The History of Us

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘God love him. D’you reckon it’s the AIDS?’

  ‘Gotta be.’

  She looked to me.

  ‘Adam?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just want you to know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you ever get the AIDS I’ll give up work and nurse you.’

  I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that. It was incredibly touching and flattering to have someone offer to do so much for you, if need be. But at the same time it felt so very reductive – that just because I was gay, I might somehow end up like this designer.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Kath.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Nah. I hardly ever do it, anyway. And when I do I’m really safe.’

  Well, that wasn’t a lie. Truth be told, I’d’ve been more than happy to have every sexual encounter of mine take place with me sporting a balaclava and rubber body stocking.

  ‘I know but . . . well, if you do . . . get the AIDS.’

  ‘Kathleen, will you stop calling it that?’

  ‘Calling it what?’

  ‘Calling it “the AIDS”!’

  ‘Well, what am I meant to be calling it?’

  ‘Just AIDS. Like the Asda isn’t really “the Asda”, AIDS is just AIDS. Not “the AIDS”.’

  ‘What’s AIDS got to do with Asda?’

  ‘We’re changing the subject of this conversation now. OK?’

  She silently fumed. We both sat there in silence for a bit. Tough. She had to learn. After a while I softened.

  ‘D’you want to talk about Morrissey?’ I ventured.

  She wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

  ‘D’you want to talk about that lad you fancy off Why Don’t You?’

  She looked horrified. ‘That was about ten years ago! He’s a friggin’ kid!’

  I laughed. She laughed. I’d caught her out. The ice had thawed.

  ‘What d’you wanna talk about?’ I ventured.

  She sighed, and said, ‘Cynthia.’

  For a few weeks now she had become a bit obsessed with the woman who lived next door to us in West Norwood. She was a striking woman who was often to be seen with her hair in a chignon, dragging a pull-along suitcase behind her, dressed head to toe in red, white and blue. We thought she was always going away on holiday till another neighbour let it slip to Kathleen – she spoke to all the neighbours, I avoided them at all costs – that Cynthia was in fact a trolley dolly. Next time Kathleen had seen her, they’d struck up a rapport.

  And now she had become Kathleen’s favourite topic of conversation.

  ‘I seen her last night, just getting back from a long haul to Berlin.’

  I didn’t know what long haul meant, but Kathleen let the words hang in the air, waiting for me to ask what it was. I didn’t give her the satisfaction.

  ‘Long haul, in case you were wondering, is when the flight goes overseas. If she was going, say, London to Manchester, that would be short haul. I think. Actually, I’m not sure.’

  I stifled a yawn. She laughed.

  ‘Cynthia has such a hoot with the other trolley dollies. They just go to these foreign climes for a day or two, hang out in some swanky hotel, get wrecked in the bar, then sober up and do a flight back.’

  ‘Go’way,’ I said, rapidly losing interest in Cynthia. She sounded like a great lush.

  ‘Cynthia says she’s always being asked out by rich businessmen. Cynthia says without the uniform she’s always been a bit of a plain Jane. But stick the pencil skirt on and bun up your hair, and they’re throwing themselves at you.’

  ‘Go’way,’ I repeated. Which she took as a sign to carry on.

  ‘If she’s flying somewhere miles away like Sydney. When she has a break. Guess where she sleeps?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘In the tail of the plane. There’s a stepladder they climb up and then they sleep in these bunk beds in the tail of the plane. She says it’s the most unglamorous thing. Bras everywhere, honky breath. Then they wake up and three seconds later it’s, “Chicken or fish?”’

  ‘Chicken or fish?’

  ‘They’re the main meals they serve on a flight.’

  I nodded my head. ‘But what if you’re a vegetarian?’

  Clearly Kathleen didn’t know this and hadn’t thought to ask her new best friend. I could tell she was lying when she replied, ‘I think they rustle you up some cheese on toast in a special grill, out the back with all the bags.’

  I let silence fall. And as it was clear she was improvising. And she was no Mike Leigh, as she’d’ve probably agreed.

