by Neil Rowland
This wasn’t a glamorous kind of poverty, such as I’d heard in songs or read about in literature. At least Woody Guthrie got to hitch a few rides, to hobo a few train lines and to hustle some action, to see a bit of his continent. In contrast I couldn’t play two notes on a guitar or even sing down my nose.
“One day,” Lizzie warned, “I’m going to release that scream pent up inside me.”
I’d wince with shame, embarrassment and frustration. But as I already said, we had a strong grip in those days.
We never got far with our talk of seeing the world, though arguably we were the more adventurous couple.
More positively I was making my first move into running a business. I rented out an old work shed on the quayside. Grandad used to take me flying kites at the weekend and, curiously, the hobby always caught hold with me. I remember the evening my wife and I went out to celebrate our first ‘product’. We made our premier kite, to my own design and colours. Every day Liz came down to the workshop to help out. We cut, sewed and packed our first order. This wasn’t great art by any stretch of the imagination, but Lizzie was my muse.
Otherwise we were unemployable hippies, already married with a child, living in virtual poverty, relying on hand-outs from her parents. But I’ll tell more about my kites and balloons later in the story, as I’m getting blown off course.
We still got out to the summer music festivals, despite the simple twists of fate. This included the Isle of Wight, big demos in London, with the infant Angie strapped to Lizzie’s back, like a free cherub of the loving universe.
What was Bob and Susan’s next move, on their return from Lumpur? They rented a couple of rooms above a Chinese restaurant in Clifton for the summer; and packed the place out with their spoils from the East, such as forest fetishes, blow pipes, penis sheaths, and the latest electronic gadgets. They had another five years of travelling and fun before they finally tied the knot. No wonder we were choked.
As far as I recall, they made their vows during a stop-over in Vegas. They stood before a ‘minister’ in a tartan suit, he told me, with a soft drinks salesman as a witness. They had a toast in Mango juice and drove all the way to Niagara Falls on their honeymoon. Figuratively speaking Bob cast aside his penis sheath as Sue got pregnant with their first child. At least it was more memorable than our own experience, when we conceived our first kid in a damp student bed-sit, rather drunk and not fully understanding what we were getting in to. They’d planned it all out, whereas we had a splitting condom under a scratchy blanket.
“They’re following the original script,” I observed.
I was stunned at our bad luck and stupidity. Somehow the spermatozoa had wisecracked their way through my prophylactic barrier. When you create a couple of cells they won’t stop dividing. Then Liz refused to stop them.
I think it was only love and hurt and rage that got us through. We tended to keep our disappointments to ourselves. We knew that my business was beginning to work out by then. At first we were missing payments on the mortgage of our first house. I’d be damned if we relied on her parents. These changes of fortune didn’t impact with our friends, Bob and Susan Huntingdon. They didn’t have any snippets or snipes ready for us, or treat us to any pieces of the worldly wisdom, that they must have acquired from their travels and work. They’re genuinely gentle people, not quick to judge. Though the temptation must have been there.
That’s a rare thing.
Next weekend, on Saturday evening, the Huntingdons have invited me to their party. They’re holding their annual double-celebration, for her birthday and their wedding anniversary. I’m ready to congratulate Bob for having killed two birds with one stone. I don’t intend to let them down by staying away, despite a troubled mind.
Susan has a startled expression when she answers my call. The sight of me forces her to make an uncomfortable triple-take. Yes, this really is my new image. She gazes into my pallor as if wandering around a room dedicated to Rothko. Her face has the outlines of a speech bubble; I could guess what she was saying. Am I blind to a common sense that is obvious to her and everybody else? Should I have stayed at home for an early night with a hot drink?
“Hi, Sue!” I’m looking as if the post service just dropped me.
“You made it here after all,” she tells me; smiling down from the tall doorway, trying to adjust to the change in my universe.
“Happy Birthday!” I declare, handing over the card and gift. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks, Noah, won’t you join us?” she invites.
There’s no running away. I convinced myself to get back into the swing of things.
It’s a relief to get off the dangerous street, as any expedition is dangerous for a coronary sufferer. I luxuriate in the relief of their warm and familiar home; even if they have a Maori spear and a Japanese warrior helmet on display, to add menace to the traditional mirror and hat stand. Fortunately the original owners of these trophies aren’t pursuing them in revenge.
“How are you, Noah? I can’t believe you made it,” Susan coos.
“Oh, I made it through,” I explain, eyeing their Pacific paintings. “Back on my feet.”
