The Loner, page 10
“But I-I have a ticket,” Mark insisted. He put his hand in his packet and produced the ticket, as if for inspection.
“Well,” replied the other, scratching his head thoughtfully, “I don’t know wot youz looking for. It says the Pier Head. That’s down ther.” He pointed at the causeway. “Why don’t youz ask down ther?”
Mark gave up, but turned back down the causeway, as he had been advised. He noticed another youth, and recognised his student scarf. He asked him the same question.
“Oh, you’re going to the dance as well, the other replied. “Fresher are you? No? I’ll show you where Royal Iris is anyway. They usually moor her over there.”
Mark followed the line of his pointing finger. A small ship, rather bigger and more imposing than an ordinary ferryboat, was moored beside the pier. His eyes ran over the ship’s hull until he found the ship’s name on the prow. Sure enough, in bold black capitals, there appeared the words: “Royal Iris.”
Mark Flitley was one of the first students to board the boat. The entire forward upper deck was a cabin. Seats and small windows surrounded the floor. A low platform or dais had been erected at one end of the room, while at the other end, there was a set of doors and a notice labelled ostentatiously: “Bar.” The band’s instruments and equipment lay idle on the dais. A big bass drum faced the empty floor with the title “The Strolling Bones” inscribed in large red cursive characters, which paraded over the tightened skin in wavy lines. Mark stood in the middle of the all but empty ballroom, flooded with undimmed lights, uncertain what to do. Then he noticed the sign to the bar, and made his way in that direction.
He ordered a shandy, and sat down at a table, sipping slowly and wishing that time would hurry on. He had been waiting for about a quarter of an hour, when Robert Smith and Paul Johns arrived. Bob waved to Mark, and offered him a drink. Much as he might have preferred a shandy, he found a pint of beer thrust in front of him.
“Well, how are you then?” Bob asked. “Enjoying the course? Still soaking up capitalist legal system?”
Mark did not quite know how to reply. “It’s all right, Bob,” he said at last, without much enthusiasm.
“Well, Mark, my friend, just give it up – there are other subjects far more interesting than Law!”
Mark declined to comment. He asked after their flat.
“It’s ace, Mark. It really is,” said Paul, using the latest slang expression to denote excellence. “Absolutely great! There’s lots of parties; plenty of room for bikes. I’ve just bought a new one – an old Triumph. The atmosphere is fantastic.”
By now, the Strolling Bones had arrived, and the deck had started to vibrate to the beat of their music.
“Now listen to music,” Bob said; his eyes rolled dreamily. “Isn’t it great? That’s what I call real groovy. Let’s go and have a look at the talent!”
After this unflattering reference to the fair sex, the three students filed out of the bar into the dance cabin.
The dais was now occupied by four youths. Their hair was short and dark, and they wore dark costumes, embroidered with the outlines of skeletal bones. Two had electric guitars; one played a drum and other percussion instruments, and the other supported a double bass. They all sang. There were several microphones and bundles of wires which led to the amplifier system, which far exceeded the actual instruments in size. A deafening noise fell on Mark’s ears. It was so loud that he had to shout to hear himself speak. The cabin lights had been dimmed, and coloured lights flashed, producing a changing pattern of shadows and images which danced around the room in time with the beat of the music. It produced, for Mark, a strange surrealistic effect.
For a while the dance floor remained empty, while everybody waited for someone else to dance first. It was about half past eight, and Mark noticed that the dance floor had started to move gently.
“W-we seem to be moving,” he said to Bob. “Why is that?”
“We’ve cast off,” Bob replied. “We’re sailing up and down river. Take a look out of the window, lad.”
Mark looked out of the window. He could see a vast expanse of darkness, and beyond, the lights of the town. The boat was to continue cruising up and down the river estuary during the remainder of the evening. It was a surprise to be under way, as they could not hear the ship’s engine. Mark was to find out later that the ship had a diesel-electric engine, and this could be very quiet.
