The Loner, page 34
“But you can’t say that, doctor!”
“I can say what I like. Are you trying to tell me how to do my job, Sergeant?” The doctor faced the other with an expression of offended dignity.
The sergeant shook his head. “Then tell me, doctor, is he over the limit?” he asked. “Is he drunk?”
“That I am not prepared to say, sergeant. Now, good evening to you, and please do not call me out at this time of night ever again – my partner is so much better at dealing with these cases than I am! You’ll receive a note of my fees in due course!”
And with these words, the doctor strode majestically out of the police station.
The sergeant looked very cross. He shook his head and made a long soft whistle. He turned to Bob, who was picking himself up, with difficulty, from the mess on the floor.
“I think you’re too ill to drive,” he said, with a particular emphasis on the word ‘ill’. “Shall I order a taxi, sir?”
Bob nodded. His eyes were glazed, and he had not quite recovered from being sick. “Are you going to charge me, officer?” he asked faintly.
“No, sir. You were very lucky this time. Let this be a lesson for you, sir. I’ll telephone for a taxi. You can collect your car tomorrow.”
The four students shared the taxi fare. As they were on their way, Bob asked Mark if they should leave him at his hostel.
“The doors will be locked; there won’t be anyone on duty,” Mark replied nervously.
Fiona had the answer: “Don’t worry, we won’t throw you out on the street: you can stay with us tonight,” she said.
“Bob too,” Susan added.
So that night, they all stayed at Fiona’s flat: Fiona, in her bedroom; Mark, on the floor of the common room, with blankets borrowed from Fiona, and Bob, sharing Susan’s bed.
CHAPTER 23
Buchanan Street
“Don’t want to go to Kirby
Don’t want to go to Speke:
Don’t want to go from all I know,
In Back Buchanan Street!”
Harry and Gordon Dison
Mark finished his professional exams in February. As this was in the middle of the university academic year, he spent the Thursday evening after the last paper with the potholing club in the Grapes. His future employment was often discussed at these meetings, and this occasion was no different.
“Ten quid a week! Is that all?” Bob Smith shook his head in amazement, as he had done on many occasions before. “I thought trainee solicitors were well off.”
“Well, it’s better than a student grant,” Mark replied, as he took another sip of his beer, and got ready to defend his decision for the umpteenth time. Sue and Paul had their faces screwed up in expressions of sheer horror. He had been through the pros and cons of working as an articled clerk before, but the idea of earning such a low salary was something his friends were unable to accept.
“Oh come on!”
“Well, it is. My grant has never worked out as more than seven pounds ten bob for every week of term time.”
“But five hundred quid a year! After all that studying, you end up less well off than a bricky!”
Dave Wise had overheard the conversation, and joined the group. “Couldn’t you get any better money anywhere else?” he asked helpfully.
“There are some good firms which pay well – if you have the right connections – but articles aren’t easy to find. So articled clerks are paid peanuts.”
Dave stroked his chin thoughtfully. It was true that Mark had changed and matured considerably over the past few years, but even then, he surmised, it wouldn’t just be the absence of good connections which would have prevented him from being taken on by the best firms.
“Absolutely ridiculous!” rejoined Bob, continuing to shake his head so vigorously that Mark was afraid he was about to lose some of his long hair.
“Quite so!” echoed Paul, sucking the inevitable piece of chewing gum. “Can’t you use your qualifications for something else? Do you have to be a solicitor?”
Mark was undeterred. “That’s what I’m going to do,” he said. “I’ve accepted, Bob. As I say, it’s better than a student grant.”
“You know, Mark, I’d never accept that sort of money,” Bob, observed. “I’d rather go on the dole than earn so little!”
Mark wore a withdrawn and dreamy expression. “It’s only for a few years, Bob. Then I’ll be a solicitor, and have lots of money.”
Susan had been watching impassively while this conversation progressed. She felt some sympathy for the prospective articled clerk. “Come off it Bob,” she said. “Don’t put the feller off, Can’t you see – he’s only just finished his exams.”
“Even so....”
“Besides, you can’t talk. If anyone can be criticised for having a substandard style of living, it’s you. When do you think you’re going to get a decent flat, instead of that hovel down by the docks?”
“It’s not a hovel.”
“Why, you’ve even been enticing this fine young professional gentleman, with a great career ahead of him, to share your slum with you. You should be ashamed of yourself, my love!”
Bob looked incensed. But this line of argument took Mark completely by surprise. “Don’t say that!” he cried, with a look of anguish, as he imagined the promise of sharing accommodation with friends vanishing into thin air. “I want to live there. I’ve never lived in a flat before.”
“Oh, nonsense, Mark. Why must you sound so feeble?” Sue snapped contemptuously.
Mark decided his best option was to withdraw from the fray. He offered to buy drinks, and in the absence of orders, disappeared to buy himself one.
Bob changed the subject. He turned to Dave. “It’s the Simpson’s trip in three weeks time, isn’t it?” he asked.
The club president, whose eyes had been focused in a tired stare at the floor during the preceding argument, raised his head, and his face at once brightened with excitement,
“That’s right,” he replied with enthusiasm. “We need to plan the meet carefully. It’s a good hard sporting trip. So we’ll need a pretty strong team.”
