The Loner, page 14
He decided to take another walk round the building. He climbed to the higher levels and searched every part of the library. But where ever he went, the situation was the same: hundreds of tables and chairs, and hundreds of students, all very well behaved, but nowhere that was entirely quiet.
At last he found a secluded room on the ground floor and moved his books there. It was a small room with only a few tables. It had somehow escaped the open plan design of the rest of the building, and walls separated it from the rest of the library. Here there were no students, but a few old men sat at separate desks apart from each other. They seemed to be reading newspapers or books. The room was quiet.
After a while, curiosity made Mark raise his eyes from his work and observe his companions. It was strange that one man had not turned over a single page of the newspaper he had in front of him; another seemed intensely absorbed in a book, but did not spend more than a few seconds on each page – surely he could not read that fast? Then Mark gradually became aware of the odour which emanated from the little man sitting opposite him. Mark tried to analyse the smell. He eventually decided that methylated spirits, mixed with dirt and sweat, would emit a similar aroma.
After a few minutes, the same little man looked around nervously to see if anyone had noticed him. He stood up and walked behind a bookcase, which hid him from the desks. A cloud of acrid smelling smoke appeared over the bookcase, and Mark could only guess that the poor man had rolled together some bits of tobacco which he had collected from the gutter. But the room was still a quieter place for study than anywhere else in the library.
Then another old gentleman came and joined the little man opposite him, after the latter had resumed his place. He was wearing a dirty brown mackintosh. He creaked as he sat down. Mark tried to discover the reason for the creaking noise. Then he realised that the man’s clothes were packed with old newspapers, which would no doubt keep him warm during a cold winter’s night. Mark did not move; he continued his studies.
Then he noticed that the man at the table opposite him was physically trembling. His trembling communicated itself to the desk and the desk shook too. Mark was glad the tramp’s table was separate from, although adjacent to, his own. Then Mark looked at his own books. The books were moving; the table wobbled slightly. And then, with a sense of horror and foreboding, Mark realised that he was himself trembling; his own emotions were communicating themselves to his own desk, and this was why his desk was shaking.
He recalled the doctor’s dismal statement: “One third of my patients get better; one third get worse...and the rest stay the same.” A cold sweat welled up from under his armpits and ran down his inner shirt sleeves. He wondered grimly what would happen to those who got worse, or even stayed the same. Would they end up one day like one of these vagrants? And how about himself? Was he too doomed to a fate like theirs?
Mark had no lectures that day and stayed in the small room until six o’clock, when the Library closed. He watched the young and the hopeful gaily pack their bags at the reception, and leave for their flats or their lodgings. The miserable, who were without either luck or hope, shuffled listlessly towards the entrance, and slipped quietly away. The fortunate would find refuge with the Salvation Army, perhaps; those not so fortunate would have to find less dignified places for sleep: at the stations, in the public conveniences, or just on the street. Mark Flitley considered the two kinds of people who used the Library most: the students and the tramps, and wondered anxiously to which of the two categories he really belonged.
CHAPTER 10
The Grapes
Mark lay awake all that night. He could not sleep. Until that day, he had been under the illusion that all he had to do to cure his affliction was to attend his psychiatric outpatient appointments every two weeks, do his relaxation exercises, pour out his thoughts to the doctor and listen to his advice. Now he knew this was not enough.
It was true that he had made some progress. He was able to relate to others much better than ever before. The days of being treated with open contempt, or of being the victim of the kind of bullying he had encountered at school seemed to be over, but after nearly three years of psychotherapy, he still could not overcome his appalling stammer, express himself clearly, or join in the general repartee of ordinary conversation.
He wanted a girl friend, someone who would share his life and give him the one thing he needed most of all, love. That had always been his main objective, but three years on, the prospect of attracting anyone was as distant as ever.
Then there was the beautiful Fiona... He had persevered with his riding lessons, but the girl had left the riding school after moving into Susan’s flat, and he had not seen her since. He was vaguely aware that she had to be somewhere in the College, but he had made no effort to seek her out. He closed his mind. He dared not even think about her.
Time was running out. In less than one and a half years, his college life would be finished, and he would have to go to work. Studying was something he could do on his own, and he was used to it, but the idea of working with others frightened him. He wanted to become a solicitor, but who would want to train and employ someone with his stammer and apparent lack of self-confidence to advise their clients? How could he expect to fit in with any employer’s team, whether in a legal or any other job? How could he expect to do any better than poor Tony? And where would it all end? Tony’s fate seemed to beckon. How could he escape it?
Above all, he could not put aside his fear. It was an unreasoning fear that rarely had any justification – and Mark knew it. It was fear of people that made him stammer; the more remote, unfamiliar, important, or influential they seemed to be, the worse the stammer. Talking to men was not so bad, but when it came to girls of his age, he was seized by an unbelievable terror which virtually paralysed every muscle in his mouth – and the more he liked or admired them, the worse the hesitation and paralysis.
