The Loner, page 31
Mark faltered. He looked at the floor and failed to meet her gaze. “All – all right,”he said barely audibly, with a perceptible lack of enthusiasm.
“They say the professional course is very tough,” she mused.
“It is,” he replied. “Much tougher than the degree. They use tests and psychological warfare!”
His voice trailed away with these last words. Mark was clearly in a state of shock and despair.
She was surprised. “Psychological warfare?” she asked. “What on earth do you mean, Mark?”
“It’s like this,” he explained. “They give you a test every fortnight, and mark it strictly. It doesn’t matter how much you write – you only get marks if you get the answer right. Then, when they’ve marked the tests, they pin up a list, and draw lines. The list is in the order of your marks, and the lines show whether they think you will pass or fail all or some of the papers.”
The girl was shocked. “That’s terrible,” she said. “It sounds just like school. We shouldn’t have all this stress at our age! Trust the legal profession to get locked into an archaic system. Well, Mark, don’t keep me in suspense – what have your marks been?”
“We’ve only done two tests. I do try, but my name’s well below the line.” He was staring dismally at the floor. He could not hide his disappointment. She heard him suppress a sniff.
“Below what line?” she asked impatiently.
“Below the bottom line, Fiona – where they put you when they think you’re not doing well enough to pass any of the exams.”
“So you haven’t been working hard enough!”
“But I have Fiona. I’ve never worked harder in all my life. I think I’m going to fail all my exams, Fiona.”
“Rubbish!” she exclaimed. “Stop being so miserable, Mark. You’ve probably just not got the knack. That’s all. Anyway, I can’t see what you’re worried about. You’ve got a degree, haven’t you? So you’re bound to find a job.”
“But I can’t think of anything else to do, except be a solicitor,” he moaned.
“Look at it my way,” she said reassuringly. “You’ve only failed a couple of tests. Well, you’re better off than me: I’ve failed a whole year. Do you think I’ll let that get me down?” She shrugged her shoulders casually, and took a last sip from her coffee mug. “Of course not! Even if I don’t get my degree, I’ll get by somehow – and so will you. And you’ve got your degree.”
Mark nodded in a listless kind of way, as if to say: “It’s all right for you to say that, but I’m different.”
She picked up her knitting and started work on it in earnest. His despondent mood suggested a change of subject, she thought. “Do you still go potholing?” she asked.
Unfortunately this subject was an even greater cause for despondency than his academic progress. “I want to, but I’m no good at it,” he said sadly.
The conversation was becoming far too depressing for the girl.
“I do try, but they don’t want me to go caving with them any more,” he blurted out.
Fiona hesitated, while she thought of what to say. “Do you mean your friends have told you not to go underground?” she asked. The tone of her voice rose in disbelief.
“N-no, but they don’t want me. I can tell.”
“Well, perhaps you’re wrong,” she said firmly. “Even if they don’t want you to go caving with them, does that really matter? Who wants to go crawling around in those wet and muddy tunnels anyway?”
Mark looked away from her. He recalled the doctor’s harsh statement once more: “One third of my patients get better; one third get worse... the rest stay the same.” He visualised the vagrants in the public library and wondered, for the umpteenth time, if that kind of fate awaited the patients who got worse or stayed the same. He had certainly improved recently, he thought – but that was only really since he had fallen in with the caving club. Caving was a dangerous sport, which he was not very good at – but what would happen to him if he stopped? Would that be the end of him?
The more he thought about it, the more he realised Fiona would never understand his strange logic. So his response came as a pathetic cry: “I can’t live without the caves,” he declared.
Fiona smiled and laughed gently. “Don’t be soft, Mark,” she said. “You’re talking to me like a little child. You don’t want me to mother you, do you?”
