Swan River

by David Reynolds

  Peter told me that Chas was the one who cared most about the look of the ad. ‘He’s got a visual concept. It’ll be on the LP, posters, everything.’

  Chas came back with a sheet of white cardboard and Eric appeared – dressed, with bare feet – and moved mugs and plates off the kitchen table into the sink. Chas brushed crumbs on to the floor with the back of his hand and put the cardboard down. A grainy black and white photograph of a calm sea, with a sandy beach in the foreground, was pasted on to it; in the sky, in square capital letters, were the words ‘Ocean Daydream’ and underneath in smaller letters ‘is coming’. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Great. Is it going to be in colour?’

  ‘Oh yeah. As colourful as possible.’ He smiled laconically. ‘The transparency and camera-ready art for the type, with the colours specified, are in here.’ He turned the cardboard over; there was an envelope taped to the back. ‘I’d like to see a proof… if that’s OK.’

  Two girls came into the room. One was Julia who had been in bed with Eric – I recognised her hair. The other was Deborah.

  ‘Is that OK? To see a proof?’ Chas had picked up his piece of cardboard and was holding it in front of me.

  ‘Er… yes. Fine…’ I mumbled at him and walked towards her. ‘Deborah?’ She was a lot taller than when I had last seen her – and, when I got closer, I saw that she was a lot thinner.

  She looked at me and put her hands up to her ears. ‘David? What are you doing here?’ She shook her head and laughed. ‘God! That’s amazing.’ She held my arms and kissed me quickly on the lips.

  I saw that I was holding Chas’s artwork. ‘Picking this up. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I sort of live here, most of the time. It’s incredible to see you.’ She was gaping with wide eyes, and looked around at the others. ‘Everyone, this is my old friend – from when I was little. My oldest friend… We sort of lost each other.’ The others smiled and looked at me with new curiosity.

  I smiled back and shrugged. ‘Long time.’

  Deborah touched my arm and frowned teasingly. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  We left the others and went into the room with the sofa. I found it hard to stop staring at her, marvelling both that it was her and at how she was now, definitely, an adult. Her face had angles that hadn’t been there before – a hardening of her nose and cheekbones – and her brown hair was longer and fell thickly to her shoulders. And she was so tall. She seemed taller than me – I looked, we were the same height, but she was so slim she seemed taller.

  She chuckled, showing her gums and wrinkling her nose; that hadn’t changed, but her gestures, and the way she moved her eyes, were more mature – graceful and feminine. ‘You look just the same… It’s incredible… I didn’t think I’d see you again – ever.’

  ‘Nor did I… Think I’d see you, I mean. You look great… You’re so… tall.’

  We were standing a foot or two apart. She came closer and hugged me, her arms around my neck and her cheek against mine. I held her waist lightly, our bodies not touching. I felt oddly elated, a little as though I had suddenly found a favourite object, a book or a picture – something that had intrigued me long ago – that I had mislaid and forgotten about. But I was wary; naturally, she had changed. Would I like the new Deborah? I had been so fond of the old Deborah. Was this sufficiently the same person?

  We sat down on the sofa and talked. Her father had died a year after they left Marlow, and she had lived with her mother and grandmother in Chippenham. She had gone to school, made some friends, but it had never felt like home – and still didn’t. Then, she had won a scholarship to Chelsea Art School; she loved London, the galleries, the people, the streets and shops. Chas was her boyfriend – he did some teaching at Chelsea – and, though she had a room in a hall of residence, she spent most of her time here, in his flat. I told her what had happened to me and my parents, and we spent some time working out how long it was since we had last seen each other.

  Chas came in. ‘I’ve known this man since I was a little girl, but haven’t seen him for more than four years.’

  ‘Incredible.’ He smiled as though he meant it, and sat down on the arm of the sofa. ‘Maybe tonight was preordained by the great Yahweh.’ He looked upwards and pointed towards the ceiling. He wasn’t good-looking, but there was humour and kindness in his mouth and in the way he moved his eyes. I guessed he was about Peter’s age, twenty-five. He put his arm round Deborah and looked at me. ‘We’re going out to get something to eat. Come along, if you want… Pete’s coming. Probably go to Dino’s.’

