The Loner, page 16
Mark had lived in the city for nearly eighteen months, but did not know where Toxteth was. So it was sometime before he understood the directions he asked for, and the bar was cleared.
CHAPTER 11
A Party at Bucanan Street
It was about nine o’clock when Mark arrived at Buchanan Street. He knocked at the door. It was opened by a youth with beer mug in hand, who looked at him without showing much interest.
“Is this the party?” Mark asked.
The individual with the beer mug nodded in assent, without showing the slightest sign of curiosity.
“M-m-my n-name’s M-Mark Flitley,” Mark stammered, after a great effort to suppress his anxiety. “I-um-know the p-potholing club,” he continued, and then asked: “Can I come in?”
The other could not resist the temptation to imitate the visitor, and replied: “I-er-d-don’t know o-of any p-p-potholing c-club.” Then he dropped the imitation. “You’ve got a bottle, have you? Right! You’re welcome! Come on in!”
Mark entered the narrow passage, and squeezed past the youths who lined it. He went into the living room. It was a small room, and all the furniture (if furniture it could properly be called!) had been removed, except for a small table with a second hand gramophone on it. The volume of this instrument had been turned up as high as possible, but there were so many people crammed into the tiny space that the music was barely audible. The room was dimly illuminated by a single red electric bulb. A crowd of young men and girls danced to the records on a concrete floor which was covered with a sheet of lino, or rather they swayed to and fro as far as the restricted space allowed.
Mark stood at the door, totally bewildered, and wondering what to do next.
A familiar voice called out: “You made it then, Mark. It’s through there.” Mark saw the distant figure of Bob, separated from him by the crowd, pointing at the only other door to the room with the dance.
Mark was confused. He shouted: “What’s through there?”
“That’s the kitchen. That’s where the ale is! There’s paper cups out there too. Take a drink and leave your bottle.”
Mark squeezed through the intervening space which separated him from the kitchen door. The kitchen was crowded too. On the draining board there were some bottles, some large cans, a small barrel and some paper cups. It was evident that not everyone was adept at turning the tap of the barrel on and off; the concrete floor had become slippery, and small puddles had collected on its uneven surface. Mark helped himself to some beer, and he too had to experiment to find the right way to turn the tap off!
As Mark watched the dancers from a crushed vantage point, he stumbled into another youth he knew well.
“Why if it’s not my old friend, Mark Flitley!” Someone thumped him on the back. His face was half-hidden by the shadow from the dim red light, but Mark was able to recognise him from the tankard in his hand.
“Paul Johns!” he exclaimed.
“Glad to see you, Mark. I hear you’re going to come caving with us.”
“I-I’d like to. Are you going tomorrow?”
“No. I’ll stick to easier stuff.”
Mark asked Paul if he would join him in asking two as yet unattached females to dance. Paul raised his glass. “I wish you luck, Mark – I really do. The night is young, man, and the ale’s fresh! It’s too early to think of dancing.”
So Mark joined in the crowded writhing mass of dancers on his own. He found a girl, who didn’t mind dancing with him while her friend had a rest. She was not tall and had long blonde hair. She moved with enthusiasm, improvising mimes as she did so; but as she became increasingly aware of her partner’s downcast eyes, and the uninspired shuffle that passed for choreography, her enthusiasm lessened. She wondered why he had not spoken to her, and decided to find out more about him.
“Are you from the University?” she asked.
“N-no. The C-college of Commerce,” he replied.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “That’s Tythebarn Street, isn’t it? I’m at a teachers’ training college. What are you studying?”
“Law,” said Mark. There was a hint of finality in that single syllable – as if he didn’t really want to carry on the conversation.
“The Law?” she said. Her smile was a mixture of interest and disapproval. Her response was meant to be provocative – to get him to talk to her. “Oh!” she said. “You’re going to be one of those men who makes a fortune out of buying and selling houses. They say the Law is very dull. Is it really so very boring?”