“But it’s true,” he insisted, ignoring her last remark. He was completely overcome by his own sense of shame and personal anguish – too much so to care very much about what anyone else might think to hear him talk in this way. “You see, I’m a failure – always have been. I see a psychiatrist even – have been for four years now. Always lacked courage. So I took up caving. Never any good at it – but it did a lot for me. If you face danger, you become more confident. I got better – better than I was anyway. And now, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
It was several days before Fiona reported this conversation to her flatmate.
“You certainly have strange friends,” Susan remarked.
“I always thought he was a bit odd, but I never could have guessed he was a real nutcase,” Fiona replied, as she made some stitches in her knitting. It was the same knitting she had been doing when she had last seen Mark.
“I bet you really fancied him,” Susan teased.
“Of course not. The relationship was always purely Platonic – and always will be. All my men are admirers, and nothing else – except for my one and only, that is.”
“Ah yes, your childhood dream. Will it last, I wonder? Well I hope it lasts. Isn’t there just a slight risk you might get too involved with someone like Mark, though? Don’t you think you’d be better off without seeing him?”
“There’s no such risk, Sue.” Fiona cursed as she dropped a stitch. She fixed her eyes on the knitting. “You see this knitting, Sue? I’ve spent hours doing this for my boyfriend. It’s a jumper. When I’m finished, I’ll post it to him and start another. Do you think I’d ever do anything like that for Mark Flitley?”
“Then, why do you keep seeing him?”
Fiona laughed. “I’ve told you before, Sue. He’s harmless – and hopeless. That’s all I can say. I can’t imagine anyone falling for him. But he’s interesting all the same, and I can’t find it in me to be hard and slam the door in his face.”
CHAPTER 21
Buchanan Street Blues
There was a revolution in the decaying terraces surrounding Buchanan Street. Even in the late sixties, it was an area of destitution and unemployment. The docks had long ago started their decline, and thousands had already been laid off. It was an area where families and neighbourhoods were closely bound by common ties, but where the underlying community spirit had had little chance of survival.
So now, the city fathers had built a centre for the community: a wooden hut with huge plate glass windows, with one large room, which could be used as a ballroom, or meeting hall, and a small kitchen for the preparation of refreshments.
The Mayor presided over the opening of the Buchanan Community Centre. A crowd, mostly of local women, had gathered to watch the cutting of a tape, before they went inside for the first meeting of the Buchanan Street Area Residents’ Association, under the watchful eyes of the officials of the city’s Social Services Department.
Officers and committee were elected; some social events were suggested for the Committee’s consideration. All was going according to plan, until one vociferous lady shouted: “’Ere, wot about any other business? Can’t I say a werd?”
The chairman of the meeting observed it was a certain Mrs. James. He recalled that this was a woman who was best known for her obsession with the students who lived opposite her. He invited her to speak:
“It’s them ther students,” the lady began in a loud and accusing voice. “Wot’s going to be done about ‘em, I say? Disgrace to our street, they are. Always riding about on motor bikes, and having parties wi’ loud music. There’s no peace wiv ‘em around. Getting young girls into trouble too, if yer ask me! Can’t we do somethink to ger rid of ‘em? Youz knows ‘ow they teach ar kids bad ‘abits: then they throws cold water at ‘em. Soak ‘em all so as they catch cold. Let’s unite an’ kick ‘em out – that’s what I say.”
The officials, who were trying hard not to look sleepy, suddenly became alert and alarmed. One speaker followed another. One denunciation followed another – all agreeing with Mrs. James. The atmosphere became so inflamed that the officials became very much concerned about the future fate had in store for the unfortunate students.
They need not have worried. Mrs. James was not universally popular, and it was not long before a different view was expressed.
“Wot’s wrong with them students?” a lady with short fair hair suddenly exclaimed, completely ignoring the chairman, who wanted to allow someone else to speak. “Wot’s wrong with them, I say? We all knows Mrs. James hates ‘em. Obsessed wiv ‘em, she is – aye an’ always bitchin’ about ‘em too. An’ as fer gerrin young girls inter trouble, that’s nothink ter do wi’ us unless it’s ar daughters wi’ bun in oven – an’ it’s not them ther students who’re gerrin them inter trouble – youz knows well. We oughter be glad we got them students with us. They can read an’ write, can’t they? Why should we be afraid of them teaching us bad ‘abits? Why don’t we get them to teach ar kids to read an’ write? Wot does Mrs. James want us to do anyway? Organise a lynch party?”
