White City Blue

  No. But I do think that prayer is an exercise in wishful thinking by people who are more hopeful than analytical.

  So you’re saying I’m thick?

  I’m not saying that you’re –

  Of course I’m thick. That’s why I’m a highly trained scientific technician and you’re an estate agent.

  Long, long pause. We make our way up the Grove towards the junction with Holland Park Avenue. I’m still trying to work out what’s eating me, when Veronica says, quietly and without aggression, Do you ever pray?

  Pray? I say, as if I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  You know. Get down on your knees. Humble yourself. Ask for help.

  I don’t need any help. I can look after myself.

  I am surprised at the force and anger with which I say this. Veronica shows a slight recoil in the seat. I shift about, fidget with the radio dial. We’re turning into Notting Hill Gate. Time to make amends.

  I’m sorry, Veronica. I’m a bit on edge at the moment. I’m within a whisker of getting my bonus for the month and we need it to help pay for the wedding. It costs a fortune, doesn’t it? And all for what? We haven’t stopped bitching at each other since we decided to do it. Come to that, I haven’t stopped bitching at everyone else. It’s the stress, I suppose.

  Veronica doesn’t say anything. I hear myself babbling on.

  It’s just the pressure of the thing though, isn’t it? Couples who are going to get married go through this. It’s inevitable. Part of the process, I think. You have to learn to live through, through… vicissitude. And it makes sure that you mean it. I mean, if you don’t change your mind after all this aggravation, you must mean it, mustn’t you?

  Still Veronica is silent. This time, I can’t think of anything else to burble, so I shut up. After a few seconds she speaks again, in exactly the same tone, gentle, not aggressive.

  So. Do you?

  What? Mean it?

  Do you ever pray?

  Why do you keep going on about it?

  It’s only the second time I’ve asked.

  Of course I don’t pray. Who’s there to pray to? Father Christmas? Twinkle, the little star?

  When’s the last time you did pray?

  Jesus, can’t we talk about something else?

  I shout this, quite loudly. Veronica recoils once more. I feel more furious than ever, a tight, hot ball in the centre of my stomach. Then, to my amazement, I feel a single tear on my cheek, and the anger begins to dissolve and transmute into something else, something much softer and sadder. When I speak again, we have reached the Churchill. I reverse the Beemer into a tiny space, first time. Neither of us moves to leave the car. My voice has gone small.

  I haven’t prayed for a while. Probably once in the last ten years.

  Did it work?

  No.

  What did you pray for?

  And almost before she finishes the question, I hear myself say, cold and dry, I prayed for my dad to die.

  Veronica doesn’t react. Her hands are tight-clasped together. I want this to stop. Through the window of the Churchill, I can see Tony moving towards an empty table. I want to go and join him, talk about the football. Have a beer, speak rudely of women behind their back. I don’t want this… mind-fuck. But somehow I can’t move.

  Then I feel a shrinkage within me, a shrivelling, as the memory slides upwards into my conscious mind. Dad on a pink-framed hospital bed, his face all yellow and tight, his mouth open, terrible sounds coming out. I feel the words being sucked out of me like they were being pulled by vacuum out of a tiny broken window on a plane in the stratosphere.

  He had lung cancer. All that coal dust, I suppose. He never smoked. It hurt. It hurt him. I didn’t like to watch it.

  For no reason, I reach over and switch the radio on and off with my index finger. The engine is switched off so it doesn’t operate anyway. Then I say, in what sounds to me like a very matter-of-fact voice, as if I was making arrangements for dropping off the laundry, So I went to a church and got on my knees and prayed for my father to die. I composed a long prayer to God. All the reasons he needed to let my dad off the hook. What a good dad he’d been to me, how hard he tried. Although he couldn’t touch me. Too shy. How I would believe in him if he would just let dad slip away. How he could take something from me in exchange. An arm, maybe. ’Cause it was hurting Dad.

  Veronica nodded. I was unaware of her now. I heard that my voice had splintered, become faint. The sulphur lights outside turned everything yellow. Her voice drifted over the space between us.

  You were close to your father, weren’t you?

  I nodded.

  I suppose so.

