils on the tip of the nose, the geometric center of my face. In retaliation, I've experimented with camouflage techniques, but all the skin-tone creams that I've tried are a sort of albino pink and tend to actually draw attention to the spots as effectively as a circle drawn with a Magic Marker.
I didn't really mind this in my adolescence. Well, I minded, of course, but I accepted it as part of growing up: something unpleasant but inevitable. But I'm nineteen now, an adult by most definitions, and I'm starting to feel persecuted. This morning, standing in my dressing gown under the glare of the 100-watt bulb, things are looking particularly bad. I feel as if I'm leaking gin and lager and peanut oil from my T-zone, and there's something new, a hard pad of matter under the skin, about the size of a peanut, that moves around when I touch it. I decide to call out the big guns. The Astringents. On the back of one of them is written “Warning— may bleach fabrics” and there's a momentary anxiety that something that can burn a hole in a sofa might not be a good thing to apply to your face, but I do it anyway. Then I apply a final wash of Dettol, just for luck. After I've finished, the bathroom smells like a hospital, but my face at least feels taut and scrubbed, as if I've been through a car wash strapped to the bonnet of the car.
There's a knock on the door and Mum enters, carrying my best vintage white linen granddad shirt, freshly ironed, and a foil parcel.
“It's some gammon and turkey, for your friend.”
“I think food's laid on, Mum. Besides they're all vegetarians.”
“It's white meat …”
“I don't think it's the color that's the issue, Mum.…”
“But what are you going to eat?”
“I'll eat what they eat!”
“What, vegetables?”
“Yes!”
“You haven't eaten a vegetable for fifteen years! It's a wonder you don't have rickets.”
“Rickets is vitamin D, Mum, scurvy is vitamin C, lack of fresh fruit.”
“So do you want to take some fresh fruit with you then?”
“No, really, Mum, I'll be fine, I don't need fruit or meat.”
“You might as well take it, for the train journey. It'll only go off if you leave it.” For my mother, the true meaning of Christmas has always been Cold Meats, so I give in, and take the foil parcel from her. It weighs about the same as a human head. She follows me into my bedroom, to check that I'm definitely putting it into my suitcase, like a sort of motherly customs official, and I count myself lucky she's not making me pack the sprouts.
She's sitting on my bed now, and starts neatly folding my granddad shirt.
“I don't know why you wear these horrible old things.”
“Because I like them, maybe?”
“Talk about lamb dressed as mutton …”
“I don't criticize what you wear.…”
“Boxer shorts! How long have you been wearing boxers?”
“Ever since I started buying my own underwear.”
“Y-fronts out of fashion, are they?”
“I have absolutely no idea, Mum.…”
“I thought you preferred those cotton brief things.”
“I mix. It depends …”
“Depends on what?”
“Mum … !”
“So how long are you staying with your girlfriend for?”
“Don't know. Three days, maybe four. And she's not my girlfriend.”
“So are you coming back?”
“No, I think I'm going straight back to college, Mum.” I don't know why, but I've taken to calling it “college,” maybe because “university” still sounds snooty to me.
“So you're not here for New Year?”
“I doubt it.”
“You're with her?”
“I think so.” I hope so.
“Oh. That's a shame.…” She's using her martyr voice. The trick here is not to catch her eye. I concentrate on my packing. “And are you back here afterwards?”
“I can't really. I've got work to do.”
“You could work here.…”
“I can't really.…”
“I won't disturb you.…”
“I need special books, Mum.…”
“So you definitely won't be here for New Year?”
“Don't think so, Mum, no.” From behind me comes an exhalation so mournful that I fully expect to turn around and find her lying dead on the bedroom floor. Irritated now, I say, “You'll be out getting smashed with Uncle Des anyway, it's not like we'll see each other.”
“I know, it's just it's the first time you won't be here, that's all. I just don't like rattling round in the house all by myself.…”
“Well, it was bound to happen one day, Mum.” But we're both thinking the same thing. It shouldn't have happened, not like this, not just yet. There's a silence, and then I say, “I'm going to get dressed now, Mum, so if you wouldn't mind … ?”
She sighs, gets up off the bed.
“It's nothing I haven't seen before.”
