The Loner, page 13
“That’s a fine song, Mark, but not here, please: there’s a time and place for everything! You’re not a song-bird, you know!”
“W-why shouldn’t I sing?” Mark asked loudly and defiantly, and then sang, or rather shouted, the next verse.
As they waited for the train, Bob asked Sue if she would come out with him again.
She wrote something down and gave it to him. “Here’s my telephone number. Give me a call,” she said.
Mark turned to Fiona. “C-could I t-take you out again?” he asked.
Fiona was far from attracted to Mark, particularly after his solo performance, but she didn’t want to disappoint him.
“I’m sorry, Mark,” she said. “Thank you very much for giving me a lovely evening. I’m afraid I can’t go out with you again. You see, I already have a boy friend, as you know. He’s away from home just now, but I do love him. So I can’t just go out with anyone I choose, while he’s away, can I?”
CHAPTER 9
Only a Hobo
“Show me the alley; show me the train;
Show me the hobo who sleeps out in the rain;
And I’ll show you, young man, with so many reasons, why,
There, but for Fortune, go you or I.
You or I”
Phil Ochs / Joan Baez
And so student life went on. Mark settled in at the hostel. Bob and Sue were seen together more often than not, and Paul went to parties and dances and watched the talent from the bar. Bob played rugger and went potholing. Fiona played squash, and she and Sue lent their horses to friends on the Wirral, so that they could enjoy city life to the full. Then, one Sunday many months later, Mark came into the canteen and took his place in the queue for tea.
He gradually became aware that there was a smell of filth and methylated spirits in front of him. He looked up and saw the back of a tramp’s overcoat – an overcoat that had seen better and smarter days. Then he realised there was something familiar and strangely altered in the figure in front of him.
His hair was dark; his stature, short. There was still a youthfulness about the tramp. Where had he seen him before? Curiosity urged Mark to examine him more closely. Then, a sense of shock, horror, and amazement hit him, as he realised it was Tony, the young unemployed solicitor’s clerk who had tried to control his waking and sleeping moods with drugs.
“Tony, Tony,” he called. “Is it you, Tony? I haven’t seen you for months.”
Tony slowly turned to face his former acquaintance. His expression was bereft of hope. His eyes were hollow, glazed and bloodshot. His forehead was heavily wrinkled, as if his face had aged prematurely. His movements were slow, and he seemed to speak through a drugged stupor.
“They turned me out of the hostel.” He spoke slowly, so slowly that his former stammer was barely perceptible. “I had no money – only the dole – and I spent it on this!” He raised his voice at the last word, as if stricken with horror at his own predicament, and made a gesture of shame at his spirit soaked clothes. “I sometimes come here to eat, but I’m – I’m with the Sally Army now.”
“But your home! Why don’t you go home?”
The picture of misery and despair groaned sadly, lowered, and shook his head. His slow whispered reply was barely audible: “No, my mother would not have me home now.”
After this brief conversation, Mark became more aware of the stink of spirits and filth. He recoiled, and left a space between himself and the tramp. The tramp ordered his food, but Mark made no effort to follow him to his table, as he had often sought Tony’s company before.
The room with the canteen was divided into two by a low partition, which separated the canteen area from the easy chairs, sofas, and other accommodation, where the residents could relax and watch television.
Mark could see and hear the television from the other side of the partition, where he was eating his tea. By chance, there was a programme about Bob Dylan, a topical subject in those days. The narrator was playing extracts from the star’s songs, and commenting on them and the development of the poet’s art. Mark heard the words:
“And nobody has ever taught you to live on the street,
And now you’re gonna have to get used to it.
You said you’d never compromise
With the mystery tramp, but now you realise
He’s not selling any alibis,
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes,
And ask him: “Do you want to make a deal?”
How does it feel
To be on your own,
With no direction home,
Like a complete unknown,
Like a rolling stone?
You used to be so amused
At Napoleon in rags, and the language that he used.
Go to him now; he calls you; you can’t refuse.
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose;
You’re invisible now;
you got no secrets to conceal.
How does it feel”1
The throbbing melody of the song with its haunting message, held Mark spellbound and penetrated relentlessly into the depths of his conscience. He thought of Tony, who had become the tramp, and of the tramp that was Tony. Horror-stricken, he shuddered as he recalled the seemingly endless sequence of disasters in his own personal life: his problems in his studies; his own difficulties at self-expression and communication; his apparent inability to cultivate any lasting friendships; his failure with girls; his general lack of self-confidence. It was true he had seemed to make some progress, but this was so slow that he wondered if he had really achieved very much. He wondered if, one day, he too would end his career in a tramp’s miserable despair; whether, sooner or later, people would come to actively spurn him, as he had just rejected his one-time friend.
Monday, the next day. It was time for Mark’s appointment with the psychiatrist. Mark looked forward to these appointments, as it was his chance to unload his woes.
“So you took a girl out,” the doctor said slowly. “Well done. How did it go?”
“I-I d-don’t know. S-she w-won’t come out with me a-a-again.” He hung his head and felt sorrowful and embarrassed.
“So what happened?”
“I-I c-couldn’t talk to her. I-it was l-like my mouth b-being paralysed.”