  I wish I’d known him.

  Me too.

  I watched traffic lights change from green to amber to red. My voice, when it came again, didn’t sound matter-of-fact any more.

  All this stuff you do without choosing it.

  He was my best friend, you know.

  I sound as if I have only just discovered this thought. Then I realize, I have. I have only just, this moment, discovered it. Now I do, at last, look at Veronica.

  The thing is, I never knew it. Neither of us knew it, not until he died. You don’t, do you? You don’t talk about things like that to your dad. At least, I don’t. Didn’t.

  Veronica goes to get out of the car, to gently end the moment, seeing that it is hurting me, but now I am gripping her arm tightly with my hand. She has shifted a secret wedge from inside me, uncorked some fat genie.

  No. Listen. I stayed in that church an hour. I was on my knees all that time. I’d never been in that church before. As a matter of fact, it’s the one we’re getting married in. At Ravenscourt Park. There were little red prayer mats, but I never knelt on one. I wanted God to know I was serious. That I wasn’t taking any little comforts. When I came out, my knees were raw. Big splinter in one of them.

  The thing is, I thought it was going to work, which was strange, since up to that moment I was not a believer, not into that kind of thing. I thought it was all crap. But I prayed so much. So much. Then I came out, I came out and looked back at the church and thought, there’s thousands of these fucking things, millions of them. They wouldn’t have built them all for nothing, would they? Well, would they? All those clever men.

  I shake my head, once, mystified still. I can’t meet Veronica’s eye. I can’t stop talking.

  The thing is, my dad was a good man. Worked all his life, never had a bad word for anyone. A deserving case, if ever there was one. And I’d put in the work. And I didn’t ask for anything unreasonable, like asking for him to recover, because that would have been pushing it. I just wanted him to go easily, quickly. So. My knees were bleeding, I swear. I had a headache from so much praying. When I went back to the hospital, I thought he would have slipped quietly away. I was sure of it, for some stupid reason.

  I stopped speaking. I felt I was choking. Suddenly I didn’t want to continue.

  Veronica spoke so gently, with such an aching sympathy. But all she said was, Frankie.

  I felt my cheeks soaked now. I had to keep talking. I had no choice, now. Frankie, she said.

  I went back to the hospital, and I was walking down the corridor, and I was maybe a hundred yards away from my dad’s room. And I heard this screaming. And it was the worst screaming I’d ever heard in my life. Like a… banshee or something. Everyone in the corridor was glancing around in the direction of the room. And as I got closer, I knew that it was my dad. Then I realized, he was screaming my name. Like this… My voice went very, very quiet. Francis. Francis.

  A woman parking warden went by, peered momentarily in the car. She smiled, and I smiled back. Then I said, He never called me Frankie. Don’t know why. That’s beside the point, I suppose.

  I can see Tony smoking a cigarette by the window of the pub. He is talking to a girl, touching her on the shoulder. I turn back to Veronica.

  He was saying something else too, though it was a while before
I could hear what it was. Then I heard. It was, ‘Stop this! Stop this! Stop this!’ As if he was outraged. As if no one had the right. He was a very proud man, was Joseph. His name was Joseph. Joe Blue. And do you know what I did then? Can you imagine what I did?

  Veronica was taut in her seat. She shook her head.

  I walked away. I turned and walked away. Right there, half-way down the corridor to his room. Voice in my ears. And there was no one else to see him, no one other than my mum. He never had any friends apart from me. But 1 couldn’t stand it, see. He took a whole week to die. But I couldn’t… I just couldn’t… My voice had fallen to a whisper, but now it strengthened with anger. I never went to see him again. Because he wasn’t my dad any more. He was just pain. And I hate pain. Pain and age and loneliness. All that fucking stuff. All that… not-fair shit.

  I sat back in the seat, shocked with myself. Veronica reached over and brushed the back of my hand with her finger. It felt good, it felt sweet. I had never told anyone that story before. Not Nodge, not Colin, not Tony, not Martin Buckle or Niven Bender. So why did I tell Veronica? And why did I tell her now?

  Because she’s a dissector of people, that’s why. Because she knows how to get inside. With her tiny, soft little knives.