Mark looked at her perfect proportions and long blonde hair. He had no idea what to say, and ended up by saying the opposite of what the girl had expected. “Y-yes, i-it is b-boring,” he stammered at last.
The girl promptly lost interest. She found an excuse to leave the shy youth and his boring career, and waited for someone more exciting to come along. She did not have to wait very long. Pablo walked confidently over to her, and the pair of them were soon dancing enthusiastically to the lively rhythmic music.
“You’re beautiful!” he said after a while. “Are you a teacher?”
“What makes you think I’m a teacher?”
“Why not? Most of the girls here come from the training colleges.”
“I’m at a training college – but I’m a secretary! Do I look like a teacher?”
Pablo moved back a short pace, and let his eyes study her features with a slow and admiring stare. “I’d say you’d make a very competent teacher,” he replied.
She laughed. “Teaching is not the only thing I could be competent at,” she said suggestively. “What do you do?”
“I work. I’m not one of these student gits!”
“Well that makes two of us then.” Her eyes gleamed; she was obviously impressed. They danced without speaking while the record player thundered through the next number, and they held each other’s eyes. The track which followed was quieter.
“Have you been to a party here before?” she asked.
“Many times. My friends live here. I’ve seen you at one of our parties here before, haven’t I though?”
“Oh my friends often come to parties here, and I’ve been once or twice. Ours is a girls’ only college. So the men in the other colleges are always pinning up invitations to their parties on our notice board. This place isn’t reckoned much, but girls are always welcome. The music is good; no-one ever complains. So I thought tonight would be fun.”
“You may not think much of this house, but the facilities are excellent!” Pablo ventured.
“Facilities? I don’t know what you mean.”
This last remark was almost drowned by the music of the next song.
“Come upstairs and I’ll show you. It’s noisy down here. Why not carry on chatting up there?”
It was past twelve, and the crowd downstairs was already starting to disperse. The records still played, but not many people were dancing. The dimly lit corridors and rooms were lined with couples in close embrace. Bob was nowhere to be seen. His last appearance had been with Susan – on the way into his bedroom.
Mark noticed he was not the only youth without a partner. Paul Johns was still sipping his beer without showing the least interest in the fair sex. For the tenth time that night, Mark approached Dave, who was busy chatting up a gorgeous looking female.
“Dave, i-is there anyone here w-who will be able to take me to Yorkshire tomorrow?” he asked.
Dave smiled. Mark’s enthusiasm was impressive, but it was quite out of the question to initiate a novice like Mark in a difficult cave.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “There just is no room for you.”
Mark hung his head and felt depressed. He thought of the party, and how others had been able to enjoy themselves. He wondered why they seemed to find it so easy to chat up the girls, and why he always failed. Was the reason his stammer or his attitude, or was it both? Was it something to do with his being shut up for so many years in a boys’ only school? No matter what he did, no-one seemed to want to have much to do with him. He wondered if the cavers were going to treat him just the same.
As he stood there, feeling sorry for himself, Pablo passed by, complete with open tee-shirt and no fear of the cold, followed by his blonde-haired beauty. “We’re sorry we can’t take you, Mark,” he sid. “Have you enjoyed the party?”
Mark suppressed the self-pity. “Yes thank you,” he heard himself say, as he reflected that this was the first party of its kind he had ever been invited to, and that if he said no, he might never be invited to another.
“Did you know that next weekend is Bob’s birthday party?” Pablo asked.
Mark shook his head.
“Well, it is. Now we have a club custom: whenever it’s a member’s birthday, we go to Yorkshire and take a barrel of booze with us. We have a right good party in our bell tent. If we’re still in mood for it in morning – and we’re not too drunk – we go underground. Not a big cave, mind – the sort that won’t give you any trouble if you’ve got a hangover. The more fellers we can get up there, the merrier the party. You’d be very welcome. Would you like to come?”
Mark’s spirits rose, and he agreed at once.
