“That’s better,” I said. “I feel much more at home here now.”
“Yeah,” agreed Noz. “Don’t know what we were worried about really.”
We went into the room and sat down to enjoy our teas which, we soon discovered, had gone cold.
“I’ll go and make some more,” announced Noz.
“Oh right,” I said. “Shall I come with you?”
“Nah,” he said. “Doesn’t matter.”
He took the mugs and set off along the landing, whistling a shrill tune.
“Don’t forget, no sugar for me!” I called as he went.
“Righto!” he replied.
I propped the door open. The whistling continued but became more distant as he descended the backstairs. Then I listened while he clanked about in the kitchen. I heard water surging through the pipes as he filled the kettle and rinsed out the mugs. A few seconds passed. The water stopped running and the whistling ceased. Noz had fallen silent as he waited for the kettle to boil, apparently quite content to be all alone at the bottom of the stairs.
♦
And as I sat in that room, watching the door and listening, it never occurred to me to look over my shoulder.
11. A Public Performance
By the autumn of 1970 I was coming under intense pressure to buy a coat. A military greatcoat to be precise. Everyone I knew had one (everyone in the sixth form, that is) although they were officially banned from school. To avoid being left behind I had to get one as well. There were lots to choose from. Barry, for example, had an ex-Army coat of olive green, while Mike’s was blue-grey (RAF). Robert, meanwhile, favoured a huge brown overcoat that had been passed down through the Italian side of his family. It had a collar which could be turned up against the wind, and gave him the look of Giacomo Puccini in the famous photograph from 1910. The exception to the group was Phil, who always wore a US Army combat jacket. This was the other option open to me: I could either get a combat jacket or a greatcoat. The weather was turning chilly, so I decided on a coat. In that way I could both look cool and feel warm at the same time.
One quiet afternoon during half-term I caught a bus into Bristol and headed for a shop I’d noticed at the foot of Colston Hill. Looking back I suppose the army surplus store in Gloucester Road would have been a more suitable destination. They had recently extended their range of stock to cater for the increasing demand, and no doubt could have readily supplied a garment to fit my requirements. The trouble was, I knew that everybody else had bought their coats there. I didn’t want to wear the same ‘uniform’ as the rest of them, so I made my way to Colston Hill.
The shop I had in mind was called Visual History. It specialised in military artefacts, and its window was crammed with all sorts of muskets, blunderbusses and swords. Also, displayed on a mannequin, a very impressive coat. It was tailored from a fine grey cloth, and had two rows of gold buttons up the front. There were epaulettes of burnished gold on the shoulders, and gold flashes on the cuffs. I knew the moment I saw it that this was the coat for me. It clearly originated with the Russian Imperial Army, and I guessed it had once belonged to a Cossack. This was evident because the lower part of the coat was widely flared, an obvious prerequisite for riding a horse. Without a second thought I entered the shop.
There were no other customers, but the shopkeeper ignored me when I came in, and continued reading the newspaper that was spread out across his counter.
“Afternoon,” I said.
He peered up over the rim of his glasses.
“Could I have a look at that coat in the window, please?”
An expression of curiosity now crossed the shopkeeper’s face. He glanced at me, then at the coat. Then back at me again.
“You’re not wasting my time, are you?” he asked.
“No, no,” I replied. “I’m thinking of buying it.”
The curious expression disappeared and was replaced with a sort of surprised half-smile, as if the shopkeeper was remembering some good news he’d heard earlier in the day. I watched as he climbed over a panel into the window display, returning a moment later with the coat. He quickly folded away his newspaper and laid the coat before me. It was very large and heavy.
“Pre-Revolutionary Russian,” I announced, examining the epaulettes in a knowing manner.
“Oh,” said the shopkeeper. “Is it?”
“I think so, yes.”
After a long pause he nodded gravely. “You know, I think you’re probably right.”
“Can I try it on?”
“Of course you can. There’s a changing cubicle over there.”
I entered a narrow booth and took off the raincoat I’d been going round in for the past two years. It was off-white in colour, and closely resembled the one worn by Steve McQueen in Bullitt. But I’d had enough of it. I hung it from the hook and proceeded to put on my greatcoat for the first time.
“Odd,” I said, talking through the walls of the cubicle. “There don’t appear to be any buttonholes.”
“No, there aren’t,” came the shopkeeper’s muffled voice. “The buttons are only for show.”
“How do I fasten it up then?”
“There should be some little hooks inside the front of the coat,” he said. “And some little eyes. You have to match them up.”
With some difficulty I did up the hooks. Then, to my delight, in one of the pockets I discovered a broad belt with a big silver buckle. This left no doubt that the coat must once have belonged to a Cossack. Moreover, it seemed to fit me perfectly. I adjusted the collar and emerged from the cubicle. The shopkeeper took one look at me and laughed out loud.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“No, no!” he cried. “It’s fantastic.”
“Have you got a mirror?”
“Afraid not,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Sorry.”
The price was two pounds and ten shillings. At that time I earned one pound ten at my Saturday job, so the coat was by no means cheap. I decided, however, that it would be a good investment for my forthcoming winters as a student at some faraway university (or, as it turned out, polytechnic).
“I’ll take it,” I said, producing a hard-earned five pound note.
The shopkeeper can’t have had any other customers that day because his till was completely empty. Informing me that he would have to go and get some change, he left me inside the shop, still wearing the coat, and locked the door as he went out. Half a minute later he returned, accompanied by another man who I assumed came from a neighbouring shop. The two of them stood peering in at me for some moments before quickly turning away and moving out of sight again. When he returned for a second time the shopkeeper was smiling broadly.
“Here we are,” he said, letting himself in. He gave me my change and then asked if I’d like the coat wrapped.
“No, I think I’ll wear it now,” I replied. “Looks quite cold out there.”
“Suit yourself.”
He wrapped up my raincoat instead, and when I departed he insisted on shaking my hand.
“You’ve made my day,” he explained.
On the journey home a strange sense of solitude came over me. I sat on the bus in my newly acquired coat feeling quite aloof from my fellow passengers. Actually I felt sorry for them as they undertook their humdrum workaday journeys, while I enjoyed the unhurried timelessness of half-term. When we came to my stop I turned my collar to the wind and disembarked.
Of course, I was not at all surprised by my brother’s response on seeing the coat. He was an immature fourteen-year-old and I took no notice when he asked me where I’d hired my tent. The reaction of my mother, on the other hand, was most disappointing. As I entered the house she gave out a sort of gasp and instantly pushed a folded handkerchief to her mouth. I asked her what she thought of my coat but she was unable to answer.