  Before we left the flat, Chas wrapped his artwork carefully in brown paper and handed it to me formally. ‘Don’t leave it in the caff. That transparency is unique. I took it.’ He laughed. ‘In California.’

  Crammed together in a booth, six of us ate spaghetti and drank Valpolicella. I sat at the end by the aisle, opposite Peter and next to Deborah. I kept glancing at her profile; there was a gently curving ridge in her nose that hadn’t been there when she was a child. I caught her looking at me and we both smiled. I felt more confident. This was my old friend, wasn’t it? She had just grown up a little; that was all. I apologised for not answering her letter all that time ago, and told her about the day I had gone to look for her and found a strange man behind the sweetshop counter.

  We listened to the others talking about their LP. All the songs had been recorded on to a master tape, and Chas and Peter were arguing about the ordering of the tracks. Eric didn’t seem to care; Deborah whispered that he played the bass and was very easy-going. Chas and Peter wrote all the songs; some of them were joint compositions, but some, it was obvious, weren’t. Deborah told me quietly that it didn’t matter what order the songs came in; they were all good, Chas was a brilliant guitarist and she was certain the record would be a hit.

  She ate very slowly, apparently avoiding the macaroni in her macaroni cheese, picking out just the cheese and tomatoes and olives, and told me about Chris, the group’s drummer, who modelled himself on someone called Joe Morello who drummed with Dave Brubeck. Chris lived in the flat too. I wondered whether Peter, who lived alone in a big, chaotic room in the Fulham Road, was in some ways an outsider.

  A sharp wind blew in our faces as we wandered back down Earls Court Road. Deborah and I arranged to meet at Finch’s the next Saturday at eight – Chas and the others would be playing a concert in St Albans that night. As we said goodbye, she touched my shoulders and, for a moment, rested her cheek against mine; she was cold and shivering.

  Peter and I walked down Redcliffe Gardens. ‘Can’t tell you how great it is to have found Deborah again. Fantastic luck that you play with Chas and the others.’ I had the brown paper parcel in one hand and slapped Peter’s back with the other.

  ‘She’s a sweetie, Deborah. But she’s got a problem. You ought to know.’ He swept his hair behind his shoulder. ‘She’s too keen on the old smack.’

  ‘Smack!’

  ‘Heroin.’

  ‘Jesus.’ I knew what smack was. ‘What do you mean? She’s an addict?’

  He nodded. ‘Looks that way. Chas thinks so. He’s worried about it, very… and feels guilty.’

  ‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit.’ I hated the idea of Deborah being taken over by a drug. I started walking more slowly. ‘Why’s he feel guilty?’

  ‘Well, he gave her her first hit, didn’t he? He just didn’t think she’d get so keen… We all do it now and again. Well, I don’t any more, actually.’

  ‘So… can he do anything about it? Chas.’

  ‘They don’t keep any there any more. She cleaned them out anyway. But she gets it. She stole some money the other week.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘From another kid in college. Chas took her to a doctor. So she gets prescriptions for methadone, but they say it’s not working… It’s a bloody shame, mate. She’s such a sweet kid – and can she draw! She’d be a star if she could get hold of herself.’

  We turned into the Fulham Ro
ad and walked on for a minute in silence. ‘Well, what can I do? I must be her oldest friend. We were almost brother and sister.’

  ‘Dunno… Talk to her. Be her friend… We all do that. We’re like a bunch of uncles and aunts. She’s so young.’

  ‘She’s eighteen.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She’s only been in London about six months.’

  ‘It doesn’t take long, if you really like it… And don’t ever give her money – however much she whines and wheedles.’

  We reached his flat and he asked me in. It was late and I had work the next morning. We stood on the doorstep for a while talking about Deborah and heroin, but I learned nothing more – except that Chas had repaid the money she had stolen and persuaded the college to take no action; and that if it happened again, the police could be involved.

