The story moves towards its conclusion from Tranche Fourteen
Marcus has been working at Waring and Gillow for almost four months, he has completed a dozen sessions with Dr Callendar who has asked him to write a reflection on his childhood before he begins the second series of sessions in the new year. He has completed one term of revision courses in Chemistry and Physics at the Poly and will continue in the new year. He has been attested into the TA and attended a number of weekends and Drill Nights as his recruit induction and training continues. It is now approaching Christmas…
Thursday 22 Dec
The telephone rang. “Hello?”
“Marcus? It’s Polly from Nathan’s. I’m in Maples. Any chance I can drop in and discuss the order book?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” He had recognised her gloriously husky voice at once. Hers was the most seductive of the many telephone voices he had spoken with regularly during his four months at Waring and Gillow and the first to meet face-to-face. “I’ll tell Mister Lauder. I’m sure he’d like to see you. What time will you be here?”
“Is two okay?”
He phoned Mr Lauder and three of the salesmen who most often sold Nathan’s pieces. He was excited to be meeting one of the people he dealt with so often over the phone. However, a sexy voice on the telephone created a mental image – what would the owner of this voice be like... Pull yourself together! She wants to talk about the order book. What have we got on order from Nathan’s? He reached for the box of file cards. At least these told him how many orders were outstanding: but is that what she meant by ‘order book’? What if she wanted to talk about future orders? Was it part of his job to know how much of what was bought from different makers? He didn’t have time to look through the historical files – surely the furniture buyer and salesmen knew all about that?
The telephone rang. It was Mr Lincoln at the staff entrance: “your visitor’s here”.
He rushed out of the office and down the stairs to the staff entrance. A woman wearing a headscarf and below-the-knee raglan-sleeved camel coat turned when Mr Lincoln pointed towards him.
“Hello Marcus, I’m Polly.”
The voice was authentic but the overheated mental fiction abruptly cooled. She was the antithesis of his fantasy - probably twice his age! Inexplicably he felt relief. He held out his hand. “Hello Polly, I’m Marcus. How can I help?”
“One of your recent orders uses a catalogue number for a dining suite that we actually stopped making last year. It has been replaced with an equivalent of course, but there is a price difference.”
Marcus took the file cards from his pocket. There were three dining suites on order, two placed by Mr Dainton and one by Mr Morley. He showed her the catalogue numbers on the cards. She pointed to one of the cards. It was Mr Morley’s order.
“I’ll take you to see Mr Morley. I just process the dockets. Do I need to get it?”
“I’ve got a copy. I’m sure we can sort this out.”
Mr Morley was very apologetic. They were good customers, he said, and had also ordered a bureau, a sideboard and a display cabinet for which the order details were correct. Polly reassured him that, since it was a substantial order and Warings were good customers, she would make sure the order was fulfilled at the original price and gave him a copy of the latest catalogue and price list. Morley was relieved.
Marcus was pleased too. Mr Morley was his least favourite sales person! “Thank you, I don’t know how I’d have sorted that without you. If you’ve got time I can take you to see Mr Lauder, the furniture buyer and then take you round the store?”
The met the furniture buyer at the Nathan dining room display. When Polly turned her seductive voice on Lauder he dismissed Marcus.
Nearly an hour later Mel brought her into his office. “Thanks for the help Marcus. Mel and I are going for coffee – will you come?”
“Love to, but you can see the state of this place,” he replied waving at the pile of orders piled in his in-tray chaos, grateful for the excuse it gave him to decline meaningfully.
“Next time then,” she replied, warming him with a direct look and smile. “It was good to meet the salesmen and Lauder has agreed the whole Nathan floor display is looking rather tired so we agreed it was time to have it refreshed.”
She went off with Mel. One problem solved and a pile of new orders to be processed. Most would be straightforward, but it was the few that caused problems. Salesmen could be forgetful of details - especially information important for the deliverymen, such as access, lifts and special requirements like the dreaded ‘window jobs’. Nevertheless, he was learning. Knuckle down! Check carefully! Another hour before clocking out.
The Stockpot
Brian had said he might be late and Marcus knew he would be - work in the City was far more demanding than in Oxford Street. He had suggested the Stockpot as it was cheap, busy and close to Leicester Square and not too far from Liza’s where Milly would join them after curtains.
“Sorry I’m late!” Brian said squeezing into his seat and accepting the glass of wine Marcus offered. “Stupidly busy with everyone trying to get away for the holidays. Are you really sure you won’t come to us for Christmas?”
Marcus handed him a menu. “I’m sure. I’m going to Midnight Mass with Sophie…”
“Are you going out with her again?” Brian seemed surprised.
“No, but I patched it up with her… We went for a walk a few days ago.”
“Oh! So there’s hope for you?”