At about the same time as Mark had noticed that the ship was in motion, a number of the more adventurous had started to move onto the dance floor. They were all girls, and made the best use of the empty space. The young men looked on and sipped their beer. Dutch courage was the order of the night.
“I fancy that one,” Bob said to Paul, pointing at a rather slender female who was gyrating and raising her arms as if invoking Aphrodite. “And look at those two over there. That bird with long blonde hair looks really sexy. Let’s go and have a dance.”
But Paul was not quite ready. “Not yet. I think I’ll have another beer,” he said, and left the cabin to buy another round.
When his friend had left, Bob turned to Mark. “Well Mark, Paul will be some time in the queue. So why don’t us two go and dance with the birds until he comes back?” he asked.
“I-er-don’t know how to d-dance,” Mark stammered feebly.
“Never mind that, Mark! It’s dead easy really. Just tap your feet and move with the music.”
So they both got up, Bob leading the way, and Mark straggling shyly behind. The two girls made a space for them, and soon Bob and a girl with long blonde hair were miming together, clapping, jiving, twisting, and generally enjoying themselves.
Mark stood rather awkwardly, facing his partner. He proceeded to flap his arms and move from one foot to the other. A moment later he had recognised her. Was this not the girl with long dark hair who had taken the lessons at the riding school? He tried to speak but found that the words choked in his throat, and for some reason he could not understand, a strange kind of terror seized hold of him; he did not know what to say, and he realised that, if he had known, he would not have been able to say it.
The music rose to a pitch of feeverish intensity; the sweat visibly poured out of the band, as they put the final ounce of effort and inspiration into their favourite composition.
Bob deepened his voice to a pitch which would penetrate the swirling notes, rolling his eyes dreamily. “Isn’t this great?” he said – “real groovy.” The music stopped. “Can I have the pleasure of the next dance, ma’am?” he asked, with a smile and a bow, which clearly mocked the formality of the preceding century.
But the girl looked at her friend, who shook her head very slightly. Bob saw Paul return with the drinks, and he and Mark resumed their seats.
“Now, Paul, there are some lively women here tonight,” Bob said, as he greeted his friend and took his drink. “Look! How about those two over there?”
But it was difficult to arouse Paul’s enthusiasm. His answer was an indecisive murmur – difficult to hear above the din of the music: “I don’t know, Bob. The one with the long dark hair looks all right, but I don’t fancy her friend.”
Bob was becoming impatient. “Well, Paul, if you don’t fancy those two, who do you suggest we should dance with?”
Paul finished his beer – it had not lasted very long. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I fancy any of them really. Let’s have another drink.”
Bob had by now lost patience. “There’s no time for another drink,” he said. “If we don’t find partners now, all the best talent will be gone! Look!” He waved his hands distractedly in the general direction of the dance floor. “Nearly everyone’s dancing now. Soon there will be no one left.”
Paul failed to understand his friend’s sense of urgency. “I fancy another drink,” he said without enthusiasm.
Just then the law student called Bill Richards happened to be passing. He greeted them: “How are you doing, Mark? Won’t you introduce me to your friends?”
Bob could not wait while Mark hesitated; he introduced himself: “I’m Bob Smith and this is my friend Paul. We met Mark in lodgings at New Brighton.”
“Whatever made you live there?”
Bob took a sip from his beer and considered the question. He did not feel like going into yet another explanation about the entirely unreasonable behaviour of his former landlord. “It’s a long story,” he said. There were more important matters to attend to. So he added: “You know, there are some really gorgeous birds here tonight. See those two over there?” He pointed to the pair he had tackled with Mark a while before, who miraculously still had no partners. “Why don’t the two of us go and dance with them?”
Bill agreed, and Bob visibly heaved a sigh of relief, as he found himself released from the company of his other companions, and they both walked over to the two girls.
Bob was a first class dancer. In no time he and the blond haired girl were clapping, twisting, stepping, and singing together, and thoroughly enjoying each other’s company. They stayed on the floor for over half an hour like this.