  * * * * *

  I waited for Deborah for more than an hour at Finch’s that Saturday. Then I walked over to the flat. As before, the front door was open, but the only light came from the end of a corridor off the hall. I peered round a door into a room, dimly lit by a standard lamp. It had a bare wood floor. An easel with a pencil drawing of a still life stood in one corner, three or four guitars were leaning against the wall and several speakers and amplifiers were piled on top of each other.

  Someone was lying under some blankets on a low double bed. I knocked on the door and the person moved a little, but didn’t look up or speak. I tiptoed to the bed.

  ‘Deborah.’ I said her name quietly in the silence.

  She sat up, stared at me and put her hand on her forehead. ‘My God. My God. David. What time is it?’

  ‘Just after half-past nine.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘We were going to meet. It’s Saturday. Remember?’

  Her eyes were open very wide and she was staring at me, as though my presence was alarming or even frightening. She was wearing a black T-shirt. ‘I’m sorry. Yes. I must have fallen asleep.’ She lay back down.

  ‘Do you want to go out? Or do you just want to go back to sleep?’

  She frowned. ‘I can’t go out. I can’t.’ She put her hand over her eyes. ‘I’m not very well.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I thought of sitting down beside her, but decided to stay standing up.

  ‘Don’t know. Don’t feel good at all… Some kind of bug.’ She sat up again and stared around the room. She seemed a little panicky.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  She leaned over the side of the bed and rapidly pulled things out of a small leather bag, dropping them on the floor. It was as though she was angry about something and was taking it out on her keys, address book, make-up, comb. She found a brown envelope, pulled a piece of paper from it, and held it towards me. ‘Please, get this for me.’ I took it and she lay down. It was a prescription from a doctor in Lillie Road.

  I looked at my watch. ‘It’s quarter to ten.’

  She turned on her side and hugged her knees under the blankets. ‘There’ll be somewhere open.’ I looked at her and down at the prescription. The doctor’s writing was the usual scrawl, but there was a word that looked like methadone. ‘I’m sorry… David. I’m really ill. If there is nowhere else, could you get to Boots, Piccadilly Circus? It never shuts.’

  ‘The Chelsea Drug Store is open.’

  ‘Yeah? Never been there.’ She stared at me. ‘Anywhere. Please.’ She turned away again. ‘I think I’m going to die otherwise.’

  I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t come round. Would she have gone on sleeping and not wanted the drug? Would Chas have come back and gone to Piccadilly Circus at one o’clock in the morning? ‘All right.’ I put the blanket over her. She had shut her eyes. On a whim, I kissed her forehead; it was cold and I could feel her sweat on my lips. I went down to the Chelsea Drug Store to get her prescription filled.

  I got back just before midnight. I had stood for an hour in a slow-moving queue with other methadone users – or perhaps their friends – and a couple of men whose children needed cough medicine; the pharmacist had had to hand-write a label with detailed dosage instructions for every opaque brown bottle.

  Deborah didn’t seem to have moved but she was awake, blinking rapidly and clenching and unclenching her fingers on the sheet. She raised her head, said ‘thanks’ very loudly and reached for the bottle. It was in a white paper bag.

  ‘I’ll pour it for you in the kitchen.’ I walked towards the door.

  ‘I can swig it. I know the dose.’ She sat up.

  ‘No. I might as well make sure it’s right.’ I walked to the kitchen and rinsed a glass and a spoon. She came and stood beside me. She tapped on the draining board and I could see her shivering. I measured the liquid into the glass and put the cap back on the bottle.

  ‘That’s not enough, David.’ She frowned at me and stamped her feet. She was wearing just the black T-shirt and a pair of knickers; her legs were long and too thin.

  ‘It’s what it says on the label, which is what your doctor wrote on the prescription.’ I tried to sound unconcerned and held out the glass.

  She took it, drank the methadone straight down and stood with her eyes raised to the ceiling and the glass in her hand. I put the bottle in my pocket. ‘OK. Thanks.’ She swilled out the glass in the sink and walked quickly from the room. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ I put the bottle in a cupboard beside a jar of Marmite and filled the kettle.

  As I sipped scalding instant coffee, I could hear her running a bath. I sat down and looked idly at a three-day-old copy of the Evening Standard. Minutes later, I heard her walking about the flat and then the sound of Sergeant Pepper.