“Not at all! She’s going out with a Simon Sparrow. Shall we order? And then you can tell me about New York.”
Brian had been working in the City for fifteen months. He looked and sounded different. Preppy haircut, linen shirt and calm silk tie, gold cuff-links, expensive suit, Rolex on steel bracelet. He had found his niche - Marcus envied him far more than the confidence or the grooming. It was fun to get him talking about the insides of a finance house. On the one had the demanding pressure to perform as required and on the other the rewards of being part of that high-pressure community.
Whenever Brian sensed he might be talking too much he asked questions that Marcus had become skilled in steering into uncontentious bogs where they floundered and he was able to encourage Brian to talk about his principal’s negotiating with the leaders of an unnamed and soon to be independent Caribbean island on a yacht and the insane pressure of doing business in New York. Marcus had no regrets about leaving the bank: he might have become a competent branch manager, but he would never have been more than that.
“Come on. I know you’re doing resits at the Poly,” Brian said as they were leaving the restaurant. “How are they going? Last time we talked you said you were in a study group?”
“Yeah. There are about a dozen of us. I realise I should have done this at school.”
“Done what?”
“Trying to pass – we work on model answers with the study guides and the tutors help too.”
“And if you do, what then? University?”
“Yes, possibly – probably – I don’t know yet…” He didn’t want to be drawn. He did know what he wanted but feared it would be jinxed if he talked about it. “Look, we’ve got time before Milly will get to Liza’s – let’s go and see the Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square.”
Liza’s
Liza’s was busy with santas and elves and reindeer headpieces - a Christmas party for advertising or PR people said Donny the barman as Marcus got the drinks. This was only the second time that he had brought Brian to Liza’s. The last time he had been with Tancred but this time they had joined Elaine and two of her friends - Tinny and Dinah.
“Are you staying at Ma B’s for Christmas?” Elaine asked after he had distributed the drinks.
“You know I am,” he replied watching Brian with Elaine’s two friends; he was charming them effortlessly. “And you’re going to Harrogate, Mrs B said.”
“It’s a big family thing,” Elaine said, “but you don’t have that, do you?”
“No…” He didn’t want to be drawn, especially at Christmas. “I think Tancred’s friends are going to be doing a set in a moment or two, coming?”
In the other room a man was tinkering on the piano while the others, a bassist, drummer and saxophone player conferred around him. A woman in beatnik black put her arm around Elaine and began to talk. The combo moved away from the piano and took their places. Marcus watched, wondering who would lead. Surprisingly it was the saxophone, a mournful take on what might have been a carol. The bass followed, the drums came in underneath and then the piano echoed the original theme. Marcus bagged a seat on the sofa. Though not a musician he enjoyed the conversations between the players and their instruments. They were almost at the end of their set when Milly plonked herself on his lap.
“Happy Christmas!” she giggled, kissing his cheek. “Are you sure you won’t come to us?”
“I am. I’m staying at Mrs B’s and Doctor H and Freddie will be there on Christmas day as well - and I’ll be going to Midnight Mass with Sophie…”
Milly turned to face him. “Are you going out with her again?”
“She’s forgiven me for the Pip thing but we’re not going out – she has a boyfriend, Jeremy, a houseman. We are friends though…”
“But don’t you want more than that?”
“Of course I do! But we’ve talked about this Milly. You know how messed up I am. I’m going back to see Doctor Callendar in the new year because I still have a lot to work through. Can we just keep being friends?”
“Yes! Happy Christmas!” She kissed him again and laughed. “I’ve had a few too many - and I’m horny.”
Marcus had had a few too, but not too many. “Come on Milly, let’s find Brian: time to be getting you home.”
Friday 23rd December
Phone message
It was almost two when Marcus got back to Fitzroy Square. According to Elaine, Brian had gone to another club with Dinah and Tinny. They had taken night buses to Marble Arch and she had kissed him in the shadowed entry to the mews. Because this could not go anywhere he felt happily relaxed and felt like dancing all the way back to Fitzroy Square, although he took a night bus most of the way. There was a message in his pigeon hole. It said ‘Party. Saturday. Ring Mariella NOB 8439’. Too late to phone now! Too late even to record his excitement in the journal open on the table. Bed! Sleep!
As soon as he got to his desk next morning he dialled the number. “Hello, may I speak to Mariella?”
Mrs Lambleigh answered. “She’s gone to work Marcus. Is this about the party?”
“Yes. When is it?”
“New Years Eve, luvvy. From seven. Bring a bottle. Will you be coming?”
“Definitely!” he replied.
“How’s things with you?”
“It’s been a busy three months. Good too. I’ll tell you more when I see you. Must go. I’m at work.”
“See you at the party then love. We’ll look forward to catching up.” The line went dead.