Paul was quick to see where his interest lay. “Count me out,” he said. “I’ll see you in the pub though, when you surface!”
“Will you be coming, Bob?” Dave asked.
“Wouldn’t miss the trip, Dave.”
“Of course,” Dave continued emphatically. “I do emphasise that it is important that we do have a strong team. We can’t afford to have any problems on this trip. There must be no mistakes. That means no passengers, Bob. It would ruin the trip for the rest of us.”
Bob understood the oblique reference to Mark, and agreed without hesitation. “Aye! You’re absolutely right,” he said.
Mark returned from the bar just in time to hear Dave’s last sentence. He too had heard about Simpson’s Pot. “Are you talking about Simpson’s?” he asked innocently.
“Yes Mark,” Dave admitted reluctantly. He could anticipate Mark’s next request.
“I’d like to go on that meet,” Mark said to glum looks all round.
Dave sunk back into his chair, with an expression of paternal tenderness. “Do you know why we want to do it?”
Mark shook his head.
“Because it’s hard, Mark – one of the hardest trips in Yorkshire!”
Mark was not put off. “Well, I’d like to see it anyway,” he said.
Dave heaved a long sigh. “Listen, Mark,” he said, with an effort to hide his impatience. “We really do appreciate your keenness. But we have to be realistic. Simpson’s is just not the sort of cave which would suit you.”
“Why not?”
“It’s super severe, Mark – one of the hardest of the hard caves.”
“Why is it super severe?”
“Because it’s a hard cave, Mark,” Dave repeated, wondering if he was ever going to get through to him. “Look, Mark, I don’t want to disappoint you, but do you really think you’ve got what it takes to traverse across a pitch and pass one of the most difficult squeezes in England, which happens to come out just above an eighty foot ladder pitch, which you have to climb down to. Let’s face it Mark: you’ll never make it.”
“How big are the other ladder pitches?”
“They’re not too big but, with the accumulated effect of the rest of the cave, we expect to find them very tiring.”
At this point Dave was aghast to hear Bob remark kindly: “To be fair, Dave, the other pitches aren’t supposed to be much of a problem.”
“Are they against the wall?”
Bob smiled benignly: “The feller who told me about it reckoned there weren’t many places where you can take your weight off the ladder, and rest against the rock – but the big pitch is mainly against the wall.”
“Then I’ll be all right,” Mark announced triumphantly. “The only problem I’ll have will be with the ladders. I can do everything else. I’ve never had trouble with squeezes or traverses before.”
“It’s the ladders we’re worried about,” rejoined Dave seriously. “Well, I’m sorry, Mark. I just don’t think we should take the risk.”
“Please!” Mark’s face was a picture of pleading and disappointment. He was so intense that a distant observer might have imagined he was pleading for his life. He turned to his friend and future flat-mate.
Bob felt sorry for his friend. There was, after all, some truth in what he said, and he admired his friend’s indomitable determination to succeed in the face of his usual difficulties.
“If Mark doesn’t go, I don’t go either,” he said suddenly. This was an unprecedented thing for him to say, and was said on the spur of the moment. Once said, he instantly regretted it. But once he had made up his mind, he would not withdraw the remark.
The president was taken completely by surprise. For a moment he glared angrily at Bob’s glass, as if willing the demon in the liquor to lubricate Bob’s mental machinery with some common sense. “All right, Bob,” he said at last, smiling slyly. “I certainly don’t want to lose you. Tell me: if Mark comes, will you be responsible for him?”
It was not a challenge that Bob relished, but he had no liking for the patronising way Dave had spoken to Mark, and no particular wish to back down. So he nodded emphatically: “That’s all right, Dave,” he said coolly. “Leave him to me!”
“Very well then, he can come,” Dave agreed reluctantly.
About ten minutes later, Pablo took a seat beside Mark and Bob. He did not look very pleased and drew on his cigarette, as if he was breathing fire. He spoke to Bob first.
“I believe Mark’s coming on the Simpson’s trip,” he said flatly.
Bob nodded.
“I thought we’d decided Mark wasn’t to come on the very hard trips.”
“That’s right, Pablo; but I said I’d be responsible for him.”
“Come off it, Bob. You know very well that if owt happens to him, we’ll all have to help sort him out.”
Bob made no comment.
“Nothing will go wrong,” Mark promised defiantly.
Pablo turned on him at once. “How do you know?” he asked angrily. “If nowt goes wrong with you, it’ll be about the first time ever. You’re just not fit enough for any hard cave – let alone Simpson’s.”
“Oh, but I am,” Mark replied, his voice rising in a defensive whine, which did nothing to improve the force of his argument. “I’ve been doing exercises. I’ve done a bit of jogging.”
Pablo clearly did not believe him. “Listen, Mark,” he said. “I’ve done everything I can do to help you: I’ve even given you climbing practice – and ladder-climbing practice too – but let’s face it – you’re still no good. We’ve given you many chances, but you’ve always failed. We’ve asked you to stick to easy trips, but you still insist on going on hard ones. That’s true, isn’t it?”
