The Loner, page 24
“Well done. I’m pleased for you.”
Bob began to strum his guitar again. It was a blues tune without any words that anybody knew. As Mark could neither join in, nor converse with Bob, he let his attention drift to what Dave and Pablo were talking about.
“It’s all very well, this Wild Rover and Dylan stuff, but it’s not potholing,” he heard Pablo say. “Easegill and Bar Pot are nice trips but they’re not hard. There’s nothing very sporting in them.”
Dave agreed he’d like to do some difficult caves.
“That’s right,” Pablo continued. “What’s more, there’s no excuse for it! Now everyone uses wet suits, we should be able to bottom the hardest pots. If we don’t, we’re no better than grockles!”
Mark’s head was spinning. Long hair, “with it,” and now “grockles”! How many more strange ideas and expressions was he going to learn that evening? What was a ‘grockle’ he wondered? It certainly wasn’t a compliment. Did he fall into that despised category?
Paul regarded Pablo suspiciously. “You’re too hard, Pablo,” he said draining his glass. “What’s wrong with grockles anyway? You’ve got your priorities wrong, man. It’s not the caving that’s important: what really matters is the booze afterwards!”
“Aye, you’re right about that,” rejoined the other. “It’s just that the booze tastes better after a hard trip.”
Bob put down his guitar and strummed a few chords, while observing wearily: “Don’t let’s go into this all over again, Pablo! You know this club’s always been more of a social club than a potholing club.”
“That’s the trouble!” Pablo rejoined.
“Well, what’s wrong with that?”
“It gets boring, Bob – that’s all. The same trips, Bob – and the same songs. The caves don’t get any harder, and your music doesn’t improve either! We’d get more of a kick, if we did some really silly caving. You’d enjoy it Bob – you know you would!”
Bob looked thoughtful.
“Come on Bob,” Pablo urged. “You don’t want anyone to say growing your hair has made you soft, do you? I never used to think of you as a real weirdo!”
Bob slowly agreed. “Aye, a hard trip, now and again, could be fun,” he observed.
Then Mark saw Pablo turn to address Dave Wise. “So what did you say made you want to go caving?” he heard Pablo ask. “Wasn’t it something to do with looking for adventure?”
“I don’t know really,” Dave replied. “I suppose I’ve heard a lot of stories about danger in caves, and always fancied anything adventurous. So I joined to find out what caving’s all about and what makes potholers tick. The newspaper reports didn’t put me off at all. They just made it sound more exciting. For me, nothing’s worth doing unless there’s some risk or danger.”
“You know, Dave, you haven’t seen anything yet. How about a meet down a hard pot – this Saturday?”
“We’ve got nothing planned for this weekend, Pablo. Saturday’s rather short notice, though.”
“Sunday then?”
“Well...”
“So why not organise a trip now? Something big.”
“Mmm! I quite fancy another crack at Lost John’s on Leck Fell. We’ve been down several times but never actually bottomed it. I don’t see why not...”
“Good! Then that’s settled.”
This conversation had been overheard, and others began to show interest. It was not long before this unplanned meet had become a very popular one indeed. The enthusiasm was infectious, and soon Mark found himself asking if he could go too.
Bob, Pablo, and Dave had not forgotten how panic-stricken Mark had become when climbing big pitches.
“I’m not sure this meet will suit you,” Bob counselled. “You see, there are a lot of ladders, and it’s a severe pot.”
“But I want to come,” Mark urged childishly.
Dave decided to be open with Mark. “The point is there is one big pitch,” he said. “And after that there is a pitch where the ladder goes straight down a sixty foot waterfall. You’ll get cold and wet, and it’s very hairy. Don’t you think you ought to try some more easy caves before you do this one?”
But Mark was not to be put off. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I will!” His anxiety had given way to blind enthusiasm and stubborn determination.
Pablo could foresee another problem. “You won’t do anything without a wetsuit, ” he remarked acidly. “It’s a wet pot, and I’m not going to drag you out suffering from exposure!”
