The Loner, page 7
They turned the corner, and Fiona eased her horse into a trot and then into a canter. Fiona might just as well have saved her breath. The moment the canter began at her steady pace, Shadow overtook her and bolted. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I can’t stop her. She’s going away with me,” cried the indignant owner, as the horse sped into the distance, with her rider clinging to the pummel of the saddle, as if her life depended on it.
Fiona shook her head and tried not to laugh. She made up her mind to let Shadow go and let off steam, while she continued the canter at her own steady pace.
Meanwhile the other horses instinctively started to crowd together. Soon Mark’s horse’s nostrils were breathing hard on Fiona’s heels. “Keep him back,” she shouted.
As Mark reined his horse back, the girl with the cushion reined Sally back. The chemist was right behind her – but too close for Sally’s liking. Horses do not like to have other horses treading on their heels – particularly at a canter. So Sally kicked up a hind hoof in front of the chemist’s horse – as a polite warning with no intention of hurting anyone at all. Thereupon the chemist’s horse halted abruptly – without first taking her rider into her confidence. The horse stopped; the chemist kept going and described a perfect parabolic arc through the air. He landed smartly in the middle of a gorse bush.
Fiona and Susan were spending some time consoling the fallen man’s injured feelings, when Susan suddenly looked up and saw an enraged figure in the distance, making gorilla-like gestures and chasing a riderless horse. It was Mrs. Watts.
Susan remounted and rode over to her. Mrs. Watts was soaked to the skin and covered with a coat of black slimy mud. “What happened ?” she asked.
Mrs. Watts screwed up her face into an angry scowl: “It’s my horse. Shadow won’t do anything I tell her. I showed her the way to the gate – but she wouldn’t go that way. So she jumped the hedge!” She shook her fists in exasperation. “The damned horse knows I can’t jump! She did it to me deliberately! Pitched me right into the ditch behind the hedge! And now – just look at me!”
The ride returned to the riding school in low spirits. The learner riders looked tired and sore, and the horses seemed bored and apathetic. The instructors were also despondent, tired of angry words from dissatisfied customers.
“That was the ride from Hell!” Susan remarked, when only Fiona could hear.
Some goats in the stable yard came towards them looking for scraps. Fiona shooed them away.
After dismounting, the customers went to pay their fees. Fiona received payment without ceremony in the yard. It was Mark’s turn. She looked up and found him staring at her with a glazed admiring expression in his eyes. He blushed and turned his eyes to the ground when he realized she was watching him. He remained in this strange bowed position for a while without saying a word. Fiona began to wonder if there was anything the matter.
How weird, she thought.
“Is everything all right? Did you enjoy the ride?” she asked.
“Oh – er – yes. I-I – did,” came the staggered reply.
Fiona scanned him. Quite handsome, she thought – if only he had more self-confidence and could lose that awful stammer. He was obviously steeling himself to say something. She wished he would be quick. The other customers were waiting.
“T-tell me,” he began after a great effort. “D-do you do j-jumping lessons?”
“Yes we do, Mr. Flitley.”
“I-I-I’m wondering if-if – if – I could have a go.”
Fiona was relieved that the request was so innocent, and one which she would not have to refuse. Well, jumping lessons were not as easy as hacks, she thought. A lesson or two would do no harm; he would soon learn if he liked it.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed one of the goats approaching them.
“Jumping is hard work, but do come along, and we’ll see how you get on.” He raised his eyes for a moment, and she thought he was going to stare at her again. Back to business, she thought. “And now, do you have your fee for this lesson?”
“Yes,” said Mark. He pulled a pound note from his pocket. He could not take his eyes off the girl. Then snap and the pound note had gone. He turned around abruptly. Where had the money gone? The girl giggled and looked at the goat. The end of the note was disappearing into the animal’s voracious mouth. After all, what is money to a goat, except so much paper for eating?
