Obstacles to Young Love

by David Nobbs

  ‘Would you like another glass of the Montepulciano?’

  Better not. Drink solves nothing.

  ‘Why not?’

  As he hears himself say it he winces, winces at his lack of self-control, winces at his characteristic choice of words. Not a ringing, life-enhancing, ‘Yes, please,’ but ‘Why not?’ He feels that recently he has largely conquered his negativity, so it’s a disappointment to hear himself saying, ‘Why not?’ He calls the waitress back, flashes his best smile at her – his smile, perhaps because he has not used it enough, packs considerable power – and says, with enthusiasm, ‘A large one, please.’ And then when she has gone, he curses himself, because he doesn’t want a large one. Big things, little things, nothing in life is easy for Timothy. Except his new job. He’s so happy in his new job. What would Naomi think of it? Warden in a bird reserve. Perfect for a man of reserve. He can hear her saying it.

  Every week he scans the Radio Times, buys the Stage, reads the reviews in the Sunday Times, never finds her name. People in the Fishermen’s Arms tell him that he should Google her, but he doesn’t know what that means. He still hasn’t got a computer. He’s frightened of having one, because he knows that he would fall victim to it. He’s frightened of Googling her, because he is uncertain what will happen if he does find her. This way, hunting for her, there is still hope.

  His wine arrives. Its size dismays him. He takes a large sip so that there will not be such a fearsome amount left in the glass.

  He’s on his annual holiday. The birds have nested, but the public are still visiting, so it’s not yet time to begin the major works that will have to be carried out this winter if global warming and rising sea waters are not to overwhelm his new-found paradise.

  He came to the Amalfi on Monday, on the first day of his week’s holiday in London, drawn by the memory of the three meals they had here twenty-five years ago. It was amazing to find that in a changing world it still existed. It was amazing to find how little it had changed.

  And on Monday, as he tried to remember how he had felt on that oh so short long weekend, it had occurred to him that she might also be drawn back one day to this place, and they would meet again at last and collapse into each other’s arms. So on Tuesday he had thought how awful it would be if she came the day after he’d been there, so he had come again, and in doing so had condemned himself to come every day of his holiday. He knows that it’s stupid, but he’s caught in a trap now, he’s like a man who can’t stop doing the lottery for fear that the numbers he has chosen every week will come up the moment he stops.

  He likes the Amalfi, the food is good and generous, the prices are reasonable, it’s reassuringly busy. When one is in the Amalfi, the world seems a pleasant place. Timothy thinks that is no mean achievement.

  There are four small round window tables, all close together like all the tables in this crowded little place. He hasn’t sat at the same table on all five visits. He isn’t entirely a creature of habit.

  From the table he is sitting at today (pedants may be interested to know that it’s the second-most easterly of the four) his view comprises four buildings on the opposite side of Old Compton Street. They are part of a terrace of four-storey buildings.

  On his right is an amusement arcade called Play2win, It’s painted a dull blue and has large windows with nothing in them. A sign announces that people under eighteen may not enter. Flashing lights on various game machines strive to tempt the punters in. Timothy is not tempted.

  Next to it is a secretive building, painted black. A sign announces that this is www.januslondon.com, purveyors of erotica to Consenting Adults. Its black blankness deters the timid. Here too, a sign informs those under eighteen that they are not allowed to enter. Another notice sternly announces, ‘Warning. Persons passing beyond this notice will find material on display which they may consider indecent.’ Timothy is tempted, but does not dare.

  Next to this is the Vintage House. It describes itself as ‘The Malt Whisky Centre’. Its windows, unsurprisingly, are full of malt whiskies. A sign warns – you’ve guessed it – that persons under eighteen are not permitted to enter. Timothy has no wish to enter. He can’t handle spirits.

  On the extreme left of his field of vision is the Patisserie Valerie, its windows full of luscious cakes. At last there is an establishment that persons under eighteen may enter. Timothy thinks it not surprising that some young people cause trouble. People are maturing physically at younger and younger ages, there are these varied, exciting pleasures and temptations, and the only one they are legally permitted to have is cake. He finds it hard not to enter the Patisserie Valerie. Like many men who have been brought up puritanically, he has a secret weakness for cake.