Not quite eight hours to the end of the day. He set himself the goal of emptying the in-tray and processing the orders. Since customers were still ordering furniture despite (or perhaps because of) the imminence of Christmas there were still half a dozen remaining unprocessed by the time he turned out the light in the office and went down to queue for the penultimate pay-packet of the year.
Mel invited him and a couple of salesmen to go with them to the Champion. Marcus overcame the urge to invent some spurious excuse and accepted. He listened fascinated by their conversation about the history of the company that had furnished the interiors of Cunard liners and made aircraft parts and much else in both wars. Marcus was fascinated. He had to runs not to be late for supper.
“You look happy,” Freddie said as he took his seat at the table.
He helped himself to soup. “I am,” he replied. “I went for a drink after work and had a fascinating history lesson.”
Dr H paused with the spoon half-way from dish to mouth and looked at him. “A history lesson?”
Marcus laughed. Was she making a play on Lady Bracknell? “Well, Mel is a cabinet maker, a craftsman who used to fake Hepplewhite but the other two I’d just thought of as salesmen. It was really about what the company had been. The furniture works in Lancaster, Hammersmith and White City; the contracts division and how they designed interiors for ocean liners and grand palaces.”
“You seem quite passionate about it,” Freddie observed gently.
“Sorry – I just find it fascinating. I can’t say why. Well, probably because these are stories I didn’t know – like the women who made parts for aircraft in Hammersmith and there was an explosion in White City that killed a dozen…”
“Don’t apologise, Marcus,” Freddie returned, “stories need to be told… done any more for that writing group you went to?”
“I went last week…” He felt defensive and that annoyed him. Why? “It’s on Wednesdays and clashes with Poly in term time.”
“But did you read anything?”
Dr H’s question caught him unbalanced: he had read and it had had an encouraging reception. “It was just a short thing…” He felt like a toddler. “It was something I’d done at school and then rewrote when Donald encouraged me to join the group a year ago.”
“Poem? Short story?”
“Just me being angry – but they were kind and called it a poem…”
“Are you going to do more?” Freddie asked.
“Maybe. There’s another group meeting in the new year before term starts.”
“No ‘maybes’ Marcus,” Dr H admonished. “That sounds to me like an unwillingness to commit – am I being fair?”
“It’s fair,” he admitted. “Doctor Callendar has helped me a lot but I’ve still some way to go.” Marcus felt as if his toddler had fallen on its bottom while trying to show off to the adults.
Later
11:20pm, Friday, 23rd December, Room 6, 30 Fitzroy Square. I’ve just been to the Odeon in Belsize Park – easy to get to! - to see ‘Georgy Girl’ – Lynn Redgrave, Alan Bates and James Mason. It’s well made but I can’t work out what the point is and I ended up not liking any of the characters. Anyway, now I have four days off over Christmas, then three work days and then it will be a new year. Dr H, Freddie and I are the only tenants left for tomorrow and Christmas Day. Dr H is going to her sister in Dulwich for Boxing Day and Freddie to Scotland until Hogmanay. Of the others, Tancred’s in Italy. Elaine, Ambrose, Libby and Joshua have gone home. So I have no excuse not to sit down and concentrate on the journal… tomorrow!
Saturday 24th December
Reflecting on Christmas Eve
Dr Callendar had offered another series of weekly sessions to start on the 11th of January, suggesting he use the intervening weeks to write about what he remembered of his childhood. She said it need not a memoir but rather sketches of his childhood as if observed by a best friend. He had thought it would be a task easily completed by Christmas – he had barely started.
It had been a month since his last session with He had asked Brian who had repeated what he had said before that Marcus made it difficult for anyone to get close. Milly said that he didn’t easily show his feelings and sometimes it felt he was acting a part. It was only with animals, she repeated, that he dropped his habitual defensiveness. Their comments hurt because he recognised truth. At the writing group there had been a discussion about point-of-view, so he had asked Donald in the pub afterwards about how to write as his own best friend. Donald had echoed Milly’s comments about defensiveness by saying that a memoirist has to be willing to be naked to the reader. Then, the previous Sunday, on their walk to Primrose Hill, Sophie had answered his question saying: ‘just tell us what it feels like to be you.’
Assignment: Memories of Childhood.
I was advised to write from the point-of-view of a good friend. When I asked the few friends I have how they perceived me, all were agreed that I make it difficult for people to be friends with me. The common factor is that I do not allow people to get close. While it hurts to be told this I know it to be true.
