The Loner, page 9
“Yes every second Saturday – at least, that’s what we intend. We had a party last Saturday, and it was a real success. We got plenty of girls from the Teachers Training Colleges, and it was great fun!”
“Did you have any trouble with neighbours – or the police?”
“None whatsoever, my friend. You see, all you need round here is tact.”
Paul jumped at the word “tact.” The remark was certainly aimed at him.
“We get on very well with our neighbours, you see. So, a few days before the party, we tell next door and give him a crate of beer. I don’t think all our neighbours were quite so happy as he was, but what can the police do if the next door neighbour won’t complain? So we had a good party, and we’ll have many more.”
Bob looked sceptical. It was too good to be true. “I’m glad you have no problem with the neighbours, or trouble with Police,” he remarked dryly. “But what about landlord? Does he mind?”
“Oh! I should think the landlord’s a good lad. At least, I hope he is.” Their host paused. “You see – I am the landlord! I own the house, and the rent pays the mortgage.”
Bob and Paul made their way back towards Prince’s Road. “Well,” said Paul, as if after giving much thought to the matter, “there’s not much choice is there? There’s only one flat that’s any good which we’ve seen – and that’s the one at Sefton Park. Let’s not think of living in the slums, Bob.”
Bob shook his head. “You’re a snob, Paul. That’s your trouble. You don’t want to kick a gift horse in the mouth, do you? Think of all that Buchanan Street has to offer.”
Paul raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Aren’t you the son of a rich doctor, whose parents paid for you to go to a public school?”
“Aye, that’s true. My dad’s surgery is in one of the poorest parts of a huge city, and he married his receptionist – my mother – from a poor family. I’ve seen real poverty, and I don’t like to see people suffer. That’s why I’m a socialist.”
“Well, all right then, Bob, but what does Buchanan Street have to offer?”
“The rent for a kick off – just three quid a week!”
The other laughed. “I’d say that’s expensive for the neighbourhood.”
“Regular parties. Riotous by the sound of it too. Rollicking good fun, if you ask me!”
“Oh yes! How many birds do you think they get round there? They’d be afraid of rape!”
“You mean to say they won’t get raped at parties anywhere else?”
“Not at the parties I go to, Bob!”
“How do you know, when you spend most of the night supping ale instead of chatting up the talent? Double beds thrown in too.”
“You can keep those old brass knackered things and the outside loo too.”
“Well, don’t you fancy having a home for a motorbike?”
Paul began to relax. “I suppose there is at least something to be said in favour of Buchanan Street,” he admitted slowly.
“You’re not a hypocrite, are you, Paul?”
“Of course not, Bob.”
“You study Sociology, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you had to be a Socialist to want to study Sociology.”
“That doesn’t follow, Bob. But – it’s true – I am a Socialist.”
“Then it can’t be a bad thing to live among the workers.”
“No. I’m surprised at you, Bob – a Socialist like you wanting to live with a capitalist landlord. I thought you had principles!”
Bob scratched his head and thought about his little red book. “Well perhaps there are some decent landlords,” he conceded. “Anyway, I know what I’m going to do. Are you with me, Paul? Or will you find somewhere else?”
Paul Johns sighed heavily. “Very well, you win,” he said. “If you move into Buchanan Street, I’ll join you.”
It was the end of one of the lectures for the Law degree course. Mark was worried about his work.
There were not more than fifty students on the law course. Their hair was conventional and short, and their clothes varied from suits to jeans and sweaters. All had failed to reach University for reasons which ranged from laziness, ignorance or cerebral incapacity to sheer bad luck. They were all either in their very late teens or early twenties.
Mark ran after the lecturer as he left the room.
“S-sir,” he called. “Sir!”
The lecturer stopped abruptly. “There’s no need to call me ‘sir’,” he said benignly. “You’re not at school now.”
“S-sir,” Mark repeated without thinking. “I-I w-wanted to talk to you – about my w-work.”