The lady looked towards the officials for support, and was relieved to see them shaking their heads.
Mrs. James eyed her adversary angrily. She stood up and delivered a second speech, the second person to defy the chairman’s ruling that meeting. “That ther Mrs. White is talking a load of bull,” she declared. “Youz don’t need to organise a lynch party to gerrid of them there students, that’s fer sure. Youz can complain to der fuzz, an’ ask ‘em to watch ‘em, an’ make life uncomfortable fer ‘em. Youz can do all sorts of things to ‘em – wi’out killin’em!
“An’ as fer teaching our kids ter read an’ write, whoever ‘erd of students teachin’ ar kids anythink that i’nt no good?” She shook her head dramatically. “If I ever see them students teaching ar kids ter read – why, that’d be the day!”
Mrs. White was not to be put off. “Ah’ll show yer wot they can do: youz can depend on it!” she shouted. And on that contentious note, the chairman tactfully moved on to the next business, so that the debate ended without a resolution. The officials wiped the sweat from their brows and returned to their previous sleepy state.
Meanwhile, the students in Buchanan Street were blissfully unaware of their narrow escape. That evening they were celebrating yet another wild party. The downstairs living-room was packed; youths lined the narrow passages, and the bedrooms were full.
Suddenly there came a loud knock on the door. Someone forcibly opened if, throwing the inebriated doorkeeper aside. It was Mrs. White, looking very muscular and determined, clearly a latter-day Amazon, a Liverpudlian version of Mrs. Pankhurst perhaps. “Lemme in,” she cried. “I live round ‘ere don’t I? Youz don’t mind if join youz party, do you?”
The startled doorkeeper recoiled from the impending confrontation. “No. Come in. You’re welcome,” he said, as he recovered from his surprise. “The more the merrier. Come and join the sardines!”
Mrs. White was wearing her Sunday best dress – a red blouse and skirt which came down well below her knees – and the little jewelry she possessed. She looked very respectable and quite out of place among the jeans-clad and mini-skirted revellers.
She entered the living-room, the place where all the action was supposed to be. The lyrics of old Beatles’ songs issued from an ancient gramophone. The volume was at full blast, but the din of the music was smothered by the throng in the room; more than forty students were crowded in that confined place. Dancing was out of the question. A shuffle, the mutual admiration of a smooch, and the motion of lovers in rhythmic embrace had taken the place of dancing,
Pablo, the apprentice, was in the room with several of his friends from the Grapes. He grasped the situation in an instant and offered the lady a drink at once.
She gratefully accepted a paper cup, and then took him by surprise. The girl who was hanging onto his arm was suddenly surprised to hear the lady summon Pablo to dance.
“Come on! Come on!” called this new twentieth century Amazon. “I’m local too, you know. I may be middle-aged, but I’m not past it yet!”
Pablo suppressed a groan. He asked the girl to wait and then courteously accepted the invitation. It’s a good idea to keep in with the locals, he thought. “I’ll gladly dance with you,” he said with a drunken smile, whilst at the same time endeavouring not to come too close to the lady. “After all, they say older women are more experienced!”
She laughed, danced with him for a while, and then made off with another partner. By then everybody had noticed her. Pablo’s girl giggled when she came back to him. “She asked you to dance, did she? So women’s lib has reached the Liverpool docks at last!” she said mockingly.
“I didn’t have much choice, did I?” Pablo replied.
The record finished, and someone was about to put another in its place. Mrs. White was too quick for him, and seized the initiative at once. She marched up to the gramophone and switched it off. The revelry stopped immediately. The silence was deafening. You could have heard a pin drop. The revellers wondered what the woman wanted and waited for her next move.