  She came into the kitchen. She still seemed tense, but she looked better; she had combed her wet hair and was wearing blue jeans, a thick grey sweater over a white T-shirt, socks – or tights – and scuffed brown shoes. She looked at me with a taut, apologetic smile. ‘Would you like some more coffee?’ She picked up my mug.

  ‘Sure.’

  I stood beside her as the kettle boiled. ‘I’m sorry.’ She spoke without looking at me.

  ‘It’s all right.’ I didn’t know what else to say. I had been shocked when Peter had told me of her addiction, but that hadn’t prepared me for what I had felt earlier – when I found her and as I tramped the streets and returned with the bottle – fear, anger, and a little pity. Now I felt some relief as well.

  She carried the coffee to the living room and sat down on a rug beside the stereo, and turned the sound down a little. I sat on the sofa, facing her. ‘I know what you’re doing. Peter told me.’

  ‘He wouldn’t know.’

  ‘He does. They all know – the whole group, they’re very worried about you… You must know that.’ She drank her coffee and looked at the floor without speaking. ‘I’m worried about you too.’

  ‘Well, it’s all right. I’ve stopped.’ She shook her head angrily. ‘It’s over. I’m doing the methadone… thing. Have you got any cigarettes?’ I handed her one and lit it. ‘There’s nothing else to say… It’s under control.’ She pulled nervously on the cigarette.

  ‘Three hours ago you said you were going to die.’ She turned Sergeant Pepper up, and picked at a strand of her hair and stared at it. ‘Look, I’m your oldest friend. Maybe I can help.’

  She went on playing with her hair.

  I remembered something. ‘By the way, Teresa sends her love and said to send her a postcard.’

  ‘Teresa?’ She looked up at me, frowning.

  ‘From Marlow. She said she was your best friend.’

  ‘When – ?’ She was looking at her hair again, holding it in front of her face. I saw that she was crying, though she made no sound. The record ended and the pick-up clicked back into place. She stood up with her fists clenched by her sides. ‘Oh God!’ It was a high-pitched whine.

  I stood up. ‘Deborah?’ She ran from the room. I followed more slowly. ‘You all right?’ A door slammed. I could hear a tap running.

>   I went back into the room with the sofa and thought about turning Sergeant Pepper over – and decided not to. After a few minutes she returned and smiled properly for the first time that evening. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I said it was OK and we sat down at either end of the sofa.

  ‘I’m a fool, but I’m trying not to be any more.’ She got up and turned the record over.

  ‘Sure.’ I didn’t know her as I once had. I wondered whether we would ever get back to the easy friendship where she said things I wasn’t expecting and held my hand as if she hardly noticed it. It didn’t seem likely. I had been going to ask whether she remembered our plan to go to Swan River, Manitoba – but that had been when I had thought we would meet for a drink and a chat. A part of me wanted to take her away somewhere and look after her, feed her methadone until she was better, and let her out into the wild again like a beautiful bird with a mended wing – she was beautiful now, even though she was so thin. But I knew it was a stupid dream; I knew nothing about addiction or heroin, had nowhere for her to live – and didn’t even know her very well any more. And she had Chas. He seemed nice. He could look after her – as long as he kept caring. I wondered when he would come back.

  ‘What’s the matter? You look sad.’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right. I was just…’ – I wondered if I should say it -‘…thinking… I don’t know you so well any more.’

  ‘Oh!… Well, you will. We can see each other a lot.’ She reached over and took my hand, squeezed it and put it down gently. ‘I’m so glad you’re around again… You’ve been great tonight. I’m sorry I was such a mess… but I’m still me… and you’re you.’ Perhaps I didn’t look convinced. ‘You are. You’re just older… that’s all… and so am I, but I’m no different, whatever you might think.’

  Maybe she was right; people didn’t change that much. I forced a smile, leaned forward and slapped my knees. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Why don’t we meet one evening next week? I promise I’ll be there.’

  ‘OK, but…’ I smiled more genuinely. ‘I’ll take the phone number, just in case.’