“I’m sorry, Mark; that will have to wait for another time. Can’t you see, I’m in a hurry?”
“I-I-I g-get such low marks.”
“So you do, Mark.”
“W-why?”
The lecturer was losing his patience. “Listen, Mark,” he snapped. “I know you’ve studied Latin – but that may not be enough. You’re reading Law now, and Law is not an easy subject. It’s true you haven’t been doing well recently. I don’t know why you haven’t done better. I don’t know why you’re at the bottom of the class. Think about it, Mark: you may have to face the fact that, perhaps, you may not be clever enough for a Law degree.”
The lecturer turned on his heel, and the student made no effort to follow him. He looked shocked and dismayed. A moment later, the older man was sorry he had behaved with so much impatience. “I’m sorry, Mark,” he said kindly, turning back again. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t really mean it. There are many reasons why you might not be doing well. The Law’s a new experience for you. It takes time to get the knack. It’s early days yet, Mark. Persevere, and you may find you’ll be all right.”
CHAPTER 6
The Royal Iris
It was a cold and frosty morning, many months later, at the beginning of the autumn term of the following academic year.
Mark got out of bed and brushed his teeth. The warm central heating gave him no reason to put on a dressing gown – in spite of the cold wind howling outside.
Mark had seen some changes since the previous academic year. He had passed his first year’s exams – in fact, he had only scraped through, but that was enough to allow him another year at the College. This did not mean he felt any more confident about his studies; instead, his work remained poor, and his tutors continued to despair of his prospects.
Then, too, his accommodation had changed. He had left the hotel in New Brighton, and after staying in digs with a family, had eventually found a place in a hostel with bed, breakfast and evening meal, all inclusive at the rate of £5.00 weekly.
His narrow accommodation was less than spacious – about five feet wide, and no more than fifteen foot long; but there was room for a wardrobe, a wash-hand basin, a bed, and some cases. Although space was confined, the tiny room was comfortable. Mark looked out of the tall window at one end of the room. It commanded a downwards view over the roofs of the great city: over steepled churches, a busy station, the concrete towers of a rising new development with a chimney stack crowned with a revolving restaurant; the scene extended from the humble domes of synagogues and churches to those of the grand palaces of commerce, the Harbour Board headquarters, the Cunard building, and the Liver Building, crowned with its two legendary birds, and facing the river estuary and the sea. Mark had lived here for almost six months and the panorama from his window was already a familiar and unforgettable sight.
After washing he went downstairs. His room was in the new wing of an older hostel. On the ground floor, a corridor led to the residents’ lounge and canteen. This was a large room divided into two sections. On one side of the barrier, there was a variety of second hand couches and comfortable chairs and a television: on the other side, there were a dozen or more small tables, each with a set of four wooden chairs set neatly around them. There was a self-service counter at one end of this section of the room. When Mark arrived, the kitchen staff were busily preparing and serving breakfast for the residents. Mark joined a long sleepy queue. There was no need to produce a pass or ticket: staff and residents knew each other well.
Mark yawned as he waited in the queue. He took for granted the familiar site which greeted him every morning: students, articled clerks, labourers, office personnel, young and old were all marshalled together; a varied selection of coloured skins characterised this raceless, classless society; there were professional men, commercial travellers, and rogues. The residents came from every corner of the world; the students belonged to the full range of Liverpool colleges, studying subjects as diverse as art, librarianship, building, education, law, and accountancy: there seemed few occupations which were not represented. Not one of the guests would have considered it strange to meet and live amongst such a diverse company. But all, with only one exception, would have considered Mark peculiar, if they had known where he was due to call that morning.
It was time for Mark’s fortnightly appointment with Dr. Fortune. If that meant missing lectures, the lectures had to be missed; the psychiatrist had priority, and it was to his consulting room that Mark set out after finishing his breakfast.