Recently too. New Year's Eve 1984–85, I came home so drunk that I managed to vomit in my own bed. I have a mercifully vague memory of my mother helping me into the bath at dawn, and rinsing off the Pernod and lager and half-digested chicken-and-chips with the shower attachment. That was just twelve months ago. She has never mentioned it since and I like to believe that maybe it didn't really happen, but I'm pretty sure it did.
Sometimes I think there aren't enough psychiatrists in the world.…
Mum's cheered up a bit by the time I kiss her good-bye on the doorstep, though she's still trying to thrust groceries on me. I reject a loaf of Mighty White, a liter of Dry Blackthorn, a pack of mince pies, a 250-milliliter pot of UHT single cream, a 5-pound bag of spuds, a packet of Jaffa Cakes, a bottle of peppermint-flavor Iced Magic, and a 2-liter bottle of sunflower oil, and every no-thank-you is a knife between my mother's shoulder blades. Damage done, I head off, dragging my suitcase along the road, and not looking back in case she's started crying. On the way to the train station I stop to get a fiver out of the cash machine, then stop off at the newsagents to buy some wine for the Harbinsons. I want to get something nice, so in the end blow three quid on the one that comes in its own carafe.
20
QUESTION: What socioeconomic term originally described the artisan occupants of walled towns in eleventh-century France, occupying a position between the peasants and the landlords?
ANSWER: The bourgeoisie.
On the train from Southend I look out the window at the wet, empty streets, the handful of shops open in a halfhearted take-it-or-leave-it way. The four days in between Boxing Day and New Year's Eve are surely the longest and nastiest in the year—a sort of bloated, bastard Sunday. August Bank Holiday's the worst, though. I fully expect to die at about two-thirty in the afternoon on an August Bank Holiday. Dead of terminal ennui.
I change at Shenfield, where lunch is a can of 7UP, a packet of Hula Hoops and a Twix bought from the windswept newsagents, and then there's just time to check how my face is healing in the station toilets' mirror before I'm back on the train.
Leaving the suburbs and heading into Suffolk the
rain turns to snow. Snow like this rarely seems to reach Southend. The combination of streetlights and estuary air and massed central heating tends to turn it into a sort of cold, damp dandruff, but here, through fields as the sun sets, it looks fantastically thick and clean. I read the first page of Ezra Pound's Cantos five times without understanding a word, then give up and look at the landscape. Soulfully. Ten minutes from the station I pull on my overcoat and scarf and check the reflection in the train window. Collar up or collar down? I'm aiming for a sort of Graham Greene, Third Man look, but getting an Ultravox video.
Five minutes away, and I'm practicing what I'm going to say when I see Alice again. I haven't been this nervous since Jesus in Godspell when I had to take my top off to be crucified. I can't even seem to smile properly; a lopsided grin with my mouth closed makes me look like a stroke victim, but when I open my mouth my teeth are a jumbled cream-and-black, like a bag of Scrabble tiles. A lifetime of fresh fruit and vegetables means that Alice Harbinson has perfect teeth. I imagine her dentist looking into her mouth and just weeping at the sheer, pure, snowy splendor of it all.
As the train pulls into the station, Alice is waiting at the far end of the platform, huddled up against the snow in an expensive-looking long black overcoat that almost touches the ground, her head wrapped in a gray woolen scarf, and I wonder where she's put her balalaika. If she doesn't quite break into a run when she sees me, she at least walks a little faster, and as her face comes into focus I can see she's grinning, and then laughing, her skin whiter, her lips redder, and there's something softer and warmer about her away from college, as if she's off duty, and she throws her arms around me, and says she's missed me, and she's so excited I'm there, and we're going to have so much fun, and for a moment this feels like perfect happiness, here on a country train station in the snow with Alice. Until I see, over her shoulder, this dark, handsome, moody man who I assume must be Alice's dad. Heathcliff in a wax jacket.
If I'd had a forelock I'd have tugged it, but instead I offer him my hand. Recently I've been experimenting with shaking hands, because it's what I imagine grown men are meant to do, but Mr. Harbinson just looks at me as if I've done something incredibly uncool and eighteenth century, like curtsying or something. Eventually he takes the hand, squeezes it just hard enough to show that he could fracture my skull if he chose to, then turns and walks away.