by David Nobbs
The pub has become a ship of fools now, maybe even the Mary Celeste. They are adrift on this Sargasso Sea of an afternoon, these lost souls and he. Hello! The wind must be getting up, the ship is pitching and tossing on the increasing swell, he’s afraid, he’s sweating, it’s so cold, his sweat is frozen, there’s ice on the rigging, the deck is coming up to meet him, all is darkness, all is nothing.
He comes round to find himself lying on the floor. The kind barmaid is bending over him. She looks very concerned. Even her cleavage manages to look concerned.
The sweat pours off him.
‘I’ll be all right now,’ he says. He tries to smile, but the smile congeals even as he smiles it, like rain turning to ice on cold soil.
They help him into a chair at one of the wooden tables in the little back room.
‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘Just a warse of glorter…glass of water, and I’ll be fine. I’ve had too much and I…I’ve done this sort of thing before, and…I’ll be fine.’
He sits and sips, sits and sips, sits and sips. The colour begins to come back to his cheeks. The evening crowd start to pour in, thrusting, eager, full of themselves. The afternoon people take their cue and melt away like ghosts, back to their lonelinesses.
Timothy thanks the barmaid, and wants to kiss her, but doesn’t, and there isn’t any point anyway because she isn’t Naomi, and he too goes back to his loneliness. The fun is over. His room in the Travel Lodge awaits him.
Tonight, with luck, he will be too drunk to have the dream. He dreads his recurring nightmare. He has never felt able to mention it to anybody, not to Naomi, not to Maggie, not to Hannah, not to his father. His dream is like the attacks of terrorists. They don’t have to happen very often for the fear to be perpetual.
When, two and a half days later, on a dark, dreary Sunday evening, he drives in the dark along mainly flat roads back to his terrace house on the East Anglian coast, he reflects upon the ridiculous week that he has just so senselessly imposed on himself, and he knows that he must seek Naomi out, Google her, whatever that is, go to something called Face Reunited or Book of Tubes or Your Friends or something that they have on the mysterious Internet, get in touch with the actors’ union, be logical, be a man.
His little house is smaller than ever and smells of emptiness and damp. He’s left it out in the rain, and it’s shrunk. The front door leads straight into what is almost too small to be called a lounge, but that’s what it is. ‘Well, I don’t need a big living room,’ he thinks wryly. ‘I don’t do much living.’ ‘Until now,’ he adds.
On the floor, swept to one side by the door as he opens it, is the post that has accumulated over the last week. So little. How meagre the world’s interest in him has been.
He picks the post up, takes it through to the second, equally small room, which would be a cosy dining room if he ever had guests, puts the mail down on the table, goes into the tiny kitchen, makes himself a cup of tea, realises that he has no milk, pours the tea down the sink, makes himself a cup of coffee, takes it through into the unused dining room, sits at the table, and stares at his sad little bundle of mail.
This is his great new life, his new start, his wonderful job with live birds after a lifetime of dead ones, but on this cold Sunday evening there is such a feeling of loneliness in him that he wishes he could let go of his manliness and cry. Manliness? He’s no man. He had the dream again last night. He hasn’t had it much since he began this job, but he had it last night.
He begins to work his way miserably through the unutterable dreariness of his post. He’s offered the chance of booking a cruise to the Caribbean which will be amazing value. He’s told of a giant carpet sale, and is unaware that, when he thinks how useless a giant carpet will be in this tiny house, he is echoing a thought that Naomi had in Narcissus Road. He’s invited to a seminar on inheritance tax in Ipswich. He’s sent photographs of a boy with a horrendous harelip in the hope that it will move him to pity. It moves him to despair that he cannot afford to help in any meaningful way.
There’s a letter dictated by his father. He made one pound twenty the other day at fives and threes, playing for twenty pence up and down the crib board. He sounds delighted. Timothy pulls himself together. His life is not too bad. Oh, why did he go to London for his week’s holiday, and not to Coningsfield, to bring some brief sunshine into his dad’s life? Well, he knows why. Because in London there was the faintest of chances that he would run into Naomi.
And, right at the bottom of the pile, there’s a letter in a white envelope, a letter with his address handwritten, in a hand that he doesn’t recognise, the hand not of a child but of an adult with childish writing. This one looks as if it might at least be vaguely interesting. He takes a sip of the acrid black coffee, longing to open the letter, but happy to hang onto the moment of longing, because, if this letter disappoints, there will be nothing left for him except to set his alarm and go to bed. And maybe have the dream again.
At first the letter disappoints him. It’s from Sniffy Arkwright, of all people. But, as he reads it, his disappointment is slowly replaced by anticipation, which grows slowly into an excitement which will keep him awake, and happily awake, half the night.
Dear Timothy
I imagine this letter will come as a great surprise, as I have never written to you before. But I ran into Tommo the other day, he was his usual self, brimming with health, full of fun, told me a joke about a nun and a combine harvester which I didn’t understand, and I suddenly had an amazing thought – hope you didn’t faint when you read that!! – and I asked Tommo for your address, and he phoned me with it that very night. He sends his love, incidentally.