As Mark entered, the doctor asked him to sit down, and asked him how he was.
Mark was not sure whether he was well or not. He repeated his usual complaint that he still had no girl friend.
This sad state of affairs did not seem to surprise the doctor, but he nevertheless asked the youth to account for his misfortunes.
“I do try,” was the patient’s pathetic reply. “I-I’m terrified of girls! S-sometimes I-I can’t speak to girls. I-it’s like having my tongue paralysed. A sort of i-inv-visible psychological b-barrier between them and me.”
The doctor nodded sympathetically. “Do you go to college dances?” he asked.
Mark began to relax, and his stammer faded, as his frustration and frenzy over his own failures overcame his anxiety.
“I’ve never been to a dance,” he said excitedly. “I go to folk clubs and other things. I ask girls for dates. They don’t usually accept – only two dates this year. If they accept, they never want a second date. What is it I’m doing that’s wrong, doctor?”
“Well, why don’t you go to a dance and see how you get on?”
“But what am I doing wrong, doctor?” Mark repeated plaintively, ignoring the doctor’s question.
This was a difficult question. The doctor’s courting days were long past. “What you say to a girl depends on the circumstances,” he replied indecisively. “If you have the chance, you can invite the girl for an evening out.”
“B-but w-what do I say, doctor?”
The other shrugged his shoulders. “You just ask her out. There’s nothing difficult about that.”
“A-and, i-if she does come out, w-what then?”
Dr. Fortune could have given a very good account of how to follow up an evening’s entertainment of this kind, but refrained. “If she likes you, she might let you cuddle her; you might even kiss,” he said.
Mark screwed up his face into an expression of sheer agony, and cried out with a sigh of despair: “I’m frightened, doctor, but I-I want a girl friend. H-how do I stop being frightened?”
The patient was clearly getting agitated. “You need to relax. That’s the first step. I’m going to prescribe some tablets.”
Mark sat up bolt upright, exhibiting an almost pathological fear. “Are they drugs?” he asked. “I’m not having any drugs.” As he became more agitated, his stammer disappeared. “I want a natural cure.”
That evening, after tea, Mark joined a small queue, his jeans and sweater clearly marking him out as a student. He found, in front of him, a youth of about his age, dressed immaculately in a neatly pressed grey suit. Mark had, by now, acquired an absorbing interest in the world around him. So he decided to speak to him, and find out more about him.
“Who are you?” he asked simply, without introducing himself.
“M-my n-name is T-tony.” Mark became aware at once that the youth had about as bad a stammer as his own.
Mark asked if the other was a student or working.
“I-I’m w-working in a s-solicitor’s office,” he replied.
Mark told him that he was hoping to be a solicitor some day, and enquired what his position was.
“I-I’m only a s-solicitor’s c-clerk,” the other replied. “I-it is v-very hard. I h-have to go to a psy-psy-psychiatrist.” The last word came out with great difficulty, as if it was an effort to give this information.
Mark was pleased to find someone else to talk to, who had similar problems to his own, and said so. It turned out that they were both patients of Dr. Fortune.
Tony continued: “I-I couldn’t g-get to sleep at n-night, and k-kept d-dozing off in the o-office. S-so now I-I take t-t-t-tablets which the doctor g-gave me. One at n-night m-makes me go to s-sleep. In the m-morning, I-I t-take another k-kind – to w-wake me up. If I-I get nervous in the o-office, I-I take one of the s-sleeping t-tablets to calm me down. I-if I start f-falling a-asleep, I-I take one of the w-waking u-up pills. Otherwise, I-I could l-lose my job.”
“Dr. Fortune w-wants m-me to take tablets, b-b-b-but I w-want a n-natural cure. I w-won’t take them,” Mark observed, wondering if this was really what was best for him.
“I h-have to take the tablets,” said the other. “I c-can’t do without them.”