  Five minutes later some French tourists came in and were very animated, rifling through the rows of quirky clothes. Then they alighted on Kathleen’s hideous old lesbian-style lumberjack shirt and went into raptures. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but their tone was almost orgasmic. Minutes later they left the shop with their new ‘trendy’ purchase, our old shirt. And we were thirty quid up. Result!

  We had just stopped jumping up and down to celebrate our profit when Cherish from the Burlesque basque stall came running past doing a bizarre shouting-whisper thing, hissing RAID! to us.

  All over the shop we heard tills slamming shut, shutters going down and a stampede of feet legging it to the Pullman. This could mean only one thing. Social security were doing one of their regular raids.

  Kathleen and I were quite quaint for Hyper Hyper. As we were living rent-free and earning twenty-five quid a week, plus our extras on top, we had no need to sign on. But many people did, and then took the work there cash in hand. And when the DSS came a-calling, they ran to the cafe and pretended they were just in on a casual day’s shopping. As we never wanted to look weird, or spoilt, or not cutting-edge, we would join them in the cafe doing lots of scared ‘hope they don’t catch me, Tory bastards’ acting. It was huge fun. And gave us an extra half hour’s break. It must have been very odd for those DSS snoopers. They must’ve wondered how the store managed to stay open, as every time they popped their heads in the place was like a ghost town. Though the cafe was always suspiciously crammed to the rafters.

  As we sat there this time in the overstuffed train carriage, Zoe from Ghost introduced us to her pal who had just popped in. This was Tim. Ordinary name, extraordinary-looking guy. Punky, almost trying too hard to overcome his suburban name. But then he explained he spelled it with two T’s. And then it made sense. Turned out Ttim was talent-spotting for a new pop video. This was always happening. Because Hyper Hyper was seen as the epicentre for all that was trendy in London, talent scouts were always coming looking for people to populate the latest video for some famous or never-heard-of-before (or after) band. Ttim was casting dancers for a new video by Ecstasy Jake, a new two-piece electronic dance band: ‘You probably know them from the Madchester scene,’ he said. And me and Kathleen found ourselves nodding. When Zoe said we could probably wear some zany Wendy1 outfits, Ttim begged us to be in the video. We’d get twenty quid each. Promising him we were amazing dancers, we sealed the deal with an Appletiser and an Orangina. We had to get to the Windmill Theatre near Piccadilly Circus the following Saturday. We couldn’t wait. Me and Kathleen – practically pop stars!

  The following Friday it was our day off, and I finished the play. As I typed the stage directions –

  Off, we hear a baby cry. Sam and Whitney look to the door. The sun sets through the stained-glass window. Blackout.

  THE END

  – I actually cried. Tears fell on the paper and blotted some of the words. So I had to type it out again.

  I pulled the paper from the typewriter and put it face down on the pile of others, turned the pile the right way round and left it on the side, like an exhibit in a museum or art gallery: Play.

  It looked so beautiful.

  It looked like an achievement.

  It looked like the phone book.

  Then a panic set in. What to do with it now?

  ‘In a Hollywood movie you’d get
on a bus . . .’ Kathleen started saying, wafting about in a kaftan she’d found in Delia’s wardrobe. ‘And you’d meet some amazing theatrical agent, and you’d drop the script and she’d pick it up, and then she’d sign you up on the spot.’

  ‘We’re in London, it’d be the tube,’ I countered.

  ‘Suppose.’

  But we both knew this wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘So what do I do?’ I asked.

  And then Kathleen had a brainwave. ‘Let’s ask at the library.’

  The librarian at the local library guided me to a book called the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook when I told her of my quest for theatrical world or West End domination. It was in the reference section, and there in its pages were lists of all the literary agents who looked after playwrights such as myself. But as I was flicking through, I found another section. It was called NEW WRITING THEATRE COMPANIES. It was basically a list of all the London-based theatres – and there were a page and a half – who accepted unsolicited scripts from unperformed writers like myself.