CHAPTER 12
Another Kind of Party
“Facilis descensus Averno;
noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis;
Sed revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras,
hoc opus, hic labor est.”
VERGIL Aeneid
The following Friday evening, Mark arrived at the Grapes, carrying a suitcase. It was cold. The Sun had already been set for several hours, and a blanket of clouds, darkening the night sky, and hanging low, was an ominous sign of impending snow.
Mark made his way towards an old Bedford van, which was parked outside the pub. He soon recognised some of his new friends. Paul Johns was there. So was Dave Wise. Pablo was busy checking equipment, his dark wiry hair and beard barely concealing the mischief in his eyes, while his single tee shirt proved his immunity to frost. And there was Bob, sitting cross-legged on top of a wooden barrel, and looking very pleased with himself. There were others too, some with girls. Mark noticed that the girl he had danced with the week before was there too, chatting to Pablo as he busied himself with the equipment. Most of the crowd stood near, or sat carelessly on their rucksacks or on other equipment, while Dave and Pablo organised the loading of the van. A pile of rolled, wire ladders and climbing ropes lay right under the van’s open rear doors.
“Now then,” said Pablo. “Have we got the two thirties?”
Someone inspected the pile of ladders and remarked unhelpfully: “Well, there’s a ten and a twenty here, but I’m not sure if this one’s a twenty-five or a thirty.”
Pablo looked as though he was going to swear, but groaned instead. He jumped down from the van and began a very thorough examination of the heap of tackle.
Bob welcomed Mark. “Have you got all your gear?” he asked.
For a moment Mark wondered if he was talking about a part of a motor car. Then he sensed that the gear he referred to had something to do with the suitcase he was carrying. He nodded.
Bob insisted on checking. He asked if he had a boiler suit, some old clothes, and a pair of walking boots.
Mark nodded again.
“Have you got a helmet?”
“No. I-I thought someone was going to lend me one.”
Pablo overheard them and called out: “It’s all right, Bob. I’ve got a spare helmet, and a carbide lamp. Mark can use them.”
He brought them a miners’ helmet made out of heavy duty plastic, and an old brass lamp, which looked so old-fashioned that it would have been more suited to decorating a fireplace than for the illumination of a cave.
Pablo returned to the business in hand. “Who’s going to give me a hand with the tent?” he asked.
Mark hung back as some volunteers sprang forward. It was an old ex-army bell tent, well-folded, and heavy with the weight of stout wooden poles. It took three people to lift the tent and manoeuvre it into its proper position in the van.
By the time they were ready to leave, there were more than ten passengers in the van, with their rucksacks and other equipment packed tightly against the sides of the vehicle. Everyone and everything was crammed so tightly together that the van was rather like a tin full of sardines.
The Potholing club was fortunate to have, among its members, a very small elite who had passed their driving test. Dave Wise belonged to this inner circle. He carefully took control of the van, and gingerly eased the throttle with some anxiety, as this was his first chance to drive a vehicle bigger than an ordinary car.
The van was on hire from a firm which had bought it at second or third hand, or even greater vintage. It transpired later that such was the age of the machine, the evident deterioration of its condition, and the signs of rust which even the fresh paintwork failed to conceal, that the terms of hire had been particularly stringent, and included a requirement that, if the van were to break down, the hirer and not the owner would be responsible for the whole expense of returning it to the owner’s Liverpool address. This frightening clause was offset by the hire fee, which was extraordinarily cheap and made the transaction worthwhile.
The engine coughed and spluttered, before it finally burst into life. There was a cheer from the passengers, as they set off through the City’s dirty streets.
They came to the East Lancashire Road and sped along it. It was not long before they reached the junction with the M6 and turned north along the motorway.
Those whose circumstances were such that they were compelled to subsist on a meagre student grant could not expect the luxuries one might find on a Motorway Express. As many of the passengers were students, it was no surprise that the van’s heating system had long ago ceased to function. But their spirits were high, and even at this early stage in the evening, Bob Smith took up his guitar, and as they began to sing, they lost all consciousness of the cold wintry conditions, and the freezing drafts which blew through the imperfectly sealed sliding doors.