  Suddenly there’s a loud rap at the window that makes us both jump.

  Chapter Nine: The Violent Nemesis of Christopher Crowley

  Woo hoo!

  It’s Tony. It’s clear he’s already been drinking quite heavily. I can smell it on him. He’s swaying slightly. From the sniffing, snuffling and nose-wiping he’s doing, I would guess he’s been doing a line or three of how’s-your-father.

  Immediately I re-present myself. It occurs to me that this is something I always do before I meet my friends. I arrange to become cocky, tough, knowing, wry, all with a shrug of the muscles of my face.

  Diamond Tony!

  Frank the Fucking F, the F, Ffff… oh, sorry, Frankie. Frank the fucking incredibly honest person. The doris doesn’t know your nickname, does she? No offence, Vronky. Come on then. Come and have a beer. We’ve got fifteen minutes before Mahatma Gandhi reveals the secret of the ages. I’ve got them in to celebrate. An end to all the doubts. Two pints and large Baileys for you, doll. Stop being all smoochy woochy fucking poochy. I hate marrieds. Whoops. You’re not yet, are you? Married.

  He flashes one of his very best charming smiles, half little boy, half satyr, full power, right at Veronica. I can see her pause, then pause some more, then give in and begin to laugh. Tony ceremoniously opens the door, and puts out his arm for Veronica to hold on to. Out of his unbuttoned shirt falls the gold horns and the hand, which Tony is never without. Veronica takes his open palm – big, soft, tufts of black hair on the back – and Tony begins a stumble towards the door of the pub.

  I gather myself, muster my emotions, slide them into some cold box at the back of my head. By the time I’m out of the car, I’m pulled together, in control. I wipe my salty wet face with the sleeve of my jacket, three or four times until it’s dry, then walk into the Churchill Arms. Tony is already sitting down at a corner table with Veronica. As I walk in the door, he beckons and waves, gives a loud call so that half the pub turns round to look.

  Frankie!

  I walk over and sit down, and take a long draught at the beer Tony has ready for me. He’s wearing a beautiful chocolate-brown cotton drill suit, which is improbably, but definitely, complemented by some kind of Versace blue shirt. His shoes are square-toed Gucci loafers. He’s talking nineteen to the dozen, coke-powered, to Veronica about his job.

  Hairdressing is more than just cutting hair. It’s a total experience. Do you know what I mean? Yeah? Maybe that sounds pretentious. I don’t know. But when people come into the shop, they want to enter a whole different… world. And that’s what I give them. A bit of glamour, a bit of chat, a new look. I had Ewan McGregor in last week, monster bloke, we’re mates really more than anything. He said to me, he said to me, I don’t come here for the cut. It’s the total vibe, the total thing. That’s what I’m good at. Something else. Alex – Alexander McQueen – was in yesterday to have it all off. You know him? The designer? Yeah? He’s a lovely bloke, no side, not a whisper of it. Anyway, he said much the same thing. He feels… easy there. So he says. Easy, that was the word he used. When we were talking. So anyway. It’s both, isn’t it? It’s a down-to-earth thing, and it’s kind of glamorous at the same time. You’ve got lovely hair, Veronica. Who does it for you? It suits you. Perhaps a little more off at the nape. Turn round, will you, for a moment.

  Veronica turns round and Tony puts his hand on her neck, raising the hair, half-stroking it, tracing the line of the cut with his finger. Veronica gives a slight shiver.

  No disrespect to whoever did it, but it’s a big ragged. I’d take it up a bit shorter, tighter, I think. Come and see me. No charge for you, beautiful.

  It’s going well. Veronica seems much more relaxed than last time. Her body language is softer, her eyelids have drifted down further. I’m pleased. I feel a sudden surge of confidence and in a gap in the conversation, I lean forward and say, Tony, there’s something important I want to ask you.

  Tony takes a sip out of his glass, then puts it back on the table. He begins to finger the gold horns around his neck. He’s looking at me, but he’s looking past me at the same time. Tony’s attention is always switching between spotlight and floodlight. He’s always half checking that someone more important isn’t in the room.