My childhood was the eighteen years and three months between being born and leaving home. I cannot say much about the first eight years because I was an ordinary boy in an ordinary town where nothing out of the ordinary happened to him. Or, rather, this is the self-reported view. A good friend from that period would probably have said I was not sporty or sociable, but friendly and studious and loyal. We weren’t well-off, lived with my grandfather and I didn’t see much of my father as he was either working or studying most of the time. Other than a great aunt, a great uncle and a few of my mother’s friends, we had no wider family that I knew. A good friend, I suspect, would have little to say about me during this period except, perhaps, to have wished I would be more demonstrative. Nevertheless, I think my reticence at this time would have been accepted.
My next two years were spent in Africa. In fact my father had been there for over a year by the time we joined him. We had our own house for the first time and a car – neither of which we had had before. I also went to a new school. I think the transition took about a term because there was so much to learn. It was a different country, a different environment, different school customs, different playground games.
Except… he stopped writing and wracked his brains. He began roughing out a timeline on a spare sheet. In the September he had gone up from Infant’s into the first year of the Junior school in England. Then, in May of the following year, after two terms, he had gone to the new school in Africa. He continued writing:
As I remember the new school’s year was a calendar year - so I joined half-way through. I do remember some difficulty fitting into the new class but I adapted. I must have done because I did well in the next year, I came second, beaten by a girl, and given a gold-topped Parker pen by my father. So I guess I did make the transition. And as far as I can remember that second year was not only academically successful but I made friends.
But it was about more than school. I loved Africa. I loved going to the game park, to Ngong Hills and the grave of Finch-Hatton. Best of all were the two safaris with Dad. First North up around Mount Kenya and the second South to Ngorogoro (although we didn’t quite get there) and back by Kilimanjaro and Tsavo. Mum didn’t come on those safaris – Chris was still a baby and she was pregnant with Rog later.
He consulted his timeline again. At the end of the first term after his one good, full academic year he, his mother and his younger brothers had all flown back to England. They lived with his grandfather again. He went back for the last term of year three in the same Junior School he had left after two terms in year one. That term had been difficult. He came back suntanned and with a different accent and his mother telling him he had to work hard to get into the ‘A’ Stream of the Fourth year in order to take the Eleven-Plus and go to Grammar School.
His father had remained in Africa. His mother arranged a move to a Council House. He did well enough to make the transition to the ‘A’ Stream. He remembered that summer in the new house. He made new friends. Girls were becoming interesting. He hadn’t thought about those times for quite a while – not forgotten but…
An emotional wave swamped him. It was anger. It was regret. It was pain. It was sorrow. It was disillusion. It was anger. The wave tumbled him, threw him on the beach dragged him back. He couldn’t face writing any more. He had to get out. Bury himself in other people and their last-minute Christmas shopping. Find the calm again.
Supper
He arranged the presents under the tree in the ante-room. Making his Christmas cards, making the collage that sketched his year and having it printed, had been an exciting project but buying and wrapping the presents he had found on his manic shopping expedition restored his calm.
Freddie, who had been reading in one of the armchairs, stooped to look at the packages Marcus was arranging. “I haven’t got you a present – I’m sorry…”
“Oh, don’t be. I wasn’t going to get any either, but I was in Covent Garden and I went mad in second-hand shops – it was fun and sort of earthed me as well…”
“Earthed?”
“Like electricity… or a lightning conductor… I just want to thank everyone for… for accepting me.”
“You put me to shame, Marcus,” said Freddie getting up from his chair, “the only present from me under that tree is to Mrs B. I’ve lived here for almost a dozen years and I seem to have forgotten that I too am accepted here. Come! Time for supper.”
Mrs B joined them and Dr H at the table. “Only a light supper tonight,” she said, bringing a tureen of mushroom soup to the table. “Fish pie to follow.”
Freddie poured wine and Marcus reflected on the previous Christmas Eve. It had been a normal working day. The week before Brian had moved out and Pip had interrupted the phone call from Sophie saying loudly ‘tell her you’re going out with me now!’ He had known Pip’s intervention was hurting Sophie and yet did not rebuke Pip for her rudeness nor apologise to Sophie for having let it happen. Of course his cowardice ended their relationship. It had taken him a year to find the decency to face Sophie and ask for forgiveness. She accepted the apology, they had met for a walk and would be going to Midnight Mass together later, but he was not worth her forgiveness - even after three months of sessions with Moira he remained a spineless twat. That’s why he’d bought and wrapped so many presents. Guilt!
“You’re looking very sad all of a sudden,” Dr H said after he had been silent all through the soup course.
Damn! He felt the three adults watching him. “I was remembering where I was a year ago…”
There was a silence while Freddie cleared the soup plates and Mrs B brought the fish pie.
“It’s Christmas, Marcus. Perhaps you ought to forgive yourself.”
Dr H’s quiet observation shocked him. How could she be reading his thoughts? Had she been talking about him with Moira Callendar? He knew they were close friends. But surely Moira wouldn’t have; couldn’t have - was he that transparent?