Mark looked confused. Behind them, Mrs. Watts could be heard pouring out her troubles to Susan. “I really must have Shadow changed,” she was saying. “I just can’t understand what is wrong with the horse. I always buy such quiet horses, but they become frisky when I start riding them. Now why is that? Of course Shadow has enough exercise. He has a whole field to himself to run about in!”
As the customers left, Fiona could not help but notice the long admiring expression on Mark’s face.
CHAPTER 5
Bob Smith
I wish I were back in Liverpool –
Liverpool town where I was borne,
Where there ain’t no trees,
or scented breeze,
Or fields of waving corn;
Where there’s lots of girls
With peroxide curls,
And the black and tan flows free;
it’s Liverpool town for me”
Trad.
Robert Smith and Paul Johns were sitting pensively in the Golden Lion, staring at the metal table top which separated them, with expressions of gloom and despondency in their eyes. They sipped their beer in no great hurry without seeming to enjoy the drink. For once, both were looking unusually smart, dressed in plain dark leather donkey jackets and freshly creased blue jeans.
“I really am fed up, Paul,” Bob was saying. “I can’t understand it. We don’t seem to be able to find a decent flat anywhere. Oh can’t you put that gum away,” he added irritably. “The way you keep chewing, anyone would think you’re concentrating more on gum than finding a flat.”
His friend ignored the last comment, and remarked: “Well, I suppose we didn’t ought to be so surprised, Bob. After all, we were thrown out of our last flat, and new landlords are entitled to ask for references from our old landlord.’’
“But we have to find another flat, Paul.” Bob was not at all pleased to have the the Landlord’s rights drawn to his attention.
Paul noted his friend’s irritation and instantly abandoned his thoughts on the matter. “After all, it wasn’t really our fault we were thrown out,” he declared. There was strong emphasis on the word “really.” “We would have paid the rent, if only he had asked for it nicely. I mean we weren’t really worried about the repairs to our flat, were we?”
“You might not have been, but I was. Now what we want is a decent flat – not one that’s damp with rusty iron windows or rotten doors, like our last one – one that has a proper carpet...one we can feel proud of when taking birds home... Not expensive. Ten quid a week is too much for both of us!”
“But how are we going to find a good flat, if every decent landlord demands a reference?”
“Let’s do some brainstorming.”
“Brainstorming? What’s that, Bob?”
“You. know: you just think of any idea that comes into your head, and talk about it – no matter how stupid.”
“Suits me... I’ve got it!” Paul thumped his fist on the table quite suddenly. The metal top trembled and the glasses rattled as the beer slopped around in them. “Yes I’ve got an idea: why don’t we write ourselves our own reference?”
“Oh aye, what a splendid idea!” Bob groaned sceptically. “Just imagine us writing: “TESTIMONIAL – we the undersigned hereby declare that we have, to the best of our knowledge and belief, always been exceptionally well behaved tenants – never late with our rent...”
“Usually early-risers...”
“Too busy with studies, ever to hold a party...”
“So quiet that no neighbour would ever even dream of complaining.”
“So you agree – nobody would believe that! They’d have to verify.”
“Well anyway we were brainstorming weren’t we? How about writing the testimonial – just like the one we were talking about – and signing it in the name of somebody else – our old landlord, perhaps.”
“But then we’d be telling lies. It might be forgery”
“Who cares about that, Bob?”
“You speak for yourself, Paul. I’ll have no part in any such plan.”
Paul hung his head in a mocking show of dismay. “You know, Bob, there are some people who might give us references. One of our college lecturers would – I’m sure of it.”
“You must be joking, Paul. Don’t you remember all the fuss that landlord of ours made with college authorities – and your university tutor before that? Just imagine what College would say: ‘These two splendid young men are students of the College – to the best of my knowledge, information, and belief’.” Bob stressed this last phrase. “‘To the best of our knowledge, information, and belief,” he repeated, “their character is upright and honest and they both have some very definite ideas or the meaning of Justice in the modern world. This reference is given without any responsibility whatsoever. Please telephone the writer for further information.’ No! That’s no good.”