Soon after Bob and Bill had left them, Mark began to think he ought to try another dance. So he tried to use his powers of persuasion on Paul, who was sipping his drink quite happily, and enjoying watching the dancing and listening to the music. “You see those two girls over there?” he said. “I’d like to dance with them.”
Paul, who was not altogether ignorant of the real reason for the departure of his friend, was now less unenthusiastic than before and readily agreed. They approached the two girls. Mark’s partner was a smartly dressed brunette with a short red miniskirt. He began to move clumsily from one leg to the other, flapping his arms in the same uninspired way as earlier that evening.
“Do you jive?” asked the girl.
Mark paused uncertainly, and almost stopped moving. “J-jive?” he asked hesitantly. “W-what’s that?”
“I’ll show you,” she replied. She took his hand, and Mark was surprised to find he could follow his partner in time with the music. She smiled: so did he – for the first time that evening.
Then the tempo of the music changed; the coloured lights were switched off, and the only source of illumination was a dim spotlight which was focused on the stage. The Strolling Bones had donned masks with the faces of skulls painted on them. The bones embroidered on their clothes glowed eerily in ultra-violet light, and it was as if the band were skeletons rather than men. “We’re the Strolling Bones,” they sang, and pranced around with their instruments in macarbre dramatic postures. Someone shrieked. Mark smiled, and suddenly found his partner in his arms.
Mark was completely taken by surprise. He could not think what to say. Then he asked: “W-what s-subjects do you study?”
She answered in a deep voice with a seductive smile: “I’m no student. I’m a secretary. I’m married and my husband’s away tonight!” A ring flashed; the hips in the miniskirt wiggled provocatively.
Then the lights came back on, and the music stopped, while the band paused for breath before their next number.
Mark was totally perplexed. “Er – um. Thank you for the d-dance,” he said, starting to walk away.
“Oh don’t you like that sort of thing?” the girl moaned, as her escort rapidly retreated to the seat where Paul was already waiting for him.
Paul raised his eyebrows in a puzzled frown, as Mark rejoined him. “Good God, Mark! What went wrong there?” he cried. “It looked as though you were getting on great with that bird. I was beginning to envy you!”
Mark blushed. He sat down awkwardly and nearly lost his balance, as the boat rolled slightly. “I-I-I – er – w-was I?” he stammered, lowering his voice as if verbally cowering with embarrassment. “I-I do try, P-Paul. I-I-I really d-do.”
Robert Smith and the girl he had met at the dance lay fully dressed, cuddling each other on the old bed in his room at Buchanan Street. She was short – just a little shorter than he was – and her long blonde hair fell over her shoulder, enveloping both of them in a tender carress. Her smart, blue blouse and tweed mini-skirt contrasted oddly with his freshly cleaned and pressed jeans and smart leather donkey jacket. Empty bottles lay on the floor.
He looked deep into her eyes. “I’ve never met a girl quite like you, Sue,” he said.
“Do you tell all your girl friends that?”
“Ah but I mean it this time. We suit each other so well – we’re almost made for each other. Such beautiful eyes, and lovely golden hair. Where do you come from, Sue? What kind of a person are you?”
“I’m a secretary. I live on the Wirral. I love horses”
“And you got a ticket from a friend?”
“How did you guess!”
“Are horses all you love?”
“And nice clothes and enjoying myself!”
He gave her a kiss and fondled her hair. “I can think of lots of ways of enjoying ourselves,” he said.
“So can I, but I must go. Mum and dad will miss me.” She got up from the bed.
“Must you go so soon?”
“It’s getting late, Bob.”
“Why not stay the night?”
She shook her head. “I’m just about to move into a flat. Look me up then, Bob. I don’t want to make my people worry now.”
They caressed each other for a while. “We could make love,” Bob insisted.
“I ought to be going now. All right I’ll stay – just a little while longer. Put on another record, Bob. I’m enjoying myself.”
Several records later, and in spite of many protests, he began to draw her back down onto the bed. She slapped him across the face and laughed.
“Oh Bob, you don’t think I’d sleep here, do you?” she asked with a smile.