Mrs B began to serve. “It’s been four months near enough since you turned up at my door, Marcus. We talked a bit in that time and I can see you aren’t the same as you were then. I seen what you put under the tree tonight. Like Doctor H says, give yourself a Christmas present – let the rest of us in.”
Since the summer everyone he was close to had said something similar, but it was still unexpected coming from Mrs B! “What am I doing wrong?”
“Nothing,” Mrs B replied bluntly.
“I agree…” Freddie said, topping up glasses and lifting his own. “Let’s drink to a happy Christmas for all of us.”
8:30pm, Christmas Eve. In two hours I am meeting Sophie again to go to Midnight Mass. Supper was just Mrs B, Dr H and Freddie and me. Like a family supper. The best thing to come out of it was that ‘family’ feeling. I think I was beginning to take it all too much for granted. I was reminded that this last twelve months has been a journey – eight months on the slide and four climbing back. Tonight I was helped to recognise my achievements. My tendency is to naysay and downplay and they would not let me get away with it. A wonderful Christmas present to have their encouragement and validation. Yes, I still have six months before the exams and I can’t let up but they made me acknowledge publicly that I think I am doing really well. My university applications are in and I’ve been to interviews in Bristol and Aberystwyth and have one at UCL in the new year. Problem I have to face is funding. Because I’m the eldest my fees will be paid but I won’t get a maintenance grant. If I work another year I’ll be classed as a mature student and be eligible for the maintenance. I don’t want to ask Dad for support. It’s possible, if UCL offered me a place, that I might be able to earn enough working to live here – but it wouldn’t be easy. I don’t know about the others. Should I defer another year?
He closed the journal and looked at the notes for the reflection he had been writing earlier. He had stopped because the happiness he had felt while writing about Africa evaporated when he thought about the return to England. He had been reluctant to start the reflection when Dr Callendar suggested it because of an instinctual resistance to questioning matters over which he had had no control. You have to do this, he thought, Moira would not have suggested it unless she had a reason. Just goes to show that your problem is trusting people.
He tied his shoes and put on coat and scarf and gloves. He checked the time, went down through the silent house and out into the square. It was cold but not a Dickensian Christmas, he thought, turning into Cleveland Street as a single taxi, its yellow light on, cruised slowly past. He looked up, wondering if there were people still dining in the Post Office Tower’s revolving restaurant.
Midnight Mass
“Would you mind if Deborah comes with us?” Sophie asked, smiling winsomely while Deborah glared at him.
What a beautiful ambush! “Not at all…” he replied.
“How’s your lung?” Deborah asked as they went out into the street.
“Feeling vulnerable right now.”
“So you should! That was a really mean thing you did.”
“I know, but it’s Christmas Eve and I’m seeking atonement…”
“Leave the poor boy alone Debs,” Sophie asked, linking arms first with Deborah and then Marcus. There was no traffic so they continued as a threesome down the middle of the road.
It was a short walk. He felt calmer than he had on the walk to John Astor House, when he had worried about what to say and whether he should take her arm or hold her hand. He was pleased that Deborah had accompanied Sophie, guessing she was chaperoning her friend. He had been stupid but not an ogre. He was enjoying the comfort of their presence.
The church was busy and almost full when they arrived. He hadn’t been expecting to be given candles and found the atmosphere in the church hushed and intimate. The service was beautifully conducted with choir and organ and priests and acolytes bound up in the wonderfully familiar Christmas hymns. Flanked by the girls he knelt at the communion rail asking for forgiveness for past weakness and the strength to speak honestly in future.
It was almost one when he returned to Fitzroy Square. All the way from church to nurses’ home he had agonised about how to manage the parting. In the event, when they reached the foot of the steps, he held his arms wide, hugged them both together, kissed first Sophie’s forehead and then Deborah’s, stepped back blew them a kiss and walked away wanting, but not quite daring, to dance down the street.
Sunday 25 December
Morning
“Just us today, Marcus,” Mrs B said as they sat drinking coffee at the table in the kitchen. “Freddie had an early breakfast and has gone to his brother in Dulwich and Dr H went to her sister in Oxford last night after supper. I’ll do a proper Christmas lunch for us all tomorrow when they’re back. I’m doing roast pork for us today if that’s alright with you?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Would you mind helping with veggies? I’ll be preparing for tomorrow as well.”
“I’d be happy to. I’ve got some work for the Poly that I’m very happy to put to one side.”
“I see you last night at All Saints with two pretty girls,” she said, passing him the coffee pot. “Didn’t know you went there?”
“I don’t go very often. The girls are pupil nurses at the Middlesex. They were on the ward when I was in hospital for my lung.”
“Both your girl friends?”
“No Mrs B!” he replied quickly. “I went out with Sophie for a while but didn’t treat her well. I tried to apologise and we’re sort of friendly. Deborah came along to make sure I didn’t step out of line.”