Next July it will be twenty-five years since our year left Coningsfield Grammar to make our various ways in the world, and I thought that it would be a good idea to mark the occasion by having a reunion. I happened to meet Dave Kent in the supermarket – he was prodding the fruit and when he saw me he said, ‘These are disgusting. They say that they’re ripe and ready to eat. They’ll never ripen. They’ll go bad before they’re ready to eat. They’ve been picked too soon and kept in cold storage for too long. What kind of a pathetic spiritless nation of shoppers are we that we accept this crap?’ I said, ‘I completely agree with you, Dave, but I want to talk to you about an amazing idea I’ve had. Shall we have a cup of tea in the café?’ He said, ‘Fuck that. Let’s have a pint in the Builders’ Arms.’ So we did.
Well, he thought my idea was great, and the upshot was that we got in touch with John Parkin. I don’t know if you knew him at school, but he’s with Bertram Gould, and they are just about the most respected firm of solicitors in Coningsfield. I knew that he’d be good on the details, and so it’s proved. He was also happy to give us his services free, which wasn’t bad as he normally gets two hundred and twenty pounds an hour. I wish I did. I mean, he wasn’t even clever. (Don’t tell him I said that!)
He’s drafted a letter which we’ve sent out to all one hundred and ninety-six people who left school that year. The school think it’s a great idea and were happy to give us access to the last addresses that they had, although of course some people may have moved and not told the school. However, in his letter John has asked people to let us know the addresses of anyone they are still in contact with, so this should help us to get in touch with the vast majority.
You and I were always quite close…
What?
…so I didn’t want you to just get a circular, I wanted to write to you personally. I do hope you will be able to come. John has suggested that Coningsfield residents should offer beds to ‘out-of-towners’, though he himself can’t as his wife suffers with her nerves. (I’d suffer with my nerves if I was married to John – don’t tell him I said that either!!) Timothy, I’ve had a word with my old man and with Mother…
My old man and Mother? That doesn’t sound very Coningsfield Grammar.
…and we would feel privileged to be able to offer you a bed for the night. Or nights. Why n
ot make a bit of a break of it, lots of catching up to do.
He is amazed to find that Sniffy, in his forties, is still living with his parents. But then none of them ever knew much about him. None of them ever asked him much about himself. No, let’s face it, none of them ever asked him anything about himself.
The proposed date is July the eighteenth, exactly twenty-five years on from the end of our last term, and John is busy getting quotes from possible venues. We’ll do it in style. Three-course dinner and a band. Do you remember Rick Ferrensby? He had a group called ‘The Ricking Slickers’ and he’ll know who are the coolest people we can get within budget. It’s going to be a great night in the old town.
I do hope you can come, and please do think of my offer of a bed.
With kind regards,
Yours sincerely,
Your old chum
Peregrine Arkwright.
Peregrine! No wonder he didn’t object to being called Sniffy. And no wonder he always seemed a bit of a loner. How could anybody call on his mother and say, ‘Oh hello, Mrs Arkwright. Can your Peregrine come out to play?’
Naomi. She will get an invitation. She will come.
He leaps at the thought. She will come. There’s no need for him to Google and do all those other difficult, mysterious things, chase her up, show his hand, risk the possibility of humilating rejection. Unwise to show her just how much he cares until he’s had a chance to test the waters. Much better.
What if she doesn’t come? Well, if she doesn’t, then he will search her out.
But she will.
Timothy doesn’t feel ready for bed yet. The letter could not have transformed his view of his house more if he’d been an estate agent. Small? It’s compact. It’s bijou. It’s cosy. His little terrace flint house is so cosy, he wants to just sit in his favourite armchair, sip a malt whisky with the same amount of water, and reflect on the loveliness of life. Then he will go to bed and make love to Naomi as she has never been loved before and certainly not by that bastard Colin.
All that long, raw, grey winter, all through the bursting daffodil days on the slope of the lane up to the church that he has never even been inside, all through the slow, unchanging months on the timeless marshes where the seasons make no difference, all through the laying and hatching of the delicate little reed buntings’ eggs in the reeds that sway in the breeze with the precision of sailors in a storm, Timothy feels that he is in suspended animation. Time moves in three dimensions. There’s the normal Greenwich Mean Time, moving just a bit faster now than it did when he was younger, speeding him on his way to old age and death, using up his life much more quickly than he would have wished. There’s East Anglian Scrooge Time, meaner even than Greenwich Time, letting out its countless seconds, its millions of minutes, its long hours so slowly that July the eighteenth seems almost at times to be like the spring tides beyond the shingle that protects the reserve, receding, then approaching, then receding, then coming just a little closer. And the third dimension is his very own special time, Timothy Time, which doesn’t move at all, so that he seems suspended, inanimate, trapped in the aspic of the moment.
Somehow, by arrangement between the three dimensions, the hours do pass. He busies himself with his work. It’s a successful breeding season. Young avocets abound in the lagoons. There’s a bit of a baby boom for the booming bitterns in the reeds. The marsh harriers rear two young successfully. May gives way to June, June to July.