“Why ever not?”
She stared at the bed, as if looking for something. “How do I know there are no bed-bugs?” she asked acidly.
“Bedbugs?”
“Yes. This is the kind of house for bugs, Bob! The sheets are filthy. Can’t you get some clean ones?”
Bob didn’t think they were at all dirty, but experience had taught him to humour his girl friends.
“All right let’s strip,” he said in a seductive tone, and then added, after a pause, “the bed.”
They stripped the bed. Bob wondered tipsily where he could get some fresh linen. He disappeared into Paul’s room, and came back loaded with clean sheets.
“Will these do, love?” he asked. She pretended to inspect them with meticulous care. “Hm,” she mused, as if not quite sure. “Well, O.K. then.”
They made the bed. He pulled her down, and slipped one hand round a breast. He unfastened a button on her blouse.
She slapped him again.
“What’s the matter, love?” he asked, feeling hurt after this fresh rejection.
“You’re so unromantic,” she replied, laughing again. “If you’re going to seduce me, you could at least keep me warm. Can’t you find some more blankets? How about an extra pillow?”
“Have you never made love before?”
“No.”
“Then why...?”
“Why should I keep my virginity? What good is it to me?”
Bob regarded her longingly. Then he slipped into Paul’s room again. He took all the blankets from his friend’s bed and the pillow as well.
They remade Bob’s bed.
“That’s fine,” she said, with a satisfied sigh.
Bob flung himself on top of her, holding her tight in a passionate embrace.
“You know, I’m not sure I like this,” she observed, pushing his arms aside. “You’re not supposed to make love until you’re married.”
Fetching blankets was one thing; suggestions of wedlock were quite another. The girl clearly needed an explanation of his version of the facts of life. “Marriage!” he cried. “Don’t worry about that, Sue. All that’s dreadfully old-fashioned. It’s what the bourgeois pigs say. The real purpose of the family unit is to help the rich dominate the poor.”
She looked at him and smiled sceptically. The message was clearly not getting across. He had better try another argument. “Besides, Sue,” he continued, “marriage is a refuge for the insecure. People who need each other that much just can’t stand on their own two feet.”
She gigled as he fought off the influence and sought to prevent himself from falling backwards off the bed.
“No,” he continued, “They need each other, because they can’t be without each other; they’re psychologically insecure. Don’t think twice, love – it’s all right!”
“I believe you, Bob,” she said faintly. “Thousands wouldn’t,” she thought. “If you go and wash, Bob, I’ll follow you and stay the night with you.”
He did as suggested. A moment later, she walked out of the room.
Paul Johns just about managed to stagger into Buchanan Street late that night. He went into his bedroom, and found a bare mattress instead of a made bed. He started looking for his bedclothes. As he was searching about the flat, still in a semi-drunken stupor, he bumped into his naked friend. They fell over each other and collapsed in a heap, flat on their faces in the middle of the living room.
“What are you doing, Paul?” Bob asked as he picked himself up from the floor.
“Looking for my pillow, sheets, and blankets, Bob. What are you doing?”
Bob looked very sad. “She’s gone,” he cried prolonging the last word in a mock tragic Shakespearian way, “I am undone!”
“Really, Bob, you sound so tragic. Without your clothes on, thou art indeed undone!” rejoined Paul with a laugh.
“She tricked me!”
“Who tricked you? Who’s gone, Bob?”
“A girl called Sue. She tricked me. The fool I am! She made me go for a wash. As soon as I took my eyes off her, she left!”
Paul paused, and tried to gather his failing senses. “Then why don’t you go after her?” he asked.
Bob raised his hands in a ridiculous gesture of despair. “Can’t you see, Paul?” he exclaimed indignantly. “She’s hidden my clothes!”
The influence of intoxication was still in control of Paul. He staggered upstairs and mistook Bob’s bedroom for his own. He tripped, lurched sideways, and fell heavily on Bob’s bed. He picked himself up, realised his mistake and looked around. Then he began to feel very angry. He called down the stairs.