It would not have been so bad, if he knew his fears were groundless and could do something about it; the real problem was knowing his fears were irrational, but being unable to overcome them. Fear itself was the main issue, Mark thought. No relaxation exercises, no drugs, and no amount of psychotherapy were ever going to beat it. Something else was needed, but what? As Mark lay awake, tossing and turning, his future looked ever more bleak by the moment. His life was a waking nightmare, which seemed to have no end.
During the lunch break that Tuesday, Mark happened to be in the queue on the self-service counter not far behind Bob Smith and Paul Johns. Bob was not a boastful character, but he was not quiet either. So Mark had no difficulty in overhearing the conversation.
“You know,” said Bob to Paul. “I really do enjoy our Yorkshire Caves. So fantastic to escape from studying and do something hard and physical!”
“Yes,” replied Paul. “I’m looking forward to the next meet.”
“It’s what we all need,” Bob continued. “Right full of excitement, a sense of adventure, and challenge of real danger. Great caverns, strenuous exercise, and real fear!” Bob rolled the last two words slowly, savouring them, as if real fear should be relished as a kind of exquisite pleasure.
Mark pricked up his ears at the words “real fear.” Suddenly an idea came to mind. He paid for his food and looked for a seat to take his tray to. He was glad to see there was a spare place where Bob and Paul had just sat down. He hurried over there, and sat down with them.
“I-I -y-you d-don’t mind if I j-join you, do you?” he asked hesitantly.
“Feel free, my friend,” said Bob. “I’ll always be glad to see you,” he added, thinking of his part in helping him find Sue.
“B-Bob...” Mark began, as he sat down, unable to find words to say what he had in mind.
“Aye, Mark,” said Bob patiently.
“B-Bob, y-you know y-you go caving?”
“Yes Mark,” Bob continued patiently. Paul yawned.
“C-can I-I have a go?” He made it sound like a circus ride.
Bob looked startled. Paul sat bolt upright, now wide awake. “I don’t know, Mark,” Bob said. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
Mark lowered his eyes and made no reply. How could he tell them what was really at the back of his mind?
“It’s hard work, Mark. Caving is a sport – an adventure sport – and can be very dangerous.”
“I-I-I’d still like to h-have a go.”
Paul joined in the discussion. “Mark, you’ve heard us talk about caves many times, and you’ve never shown any interest before. Why now?” he asked.
“I-I just want t-to h-have a go.”
Bob stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Mm...” he mused. “There’s a beginner’s trip soon. That might give you an idea of what caving’s like. We meet every Thursday at the Grapes. You could join us there, and we’ll see how you fit in.” He gave Mark directions for the Grapes.
So, the following Thursday, after dinner, Mark set off to the Grapes. It was not a difficult place to find and he went in. The bar was a long room with fixed pine tables and uncushioned hard wooden benches, which recessed into alcoves.
As he passed through the door, Mark became aware of a tremendous noise; two groups of singers, each on opposite sides of the room, accompanied by separate guitarists, were merrily singing different songs in competition with each other. It was a kind of game to see which side could out sing the other. It was a game with no winners or losers, as both sides had strong voices, and each singer was obviously enjoying his own part in it.
Mark asked someone where the caving club was. He did not know. His companions were equally ignorant. He asked another group of patrons, but they did not know either. At last someone pointed to one of the groups of raucous and loud singers and said: “That’s the potholing club, whack – over there!”
Mark wondered how it was possible for anyone in the bar to fail to know who the singers were, when they were making such a lot of noise. Mark approached the group. As he did so, their competitors started singing, at the top of their voices, some rude lines about a girl called Dinah. The cavers replied with gusto:
“That was a horrible song;
Sing us another one,
Just like the other one;
Sing us another one, do”
This provoked an equally rude song about a threshing machine, which produced about as much merriment and applause as the first one.
This encouraged the singers to think they had got the upper hand. “We are a famous rugby club,” they chanted. “We crawl around from pub to pub. Ee! Aye! Addio! We won the cup!”
The cavers were not prepared to admit such a claim on the part of their rivals and responded:
“Why were they born so beautiful?
Why were they born at all?”
Mark could now make out the caving club more clearly. They seemed to be a rough crowd. There were young men and a few girls. All wore sweaters and jeans, and some looked as though they might be students. The girls had hair which reached down to their shoulders, but none of the men wore their hair any longer than what was then known as the ‘beatle’ style. But where was Bob?
There were about twenty cavers, and they occupied several of the recessed alcoves. In the centre, a short youth with red hair and neatly trimmed beard and moustache was playing a guitar with his back to Mark. He seemed to know an infinite number of songs and an even greater variety of tunes. There was something familiar about the youth with the guitar, which Mark could not quite grasp – something about the way his squared chin jutted forward in a determined manner, almost willing his companions to give their best and loudest rendering to his songs; then as Mark came closer to the group, he was able to recognise the familiar friendly, welcoming and mischievous expression on Bob’s face.