“Bob, I was only brainstorming.”
“Let’s have another go then.”
“Tell me, Bob, isn’t your father a rich doctor?”
“Aye.” Bob made this admission grudgingly; it was not the kind of fact that a Socialist like him should have been proud of.
“Then why don’t you ask him to give you a reference?”
“I’ve tried him already, Paul,” Bob replied ruefully, fingering his moustache disdainfully. “He gave me a reference for our last flat, if you remember. I telephoned him yesterday, and he asked me what had happened to our last flat. I told him we’d left it. I didn’t think I’d have to give a reason. That bastard of a landlord had already written to him about us, and my father felt honour bound to pay the rent we owed him. He told me to mend my ways before I asked him for any help again.”
Paul Johns could no longer resist his friend’s despair. A little under. the influence, and with moisture in his eyes, he raised both hands in a tragic gesture and cried: “Then what are we to do?’’
Bob shook his head sadly. He was resigned to his fate. “I suppose we’ll just have to accept second best, Paul. If we can’t get a first rate furnished flat at a reasonable rent for ourselves, we’ll have to go in with someone else. We’ll just have to watch College notice board, and see if anyone is advertising for flatmates.”
The student quarter of Liverpool was close to the city centre and included the Georgian and Victorian terraces near the two cathedrals and in the university area, as well as houses in the neighbourhood of Sefton and Prince’s Parks.
To the West and North of the Anglican Cathedral, between Upper Parliament Street and the University Precinct, and on either side of Catherine Street, there are the remains of the old Georgian residential area; terraces of once fashionable houses whose exteriors still remind the visitor of the graceful and spacious architecture of that age; large rectangular windows, porches with curved arches and Classical columns designed to give the impression of colonnaded porticos. But this was then merely the facade of these grand old houses, which concealed the dilapidation, rottenness and decay of the interiors. These houses, once the homes of merchants and other immensely rich people were, in the mid-sixties, mostly converted into flats tenanted by a variety of impecunious citizens, ranging from students to young families and prostitutes. This Georgian suburb formed a not inconsiderable part of the student quarter.
Prince’s Road and Prince’s Avenue are the extension of Catherine Street on the other side of Upper Parliament Street. All the great houses fronting onto these thoroughfares were in the Victorian style. Large bay windows and individually distinct terraces had the design which the Victorians loved. Behind these rows of mansions, there were the smaller dwellings tenanted by the dockers and their families and all those other ordinary working folk, whose labour had made the City great and prosperous in former times. Now the terraces of smaller houses that remain, although decaying, were still the homes of the descendants of the original occupants, while the gentry had abandoned their mansions to students and other flat-dwellers, as well as to neglect and decay.
Roads lined with Victorian mansions like those at Prince’s Road and Prince’s Avenue extended as far as Prince’s Park and Sefton Park, and the students’ quarter extended around the perimeters of these public recreation grounds. The Prince’s Road and Prince’s Park area bears the postcode of Liverpool 8 and the name of Toxteth, which have since become synonymous with poverty, and social problems. These were some of Liverpool’s worst slums.
It was in the Georgian area west of Upper Parliament Street that Bob and Paul began their search for new accommodation. They rode their motor bikes up Canning Street, once a fashionable road named after a national hero. Those grand old stately terraces with their rows of pillared porches contrasted oddly with the general squalor of the neighbourhood.
The two students turned towards the door of the house they were looking for. There was not one bell push but six, one for each of the flats and bedsitters into which the property was divided. Bob rang one of the bells. A rather untidy youth with glasses and holes in his jeans answered the door. He asked who they were. Bob introduced himself and Paul. “We’re looking for a pad,” he said. “Can we see what you’ve got? We saw your note on college notice board.”
The youth welcomed them. He explained how he was a student and had had two companions the year before, but they had left after finishing their studies.