“What’s a wetsuit?”
Pablo gave a snort of exasperation, but Bob was more patient. “It’s a neoprene suit. It’s like rubber and keeps you warm, even when you get wet. Divers use them. There aren’t many of us who haven’t got one now.”
“Where can I get one?”
“They cost fifty quid off the peg.”
Mark was astonished that the other students were able to afford the price. “Did you buy yours?” he asked.
They looked at each other. At last Bob spoke. He shook his head. “I made my own,” he said “You need a pattern, a few sheets of neoprene, some tape and glue.”
“Have you got a pattern?”
Bob smiled. It was a thin smile. “You can borrow mine,” he said with some reluctance. “You’ll have to adapt it, mind – I’m smaller than you.”
“I’m not doing anything tomorrow night. I’ll make it then,” Mark said, as yet another excuse for discouraging him vanished into thin air.
Bob tried a more conciliatory approach. “Let him come.” he suggested to Dave. “He’ll be all right. Mark can always stop and wait for the rest of us, if he decides not to go all the way down.”
Mark nodded, but then promised that he would go all the way down.
Bob continued: “There’s another problem, Mark – and that’s transport. It’s not an official club meet. So we won’t be hiring a van. There just won’t be enough of us to make it worthwhile. So we’re all going to have to make our own way up there.”
Mark looked round. “Has anyone got room for me?” he asked vainly.
No-one had. Those with transport had already chosen their travelling companions, and Mark was not one of them.
“But I want to come,” he insisted, with a persistent whine.
Bob took pity on him. “You can always hitch-hike,” he said.
“Hitch-hike?” The prospect of hitch-hiking did not exactly inspire Mark with any sense of enthusiasm or confidence.
“Yes, we’ll all be meeting at the Craven Heifer in Ingleton at about nine o’clock Saturday night. If you’re there before closing time, you’ll be able to join us.”
“But how do I hitch-hike?”
“It’s dead easy,” said Bob, who always went everywhere on his bike with Susan. “All you do is thumb a lift. Get a bus as far up East Lancs as you can; thumb a lift to M6; carry on up M6 until you reach intersection number 34; that’s the road to Lancaster and Kirby Lonsdale. Then follow the signs to Kirkby Lonsdale and Ingleton.”
It sounded so easy – almost like driving there.
Dave added a word of caution. “Don’t forget to come with a wetsuit,” he said. “And look out for the Police! If they find you on the motorway slip roads, they’ll have you up in court.”
Fiona was busy tidying the flat. She wore an old pair of faded blue jeans and a navy blue sweater. She switched the hoover on to clean the lounge. Susan came out of her room, attired in her latest outfit: a professional-looking grey blouse, jacket, and miniskirt. A strange pair, Fiona mused, as she thought of Bob in his leather jacket and cords and contrasted the different tastes of the two lovers.
Fiona and her flatmate did not always see eye to eye, and that Friday night was one of those occasions when she felt no sympathy at all for her friend’s wild and unconventional ideas. It was not that Fiona’s beliefs were at all conventional – they were the complete opposite, in fact – but she was a practical person too, and she would rather sacrifice principle to expediency any day.
“I can’t understand you at all, Sue,” she said, sitting down and leaning forward to emphasise her view. “You’ve found one of the nicest boys you could possibly hope to have – and now you want to walk out on him. Why?”
Susan was not at all disconcerted by her friend’s question. “Why not?” she asked. “Bob’s really nice. That’s true, Fiona. But that doesn’t place me under a duty to bind myself to him. How do I know that’s what he’d want anyway?”
“You’ve had such good times together. Don’t deny it. I know from the way you laugh and joke with each other, when he brings you home.”
“I’ve always had good times with all my boyfriends, Fiona. I have fun. I put on my favourite dresses, and we have a good night. As long as we enjoy ourselves, who cares if we never see each other again afterwards?”
Fiona took this in slowly, and then leaned back into the chair. “Your affair with Bob has lasted too long to be treated so casually,” she reflected.