Mark sensed he had a lot in common with Tony and decided to meet him as often as he could. Perhaps they would become friends and share their experiences. Mark hoped his companion would change, as he hoped he was himself changing, and that their mutual acquaintance would be mutually valuable in this respect.
Shortly after the morning’s lectures, Bob Smith arrived. He took a commanding position in the centre of the college common room, with the confidence of someone with a year’s experience of College life who knows all the ropes.
He announced himself: “Welcome to the College. I’m your Union Representative.” There was a pause while the others gathered their wits and wondered how he had been appointed to represent them. “First let me say, I hope you’re all in the Students’ Union,” he continued. “We organise social events.” The sociologist laid particular emphasis on the word ‘social’. “I’ve come to tell you we’ve got a freshers’ ball laid on. It’s on Royal Iris on Saturday – you have to be at Pier Head by eight o’clock. Bar’s open ‘til midnight. We’ve booked Strolling Bones for the evening. Don’t all shout at once! Now, who’d like a ticket?”
Some students crowded forward; others retreated unobtrusively to the back of the room, while most sat in between the two – undecided. Mark was one of those who could not make up his mind. He turned to another law student called Bill Richards, who was on his way to buy a ticket.
“Freshers’ ball?” he asked, thinking of full orchestras and waltz time.
Bill looked mildly surprised. “It’s just the beginning of year dance,” he said. “It’s not just for freshers.”
Mark was still puzzled. “Freshers’ Ball?” he repeated “I-I’d I-like to go, but – er – I can’t dance. I don’t know how to waltz or do any of the other things – what are they called now?”
“Steps!” said Bill abruptly, as the other floundered in his search for words. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to be able to do the Waltz, or the Quickstep, or the Tango. There will only be modern dancing.”
“I-I-I’ve never been to a d-dance before. I don’t know modern dancing,” Mark mused hesitantly, thinking of the doctor’s suggestion that he really ought to go to a dance and see how he liked it.
“You don’t want to worry about that. You don’t have to learn modern dancing; you just do it. You just move with the music. It’s easy – only body language matters! Anyone can do it. Go on, enjoy yourself, lad. Buy yourself a ticket. They don’t cost much.”
“B-body language?” Mark asked, arching his eyebrows.
Meanwhile Bob had spotted him. “Ah Mark, my friend, you’ll have a ticket won’t you?”
Mark felt he could not refuse. His face was wet with perspiration when he paid for the ticket.
Mark Flitley ate his dinner alone that Saturday. His dinner over, he set out for the dance in his best shirt and jeans. He walked down to the Pier Head.
He started to look for the venue of the dance. It was strange; it was uncanny. There was no dance hall, or club, or even a pub called the Royal Iris. He looked in vain around by the Liver and Cunard buildings, but these commercial premises were all closed. He walked down the wooden causeway, which bridged the gap to the floating pier, and peered at the shops and ticket offices there. A few kiosks were the only businesses he could find, which were open. He walked back up the ramp and looked across at the Liver Building again. He was completely mystified.
He heard a familiar sound: a news vendor narrowed his mouth and uttered the cry “Echo” two or three times, and the hollow note of the “0” reverberated around the covered passageway that was the bus station – so familiar a cry as to be as much a symbol of the Mersey as an advertisement for the newspaper.
Mark felt a sudden urge for a call of nature. As there was no-one else about, he asked the newspaperman where the toilets were.
“Right along ther, whack.”
“W-where? I-I can’t see.”
“Just keep going that way, whack – youz can smell’m!”
The toilets were not nearly as bad as he was led to believe. But it occurred to him, after he had found them, to see if the news vendor knew where the “Royal Iris” was.
“Can’t say that I do,” came the reply. “What youz call it? The Royal Iris? Wozzat?”
“I-I think it’s a dancehall,” Mark replied, feeling sure that the news vendor ought to know.
“Never herd of it, whack. Ther ‘int no dance hall round ‘ere. This is a bus station.”
