‘It was in a fire,’ I said, ‘when I was ten. A house fire.’
‘Christ!’ he said. ‘That must have been terrible.’ There was a long pause, and I could almost see questions crystalizing, as though letters were emanating from his brain and forming words in the air.
‘Faulty wiring? Chip pan?’
‘It was started deliberately,’ I said, declining to explain further.
‘Fucking hell, Eleanor!’ he said. ‘Arson?’
I sipped more velvety wine, said nothing.
‘So what happened after that?’ he said.
‘Well,’ I told him, ‘I mentioned before that I never knew my father. I was taken into care after the fire. Foster placements, children’s homes, back to being fostered again – I moved every eighteen months or so, I guess. I got a place at university – I was seventeen – and the council housed me in a flat. The flat I still live in.’
He looked so sad that it was making me sad too.
‘Raymond,’ I said, ‘it’s really not that unusual a story. Plenty of people grow up in far, far more challenging circumstances; it’s simply a fact of life.’
‘Doesn’t make it right, though,’ he said.
‘I always had a bed to sleep in, food to eat, clothes and shoes to wear. I was always supervised by an adult. There are millions of children in the world who can’t say the same, unfortunately. I’m a very lucky person, when you think about it.’
He looked like he was going to cry – it must be all the wine. It does make people overly emotional, so they say. I could feel the unasked question hovering between us like a ghost. Don’t ask, don’t ask, I thought, wishing as hard as I could, crossing my fingers under the blanket.
‘What about your mum, Eleanor? What happened to her?’ I gulped the rest of my wine down as fast as I could.
‘I’d prefer not to discuss Mummy, if that’s all right, Raymond.’
He looked surprised, and – a familiar response, this – slightly disappointed. To his credit, he didn’t pursue the topic.
‘Whatever you want, Eleanor. You can talk to me any time, you know that, don’t you?’
I nodded; I found, to my surprise, that I did.
‘I mean it, Eleanor,’ he said, the wine making him more earnest than usual. ‘We’re pals now, right?’
‘Right,’ I said, beaming. My first pal! Granted, he was a poorly turned out computer repair man with a range of unfortunate social habits, but still – pals! It had certainly taken me a long, long time to acquire one; I was well aware that people of my age usually had at least one or two friends. I hadn’t tried to shun them, and neither had I sought them out; it had just always been so difficult to meet like-minded people. After the fire, I never managed to find anyone who could fit the spaces that had been created inside me. I can’t complain; it was entirely my own fault, after all. And anyway, I’d moved around so much during my childhood that it was hard to keep in touch with people, even if I’d wanted to. So many foster placements, all those new schools. At university, I’d fallen in love with classics, happily devoting myself to my work. Missing a few nights out at the Union to get top marks and generous praise from my tutors had felt like a fair exchange. And, of course, for a few years, there had been Declan. He didn’t like me to socialize without him. Or, indeed, with him.
After graduating, I’d gone straight to working at Bob’s firm, and heaven knew there were no like-minded people there. Once you get used to being on your own, it becomes normal. It certainly had become so for me.
Why, now, did Raymond want to be my friend? Perhaps he was lonely too. Perhaps he felt sorry for me. Perhaps – incredible, this, but, I supposed, possible – he actually found me likeable. Who knew? I turned towards him, wanting to ask why, wanting to tell him how glad I was to have finally found a friend, but his head had fallen onto his chest and his mouth was slightly open. He sprang back to life quickly, though.
‘Wasn’t sleeping,’ he said, ‘just … resting my eyes for a minute. It’s been a hell of a day.’
‘It has,’ I said, and I meant it. I slipped my kitten heels on and asked if he could call me a taxi. I was horrified to see that it was almost nine. I peered anxiously between the curtains. It was dark now. It would be safe in the taxi, though. The drivers were all checked by the police, weren’t they?
Raymond walked me down to the front of the building and opened the cab door.
‘Safe home, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘Have a good weekend. See you Monday, yeah?’
‘See you Monday, Raymond,’ I said, and I waved until the taxi turned the corner and I could no longer see him.
24
@johnnieLrocks
Farewell Pilgrim Pioneers gig alert! Ending on a bang not a whimper. Details to follow.
#dontmissit #gigofthecentury #ditchingthedeadwood
THIS TIME, IT WAS going to be perfect. I’d seen his tweet, and then, only hours later, my eyes locked onto the small poster in the window of the independent record shop near the office. His handsome face stopped me dead in my tracks. Two weeks’ time. A Tuesday night. Perfect. The hand of fate once again, moving us like chesspieces. I had the king in my sight.
Remembering my error from The Cuttings, I memorized the name of the venue and, as soon as I got home, booked two tickets via their website, the second one as backup in case I lost the first. Perhaps Raymond could use it, come with me; although, on reflection, perhaps not. I wouldn’t want him cramping my style. Purchasing two tickets turned out to be unnecessary, however, as it was only after the transaction was completed that I noticed the tickets were to be collected in person on the night. No matter.
After dinner and The Archers, I sat down with a pencil and a notepad and made a list of all the things I’d need to do in order to prepare. The most important thing, after securing the tickets, was to conduct a reconnaissance visit to the venue, to make sure everything would go smoothly on the night and avoid any unpleasant surprises. Here, at least, I felt Raymond could be of some assistance. We could go together to a different gig, perhaps tomorrow or the following day, and this would afford me the opportunity to scope out the setting for my forthcoming encounter with destiny.
After checking that tickets were still available for a gig scheduled for tomorrow evening, I sent an electronic message:
Dear Raymond, would you like to come to Rank Dan’s with me tomorrow night? E
He replied straight away.
Who’s on?
What on earth did it matter? Surely Raymond could have googled this, if it was of such importance to him? I replied:
Agents of Insanity
Several minutes went by.
WTF Eleanor – didn’t know you were into that stuff? Not really my thing, TBH, but I’ll come along with you – it’s ages since I’ve been to a gig. Have you got tix?
Why, oh why, could he not type in full and proper English sentences?
Yes. Meet you there at 7pm. E
After five minutes had passed, I received the following:
Cool c u then
I had almost become inured to his illiterate way of communicating by the end of this exchange. It’s both good and bad, how humans can learn to tolerate pretty much anything, if they have to.
The following night, Raymond arrived late, as usual. He looked ridiculous – a black sweatshirt with a hood, and a denim jacket over the top. The sweatshirt had a skull on the front.
‘Thought I’d try and look the part,’ he said, beaming, as he stood beside me in the doorway.
I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. We went in, and I collected the tickets I’d purchased online. The bar was poorly lit and, as implied by the name, utterly filthy. Loutish, unkempt people of both genders sat around in Stygian gloom, and the music from the stereo system was both unfeasibly loud and unspeakably terrible.