“So what if it has?” her friend retorted. “I could do with trying something new!”
“Quite!” Fiona rejoined. “Why not try getting really involved with someone for a change – that would be a new experience for you!”
Susan was completely unrepentant. “That’s exactly the trouble with Bob,” she explained. “You see, I like him so much, that if I stay with him much longer, I shall get involved – and you know what that means! I don’t want to lose my freedom, Fiona. I’m just too young for that kind of thing. I don’t want to get permanently tied to someone – not yet, anyhow. I’m afraid, Fiona – afraid I’ll end up like you!”
“What do you mean?”
Susan gave her friend a wicked smile. “With a boy friend in St. Andrews, when there’s no way of knowing what he’s up to!” she replied.
Fiona sighed. Sometimes her friend was so naive, she thought. “Someday, Sue, you’ll want to settle down,” she observed.
“That’s true, Fiona.”
“Then why not try going serious with Bob? Can you think of anyone else who would suit you better?”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point then?”
“I know I shouldn’t say it, but it’s true; I know I’m beautiful, Fiona. Someday I’ll meet a rich young feller, who’ll be able to give me everything I want...”
“Expensive clothes, jewelry...perfumes...a house with servants, perhaps? You’re dreaming, Sue! Besides, Bob’s the son of a doctor, isn’t he?”
“Perhaps he has prospects, but he’s not rich now!” She emphasised the word ‘now’. “So, if I get too deep with him, I may never have a chance to meet a really rich young man. I know I sound vain, Fiona, but don’t you think it’s too early for me to get committed anyway?”
Their conversation was abruptly cut short by the sound of the front door bell. Susan looked flustered, and made a dash back into her room for her handbag. Fiona got up and made her way to the door.
“Don’t you go,” Susan called, as her friend had opened the flat door, and was on the point of going downstairs to open the front door. “I know who it is. It’s for me!”
Fiona sensed her friend’s anxiety. “Who is it then?” she asked. Understanding dawned. “It’s Bob, isn’t it?”
She shook her head, as Susan confirmed her prediction, leapt across the room, and shot downstairs, as if her life depended on meeting the man with whom she had just been about to terminate her relationship.
Fiona finished her chores and reached out for the television. She lay back in her armchair, determined to relax for the rest of the evening. It was so nice to be on her own for a change, she thought. Then, all at once, the door bell rang again. She was not expecting any visitors that evening, but she reluctantly got up from her armchair and made her way down the stairs of the three storey Georgian building. She opened the door. Her eyes lit up – more from surprise than pleasure. Mark Flitley stood there, looking very shy and almost speechless.
“Oh, it’s you, Mark,” she said “Do come in.”
Mark looked at her anxiously. He blushed; he twitched nervously, and suffered a fresh attack of his old stammering complaint. “I h-hope you – er – don’t mind me coming to see, you,” he said “Y-you’ve always said I could call in any time. I haven’t until now.”
Fiona did not exactly count Mark as one of her closest friends, but she was hospitable by nature, and in any case, she had often invited him, amongst others, to call on her. “You’re welcome,” she said, putting him at ease. “Please come in.”
Mark followed her up the flights of stairs, and stood awkwardly just inside the door of the girls’ flat. She invited him to sit down while she made a cup of coffee. Neither spoke for a while.
It was Fiona who broke the silence. “You know, anyone can tell you’re a public school boy,” she said boldly.
“Why?” asked Mark.
She handed Mark his coffee, and then sat down and took a sip from her own cup. “Because you’re shy, and you don’t know how to chat to girls,” she said crossly. She was wishing he would at least try to amuse her, rather than simply look lost and stare uncomfortably at his feet.
Mark shook his head and confessed: “No I don’t.”
She continued: “I’ve met a lot of public school boys, and they’re all the same! They don’t know how to handle girls, and they’re all M.C.P.’s!” She smiled wickedly. “Are you an M.C.P?” she asked.
