I got jealous. That was a problem. She did not like jealous people. I did not think I was jealous and when she said I was I thought it a wee bit of a compliment but it was not a compliment. It meant I was naive and ridiculous. Because there had to be other people in her life, the world was full of people and that was freedom, she needed freedom.
It might sound daft but maybe doing philosophy worked against me. I was aware of myself too much and what I thought: what did it matter what I thought; but it did, and in the world too, how my thought mattered in the world; how it mattered to other human beings, and the one source of truth and the absolute base, that was all humanity, and I was part of it and of course Celia herself, what we two thought as separate human beings. She was so honest but if she said something and it was not what I thought I had to say it or else just not talk, better not to talk, so it was better I did not talk.
She never got angry, it was me. But her face went red and she stared right into me seeing what it was, what did I want, it was up to me.
It was up to me. That was right enough. Even if she wanted me to do something, and I knew she did: I did not have to do it.
It was me stopped it. I had not seen her for a while but it was me, my fault. She was with somebody else. I knew she would be. Some rich guy, way out of my league; Oxford or Cambridge or whatever. He would be rich, talking about mummy and daddy all the time; diddums and middums. One did speak like that. Unless she was joking. That was her, diddums and middums. Big mummies’ boys. That was what she said. She might not have been telling the truth. Are you jealous? Why are you jealous? There is nothing to be jealous about.
You could only be jealous if you were the same as somebody else. She said people were all unique and individuals so how could you be jealous, it was nonsensical.
Sometimes she was like a snob. Other times she was the most unsnobbish person you could meet. If she liked people it did not matter lower class or upper class, only if they had a certain view of the world to do with being free and relaxed or all wound up and roped into society’s social spheres. You had to rise above society. The people she admired were above it. It did not matter their background, even royalty. Individuals were unique and could do anything, and not be hidebound. Class did not enter into it, lower or higher.
What did that mean, lower or higher?
I almost laughed when she told me that. It was my father. I should have laughed. I was too respectful. I should have been more — something, different anyway, different to myself. If I wanted to be. But I did not want to be. I would have said the same as her if it was to my dad. But hearing Celia say it made me into him. Okay Celia was interested in people. But only if they were interesting, that is what I thought. Or if she liked them, it was because they were likeable. But who were they likeable for? Her. Who were they being interesting for? Her.
Some of them were pure bastards. I thought that. I did not know them but knew I would hate them.
It is working-class. Not lower-class. Not lower-class, working-class. I told her that and swore.
Why was I so angry?
I was angry just because, just because, that was why I was so angry, yes and so so angry. She did not mind me swearing. If I said ‘fuck’ and apologized she was like why apologize. Do not apologize, not if it is the way you talk.
I talk however I talk, it is up to me.
Yes, she said. And the way she said it, really, it was patronizing. I knew that. So did she. Her face flushed red. She knew she done it. She saw my face. She knew I knew. She did. She would never have cried in her whole life. Never, just looking at me so I wanted to hold her, of course I did. I wanted to hold her and just hold her and if I did it was too tight and she disliked it and disliked me doing it and I had to stop and control myself. I held her too tightly, it was too tightly, far too tightly, and hurt her. Only because I wanted her so much, that was the trouble. I had to calm down. She told me that too. That was the trouble, she was my one and only friend. I could have had more but I did not want them. Maybe I would in future, if I went back. I had not decided to go back. That was the wee germ inside me. Now that I thought it I knew it was there. I had a stack of books and two essay workings in my backpack; maybe I would take them out and dump them. Out the window. Except a bus. Who cares.
Celia said it to me about calming down. Not to do with her but in general, I became too angry and emotional. But I felt angry and anger is emotional. There was only one academic I could talk to in the entire place and that was Rob Anderson. Every other one was an elitist shit. The whole place was elitist. He was even elitist. He was talking to me and I did not know why he was talking to me; asking about football why was he asking about football what did it matter about football, he did not care about it. It was for me, for my benefit. There were these Scottish working-class things and people said them to me. Which one do you support, meaning Rangers or Celtic. I hate the two of them. They just looked at you, they did not know what you were talking about. Somebody like me, you had to be one or the other, just stereotypes all the time.
It was incredible how elitist it was. People did not know how bad it was. Most students were elitist. Black as well as white, and Asians, foreigners, everybody. I found it shocking. The entire bunch. Celia was the only one I could relate to. Not because she was a woman. What did it matter, women or men, it was just how they treated you. I did not have an idealized view of women. She said I did. I did not think so. It was competition, I was not in competition. Anyway, not with her.
But for her. I could not compete for her. I did not want to.
I did not know about this world. I had my place in it. It did not matter what I did. It would have been great to go away someplace, take a year out, if I could work a bar somewhere like in Australia or New Zealand. If I just finished the year, I had to finish the year which meant going back after the break. Probably I would, just study hard and finish the essays. Who cares. My reflection in the window reminded me of a movie. None in particular.
Here was a young guy travelling on a bus, from one large city to another, a longer than usual trip and the bus did not have a toilet. The driver drove into services along the motorway, and also dropped off passengers, picked other ones up. The last stop in England was always good. People got off, the ones that smoked smoked. It was always freezing cold. It was! That was funny. I was always freezing, and shivering, glad to get back in the bus.
What if I did not! Departing forever. He departed the bus. The young man departed the bus. What if I just got off again, and did not come back?
There was nowhere to go. No money to spare. I had a part-time job and needed every penny to help my parents. University was dear.
I preferred long journeys. I did not want to get to places. What if your journey lasted forever? The young man was seeing his face in the window and smiling but then it was not, it was evil and terrified and horrible, a face in the dark shadows of the window.
It would be a French movie, not American. But it could be American, depending on the director. But French was the more likely, or East European, or Southeast Asian. That fitted more, if it was under the yoke of a foreign power. I wished I knew more about politics. I was going to take a class but then did not. People thought they knew about politics but they did not, only about parliament. If I was with Celia and her friends they were cautious because of me. But I did not care. They could say what they liked. Anyway, I did not know about the Scottish Nationalists. My parents were socialists. My dad especially but mum too. They knew about politics. Older people did.