The doctor gave him an understanding look. “You mean you were so anxious you could not speak.”
Mark nodded.
“You know, Mark, there is an answer for this,” the doctor continued. “You need to relax. I have tablets which can make you relax. All you have to do is take the tablets and you will not get so agitated.”
“B-but, doctor, I’m so afraid.”
“What are you afraid of, Mark?”
Mark told him about Tony and the tablets Tony had taken to make him relax, and the others he’d had to keep him awake, and how that had turned out.
“Well, I cannot talk about another patient,” the doctor replied. “But there is one thing I will say, Mark; it wasn’t taking the tablets that turned Tony into a tramp. It was his circumstances – his mental condition.”
Mark felt very uncomfortable. “I-I’m n-not going t-to have d-drugs,” he insisted. “I w-want a n-natural cure.”
The doctor decided to change the subject. The doctor could have avoided the issue, as he had done many times before. After all, his relationship with the patient was all important, and nothing could be achieved without the patient’s trust. It was really a question of judgement. Dr. Fortune judged that the time had come for a dose of shock treatment.
“Don’t you think you might achieve more if you grew up?” he asked sharply.
Mark was completely taken by surprise. “Wh-what do you mean? I’m t-twenty aren’t I?”
“Yes, you’re twenty, and you behave like a ten year old! Let’s think about sport, for example. Most young people like sport. The best friendships are formed between people with a common interest in a sport. Sport teaches people how to rely on each other. Teamwork is what it’s all about. But you look flabby. You look dizzy when you walk. You’re in a dream all the time. When are you going to do something about it, Mark?”
“But I do do some sport,” Mark protested.
“So tell me. What sport do you do?”
“H-horseriding.” Mark felt hurt. The doctor knew the answer. So why had he asked the question? Hadn’t he encouraged him to ride horses?
“And how’s that going?”
Mark shook his head. “It’s n-not as good as it used to be.”
“Why?”
“I-I just d-don’t know.”
The doctor smiled slyly. “Is the tall dark haired girl you’ve told me about still there?” he asked quietly.
Mark shook his head. He wondered why the doctor should think this was any business of his.
“Do you know her name?”
Mark nodded. “Fiona,” he said, with an expression of hopelessness on his face.
“Do you fancy her?”
Mark’s face turned red. “S-she’s g-got a boyfriend. S-she’s so n-nice. B-beautiful. I-it’s just no good, doctor. I-I’m j-just not g-good enough f-for her.”
The doctor changed the subject. “You’ve been to a lot of riding lessons,” he said. “You must be able to ride quite well.”
“I-I’m all right,” Mark replied in an embarrassed and defensive tone. He wished he could make the horses do what he wanted them to. That was still his main failing.
“So where do you go from here?”
Mark hung his head and avoided the other’s eyes. “I-I s-suppose I s-should practise o-on m-my own horse.”
The doctor looked sorrowfully at his patient. “Can you afford to buy your own horse?” he asked with a penetrating stare.
Mark shook his head. “I-I only have my grant,” he said.
“Then why not try something different?”
Mark was close to tears. He needed to defend himself. His innermost frustration exploded in a torrent of words, which he spat out with the rapidity of a machine gun. “But I have tried other sports,” he gabbled. “I tried tennis, but I can’t hit the ball. I tried sword fencing, but I-I-I couldn’t stand in the right position.”
Dr. Fortune had to make an effort to keep a straight face. He could imagine Mark squatting rather awkwardly into a ridiculous imitation of the traditional fencing posture, issue the challenge, ‘En Garde,’ and then lose his balance and fall over backwards without advancing a step.
“Why don’t you try a team game like rugger?” he asked.
Mark winced. The thought of it was too much like school, and recalled too many bad memories. “I-I c-can’t catch the ball,” he confessed. “I’m no good at anything except riding horses.”
The doctor sighed resignedly. The trouble with Mark was not so much his being no good at anything, as his appalling lack of self-confidence. “That’s nonsense, Mark. Of course you’re good at something. Take my advice, find a sport that you like. And, if at first, you’re not very good at it, stick to it and keep trying. Don’t give up, whatever you do. You’ll meet people – make friends that way. Just forget about the girl friends for now. That will come later.”
Dr. Fortune might not have been so forthcoming with this advice, if he could only have guessed what it would lead to.
Dr. Fortune turned to his notes and wrote some words. He indicated that the interview was at an end, and he would see Mark again in two weeks time. As he turned to leave, Mark enquired how long it would take him to get better.
The doctor was non-committal. “I don’t know,” he said. “That depends on whether you can overcome the crisis, and when you do so.”
“W-What crisis?” Mark asked. “Am I-I in a crisis?”
Dr. Fortune was not used to being so closely questioned. “I don’t know,” he said vaguely. “But when you do reach the crisis – if you get over it – you will be better.”
“B-but h-how long b-before I-I’m cured, doctor? W-when will I be normal? W-when will I live a normal life?”
“Normality is not a scientific concept, Mark; everyone is different. We don’t talk in terms of curing our patients; we only plan to help them.”
