The Loner, page 8
Paul rang the bell, and the sound of footsteps was heard galloping down a flight of stairs. As the door opened, Paul retired behind his friend, chewing his gum nervously. “What a splendid pad!” he said. “I’ll leave all the arrangements to you, Bob.”
“You might regret it.”
“Why?”
“The flat might not suit me.”
The door opened, and a slim youth in overalls eyed them critically, as if he was interviewing thieves. He asked them who they were.
Bob replied: “We’re students.” He put on his most plausible manner and smiled broadly. He tried to look like someone interested in buying a house. “We saw your advert on College notice board, and we’re looking for a pad. I believe you wanted two new flat mates.”
The other smiled. “If that’s what you want, you’re welcome” he said. “Come in and I’ll show you round. Me and my mate.” He paused and then added in a mocking superior manner: “that is – my colleague and I – I mean me and my mate, Chris.” He reeled backwards slightly and laughed at some hidden joke, which his guests could not quite understand. They could see he had been celebrating. “We are two left out of four. The others failed their exams. In fact, I’ve just been out celebrating with them.”
“Celebrating?”
“Why not? You earn real money if you’re not a student. But we’ll need some more flat mates, or we’ll go broke with the rent.”
They followed him up the stairs. The banisters were firm; the wooden stairs miraculously did not creak. There was a lock on a landing door, and the flat was self-contained behind the locked door. The air was dry, and there was not the slightest scent of damp.
The room they were led into had a fireplace at its centre and a television set near it. There were radiators which looked new. Four luxurious armchairs and a settee were particularly inviting. The walls were creamy white with framed pictures hanging from them. A table and a desk fulfilled the remaining requirements of student life. There was a record player on the table with a rack, well stocked with a selection of folk and popular music. It was a big room – large enough for a small party- enough space to dance in.
As Bob and Paul viewed the room, their faces lit up; their eyes beamed.“Do you mean to say you’ve got central heating too?” There was surprise in Paul’s voice. The flat was really too good to be true.
The host laughed. “That’s right,” he said. It comes on on October 1st and goes off on May1st. The landlord’s a civil servant – he believes in regulations – it doesn’t matter what the weather’s like: the heating’s on or off depending on the season. It’s gas fired and very cheap.
“Now let me show you the bathroom.” He opened a door. Bath, wash hand basin, and toilet gleamed immaculate in the electric light of a room which received no natural illumination, while an extractor fan whirred in the background. The tenant then pointed to two other doors which opened off the lounge. “And these could be your rooms,” he added, stressing the word “could.” They peered into them. They looked homely enough, each with a table, chair, and single bed by a window.
“My bedroom is over here,” the resident continued, with the same mocking imitation of the accent of a posh estate agent. “My room has one facility which you’ll miss in yours. If you want to make use of it, when I don’t need it, you only have to ask.”
He turned the handle and opened the door. The room had a large bay window, and overlooked the park. He pointed at the bed and smiled slyly. So that was what the facility was – a double bed!
Bob’s moustache twitched appreciatively. He was completely taken aback – almost speechless. Accommodation such as this, apparently so well equipped for all the events of student life, was so hard to come by that he decided there had to be a flaw somewhere. Then he regained his composure and returned to business.
“Aye, this is great,” he declared. “There’s one thing that worries me. You see, in our last flat, we had arguments with neighbours and ...”
“You mean you were kicked out?”
Bob stared at his toes. “Not exactly. We felt we had to leave. You know how it is – if you can’t get on, you have to go...”
“Voluntarily of course,” added Paul falsely, chewing his gum faster than ever. “You see – we had some parties. They said we were making too much noise.”
“Were you?”
“No. It was all a storm in a teacup really – but they called police...”
The tenant grinned at their embarrassment. “If you’re worried about the neighbours, that’s no problem. We’re all students here. No-one minds how many parties you have, so long as you invite everyone else. As for the landlord, he’s as good as gold; so long as you look after his property, don’t paint it pink or some other ridiculous colour – or pin nude pictures on the wall – he’ll leave you alone.”
They returned to their bikes.
“I can’t understand why we didn’t accept on the spot, Bob. After all what do you expect to get for just five quid a week? It was dry and tidy – with every modern convenience. In fact it had more.”
Bob chose not to answer the question. Instead, he remarked, “You know, we still have one flat to see and the rent is three quid. If it’s a good one, it’ll be a bargain too good to miss.”
“Oh yeah! Then wait for the rent to go up the day after we move in!”
They drove into Prince’s Road and its avenue of trees, which still retained their early Autumn green, and turned into a side road which ran South down towards the docks. After a short distance, the tall Victorian houses of the road and avenue dedicated to Prince Albert were behind them. To their left there were rows of old red brick terraces, packed close together with hundreds of tiny chimneys belching smoke, and narrow alleys between the tall walls of small back yards. To their right, stretching for several hundred acres until almost as far as Parliament Street, there appeared a vast area of desolation, a waste land no doubt left safe and tidy, but otherwise bereft of habitation, after the demolition works of a municipal slum clearance scheme. In the centre and on the South side of this wilderness, one solitary building remained out of the hundreds that had been cleared. It was a public house, which had miraculously escaped the attentions of the bulldozers. This lonely building was to have to wait many years, like an oasis in a desert, before new houses were built to replace the old ones.