  I did a bad thing: I nicked the book. I was in a rush. I didn’t have time to join. And anyway, it was in the reference section.

  Besides, I’d bring it back once I’d finished with it. Honest I would. If there was time, once I’d been snapped up by all these amazing new writing companies. I couldn’t wait. Bring it on. The world, and theatreland, was my oyster.

  But first, Kathleen and I had the serious business of becoming pop video stars for the day.

  We’d been up front with Wendy as to why we couldn’t come in that Saturday, and we’d sold it to her from a PR perspective, saying that Ecstasy Jake were the coolest thing ever and so it would be good for them to have some backing dancers who were wearing her clothes. She saw the sense in this. Everything was exposure. But what we’d not really figured was ‘the journey’. We had the clothes, we had the attitude. But we also had to get from West Norwood to Piccadilly Circus dressed like two cubist Christmas trees. We toyed with packing our clothes in cumbersome holdalls and travelling in our normal clothes via public transport, but as we’d never been in a pop video before, we weren’t sure of the lay of the land once we got there. And the last thing we wanted was to be turned away at the door by Ttim for not looking cool enough. What if there was nowhere to change? What if we had to immediately start dancing? No. We’d have to travel looking completely bonkers. The fashions lately had all been very ravey and hippy, baggy jeans and tops and long hair and floppy hats. Wendy’s stuff was linear, fitted and futuristic; and so Kathleen and I did look like complete freaks as we wandered down the high street to the bus stop. Shopkeepers stared, cars slowed down, even blind people seemed to freak out a bit.

  What? I felt like saying. Never seen two people in Lycra catsuits with various planets hanging off them before?

  Well. I don’t suppose they would have.

  Wendy had even made us some special hats, in the shape of flying saucers.

  ‘We look like twats,’ said Kathleen. And Kathleen very rarely swore. However, this time she was right, and justified.

  ‘Yeah, but we’re fierce twats.’

  She didn’t look so sure.

  ‘We’ve just got to get into town, and then no-one’ll bat an eyelid.’

  Again, she didn’t look so sure.

  For some reason we had decided that the best way to get to Piccadilly that day would be to get the bus, then a tube to Charing Cross station, and then walk across town. We must have been mad.

  Once we got on the bus, I think the driver actually thought we were aliens. Then Kathleen said something I’d not previously considered.

  ‘Oh, it’s that big demo today. About the Poll Tax.’

  I had known about this, but in my excitement at finishing the play and then the excitement about filming a pop video, I had completely forgotten. I felt a pang of guilt that I hadn’t gone on the march myself. It seemed to be the most unpopular issue, right across the board, no matter what your politics were. Thatcher had brought in a tax to take the place of domestic rates, calling it the Community Charge, and it was a flat rate, no matter how rich or poor you were. And even rich people thought that was unfair. Basically, if you were on the electoral register, you had to cough up. And loads of people couldn’t. Oh well. Maybe we’d see a bit of the march and walk alongside them as we made our way across town. But then I remembered what we were wearing. Maybe I should make a banner? Even aliens say NO TO THE POLL TAX.

  We were in for quite a shock when we got off the tube at Charing Cross. Instantly we were aware that something was wrong: the foyer of the station was awash with people, some milling about, some desperate to get out. Up ahead we could hear sirens and shouting, the unmistakable sound effects of something amiss. Instinct said we should have turned back and returned the way we’d come. The drama queen in both of us made us dart for the exit.

  Up on the streets it was carnage. Charing Cross Road was a thick throng of people trying to make their way left, towards Trafalgar Square. The air was thick with the smell of burning, and plumes of smoke licked the sky above us. I wasn’t sure where they were coming from, but it seemed to be near. We could hear sirens and cars being driven at speed – someone was putting their foot down, screaming.