Now she had their attention, and saw she dominated the gathering, she made the speech she had carefully prepared.
“Welcome to Buchanan Street,” she began. “Youz all very welcome. We don’t mind yer parties. We like ter see young people enjoying themselves. But, as youz livin’ ‘ere, and ‘ave youz parties, don’t youz think youz ouqhter be part of ar community? Why should youz ‘ave all the fun, if we ger nothink outer it? There’s lots of kids round ‘ere ‘oo can’t read or write. They could do wi’ some ‘elp. Now then, if we’re goin’ ter put up wi’ yer parties, why can’t youz help us edicate ar kids?”
This challenge clearly posed a serious threat to the revels in the house. Pablo looked at Bob, whose guest he was. After some rapid whispers, Bob defused the impending angry scene by inviting Mrs. White to the back kitchen, while Pablo started the record player again, and the party resumed.
Bob could see Mrs. White was in earnest. “We can’t really talk about this now,” he said in a businesslike manner. “You see, I don’t know what my flatmates will think. I’d certainly like to help with lessons. Can we talk to you about it sometime later this week?”
The Amazon agreed, and, after some more dances with an assortment of friendly faces, left for home, well satisfied with her evening’s work.
It was the weekly meeting of the club in the Grapes. All the usual members were there, including Mark Flitley. It was about a month after Mrs. White’s sudden appearance at the Buchanan Street house.
“So, you’ve got a job then!” Dave Wise looked approvingly at Mark.
“It’s not really a job: it’s articles. It starts two weeks after I finish my exams.”
“If it’s a lawyer’s job, it must pay well,” Dave reflected wistfully, wishing his student days had also come to an end, and he had more money in his pocket.
“Ten pounds a week,” said Mark.
“How much!” Dave’s cry of surprise could have been heard on the other side of the room.
“Ten pounds a week – just over five hundred pounds a year,” rejoined Mark proudly.
Dave was aghast. “That’s peanuts,” he said. “I wouldn’t put up with that myself: I’d rather go on the dole!”
“Well, it’s better than seven pounds ten bob, which is all my student grant is worth. Besides, I’ll get training.”
“Is that the normal rate for the job?”
Mark nodded.
“I can’t believe it. It’s exploitation. It shouldn’t be allowed. Not today. Not if you’ve got a degree.”
Mark was resigned to his fate. “It’s difficult to find articles,” he explained firmly. “I’ve applied so many times, but no-one will have me. So, now I have an offer I can’t refuse.”
Bob was sitting not far away, sipping his beer, and listening attentively. “Does that mean you’ll be staying in Liverpool?” he asked.
Mark nodded.
“Then I’ve got a proposition to put to you: you know Buchanan Street, where I live?”
Mark nodded again. He had been there several times. How often, he thought, he had wished he could live with friends in a flat like that. Bob continued: “One of my flatmates is about to leave. So we’ve got room for you Mark, if you’d like to join us.”
Mark’s eyes sparkled. He was overjoyed.
“I’d love to join you,” he exclaimed keenly. “When is your mate leaving?”
“The end of this term, Mark – at Christmas. You have your exams in February, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mark anxiously. He wondered if this was going to be an excuse for second thoughts – for not offering him a place after all.
“Well, there’s no hurry. No need to disturb your studies. We’ll reserve your room until your exams are over.”
Mark’s enthusiasm was unmistakable. He had lived in the hostel for nearly three years, and had never once before received an offer to share a flat. He had always envied the independence and close companionship of students who lived in flats. So he gladly accepted Bob’s offer without a moment’s hesitation.
But Bob had not finished. “There’s something else,” he said “We’ve been asked to do some voluntary work – teach some local kids the three R’s. Nothing very difficult really. You don’t have to teach more than one kid at a time, and you go to the kid’s house for the lesson or they come to us. Would you like to help?”