“Do we have to see this place, Bob?” Paul asked, after they had both dismounted. “Are you sure this is the right way? I can’t believe that students could live here. Who knows what could happen to someone living here. They could get beaten up!”
Bob had also come to the same conclusion, but his friend’s nervousness amused him.
“Oh Aye! This is a rough place, Paul. See here it is on map.” He held out the Liverpool A-Z Guide and pointed. “This is where we are. It should be just off the second to our left on right hand side. Don’t tell me that you’re old fashioned and fussy about where you live! I thought you were a socialist.”
“No – no. Well – not exactly. But do you think we really ought to be here. Suppose we’re assaulted?”
“Don’t be daft.”
Paul gathered his courage, and they set off again and turned off the main road into the labyrinth of backstreets, deep in the heart of Liverpool. They arrived at the door of an end of terrace house, in a road signed “Buchanan Street,” and were surprised to see that it had the same address which had appeared on the College notice board.
As they got off their bikes, Paul Johns drew back behind his friend, as if he was expecting an encounter with a green-skinned alien from the Planet Mars! “Don’t knock Bob – not just yet at any rate,” he said. “Have you thought – someone could be playing a practical joke?”
“There’s only one way to find out, Paul.” Bob knocked boldly on the door; the door opened. A cheerful young man in jeans and pullover gave them a welcoming smile.
Bob made the introductions in the usual formal way. “We’re students from College of Commerce,” he said. “We’re looking for somewhere to live. We saw your advert. We’d like to have a look around.”
“You’re very welcome to do so,” the other replied, ushering them into a dark, narrow passage, which passed as a hall. He led the way; there was hardly room for two people to pass each other. “My name’s Dick, by the way. This is the lounge,” he added grandly. “This is where we spend most of our time.”
The floor of the room they had entered was rough and uneven, with no covering other than a sheet of linoleum. A finger of damp could be seen creeping up the wall in one corner. The large window was old fashioned and made up of a multiplicity of panes: one had been broken, and the broken pane was sealed with hardboard; another was cracked and bound together with tape. There was a fireplace, and, on one side, the inevitable second hand television set. The walls were decorated with a fresco of abstract design which, although not untasteful, had obviously been painted by a student. There were one or two chairs of indifferent condition and indeterminate age, and two rows of ancient blanket boxes with old cushions and blankets for upholstery. A small desk stood in one corner with a single chair beside it and a pile of books. Another youth with dark hair and short beard sat lazily stretched out on one of the chairs.
“This is Phil,” said their host. “Phil, these two lads are looking for a pad. Now,” he turned back to guests, “now Phil is an artist. He’s at the College of Art. He’s done all this painting. What do you think of it?”
“Great. Just great. It’s really fantastic – a right professional job!” Bob replied with enthusiasm; to be truthful the colours and the design of the mural were not unpleasing – he had seen worse.
They introduced themselves, and Bob asked to see the rest of the house.
Their host showed them the kitchen – a tiny room large enough for a sink and a stove but little else; it was built as a kind of annexe to the main structure. “You have to take turns to cook here,” the student remarked in answer to their enquiring glances. “But it works. You’ll find we all eat at different times.”
The two outsiders made no comment. Cooking arrangements of this kind were common in all student accommodation.
The youth retired towards the back door, as the three of them crowded into the tiny kitchen. He opened the door and made a proud gesture. “This,” he said, “is our shed.” The gap between the kitchen and the tall wall enclosing the yard had indeed been covered with rafters and transparent, corrugated, plastic sheets so that it looked watertight, but there was no door or partition to separate this covered area from the yard beyond it. A motorbike stood there, oil draining into an old saucepan. The bike was old and second-hand – like everything else the students possessed.
“What a fabulous bike!” Bob’s eyes lit up with genuine interest, while Paul, who could see what was going to happen, looked less than happy.
“Yes – lovely old machine isn’t it! You can drive her for miles on very little petrol. The older they are the better; when you’ve got nothing else to do, you can strip an old bike down and pull it to pieces – and then put it together again. You can do your own repairs – why go to a garage, if you know how to service it? We both like to tinker with our bikes.”
“Now, Phil’s motorbike is outside in the yard.” He led them outside. The yard was enclosed by a wall about seven feet high. In area, it was scarcely larger than the living room. The ground had a tar macadam surface, and a tall gate opened onto the road outside. Phil’s bike stood gleaming immaculately as new, opposite the gates. Bob walked over to it and examined it, smiling happily. “I’ve always wanted somewhere to keep my old bike,” he mused. “Much better than leaving it out in the street.”