They passed through an outer door and an inner porch. Ahead of them, there was a wide and grand flight of stairs with wooden banisters. The plaster of the ceiling, although discoloured and covered with cobwebs, retained something of its pristine elegance. Four doors led off the hall at the bottom of the stairs – varnished oak doors set in a general background of white and blue paint. But the house was cold and reeked of damp; the timbers of the doors showed signs of rottenness; the varnish was peeling off the wooden panels of the doors; the staircase creaked alarmingly, and the banisters rattled in their sockets whenever any weight was put on them. As they approached the stairs, a woman with dirty clothes, dishevelled hair, and pockmarked skin, opened the door of her room a fraction and peered at them with interest. The wail of an infant could be heard from inside the room.
They climbed the stairs, and, at the third storey, arrived at the youth’s flat.
“Here you are,” he said, pointing to various familiar places. “The bathroom is over there. This is our landing. There are three bedrooms, one each for myself and my mates, and one other room for a television lounge. How do you like it?”
Bob twitched his moustache, as if savouring the damp atmosphere. He took in the general impression of shabbiness, but said aloud: “It’s fine, but when was it last painted?”
“Oh! The landlord never bothers about the common parts, much, but my old flat mate’s decorated and painted our part of the house only last year. We were all students of the College of Art. Come and see.”
They entered the television room, and the decorations instantly took them by surprise. The walls were painted – not in one colour but in several. Abstract designs, spiral and wavy patterns, and the images of naked girls all combined to produce a kaleidoscope of colour. The simple and tasteful elegance of the eighteenth century had been entirely overpowered by these modern masters.
“Isn’t this flat separated from rest of house?” Bob asked suspiciously. “Can everyone use your toilet and bathroom?”
“Yes they can, Bob, but they don’t usually. You see, the flat’s at the top of the stairs. Hardly anyone comes up here, unless they want to see me or my friends.”
Bob and Paul politely indicated they had other flats to look at, and would give due consideration to what that one had to offer – their host had made it all too evident that they would be more than welcome – and then they left the house to continue the search. Once outside they were free to discuss the accommodation they had been offered.
“What a terrible place,” Bob declared. “I’ll not stay there. Did you see the ‘pro’ on the ground floor looking us over as we went in?”
Paul agreed. “It’s a beautiful property, but how did it ever get into that state?”
“Bloody landlords,” cried Bob. “All they care about is brass! They’re not interested in looking after fine houses. If they can let them to students and get away without doing repairs, Nature and the elements will do the rest.”
Paul commenced chewing without seeming to share his friend’s earnestness for the subject.
“God, how I hate landlords! They’re the scum of the Earth!” Bob exclaimed. He put his right hand into his pocket and produced a little red book. “Have you seen this?” he asked, handling it with affection, and with the sort of reverence that a priest has for his Bible. “It’s called ‘The Thoughts of Mao’. Now that’s a man who really knows what he’s about. What splendid ideas of how to bring Justice to the World! Now listen to this. He says that Landlords are vermin – a class of evil which has to be stamped out and eliminated! That’s what we should do with landlords: we should exterminate them!”
Paul Johns stared at his friend during this monologue and grinned when he had finished. “I thought you told me you had a rich uncle,” he remarked. “Didn’t you say he owned a lot of property in the City of London? Are you going to exterminate him too?”
“No, of course not! He’s different. He’s a gentleman. He owns commercial properties. He doesn’t exploit workers and students. He’s not a slum Rachman!”
Paul laughed. “I think you’re a snob, Bob,” he said.
Bob and Paul continued their search. They mounted their motor bikes and rode past Prince’s Park and, at length, arrived at the far side of Sefton Park. Terraces of tall Victorian mansions overlooked the park, and were, in their turn, overlooked by a few towers of concrete flats. A road, circling the park, separated the houses from the public recreation ground; tall trees, their leaves becoming golden with the change of the season, emphasised the rural aspect of this urban retreat.