Mark hung his head, and said nothing.
“And do you still think you’ll do Simpson’s?”
Mark nodded.
“Well, you’d better be right. If anything goes wrong this time, I’m going to give the club a simple choice: either they ban you, or I’ll leave. And I know the choice they’ll make!”
Mark had arranged to start his articles one week after the end of his examinations. He moved into Buchanan Street, after a short holiday and a few days before his apprenticeship began.
He was sad to leave the little rectangular room, which had been his home for nearly three years. True it was small and the walls were thin. But then it had had the luxury of central heating, and the hostel had all the other conveniences he had needed, including a canteen, a lounge, a television room, telephone cubicles, and bathrooms. He looked forward to his new accommodation with a sense of foreboding; he wondered why he was so keen to move out of this luxury into a place which was so sadly lacking in the basic amenities.
He emptied his drawers and packed the sum total of his belongings into two suitcases, and a padlocked wooden box. He unlocked the padlock and inspected the contents. No. There was no room for anything else. It was loaded with books – nearly all of them Classical texts – and the padlock would stay on the box throughout his stay at Buchanan Street. What would his friends think of him, if they knew what was in the box, he wondered. He could see no purpose in cultivating the image of an intellectual – it would have been a false and misleading image anyway, and might lead to much misunderstanding. Fiona knew, of course, but even she would never have guessed the true depth of his interest.
His grant had all but run out, and he could not afford to pay for a taxi. So he effected his removal by bus. He took the two suitcases first, and came back for the box. It was a heavy box, with two iron handles at either end. He picked it up with a great effort, and leaning backwards at a ridiculously obtuse angle, struggled downstairs. Then, picking up the box again, he leant backwards, sweating profusely under the weight of the heavily laden container, and staggered down the road on the seemingly endless journey to the bus stop, leaving the cases at reception for collection later
“Welcome, friend. Make yourself at home.” Bob threw open the door, and grasped the box by its two iron handles. “We’ve got you the best bedroom,” he continued. “Come upstairs and see for yourself.”
Mark followed him up the steep flight of narrow stairs. There was a landing, and doors opening onto it. At the end of the landing opposite the stairs, there was the entrance to Mark’s new home.
“There you are. How do you like it?” his friend asked,
Mark studied his new surroundings. There was an old wardrobe, which had obviously seen better days; the cracks and marks on it indicated a very limited life expectancy. There was an old double brass bed, complete with mattress and blankets. Another mattress lay on the floor, fitting snugly into an even older iron frame, with springs intact, but without either headboard or legs.
“You may have to share your room when we have parties,” Bob remarked, nodding in the direction of the mattress on the floor. “This room’s the favourite one for screwing. You won’t mind, will you?”
Mark shook his head. “I just wish I could be one of the lucky fellers!” he said.
Mark continued his inspection – not that this would make any difference to the decision he was already committed to. It seemed that the room had escaped the general deterioration caused by damp – with the exception of a long dark finger which discoloured the plaster in one corner. There was no chest of drawers, and Mark guessed at once that he was expected to live out of his suitcases. It was early March; the room was cold, and without heating. But it was twice as big as his old room at the hostel; the rent was half as much, and he was with friends.
“It’s fine,” Mark found himself say. “I’m really glad to be here.”
“Then come downstairs and have a cup of coffee. I’ve got something to show you.”
Mark followed Bob down into the Common Room. It was the same as he had always known it – with one exception. There were the same walls with the plaster decorated with the familiar garish abstract design; the same blanket boxes lining the walls; the same uneven floor covered with lino; the same electric fire, being the only source of artificial heat in the premises, as well as the same window with the same cracked pane of glass, which had never been repaired. In one corner, a television was mounted on a folding card table – a table recognisable as the one used for the record player at parties. In the middle of the room was the only thing which was different.
“Isn’t it marvellous?” Bob asked, his voice full of pride.
Mark blinked twice to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “I-er don’t know anything about motorbikes,” he confessed.
The machine occupied the chief position in the room, the chrome of its mudguards and handle bars gleaming brightly in the dim light. Its engine had been dismantled, and many of the pieces lay on top of an oily rag under the bike, with some sheets of newspaper to protect the floor. There was the faint but all pervading scent of an oily vapour.
“Fantastic machine!” Bob exclaimed proudly. “I never used to ride a bike much before I came here. The one I had then gave no end of trouble. So now I’ve just bought this one. It’s twice as good as t’other one. And you should see her go! She’s one of the old ones – genuine British made – none of that flashy Japanese rubbish! I’ll give you a ride sometime. Isn’t it a real beauty?”
“Do you do motor-bike repairs in here?” Mark asked, trying to hide his surprise, and without answering Bob’s question.
“Oh yes! Why not?” Bob replied, without noticing the hint of disapproval in Mark’s voice. “We drain all the oil out before we take them inside! It’s far too cold to work outside at this time of year. And you can watch tele while you mend the engine!”
Mark found his enthusiasm for his new lodging plummeting. He had seen very little of his friend, except at meetings of the caving club and the occasional party; so he had never appreciated the finer points of his character. Bob’s style of living was quite different to the glamorous one he had imagined.