“I can see that. Are you out of breath?” she observes.
“No, out of breath, not in the least. You know about the steep hills of Clifton.”
“Really like the jacket, Noah. Really cool.”
“Thanks, Sue. Found this at the back of the wardrobe.”
Essential Seventies Zimmerman. Swimming a bit in this black velvet jacket, against a white ruffled shirt, over black jeans: street illegal. The fringe is having to work hard though, on triple time. Then my toes are funnelled into a favourite pair of ankle boots, with decorative silver work from Toledo. Only my closest friends and I know that these boots were a precious gift from Liz: ‘My true love, your boots of Spanish leather - Witchy xxx
I was delighted that Susan had appreciated my togs and got all the references. I always make an effort for their double celebration. She can’t help checking on my pallid visage again. My arm and leg muscles have decided to get wasted; while I’m getting used to holding myself together in the middle.
“The last time we saw you, when was that? Must have been when you first got home from the hospital,” she considers. “That must have been some...”
This will be a constant theme of the hoot. A constant harping. Just when I imagine I’m getting towards the end of the labyrinth I lose the piece of string, and there seems to be another abrupt turning ahead.
Susan’s perceptive enough to understand that I am not ironing my tennis shorts for next summer. She has memory traces about my angina, and those symptoms that left me permanently under the weather. These ailments have cleared up. So I no longer have to keep a weather eye, or resemble that thousand year old guy. But Susan’s sensitive enough to know that I’m not back into the rose garden. Somehow I don’t look so great or send a positive message. I haven’t lost the negative vibe, or been able to eradicate a sense of anxiety, either from my face or my limbs. She is shocked and tries to work out the problem. She’s worried and knows that I haven’t returned to normal life, as they expect, or even my own version of normal life.
Even if surgery was successful at first glance, the dangerous fault-line has not gone away. The broken valve is lodged in my mind as well as my chest. I tell Susan as much as I can about my health, while being vague about the exact truth. That wouldn’t do much for the party mood.
“No, we’re glad you came along. We’ve invited a lot of familiar faces. You’ll see. There’s Rupert coming along later. Melanie and Damion are already here. There are plenty of interesting new people for you to meet,” she says.
I wonder if I count as an interesting new person.
“How about Liz? You didn’t invite her, did you? Along with King Snake?”
“Can’t you
bear to be in the same room as them?”
“I tried it once,” I tell her.
“Oh, come on, Noah.”
“Did she give you any reason for not coming?” I wonder.
“Not really, but it sounded a bit enigmatic. She asked me if you would be invited and then if I needed any old windows replacing.”
“Why’s she speaking in riddles these days?” I turn cold inside.
“Yes, quite a riddle. Couldn’t get to the bottom of that one? Did she add a new skill to her business?”
“I no longer have the ability to read her mind,” I argue. “Cupid pulled back his little bow and she’s been unable to talk plainly since.”
“We were a bit hurt,” Sue admits.
“You know how young love is,” I remark.
“There are plenty of lovely people this year.” Was she trying to fix me up? “You may notice a lot of strange faces as well tonight.”
“Oh?”
“Bob went and invited many of his work colleagues and even some of his customers down at the garden festival.”
“You do seem to have a crowded house,” I observe. Indeed we are squeezed and the air has become warm and close as we edge down their hallway.
“He doesn’t understand the concept of limiting the numbers.”
“Where is Bob?” I ask.
“You know what he’s like at these parties, Noah. Plans them the year round, then shrinks away at the first call. Presently he’s hiding in the kitchen, trying to ration the booze. You could try to prise him away from there, for me. There’s always something for you to do in this house.”
I promise to do my best, and get Bob away from the kitchen at his own party. Susan disengages her shy smile; her amber eyes crinkling with warmth, the soul of discretion. I feel a healing suffusion pass into my dry bones, like the squeeze of lemon to a scurvy suffering sailor. It was great to come across my true friends again. This was good radiation.
But I grew more nervous with every step. Not so much a party animal myself these days, as a whipped mutt; despite the pompous togs.
This is my first social outing since a cyclone hit my health chart. My first real hoot since Lizzie put her best frocks into cellophane and ran away with the guy she mussed up. I was a confident and adventurous young guy, back in the day. I was regarded as charming and easy in my style. It’s a long time since I’ve been at the centre of any party. Not that I’ve come out looking for sympathy. When did I last pray for the less fortunate?
