If she would only not visit me!
Why did she? I felt like screaming. Maybe she mistook me for a monk. That was her habit, not mine.
I was looking about for money. No damn money. My God. But the kitchen sink. Yes, there by the draining board. Where else. I was going mad. Oh well.
She was smiling. Good. But it was nice to see.
I was not apologizing for a damn thing. That includes the draining board. Why! It was mine. Whose life was it!
Okay one can have less than positive habits. One of mine was emptying my pockets where ere I happened to be. When one empties one’s damn pockets there are sundry other objects, pieces of wool, old tissue with cracked snotters and God knows what else. Dirty greasy coins. Where had that money been! Look at it! Dirty greasy coins! Do not let it near food, oh keep it away from the food. Especially fresh meat. My God the case for vegetarianism was strong.
But that was was not her. She never said that. Who the hell did say that?
My mother!
Interesting to have mixed Jennifer up with my mother, dear old mum.
But anyway, I would keep my money where I wanted. It was my bloody money. As also my apartment. Or studio. Nowadays it was a studio. Oh I am buying a studio, I am renting a studio. Everybody said it. Pretentious crap, as if everybody was an artist. I have a loft studio. A studio up in the loft. I need it for the light. That was these middle-class television programmes shot in New York City and featuring all these beautiful young people. A load of shit. In the old days a loft was the attic. Nowadays it was a penthouse suite. Old Mike Gilroy referred to it as a bedsit. We shared a first name. I was young Mike and he was old Mike. He was from Wales and worked in the storeroom. I worked in the office. He called me snooty but he was only kidding.
A bedsit was a bed-sitting-room. A room with a bed to sit in, a room you sit in that also has a bed. That was the studio, one single room where you had a bed and a sink and a chair, all crammed in together with a single wardrobe, a ward for your robes. If ever we wear robes we store them in this ward.
Ward!
One of these days it was the lock-up wing for me, I knew it, nothing more certain. How else to cope? How else!
The world was going crazy. Did dictionaries even exist any longer? That was old Mike’s position. A typical old-timer. The world has gone to the dogs. Dogs. Was I a dog? I felt like a damn dog, especially with her around. No sex for ten years. What was that about, that was me, slight exaggerations here and there, thank God otherwise I would be out the window, I would have jumped out the window.
She was waiting for me by the outside door. She knew my habits. Mike, she said.
What?
We dont have to go out.
Yes we do, unless you dont want to.
I dont mind, I dont mind if we dont.
I shrugged, not looking at her. Because of course we had to go out. Because I was going mad and could not have coped with her presence, never! Not in isolation. I required the additional anxiety of other people, the life-saving force of other people.
How’s Marianne? I said.
Oh, good, she’s doing good.
School and all that?
Yeh, thanks for asking.
But the idea of not asking after her daughter! What did she think of me? That spoke volumes, it really did. Why had she even come!
Seriously, she might have phoned first. Why not? Did she think I never left the place! Like I had nowhere to go. Work and sleep. That was not the case, not at all. Why would she think it? Was I such a a — what? a wreck? she thought I was a wreck? Probably. Probably she did.
I followed her downstairs. There was a sense of — a definite sense of — of relief, yes sir, a sense of relief coming from her. It was like a draught of air! I felt it!
People take you by surprise. It is intentional. Then that is them, they have the advantage and will retain it until you retrieve it.
Society is a jousting match
But at least she agreed to come to a bar. A coffee house would have been a nightmare. A café or one of these damn what-do-you-call-thems central damn perks. I had forgotten what you even called the bloody places, people sat in them, and there was no beer and no damn spirits. Maybe you got wine. People went to them and were served cheesecake, lattés and liqueurs. You expected it to be full of these white horrors, chins all shaking, the plumply rich and fat wealthy, all eating their Stilton cheese, imported from the French Alps.
Then we were walking, and how we walked! Our elbows, wrists and coats touched, frequently they touched. My coat touched hers on the hem, mine touched hers. Could my coat be described simply as ‘me’? ‘I touched her’ instead of ‘my coat touched her.’
There were a couple of ordinary bars in the vicinity thank God, where your ears could relax and they knew how to deep-fry a sausage. The nearest was an ugly place and I disliked drinking there but no point walking miles when a return journey is all that lies ahead. I used to like walking but that was the problem, one had to come home. Sunday was my favourite day. The one day a body could drop money into a beggar’s cup and remain sane. What could be better than the city on a Sunday? The evil horrors have returned to their country mansions and one can walk around at one’s leisure.
At all other times I barely walked anywhere. How come? It was nothing to do with laziness, I was not a lazy man. Not in my own estimation. But I was honest. She could not have accused me of dishonesty. Never! Never never never!!!
Surely not. If so then things had changed; things had certainly changed. But people do change in this world. If one seeks certainty, if one were to seek one fixed truth, one by which we might construct a universe, then here is that one certainty, that one fixed truth: people change. Ha bloody ha.
I heard her shivering. My God. And the traffic was busy. How come it was so busy at lunchtime? She used to worry about a car losing control and crashing into the passersby. If I was late home from work! Yes! She used to worry about me. Oh hell, hell hell.
Or should one laugh; an hysterical outburst.
In the old days she would have walked closely by me. But would her arm have been in mine? Lovers entwine arms. Had she ever entwined mine? Or what about me? Had I ever done it to her, entwined? Was this a deficiency and if so who was to blame, if anyone, perhaps no one; why do we always have to blame people, especially those closest to us, and she was, had been so, and was looking older. God almighty! She really was. And walking with her shoulders hunched, and head raised. Head raised. This would cause physical problems in later years. For the spine. Women develop spinal problems; bone conditions for heaven sake surely walking properly was a help! Surely to God! Hey Jennifer, I said.
What?
Oh nothing. Only watch the way you walk. You know.
What?
You dont want a weakened spine.
What do you mean?
How you walk. I shrugged. That spondulitis thing or whatever you call it, women get weak spines
Oh thanks, she said, thank you, thank you. She paused in walking and smiled at me, and shook her head, shook her head at me, and traffic passing everywhere, and people, all people, all sorts passing, the whole damn world, all passing, and in front of me, with her there and saying it to me. If I had been in my teens I would have blushed.
She had to move sideways to avoid a boy on a skateboard, I also stepped to the side. If I had been that age I would never have owned a skateboard. But why not? You only have to be careful, I muttered.
She looked at me and we continued on. But it was not a mean look or a chiding look, there was a sympathy there. She thought I had been an overly protected boy, that my mother was a tyrant. My mother was not a tyrant. My plight had nothing to do with maternal so-to-speak mismanagement.