  There is no point, he feels, in pretending that this is one of the world’s great views. It cannot in all honesty compare with the panorama of Florence spread out below the Piazzale Michelangiolo. It begins to pall slightly after five lunches – with two more to come, for he cannot give up now until he has to go back to work, or he will spend the rest of his wretched life wondering if she had gone there on the Saturday or the Sunday – for it has begun to seem unnatural that she is avoiding this delightful place day after day – and he will have to endure the view every day, because it’s imperative that he sit at a window seat, in case she passes by and doesn’t enter. It is, however, a very comforting view, for it speaks eloquently of human weakness, catering as it does for those who like a little flutter, for those with unusual sexual wants, for those with a taste for strong liquor and for those with a weakness for cakes. Indeed, he hopes as he watches that he will see some gambling alcoholic pervert with a sweet tooth enter all four establishments in turn.

  He wants to get up and go, free himself from this obsessive pattern, but he can’t. He is waiting eagerly for three things – spaghetti carbonara, saltimbocca alla romana, and Naomi.

  The first of the three arrives. It’s fair to assume that in due course in this efficient restaurant the second will also arrive. It’s madness to hope that the third will. Madness.

  Yet Timothy does not believe that he is mad.

  The door opens, a woman aged about forty-two enters, and it’s not her. He hates her for her non-Naominess. He hates her for reminding him that Naomi will now be forty-two. He hates her for reminding him that he is forty-two. He gives her a cool stare, which he feels she richly deserves, and turns away to scan the road once more.

  What’s this? What’s this? Is it…? It can’t be.

  It is.

  No, not Naomi. Sniffy Arkwright. Sniffy Arkwright looking longingly at the stern, ungiving frontage of www.januslondon.com. Those splay feet and those blubbery lips are unmistakable.

  Timothy isn’t surprised to see Sniffy sniffing around like this. Sniffy lives on the outside, looking in. He longs to go out and say to him, ‘Sniffy, don’t stand there sniffing around like that. You’re looking so obvious. You might as well be carrying a sandwich board stating, “Respectable Member of Society Ashamed to be Seen Entering Sex Shop”. Go in.’

  Proust had his madeleines. Timothy has the unlikely vehicle of Sniffy Arkwright to jump-start his remembrances of things past. In his uncertainty in Old Compton Street Sniffy seems to have brought the North of England with him. The memories come in waves. Pennine Piss-ups. Roly’s sandwiches. Driving past L’Ancresse. Oh, God, the curlew. Some humiliations grow even more unbearable with the passage of time. He doesn’t want to think of all this, of Steven Venables whom he no longer sees, of Dave Kent whom he sees all too rarely, of Tommo and his jokes, which he had dreaded so much and which he would welcome now, of a past life that he has shed all too easily, as if it had never happened, as if it had all been time wasted. Twenty-five years of Naomiless desert. It was worth more than that. It deserves more generous sentiments.

  Suddenly Sniffy plucks up his courage and enters the sex emporium. Timothy is pleased to see him go. Now maybe the tide of memories will ebb. Think East Anglia. Think now. But to think now is to thin
k, ‘When?’ and ‘How?’ When will I see Naomi? How can I see her?

  He finishes his spaghetti carbonara, lifts his glass to take a sip of wine and finds to his astonishment that it’s empty. He’s horrified to hear himself ordering another glass.

  ‘A large one?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Shit.

  His wine arrives. He’s a little dismayed to find that the large glasses no longer look dismayingly large.

  The saltimbocca soon follows. He eats it slowly, savouring every mouthful, taking some mouthfuls of the tender meat with a little bit of sage, some without. Naomi used to say that he ate too fast. Naomi, Naomi, Naomi. Will she ever see that he has learned to eat slowly?

  Sniffy must have been at the play, seen his Romeo, seen her Juliet. Suddenly Timothy realises a dreadful truth. That night, when he had given the best performance of his life, Naomi had too. He has watched every show she’s been in, and she has never been quite as good again, never again tapped into that magic. His heart swims with pity for her. She needs him. Oh, Naomi. Come to eat. Step inside. What’s keeping you, my darling?

  Sniffy emerges, clutching a shopping bag. What erotica are in it? Timothy will never know.

  Sniffy scuttles along the pavement like a guilty toad, and when he feels he is far enough away from Januslondon, he crosses the road and turns back towards the Amalfi. Timothy’s heart almost stops. He couldn’t bear to discuss Naomi with this man. (Sniffy may actually know something about her? That fear again?)