The nearer the great day approaches, the more its greatness recedes. There are so many reasons why Naomi will not come. There are so many reasons why, if she does come, he will wish that she hadn’t. At times he feels that he’s insane, obsessed, yet his hope is so great that he can’t abandon it for a moment, it’s with him as he works, it’s with him as he eats, it’s with him as he sleeps, it’s with him as he dreams. And in his anxiety he’s beginning to dream the dream more often. It’s as if he’s terrified that he’s unworthy of Naomi.
And now July the seventeenth has arrived at last, and he sets off towards the North in his trusty, rusty, old estate car. It’s a car that should smell of Labrador, but doesn’t. He has reached the stage of his life when he feels he ought to have a dog, and his choice would be a Labrador. It’s inconceivable to him that Naomi could dislike dogs, but she might prefer other breeds to Labradors, which, it has to be admitted, do smell and often pinch the cheese off the table. He can’t have a Labrador, until he knows that Naomi likes Labradors, or until – he can hardly bear to articulate the thought to himself – he has lost all hope of her.
How dreary the motorway, how banal the fields, how long the miles, how unwelcoming the service stations, how ugly the bridges, how aggressive the drivers, how smelly the diesel, how huge the juggernauts, how slow the hours.
He’s going to stay with Tommo and his wife and boys.
It’ll be cramped, and you’ll have to share a bathroom, and don’t look under the bed, but we’ll make you very welcome. Do come the day before. Let’s make a bit of a thing of it.
P.S. Got a corker for you. Hope you haven’t heard it!
Dear Peregrine,
I would love to take you up on your kind offer, but unfortunately I can’t. Tommo’s my closest friend, and he would be hurt if I stayed anywhere else. However, I really look forward to seeing you again and having a jaw about old times.
A jaw about old times! What got into his use of language when he thought of Sniffy?
‘Coningsfield Welcomes Careful Drivers’.
As he passes the sign he smiles at the thought of Tommo’s driving on those Pennine Piss-ups.
‘You are Entering a Nuclear-Free Zone’.
He hopes the Russians and the North Koreans know about this.
‘Avoid Congestion, Share A Car’.
What a recipe for social disaster.
At last he reaches the end of Derwentwater Road, and turns into it.
Two police cars and an ambulance are parked very close to Tommo’s house. As he gets closer, he sees to his horror that they are actually outside Tommo’s house. His heart starts thumping. Somehow, he knows already.
He pulls up a couple of houses away. He gets out of his car with great reluctance, and walks slowly along the pavement. A mountainous policeman is standing outside the house, his great feet plonked solidly on the fake Yorkshire stone.
‘I’m afraid you can’t go in there, sir,’ he says.
‘What’s happened?’ asks Timothy.
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal that,’ says the policeman stolidly. He doesn’t look afraid.
Tommo’s wife rushes down the drive, and at that terrible moment, even at that terrible moment, Timothy is horrified to find that he can’t remember her name.
‘Oh, Timothy,’ she says. ‘Oh, Timothy.’
She collapses onto his chest, this woman whose name he’s forgotten and who has never before even pecked his cheek.
‘Oh, Timothy,’ she cries. ‘I came home. I’d been shopping, getting things for breakfast. Your breakfast,’ she sobs bitterly, ‘because we don’t do breakfast, not any more, not really. But I thought you might want some, with your having come such a long way. And there he was, at the top of the stairs. He’s hanged himself.’
Timothy strokes the top of her hair and feels absolutely helpless. He can think of no words that are adequate for such a moment. He feels that his head is sinking to his feet, the way it does after too much drink.
‘I’m really sorry,’ sobs Tommo’s wife, ‘but I think you’re going to have to try to find somewhere else to stay.’
Timothy pulls up in Coniston Crescent, wipes his moist eyes, then switches on his mobile, and has a problem dialling Dave Kent’s number, so much are his fingers shaking.
He finds it difficult to break the dreadful news. Dave is shocked into silence. He asks Dave if he can stay with him, but Dave tells him that he has a full house already. He arranges to meet Dave for a drink at the Mulberry in half an hour, and phones Sniffy. His mothe
r answers the phone.
‘Peregrine is still at work,’ she explains in an unexpectedly cut-glass voice. ‘They work him so hard.’
Once more Timothy finds it difficult to be a messenger of death.
‘I am so sorry,’ says Mrs Arkwright. ‘That is so terrible. Did he have children?’
‘Two boys.’
‘That is so tragic.’
‘Um…the thing is…’ Timothy finds the gear change difficult. ‘Um, Sni—Peregrine did rather invite me to stay.’
Rather? What’s going on, Timothy? Why does your speech go strange whenever you think of Sniffy?
‘But I felt…I mean, it was wonderfully kind of him…and of you and Mr Arkwright…but I felt I ought to stay with Tommo because he was my best friend. But now…um…I mean, it’s very hard to invite myself. And if it isn’t convenient…’
‘Do come. We would be so delighted. Peregrine will be so thrilled. He’s always talking about you.’
Really? Good God.
‘We deplore the reason, but we will be delighted about the visit. Hamish is dying to meet you. But I’ve just thought. Will the celebrations still take place? People will be so disappointed if they don’t. Peregrine will be devastated.’