  Veronica and me were wondering. Well. It would mean a lot to us –

  Suddenly Tony’s glance is right past me and on to the far corner of the room.

  Richard! Hey!

  He glances back at me. It’s clear he’s only been half taking in what I’ve been saying.

  Sorry, Frank. I mean, Frankie. It’s Richard Bloke. You know, from the Big Green Tree Tomatoes. Great guy. I’ll be right back. Give me a moment.

  And with that he’s up on his feet and embracing a tall, wasted, slightly embarrassed-looking man standing by the bar who I vaguely recognize as the lead singer of a minor indie pop band.

  Veronica and I sit in silence for a moment.

  I say, This always happens. You can’t walk down the street, go to the pub, go for a shit with Tony without him bumping into someone. The most you can ever hope to spend with him is about ten minutes.

  Sure. He’s afraid.

  I bridle slightly. I’ve already forgotten her kindness in the car.

  I don’t see why you always have to see something in everything. He’s just popular. People like him.

  He doesn’t.

  What?

  Like him.

  This is great. I’m marrying Dr Katz.

  One of my favourite cartoons. He’s a psychiatrist. Veronica, disappointingly, doesn’t seem to get the reference. Just then Tony swings back over, pointing at his watch.

  Richard’s got a gig. He’s got to hurry off.

  I glance over to the thin man’s table. The other man he’s with has just bought him a fresh pint. Richard Bloke settles down and seems in no hurry to drink it. Tony gestures at his watch.

  I suppose we had better be getting over there.

  We all get up. Tony looks slightly taken aback, slightly disoriented, but he quickly gathers himself again. As we head towards the door, he says to Veronica, So who is this geezer?

  Veronica says, Christopher Crowley. I don’t know that much about him. He’s written a few books about myths and symbols. Honoria – my best friend – thinks he’s great. I’m not making any promises. I’m just interested in keeping an open mind.

  Tony’s checking his Psion Personal Organizer while Veronica’s talking. Then he says, Yeah.

  And when she wanders out of earshot, a few seconds later, he grins and whispers to me, I’m looking forward to this. Christopher Crystalwaver the Californian Cunt.

  This confirms my initial suspicion that Tony is perhaps not yet ready for the Higher Path.

  We arrive at
the Town Hall. The lecture is in a small anteroom next to the Parking Control offices. It is purpose-built, red-brick. Not very spiritual. Tony goes off to the toilet for a few minutes, more likely than not to top up on nosebag. He’s already moderate to severely pissed.

  Inside, the room is full of maybe seventy grey chairs, and there is a podium at the front. There is a small back projection of wisping white smoke and the low drone of some ambient music. The hall is maybe half full. There is nothing to distinguish this audience from any other in particular. Perhaps slightly more women, and the women younger than the men, who all appeared to be beyond forty.

  Tony, who has returned from the toilet sniffing like a famished anteater, and myself are definitely the youngest men there, but there are perhaps half a dozen younger women. A single poster on the wall announces Christopher Crowley: Power of Symbol, Call of Myth. Underneath, there are some biographical details. Apparently Crowley had lived on the West Coast of America for the past twenty years, but had in fact grown up in Birmingham.

  Just then, a door opens at the side of the podium. A man wearing the worst suit I have ever seen in my life walks in. It’s cheap fawn cotton, with wide shiny lapels that have remnants of breakfast on them.

  The killer detail is the fact that the trousers have not one set of belt loops, but two, arranged in parallel. Through each set, a wide, obviously cheap brown belt. The man’s shoes are grey, the colour and shape of mullet.

  Is that him?

  A rattle of parched applause breaks out around the hall.

  The man in the bad suit taps a microphone and begins to speak softly, with a gentle, slightly effeminate voice. He introduces himself as John Jeremy Vaughan of the World Spiritual University. He thanks the audience for being so patient, makes an acknowledgement to the Leisure Services Committee of the council, rubs his lapels with the back of his hand, dirtying them still further. Then, cursorily, he gestures towards the side entrance and says portentously, into the malfunctioning, feeding-back microphone, Please put your hands together to welcome, all the way from Orange County, California – Christopher Crowley.