“Yes, a girl needs a chaperone sometimes…” She stood up. “Thank you for your present. Where did you find it?”
“Second hand shop in Covent Garden. I know you like glass and…”
“I do. Bristol Blue. 1930s dish for nuts or sweets. You have a good eye. How are things with Moira Callendar?”
“Last term went well, I think. She’s asked me write a reflection on my childhood. I need to have it done by the time the next series starts on the eleventh….”
“You don’t seem happy about it?”
“I’ve started it but… it’s like stirring up the mud at the bottom of a pond. Some memories are joyful but others… well, they aren’t just simple memories, more like stories you can read in more than one way… that makes me uncomfortable. I don’t really know what’s the best way to write about them…”
“Trust Moira. If she asked you to do this, she has a good reason. She’ll get you safe to the other side of the river no matter how rough or deep it is. Anyway, it’s Christmas and I’d welcome your company and help with the preparations.”
Evening
7:50pm, Christmas Day. Last Christmas I was on my own. All before that had been at home with my parents (always my mother, often my father), my brothers (first none, then one, then two and finally three) and I should not forget my grandfather (who was there for years two to seven). I know this because I listened to Mrs B and spent the afternoon working on my ‘reflections on growing up’ for Moira. I went back and rewrote much of what I had done on the Africa part. When I looked back over it I realised how different my recollections of the trips with Dad were from the memories of being at home with Mum. School was expanded too. I came clean on my spying on the girls’ changing and pissing myself when the headmaster threatened me with a beating. That was hard to write objectively. Similarly, the ‘you show me yours’ incident with Chrissy had to be put in and that was then reflected in my later playground discovery of my absolute ignorance of the mechanics of sex.
I’ve got as far as my eleventh summer just after Dad came back from Africa and before I went to the Grammar School. I have tried to be honest. Parts I have rewritten two or three times. If I stick to facts I get angry with myself, with Mum, with Dad because I want to reach into the past and scream at the boy I was. Scream what? I’m shouting ‘can’t you see?’ all the time. But of course I couldn’t, or wouldn’t. In a peculiar way the pain of having to write this and scream at my younger self is the best Christmas present I’ve ever had. There isn’t a soothing solution, in fact it is the pain that is the present. I don’t know what it causes the pain, but I have an intuitive sense of it as not being my fault. I now know that here is something I need Moira to help me with. I am pleased to be able to write that and dealing with the years eleven to eighteen is almost certainly going to throw up more thinks I’ll need Moira to help me with
All that said, I must be practical. Christmas lunch on Boxing Day tomorrow then stop ignoring the revision work I have to do for when classes start again on the ninth. The aim is pass the exam and model answers to questions from past papers is the slog. I must go to Donald’s writers’ group on Wednesday and maybe I will dare to read something. Wish I could do more but it clashes with practical classes. TA weekend on 7/8 Jan – gun drills and OP work in the Drill Hall. No problems there – even though I say it myself, I’m the most competent of the recruit squad! But that’s getting ahead of myself! Party in West Ken on Saturday!!! I thought Mariella would have forgotten me by now – so it was a good move to send a Christmas card to remind her I exist.
Right. That’s enough. I shall go down and make myself a supper of pork leftovers and mince pies. Happy Christmas to me!
Saturday 31st December
Party in West Kensington
Christmas had passed and a new year was imminent. Carrying a bag clinking with assorted bottles and a selection of Christmas leftovers thoughtfully repackaged by Mrs B he stopped at the foot of the steps. Number Fourteen was alight from basement to attics and fairy lights had been strung leading up to and around the door, that was ajar. He went up and into a hall that seemed to be full of excited children around his own age.
“Marcus!” Mariella hugged him.
Why did girls want to hug him? He wasn’t ten and lost… or is that how they saw him? Or was that how he saw himself? Writing the reflection for Moira Callendar had been a disorienting experience that would have to ferment for ten more days. But it was reassuring to be hugged, whatever age he might be. He offered her his carrier bag.
“Goodies in there,” she said, pushing him towards the open doors to the big front room
He looked around. A few people on the sofas or standing in a group. Music playing in the back room. He wasn’t sure but thought it was ‘Hideaway’ on the Blues Breakers album. He took his carrier bag to the table already loaded with bottles.
“Hi. Do you still live across the road?” A girl with round specs and curly hair was helping him distribute his bottles.
“I did before the summer.”
“Thought so. I’m Becky. You won’t remember me. We met in the launderette. We’d been rehearsing.”
“The three witches! Yes. But you’ve changed a bit… I’m Marcus.”
“Hi Marcus. Eats go over there on the other table. Where are you living now?”