When Mark reached the group, Bob was singing, and he did not know who to speak to. There was a tall well built youth with a short conventional hair cut, wearing a smart pair of jeans and a well designed sweater, sitting down with a banjo on his knee. He had a merry smile, but was neither singing nor playing his instrument. Mark addressed this member of the merry crowd, and asked if this was the caving club.
The other blinked and rolled his eyes, as if caves were the last subject on earth which interested him at that particular moment. “Oh yes,” he replied, in a neutral accent, and a complete lack of enthusiasm, which surprised Mark. “I suppose this is a potholing club. Why? Are you interested?”
Then the guitarist struck up a well known tune, and before Mark could ask any more questions, his new companion had joined the others and burst into song:
“I’ve been a wild rover for many a year,
And I’ve spent all my money on whisky and beer;
And, now I’m returning with gold in great store,
I never will play the wild rover no more.
And it’s no nay never”1
Mark was beginning to wonder if his companion was intent on ignoring him – such was his enthusiasm for the song. He was on the point of assuming he had been rejected and of leaving the premises immediately, when in the pause between two lines of the chorus, Bob noticed him and pointed to a stool.
“Don’t just stand there, Mark,” he said. “Take a seat.” Then he continued:
“No! Nay never! No more,
Will I play the the wild rover
No never no more!
Mark sat down by the youth with the banjo and waited for the music to end. But, by now, the general merriment was such, and the competition between the two clubs, so strong and determined, that one rowdy song followed another with hardly a break.
At length their enthusiasm for loud competitive live music waned, and the guitarist judged this as an appropriate moment to play a softer song. No-one else knew the words, but they were all able to join in the chorus:
“Think I’ll go out to Alberta:
Weather’s good there in the fall;
Got some friends I can go to, working for.
But I wish you’d change your mind, dear,
If I ask’d you one more time,
But we’ve been through that a hundred times before.
Four strong winds that blow lonely;
Seven seas that run high:
All the things that never change,
Come what may.
The good times are all gone now.
I’m bound for moving on.
I’ll look for you if I’m ever back this way.”2
Mark began to relax as he listened to the music and tried to join in the chorus. The loneliness of the rejected lover somehow seemed to reflect his own unwanted friendlessness.
As the guitarist started the second verse, the attention of the cavers to the singing started to slip. One youth got up and took orders for drinks. Mark’s companion chatted to a friend. Mark was on his own once more. He wished he could join in and be one of the crowd.
The youth ordering the drinks called out to Mark’s companion:” Are you having one, Dave?”
Dave replied he would have a pint of bitter. Then he turned generously to Mark, and called to his friend: “Wait a minute, Pablo. Aren’t you going to complete the round?” His friend paused, as Dave looked back at Mark, and asked: “What would you like, my friend?”
A look of surprise spread over Mark’s face. He had not expected to be welcomed in this way. “Could I have half a pint of cider?” he asked shyly.
Dave looked at him, as if deeply shocked. “What? Half of cider!” he exclaimed, as if offended by Mark’s refusal to make the most of his friend’s generosity. “And another pint of bitter for my friend here,” he called, without waiting for an answer.
Mark stammered a nervous thank you. Dave was curious. “I’ve not asked you your name,” he said.
“I’m Mark – Mark Flitley.”
There was a break in the conversation when the music resumed. If Mark had expected the club’s repertoire to comprise caving songs, he was very much mistaken. They were all in the folk tradition; some old, some new, covering the whole range from American ballads to Liverpool sea shanties; but most of them were songs about love.
“It’s a lesson too late for the learning;
Made of sand, made of sand.
In the twinkle of an eye, my soul is burning,
¬In your hand, in your hand.
And there were the choruses they all joined in:
“Are you going away with no word of farewell?
Will there be not a trace left behind?
I could have loved you better;
Didn’t mean to be unkind;
You know that was the last thing on my mind.”3
They sang the chorus so loudly that they would have raised the roof, if it had been made of a softer material, and this delightful melody rang out in a jolly manner that hardly suited the sadness expressed in the words. Mark could not help trying to join in the choruses too – even if he did not know the words or the music, or how to sing in tune, if he had. But it was already long past nine, and at that time of night, and after several drinks, who noticed? Who cared? It was already doubtful if anybody was singing in tune!
The youth who had ordered the drinks returned with a tray of ale, as they were singing the last verse of “the last thing on my mind.” He handed out the glasses, and eventually arrived at the place where Mark and Dave were sitting.
“I see you’ve brought a friend along, Dave,” he said, as he saw them talking together. He passed them their beers.
“Well, it’s always good to welcome new recruits, Pablo,” Dave said. “This is Pablo, Mark, by the way. Now meet my friend Mark, Pablo.”
Mark scrutinised the man with the Spanish nickname timidly. He nodded politely without standing up or offering to shake hands.
The clothes Pablo was wearing were an instant cause for fascination: his jeans were as battered and discoloured as anyone else’s, but he wore a tee-shirt, and there was no sign of a jumper or even a coat, even though the late autumn weather was anything but warm. His arms were bare and featured powerful muscles. There was strength in those arms, the kind of healthy strength that made Mark feel afraid.