  But Sniffy passes on his way, and Timothy’s terror subsides. He finishes his saltimbocca. Twelve youngish people are sitting not far behind him. The noise level is rising. Their laughter is loud and a little desperate, as if they believe that the world may end tomorrow. Timothy is so happy that they are there. It cloaks him in anonymity. He is an island of silence in a sea of noise. He is the eye of the storm. He is the centre of the roulette wheel.

  The restaurant is beginning to empty, soon the young people will leave. Naomi isn’t coming, and suddenly he feels very lost and desperately lonely in the midst of all these people. He wishes now that Sniffy Arkwright had come in.

  He has to get outside. He can feel claustrophobia coming on. He asks for his bill.

  Hurry. Hurry. He doesn’t feel so good. The panic comes in waves, the sweat begins to form on his forehead, and as he sweats he feels deathly cold. But the waitress comes, and he pays, adding an excessively generous tip. This makes him feel good, even though he knows that he is doing it so that she will like him and will be kind to him tomorrow. But he has long ago given up worrying about motives. A good action is a good action, whatever the motive.

  He staggers out into the street. He breathes in a great lungful of London air, and almost retches. It tastes of stress, sweat and petrol.

  He feels slightly exhilarated. He’s not going to faint, and that is a minor triumph. He tries to walk in a straight line, loses his balance as he turns a corner, finds himself lurching to the left. If he had lurched to the right he would have been in danger of falling into the path of the traffic, but he lurches to the left and faces only a lesser danger – the French House. The door of the pub opens as he tumbles towards it. He regains his balance and enters, trying to make it look as if this is what he had always intended to do.

  A pub is the last place he should be going to. He could leave now. Nobody knows him here. He could pretend to be looking for a friend, and leave when he doesn’t find him. But he doesn’t want to leave. He has not lived enough. This afternoon he will live a little.

  A beautiful, buxom barmaid beams alliteratively at him, and her smile enters his mouth and goes right down through his body to his genitals, warming and exciting him.

  He orders a pint of bitter. She tells him that they only serve halves. He is relieved and disappointed. He collapses in ungainly fashion onto a bar stool. The man on the next stool turns to him and says, ‘I know three different rain dances.’ That’s the thing about drinking. There’s always somebody more drunk than you.

  Timothy doesn’t want to talk to this man. He has no desire to hear about one rain dance, let alone three. It rains too often in Coningsfield. He’s absolutely fed up with rain. Nor does he like dancing much. He has no rhythm. He needs to shut this man up and dredges up a moment of inspiration – rare, to be honest.

  ‘I’ve not been lucky with women,’ he says confidentially.

  The man turns away, appalled at the prospect of the revelations that will follow.

  ‘It’s true, though,’ says Timothy silently to himself.

  He decides to tell the barmaid about Naomi, in the hope that sharing her may relieve some of the pain of his intensity. Here, at this three-cornered little bar, with the walls plastered with photographs of celebrities who have drunk here, he will tell, for the very first time, the story of the three most exciting days in all his life.

  He will tell her silently, of course, because he knows that there is no reason for her to be interested, and besides she is busy.

  ‘We were only seventeen. We were Romeo and Juliet in the school play. Our art master virtually instructed us to fall in love, yet the world was surprised and appalled when we did. We knew so little. We left Coningsfield as brave lovers, Romeo and Juliet still. But in London we became Timothy and Naomi again, provincial hicks. We booked a double room in a hotel in Earls Court. I can’t even remember what it was called. I’ve been back a few times, wandered round where I thought it was, but I can’t find it.’

  ‘How fascinating!’ He invents a response for the barmaid. ‘Perhaps it’s been pulled down.’

  ‘Possibly. I was so embarrassed booking in. She said, “Names?” and I went brick red as I said, “Mr and Mrs Pickering.” “You are married, are you?” she asked. “This is a respectable house.” She had a parrot. It looked at us and it knew. “Oh, yes,” I said. “We’re on our honeymoon.” The parrot said, “Pull the other one.” “You aren’t under age, are you?” persisted the landlady. “We’re both nineteen,” said Naomi. The parrot said, “Yes, and I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury.” The landlady shrugged and said, “It doesn’t know what it’s saying. It’s only a bird. Only I had to ask because it’s illegal under the licensing laws. Payment in advance, please.”