Then they returned inside, and the two guests were shown four rooms which were used as bedrooms. There were three upstairs, and the one downstairs was clearly a converted front room. They were all alike. None had received a recent coat of paint, and all had the cheapest and most rickety furniture in use anywhere, including beds on ancient brass frames (which, as Bob was not slow to remark, were all double beds). Each room was moderately light and dry, but none was without at least a trace of damp in a wall, or of rottenness, in a window.
As they came down the stairs, they heard the hiss of an electric kettle on the boil. Back in the living room, they found that Phil had made them coffee.
“Sit down! Sit down! Have a cup of coffee before you go. Nobody comes here and leaves without a drink.” He grinned broadly. There was a hint that there was more powerful stuff than coffee on the premises.
“Yes, that’s right,” their guide added. “Make yourself at home. Everyone is welcome here. Now tell us about the College of Commerce. I’ve hardly met anyone from there. That’s where they do business studies, isn’t it?”
“And Sociology and everything else.” Paul accepted his coffee, and wished, for the thousandth time, they had never come. His friend was showing an unhealthy interest in the place.
All of a sudden they heard a muffled noise outside the window. Paul sat bolt upright, swallowed a mouthful too quickly, and scalded his throat. His shocked expression looked as if he had witnessed the beginning of the Revolution! Bob was in time to see a little nose, which had been pressed close to a window pane, disappear quickly below the window-cil.
“Bloody kids! I’ll settle this!” Phil’s friend exclaimed. He rushed into the kitchen, and came back with a bowl full of water. He ran up the stairs with a laugh.
“So you study Sociology,” the artist remarked, as if nothing had happened. “That’s a B.A. degree isn’t it? It sounds as though you have to get to know about all kinds of people. You’d find this neighbourhood would suit you. Hard working dockers, beggars, vagabonds, and tramps: you name them, we’ ve got them all.”
They tried to listen, but their attention was elsewhere. They heard Phil’s flatmate open an upstairs window. There was a stifled squeak of laughter from outside.
Phil put his finger to to his lips and whispered: “Carry on talking – just as we were before.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes.
A voice roared from the upstairs window: “Hi Ya, kids! D’ye want a bath?” There was the splash of water as four tiny children ran for cover – all squealing with laughter and evidently enjoying the game.
Just then Bob felt a call of nature. “There’s one place you haven’t shown us, “he said, “and I need to go there right now.”
“It’s out at the back.”
“The back?”
“That’s right. No modern conveniences here! There’s no bathroom either.”
Paul raised both eyebrows. “But how do you keep clean?” he asked.
At this moment, Phil’s friend returned, looking very pleased, and shouting triumphantly: “I got one of them soaked him through to the skin. Just wait ‘til his mother sees him!”
The two guests gave him a surprised stare. “Oh! You’re talking about baths are you? You don’t have to worry about things like that here. Keeping clean is easy. If you’re Phil, you’re just about small enough to sit in the kitchen sink once a week – that’s as good a way as any of having a bath. If you do as I do, you go to the University and have a bath there.”
“Are you from the University then?” Paul raised his eyebrows.
“That’s right.”
“Then why do you live here?”
“That’s easily explained,” the other replied. “Last year I lived in a University Hall of Residence, and you know what they’re like, don’t you?”
The two guests nodded slightly. They had heard rumours.
Dick continued: “Halls of Residence are simply luxurious; the beds and furniture are new; the rooms are painted annually and regularly cleaned; meals are provided and the food is good, but the rent is high. If you live on a grant, you don’t have much over to spend after you’ve paid your rent. A Hall of Residence is quite self-contained. It gives you everything you need – except freedom. There are rules and regulations. You just aren’t allowed to rely on your own common sense. They’re single bed establishments only, you know. Girls aren’t allowed into the men’s rooms, and men aren’t even allowed to set foot inside the ladies’ halls!”
Bob shook his head solemnly: “That would never suit me,” he declared.
“The doors are closed at ten at night, and so you have to get a special pass if you want to stay out late. All kinds of things aren’t allowed in a hall; motorbikes, for example. There’s nowhere to keep your bike. And God help you if spare parts are found in your room!”
Paul grinned and remarked: “That’s what’s called prejudice!”
“You’re among hundreds of other students, and you’ve no privacy. You can’t even get away from the bloke you don’t like. You don’t like to object if he has his record player on all night, but if he objects to your gramophone, you must turn it off.”
“That’s not fair,” Bob said.
“Worst of all, if you live in Hall, you might just as well live on a University Campus; your life is quite artificial; you have no contact with the local community, or for that matter, with anybody outside the University at all. You get full of ideas which bear no relation to the real world.
“I got fed up after a year,” Dick concluded. “I thought I’d get a flat or a house in a place that had real character – live with friends and make our own rules. Live cheaply somewhere where we’d have some money left after paying our rent. So our house may be a slum. But living here is great, and we’re free to do as we please.”
Bob retired to the toilet, and returned shortly afterwards. “I really do admire you for living here,” he said. “I think I could live in a pad like this – but we’ll have to think about it. Tell me – just to help us make up our minds – do you have any parties here? That’s what we’re interested in.”