Eventually, they arrived at the intersection for the road to Lancaster and Kirby Lonsdale. They left the motorway and drove inland towards Ingleton and the famous Three Peaks. As they approached Ingleton, a debate started on the subject of pubs. It seemed to Mark that everybody knew the pubs in this part of the country better than they knew the pubs in Liverpool.
“The Craven Heifer?”
“No! That’s no good. There’s a Juke box there, and we won’t be able to sing.”
“How about the Ingleborough then?”
“It’s too early for there.”
“The Crown at Horton?”
“No. Too far. ”
“There’s that pub near Clapham – one we haven’t been to for years.”
“The Landlord doesn’t like potholers.”
“What a recommendation!”
They drove through Ingleton and on towards Clapham. They took a side road and stopped outside the public house in question. The landlord was not at all pleased to see them. His regular customers lined the bar, and he liked to think that his was a respectable establishment. He served his regulars first, whether it was their turn or not. Then, there being nobody else to serve, he grudgingly took orders from the cavers. He scowled and remarked sourly: “In my day, young lads like you wore decent clothes. Now, you see that partition? Well, there’s room for you over there.”
He pointed to an alcove which was separated from the rest of the room by a thin wooden screen. It had rough uncovered seats, and was most clearly set aside for customers of the lowest order.
They accepted the seats which were offered. Then Bob took up his guitar, and they all began to sing at the top of their voices.They were all good folk songs; not a single rude word was heard. Most of the regular customers continued to drink and converse as if completely unperturbed. Some even turned towards the singers, and looked as if they might be positively enjoying the entertainment; but the landlord still scowled and glared at them. The more he glared, the more they pretended not to notice; they smiled and tried to restrain their amusement. Someone laughed.
At length the proprietor could stand their presence no longer. He left the bar unattended, and marched over to his unwelcome and unrepentant guests.
“I’ll have no more music in here,” he said. “If you won’t take a hint, and you want to sing, you can go somewhere else. I’m not having the likes of you here while decent folk are in my pub. What are you? Potholers? Students? Dirty scruffy rascals, I’d say! Now, get out, will you! Potholers are not welcome here!”
Someone laughed. Someone made a cruel joke at the landlord’s expense. His insults did not offend them; they were just part of the fun. They left at once without any objection. No doubt they would have liked to have seen the landlord’s rage when they exploded in general mirth outside.
They piled back into the van and drove back towards Ingleton. They had not gone far, when Pablo offered the opinion that their most recent host was “an old mean bastard!”
Thereupon Bob responded: “You know, I don’t think we ought to be too hard on the poor feller. After all, not every potholer has as good manners as us! He’s probably just met the wrong club!”
At these words, spoken in the landlord’s defence, Pablo braced himself with all the pretence of affronted dignity. “What are you saying, Bob? You don’t mean to tell us you’ve got a soft spot for that old geyser, when he had the nerve to turn us out before I’d finished my glass! I’ll fill you in for that!”
Instantly there was a roar of encouragement. Someone called out: “fight!” Someone else shouted: “Quick! stop the van!”
The van stopped, and the two adversaries leapt out of the rear doors as soon as they were opened. There was a scuffle and more laughter. Moments later both were back, neither looking any the worse for the experience, nor showing any signs of defeat, but both claiming the honour of having filled the other in.
In this mood of excited hilarity, they entered the Ingleborough Pub. The public bar was a big one; the place was already crowded, but there was room for the cavers in one corner. Drinks were ordered; Bob unpacked his guitar; Pablo took a seat near him. Bob started the Wild Rover; Pablo thundered through the chorus. Soon it was not just the potholers from Liverpool who were enjoying a lively singsong: the rest of the patrons of the crowded establishment thronged round their corner, and the street outside echoed the music.