  ‘That night we kissed and kissed, we sailed on a sea of saliva, and I…I couldn’t do it. Naomi said it was natural, I was nervous, she was nervous, we were embarrassed in case the people in the next room could hear, we knew they would be able to because the soundproofing was crap, we could hear their bed creaking, every creak was a dagger in my side. I didn’t think anybody ever failed to get it up. Gregory Peck, Bob Dylan, Kevin Keegan, the Duke of Edinburgh, I’d never heard of any of them saying, “I’m sorry, darling. I must have been overworking recently.”’

  ‘Another half?’

  ‘The next day…’ Then he realises that this is actually the barmaid, talking, in real life.

  ‘Oh. Better had.’

  He’s beginning to feel very cosy here, sitting at a little three-sided bar in the middle of Soho on a late autumn afternoon surrounded by people who all look…unusual…not distinguished exactly, but…out of the ordinary. He feels that he’s part of a clique, an elite.

  He resumes his silent story.

  ‘The next day, we wandered round London, saw the sights, ate in the Amalfi just round the corner, and all the time I was thinking, “Oh, Lord. Night is approaching.” Anyway, when it came, no problem. We made love for England.’

  ‘Nice to be patriotic.’

  ‘I can’t begin to describe how wonderfully beautiful Naomi was with no clothes on. I mean, I’m sure that you’re beautiful with no clothes on too.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not that I’ll ever know.’

  ‘Shame.’

  No. No, Timothy. Don’t start fantasising about the barmaid. Respect her. Not that she’ll ever know, but you are not what you seem. On the surface you may appear to be a hopeless lonely man comforting himself with onan
istic fantasies about every attractive woman he sees, but deep down you’re a fine man, a good man, with so much to give, and you know now that the only person you can ever give it to is Naomi.

  ‘In the morning, I…I was frightened…she wanted me to go down on her and it just seemed…such an odd thing to do. You’ll laugh at me, but I had to pluck up my courage to do it, but, do you know, it was wonderful. She came in my mouth, and…it was just so…so very friendly, so intimate and yet…exotic…just the most incredibly exciting thing. But afterwards…afterwards I couldn’t talk about it, not to anybody, not even to her, and I felt ashamed as well as proud, which is ridiculous, and…it was religion, you see, I was very religious, well, even she was pretty religious. Isn’t it extraordinary, dear lovely afternoon barmaid, that I am saying all these things to you silently and you have no idea – for all you know I might be trying to remember the Blackburn Rovers team of 1974? Full of secrets as well as information, faces.’

  The barmaid is looking at him again, and he wonders if she can sense something of what he is saying to her inside his head. The thing is…it’s strange…but she’s getting prettier and prettier by the half-pint. Any more would be unwise.

  ‘Same again, please.’

  Well, he’s in the middle of a story. He has to finish it, to explain why it all ended so badly. He has to share what he now sees as his terrible stupidity. He cannot carry the burden of that knowledge on his own any longer.

  ‘Well, anyway, that morning at breakfast, the sun was shining and I was feeling pretty good about things, but also rather uneasy. I suddenly thought that everyone in the breakfast room could see what we’d been doing. And I realised that it was a sin. I mean, I don’t think that now, of course, not at all, but I did then, even though of course it hadn’t stopped me. And this woman came over to us, big woman, looked quite old, probably not more than sixty, I realise now. I was cutting round the edge of my second egg – they were good breakfasts, I’ll give them that – I was going round and round getting nearer to the yolk, which I always eat last, and I saw her face, and I thought, we’re going to be publicly abused as fornicators, and my knife slipped and broke the yolk before I was ready, which I hated, always have, still do, and she looked me straight in the eye, and spoke in a voice like a very aristocratic foghorn, and she said, “You look like racing folk. I’ve a dead cert in the two forty-five at Redcar.” Well, I almost fainted from relief, but I knew then…I knew then…I couldn’t do it again until we were married, I just couldn’t, and I didn’t, and of course we never were married. I mean, it seems so stupid now, even in 1978 lots of people would have thought it stupid, but there it is. I just wanted to get home. I hated that I’d lied to my dad. I wanted it all to be over. But of course, we had to see it through. It would have been awful to go back with our tails between our legs. But the next night, that was difficult. Second night, three climaxes. Third night, anticlimax. Horrid.’