Mark was, by now, totally dismayed. If the psychiatrist could only help him, but never cure him, what could he hope for? And what was the use of consulting him? So he asked: “W-what if I-I don’t get over the crisis?”
The other avoided the question. “That I can’t say. Not all my patients get better,” he hinted vaguely.
“B-but w-what chance h-have I?” Mark asked, his dreams of future bliss disappearing in a haze of disappointment.”
“Some get better; some get worse, and some stay the same,” was the doctor’s answer.
“But how many get better?” Mark’s alarm was evident in the way his agitation suppressed his stammer. He really would be better on pills, thought the doctor, as he saw the pain in Mark’s face.
The doctor did his best to avoid giving a direct answer, but in the end, his patient’s persistence forced him to admit: “About one third of my patients get better; one third get worse, and the rest stay the same. Don’t think I can do the work for you, Mark. I can’t wave a magic wand and change your personality overnight. If you want to improve, you’ll have to work hard at it yourself.”
Later that day, Mark decided to try studying in public libraries. The college library was small, crowded, and noisy, and he had heard that the facilities on offer in the public libraries were better. He wore a pair of jeans, some old pullovers, and carried an old briefcase loaded with books. He had passed this part of the town before, but never really taken in the view or been able to appreciate it properly. At the end of Dale Street, he emerged from the Commercial quarter of the city into an area filled with large public buildings.
He passed the impressive concrete entrance of the Mersey Tunnel, which served to bind the Wirral peninsular to Lancashire rather than Cheshire. An unending stream of traffic passed through this enormous structure. The toll booths never seemed short of business.
Public gardens rose on a slope behind the entrance to the Tunnel. Green lawns, benches, flowerbeds, and the statues of the great men of a past age formed a quiet contrast to the wide noisy roads which surrounded this triangular open space. An enormous monument crowned the top of the slope. Designed in the Regency period, and completed when Victoria was Queen, St. George’s Hall reflects the gracious proportions and classicism of the Georgian era. Mark could not see one part of the masonry which was not built of stone, and he understood the interior was decorated with shining marble. The exterior had been cleaned recently, and showed a brilliant light facing.
Mark crossed the road and decided to examine the building more closely. He walked around the monument, studying it carefully. On the other side, a colonnade of Doric columns recalled the grandeur of a Roman temple. Bronze statues of Victoria and Albert flanked a more recent monument which, faced with a bronze frieze, commemorated the young men of Liverpool who had died in the Great War. Two massive lions and ceremonial chains guarded the old Queen, her consort, the war memorial, and the front entrance to the hall. Mark looked back across the road. Westwards there stood Wellington’s column. Still a dominating feature on the skyline, in the mechanised age of the motor car, the column had become a traffic island. Behind the column, he saw a long terrace of spectacular public buildings: the museum, the art gallery, and County Sessions house, complete with classical porticoes; the less impressive William Brown library and the domed chamber of the Picton library.
Mark remembered what he had read about the ravages of the last war, and was surprised to see how unmarked these buildings seemed to be by change or the scars of enemy action. He crossed back to the other side of the road, and entered the William Brown library. He wandered round the buildings for a while. He found his way to the Picton through an interconnecting passage. The Picton chamber, with its tiers of dark wooden galleries and circular shape, was in stark contrast to the modern arrangement of the structure dedicated to William Brown. The exterior of this building retained its pristine character; the interior had concrete floors, light, varnished wooden shelves, and modern furniture. He wondered if its fresh, bright appearance preserved any resemblance to the old interior, or whether this had been burnt down or destroyed by enemy bombs; a reminder that once, not very long ago, the fate of Britain, her Empire and Commonwealth, of Europe, and perhaps all worldwide democratic aspirations, depended on the lifeline which the brave people of Liverpool held out across the Atlantic, undeterred by the terror which fell from the sky. So, he thought, perhaps these buildings stand today, a lasting monuments to the city’s past glory and vanishing prosperity.
Mark returned to the modern facilities. Book cases lined the walls of the main gallery on the ground floor of the building dedicated to William Brown, and projected to form recesses. There was a gallery above this room, and large wooden tables covered the floor. There was not one of these desks which was not in use. Students from all the municipal colleges sat and read or joked with their neighbour. There was a quiet scholarly atmosphere about the place; everyone seemed united in what might have seemed the common misery: the pursuit of knowledge.
Mark left his briefcase at the reception desk, and took his books to a table. He sat down and started reading. Someone dropped a pen. The noise startled him. Another student leaned back and whispered to a passing friend. Mark could not concentrate until this hushed conversation had finished. Then someone dropped a pencil on the floor. The noise was very audible in the general quietness. Mark could stand it no longer. He got up and climbed the stairs to the gallery. Perhaps it would be quieter there. He found a recess, where a single desk was flanked with bookcases. Here at last, he could study alone; he had the desk to himself. For five minutes he read his law books, his concentration unbroken. Then another student and his girlfriend found the secluded desk. They put down their books quietly; they opened their books; they were polite to each other in respectful and subdued voices. But Mark could not endure this. His concentration was broken. He was tense. He could not read. He would have to go and find another place. Where, oh where, could he find absolute peace!