She was easy to talk with and he felt himself relaxing. Maybe he would enjoy this party. When he had been living across the road Nik had told him that Mrs Lambleigh, the girls’ landlady, ran her boarding house rather more liberally than the convent in Pembridge Square where Brian’s sister had been. Until he met Mariella and Becky and the others in the launderette he had not known anyone in the house, which had always seemed the liveliest in the street.
“Come and dance?” Becky asked, taking a mince pie from Marcus’ food offering.
“Errr…”
“No excuses!” Becky pushed him towards the music.
The girl was clearly going to brook no resistance. And she had nice eyes behind the specs and an infectious grin. Why not? He let himself be led. It wasn’t really dance music – but, so what?
Sunday 1st January
Aftermath
Rain pattered the windows. Marcus tried to focus on the plaster ceiling rose and pendant lampshade. He didn’t recognise them. Next, he became aware of four things in sequence: first, his head felt as if his brains had turned to lead; second, he desperately needed the lavatory; third, there was a weight lying across his legs and, fourth, he wasn’t wearing his spectacles. Then he remembered he had come to a party at number fourteen. Tessa, Mariella’s blonde room-mate, was lying face down on a pillow with her legs across his. He eased himself out from under her legs noting that one stocking was around her ankle. Putting that irrelevant and slightly alarming thought out of his mind he stood up, swaying unsteadily. Where was the lavatory? Where had he left his specs?
Almost treading on a boy huddled into a ball in front of the gas fire, he found the spectacles on a chest of drawers among hair brushes and powder-puffs and nail polish and perfume and curling tongs and funny scissors like things. Mariella, half wrapped in a candlewick bedspread and wearing one shoe, was asleep on one of the beds. The door was ajar. Floorboards creaked as he crept outside. He found a door with frosted glass panels on the half landing. When he turned on the light, he discovered it was a bathroom and the WC was elsewhere. Slumped in the bath like a murder victim was a boy with long lank hair. He was snoring untroubled by the illumination. Marcus, who could not wait, used the wash-basin, running the cold water afterwards and taking a sip from the tap to swill out his furry mouth.
He crept back into Mariella’s room. The boy was still hunched up like a snail. Tessa was lying on his jacket. He tried to ease it out from under her, but she rolled on her back, her skirt riding up further. In embarrassed desperation he scooped her up - she was surprisingly light - laying her on the unoccupied divan and covering her with the bedspead. Then, finding his sneakers were holding the door open he took them by the laces, went back to Mariella and covered her fully with the candlewick bedspread. Her make-up was smudged and her hair tousled, but somehow that made her more appealing. Going quietly out onto the landing, he closed the door and put on his jacket and then went cautiously down the stairs. Lights were on in the hall and the front room, the door of which was ajar. Hearing nothing, he sat on the bottom step and put on his sneakers. He was still lacing them up when a sound made him turn quickly.
Breakfast with Mrs Lambleigh
“Happy new year darling, leaving already?”
“Everyone else is out of it. I thought I’d better get home to bed.”
“You don’t have to rush,” she said amiably. “I’ll make you breakfast if you help with the tidying.”
He accepted her offer and found a peculiar happiness in restoring order to the communal rooms. It was still not yet light when he put out the rubbish and brought in the fairy lights from the steps. Unopened bottles taken to the cellar, the rest emptied and those on which a deposit might be recovered put aside and the rest boxed and taken out. Glasses and plates were returned to the basement where Marcus did the the washing-up while she Mrs Lambleigh finished tidying and started on the breakfast.
“What you doing with your life?” she asked, putting a loaded breakfast plate in front of him.
She must have forgotten. “I work at Waring and Gillow.”
“I know that! Not lost all me faculties yet. Is that all you want to be doing?”
He considered her question. Mariella and her two friends were at the Central; a chubby red-haired chap called Geoff and the amazing Ethiopian girl who looked as if she had stepped straight out of a wall painting in Luxor but whose name he had never caught, were archaeology students. The boy in the bath had said he was an Astrophysicist at Imperial, although he had actually talked mostly about Big Bill Broonzy, Huddy Leadbetter, Howlin’ Wolf and loads of musicians Marcus had never heard of. The snail by the gas fire was Jerome, a final year medic at St George’s, and his girl-friend, Vanessa, was a third year Geographer at Kings and played Lacrosse for the University. There were others too whose names he either didn’t know, or had forgotten – but everyone at the party had seemed to be a student of one sort or another.
“I’m retake the exams I failed and have applied to universities to study Anthropolgy. I’ve had an interview at Aberystwyth and next week I’ve another in Bristol.”
“I’m sure you’ll do well. You seem a lot happier than when you left your trunk with me before you went to France.”
“I was lucky. I was helped by a lot of people. I’m a bit like one of those oil tankers that needs a lot of sea room to turn safely. But I am trying.”