  We pushed our way through to the square to get a better look at what was going on, which was when we saw the lines of riot police with blue helmets and shields like satellite discs. Some were lashing out at the crowd, who seemed to be trying to escape them; then there it was again, the sound of a car being driven at speed. That’s when we saw a police car zooming into the crowd. People screamed, and dived out of the way. Some poor bugger got dragged along by it for a good twenty feet. Now it was our turn to scream. Kathleen grabbed my hand and shouted, ‘We’ve got to get across the square!’

  ‘Sod that, Kath, let’s get back to the tube!’

  ‘We can’t, look!’

  I looked back, and now the route we’d taken was blocked by a row of police. What fresh hell had we stepped into so willingly? And what the hell was this hell, for God’s sake?

  ‘Look! Even the fucking aliens are protesting!’ a woman in a donkey jacket called out as she passed us, blood pouring down her face.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ I gasped to Kathleen. And we tried to wind our way across the square to get to the bottom of the Haymarket, so we could walk up the hill to Piccadilly Circus. It felt like we were salmon, swimming against the tide. Every step we took, we had to duck to avoid missiles being hurled. Admittedly, these were mostly placards being thrown at the police. But who could blame these people when the police seemed to be on the attack? Did the coppers love the Poll Tax that much they had to attack everyone who was against it? They might be fighting an awfully long time if that was the case.

  ‘I wonder if Mark’s here?’ gasped Kathleen as we passed one of the lions that guarded Nelson’s column. Anarchists were dancing in the fountains around the statues. Well, I assumed they were anarchists. They weren’t particularly well dressed, if not. But as we crossed Trafalgar Square it became increasingly obvious that the people on this demo were, on the whole, just normal people who looked like they’d come for a day out and got the shock of their lives.

  As we left the square at the north side, we looked back and surveyed what looked like Armageddon. I could see where the fire was coming from now. On the south side of the square some of the buildings were covered in scaffolding, and above the scaffolding were some builders’ huts, which were ablaze. I could see people trying to escape the huts, others climbing to safety to avoid passing riot vans, scaffolding poles being ripped out and thrown onto the braying crowd beneath.

  We thought we’d escaped the worst by getting into a side street, but heading up towards Piccadilly was no better. Everywhere we turned we saw people smashing shop windows, looting – it was madness. For the first time since moving to London, I didn’t feel safe. Particularly as we were surreally running through this landscape dressed as if from the
future. Like we were installation art. Like this had all been laid on to set off our look. But I also knew that the last thing you wanted to do when the police were being so antsy was to stick out like a sore thumb. So I realized I was lifting my arms aloft. Sometimes. Like I was waving a white flag: I am not guilty. I come in peace.

  ‘I bet he was there,’ Kathleen was saying, rather out of breath by now. This had to be the most exercise either of us had had in years. ‘It’s exactly the sort of thing he’d be into. Ah, it’s a shame we never seen him.’

  ‘Kathleen, there must have been about two hundred thousand people there. Of course we didn’t see him.’

  ‘What was all that about, then?’ Kathleen sounded genuinely confused.

  I looked at her afresh.

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Kathleen . . . you said yourself there was a Poll Tax demo going on.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but . . .’

  ‘Why d’you think all them people had placards saying PAY NO POLL TAX?’

  Now it was her turn to lose her temper. ‘I know that, knob-head! I just wondered how it went from a demo to . . . World War Three.’

  She had a point. I’d not seen anything so scary first-hand in my whole life. All the people. All the noise. The fear. The anger on the coppers’ faces. What had the demonstrators done to piss them off so much?

  ‘Anyway, come on. Or we’ll be late for the bloody video.’

  The looting continued all the way up to Piccadilly Circus, and even though up here we felt we’d escaped the danger zone, there was still evidence of it everywhere. Bins crammed with placards, the odd scaffolding pole lying in the gutter, shell-shocked people wandering round like the walking wounded. The atmosphere was eerie, to say the least.

  The Windmill Theatre was on Great Windmill Street, just off Shaftesbury Avenue where it splits off from the Circus. We’d looked it up many times in our A to Z and memorized the route, so we found it quickly and with a certain pride.