Mark blinked. He twitched. “What’s an MCP?” he asked.
Fiona’s expression showed her surprise. “You mean to say you don’t know what an M.C.P. is?”
Mark blinked again. His voice sank to a whisper. “No I don’t,” he said. “What does it mean?’
“It’s short for Male Chauvinist Pig,” she explained, after a moment’s hesitation.
Mark was still puzzled. For him, to interpret this jargon was like trying to translate a foreign language. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What is a chauvinist pig?”
“Well, put it this way, do you think the man should work, while the wife’s place is to stay at home, clean it and look after the children?”
“Well, yes.”
She laughed and declared, “You’re an M.C.P. then!”
Mark was not totally confused by this confounding of conventional wisdom. He had heard similar views before, if not expressed in quite the same language. He could not resist the temptation to voice his disagreement with the modern view, when it might have been prudent and expedient to avoid pursuing the subject further. “I don’t see anything wrong in that,” he said, forgetting that she had never suggested there was anything wrong in being a chauvinist pig. “The children need the mother at home. It’s natural! How can a mother look after children if she’s working? All this modern talk of women working, and divorce is rubbish and...”
His words trailed away before he could add any more inconsistent steps to his argument.
Fiona laughed and interrupted him. “You really are an M.C.P.,” she said mischievously. “Don’t you think marriage is only a matter of convenience for the Capitalist state? If families live together, they can be taxed together; their address is easy to find; they have responsibilities, and can be sued more easily. They can be persuaded to take out loans, and can be relied upon to pay their debts. That all suits the capitalists, who make a fine profit.”
Mark was now absolutely bewildered. Quite apart from not being quite sure what a capitalist was, he had never quite thought about marriage as being an institution which had been designed in the interests of class domination. But, in spite of her loyalty to her absent boyfriend, and the remarks she had made to her flatmate only a few minutes before, Fiona was now quite carried away by the subject. “You see, Mark, it’s only in European society that you have monogamy. In Africa, a man can have as many wives as he likes, and Eskimo women can have as many men as they like!” Her eyes opened wide, as if she revelled in a yearning for a life of bliss at the North Pole.
Mark remarked that surely an African had to be very rich to afford more than one wife, but Fiona refuted this argument by saying that such considerations couldn’t possibly apply to the Eskimos.
“You see, marriage isn’t really necessary at all,” she continued in an analytical way, still unmindful of her absent boyfriend. “Look at the Hippies: they live in communities, and have everything in common – men, women, and children – no-one and nothing belongs to any of them, but they all live and share together. They’re not M.C.P.’s!”
Mark was astonished. It sounded too good to be true. He wondered where this conversation was leading. “Who are the Hippies?” he asked, wondering if they too lived in the cold Arctic wastes, or were an obscure African tribe basking in the warmth of a scorching tropical Sun.
“You don’t know who the Hippies are?” His ignorance surprised her. “Haven’t you seen all the men with long hair? All students are Hippies!”
Mark was alarmed at this intelligence; his thoughts darted backwards and forwards – from his own short hair to his friends’ long hair. He tried to bring to mind any story of students living in communes in Liverpool, but could recall none – although he had heard of some girls who were rumoured to be very liberal with their favours. He wondered what it was that distinguished a hippy from other mortals, and whether he was a hippy too – for wasn’t he a student? But if he was a student, why wasn’t he living in a Hippy community – or was the hostel one? It did not seem to make sense somehow!
Neither spoke for several moments. Mark reached for his hair, as if to make sure it had not grown long overnight. He was so shocked that he found it difficult to say in more than a whisper! “But I-I’m not a hippy – am I?”
He wondered again where this conversation was leading. The girl’s loyalty to her boyfriend made any improper motive out of the question. He sensed she was teasing him and wondered why. He also sensed she was trying to convert him to her own modern values, and this was something he automatically fought to resist, although he did not quite know why he should refuse to accept all the modern student influences, just as Fiona had and most other undergraduates.