“I’m sure you are darling. Some advice from an old woman: take more risks. Your spirit is tougher than your bones, and bones mend well enough.”
It was getting light. “I’d better go Mrs L. If I hurry I might even get another breakfast!”
“Better hurry darling,” Mrs Lambleigh laughed, “and keep in touch, you can’t do everything on your own.”
Breakfast at Fitzroy Square
When he reached Fitzroy Square Mrs B told him to go and sit down while she rustled him up a breakfast, despite being very late.
“Happy New Year, Marcus!” Elaine greeted. “How was your party?”
Tancred, Freddie, Dr H, Ambrose and Libby all turned to watch as he took his place at the table. “I don’t remember much…”
“Come on, be honest!” Libby urged.
“It was fun. They were all students. Really fun. I think I might have danced a lot.”
“My students would call that very tame if all you did was dance!” Dr H said.
“No nice boys?” Tancred teased with an exaggerated moue.
Marcus laughed. “There was a guy from Imperial who’s in some sort of band. He was cool. And there were a couple of Archaeologists, a medic, a girl who plays lacrosse for the university, at least one artist, a harp player and several budding actors…”
“Coming back to us for a rest?” Freddie laughed.
“Glad you enjoyed yourself Marcus,” Ambrose said, adding, “time you had some fun.”
Ambrose’s comment was the more appreciated because he was the one Marcus engaged with least, less even than Libby who had returned from her fieldwork a month after he had arrived. Although they left while he was still eating he was feeling more accepted by strangers than he had in his own family. He took that thought up to his room afterwards. He had drunk, and now eaten, too much. Better have a bath, brush his shoes, lay out his work clothes, check his calendar and prepare himself with some journaling before getting into bed and catching up on sleep!
8:40am, First day of a New Year. I have been comparing last night’s party at Number Fourteen with the Christmas party at Ras Marshag three years ago. Then I was a gauche sixteen year old, finding my feet in a new social group after a difficult first year at a new school. Yesterday’s party showed me I have at least got back to being the boy I was, just three years older and with more experience of life. I don’t know what happened to upset the progress I was making. The twelve sessions with Moira have been an opportunity to be challenged rather than judged. I had been wondering whether I needed to continue with the sessions but the reflection I have been working on for her has proved more difficult than I expected. Because of it, I am beginning to differentiate between Mum’s and Dad’s roles or influence as I was growing up. I had always thought of them as a unit – as ‘parents’– but even what little I’ve done on the reflection shows they functioned almost independently. That may be because Dad was working or studying for much of the time when I was younger but more recent events suggest Mum was punishing me for failure while Dad tried to help both in getting me the job in the bank and supporting me when I wanted to come back from France. I’ll need Moira’s professional support to understand what this means.
OK! Goals for this coming year. Nr1 is working – I need that to live on and do everything else. Nr 2 is friendships – stop being reactive Marcus!! Invest in people. All the people here, Brian, Milly, Sophie, Mariella and co, Mel at work, Lizzy and Sandy in Bristol, my brothers, the Poly study group, the recruit squad, Donald and his writers’ group. Nr 3 is ME – I must be more willing to ask for help. Obviously Moira is important. I must complete the reflection of childhood and actively seek understanding – at present I am feeling that the person I am now is because of not having done something when I was younger – not having worked hard enough, not having been ‘good’ enough. Yet everything I have learned since meeting Marte in the cemetery has been because of ‘letting people in’ – letting people help me. Nr 4 is ‘who do I want to be?’ – It is what I realised in the dorm almost two years ago – I want to like the person I see looking back from the mirror. Passing the exams in the summer is only important in the sense that I feel confident that I have done the best I can after the last paper is handed in. I am not there yet but I am happier with that other self than I have ever felt before. So my life goal is the Jesuit motto “Quant je puis” – to be the best that I can be in every way and at every time and in every circumstance
Marcus read what he had written. He had been on several TA weekends and had been selected for a Potential Officer cadre immediately after exams, but he wanted to study Anthropology and had already been for interview at Aberystwyth and had another in Bristol in two weeks. Doing the best he could in the summer exams was imperative if he were to put the past behind him. Engaging with Moira Callendar would help him understand what had shaped him, but the future was his responsibility.
The New Year begins…
This slice of a boy’s life as a story ends here - but self-evidently the part before the beginning of this is an untold story. Whatever follows from this is a story for Marcus himself to write. The aim of telling this story was simply to show that Marcus did not do it on his own. Had he refused the help he was offered, it would have been a more tedious story. Whether he could, or should, have made better use of the help he was given is moot. It can be argued, however, that he has been extraordinarily lucky over the period of this story - therefore the real question is ‘to what extent do we make our own luck?’