Elizabeth was always popular at parties of course. Her radiant intelligence captivated and drew people to her, like sparks from an Iron Age copper forge. I was really much shyer and less assured, which I made up for with bluster and controversy. For many shy or hesitant people Lizzie was the kitchen at a party. That’s unless you crossed her because, believe me, she could turn up the heat, as she wouldn’t dissemble any disapproval. She always made an impact at parties with her burnished virago beauty. People didn’t know that she disliked her own appearance. She knew how to carry herself in a crowd, even while she felt differently. That’s why I’d lose my mind.
Obviously she hasn’t come to light up this party, or to control her paradoxical lack of physical self-love. Instead she chose to stay away and only leave an ironical calling card about replacing windows. She knew that Sue would keep hold of this bon mot and pass it on to me later, assuming I was in any shape to call. This year I have the uncomfortable sense of attending the Huntingdon party alone. I am left gazing nervously at fellow guests, while wandering into a crowded reception room. There was no chance to rustle up any trophy girlfriend this time. The cabinet is empty and it’s just me and my cardiovascular system. How am I going to handle myself in company again?
Susan senses a lack of confidence and sticks by my side. She’s really a sweet and thoughtful woman. She talks to me about work and children. She became a mother in her thirties. She and Bob have two boys; stocky and robust as badgers, like their father; who are with a hired baby-sitter at their grandparents’ this evening. Susan never gave the feeling of being an instinctive parent. She required time to adjust and to gain knowledge, slowly and painfully. God knows you require nerves as strong as electricity pylons. It was Liz who was the earth mother never in doubt.
The Huntingdon couple show symptoms of restlessness, as opium pipes and palm wine gourds indicate. I don’t mention that my own kids are flying away, even without leaving the country. It’s a beautiful but scary world out there. Bob registered one of his roses under the name of Susan Amber Huntingdon. Despite such poetry, some women are incomparable, even within the beauties of horticulture. Look at a woman like Susan and you really curse death. And she’s not alone.
“Find yourself a drink and mingle, Noah.”
“There are a lot of new cats in your house tonight,” I say.
“I don’t recognise many of them, as they are friends or colleagues of Bob.”
“Is Bob trying to create his own Python sketch?” I wonder.
“He’s always afraid that nobody will turn up.”
“Looks as if his fears are ungrounded, Susan.”
“He was on a sponsored walk last weekend, in Bath. So he just invited along everyone he met...along the way.”
“You’ll just have to put your foot down,” I reply.
“Bob and I are going out for a quiet celebratory dinner tomorrow. Tonight’s party is as much for friends as for us. We’ve hired a baby sitter for the boys.” A sumo wrestler?
At which point her gaze is distracted by something happening past my shoulder.
“What’s up, Sue?” I ask.
“Somebody’s trying to get your attention, Noah,” she explains.
“My attention?”
“Behind you.”
Chapter 12
A foghorn is blasting across the room at me. “Noah! Noah! We’re over here old bud.” My ship’s coming in?
“I’ll leave you for a while,” Susan says.
“Must you?”
“You’ll be all right, Noah.”
“Catch you later then.”
Her smile flares above her shoulder as she turns and goes.
“Noah! Good to see you again old bud.”
I turn about stiffly, to stare at close range into another middle-aged male face. A gleamingly buffed face, with sharp blue eyes and a range of teeth like the interior of Iceland.
“Ross. Long time no see,” I say.
“Couldn’t be better. Top condition. So how’re you, bud?”
I can feel my teeth gritting again, as if back on the Cretan shore.
Ross grins as if about to bite my head off. His face is as deeply tanned as the flanks of an old donkey.
“Top condition, top condition. How’s the missus, Noah?” He leans forward and cocks his head.
Ross isn’t a subtle guy. He has a bad reputation, although all bad reputations are bad in a different way.
He creaks a brown leather jacket across his shoulder blades, trying to make room for himself. He and I have known each other since school days, though we never sat next to each other. He was a notorious ‘long hair’ in his youth; a rocker that is. Now he couldn’t muster a single long hair to save his own skin. Ross and the gang used to intimidate my older brother, who himself had a tough guy reputation. They’d pull up alongside him in the Stapleton Road. Now neither of them would be caught dead there.
“I’m breathing free again Ross, cos Liz and I had our divorce through last year,” I bluff.
He taps the side of his puffy nose. “Clever boy!”
“She moved in with some software dummy and married him instead. I’m not going to have anything more to do with her, if I can help it.”
“Best shot of her, bud,” he confides.
“That’s what I keep trying
to tell myself,” I grumble, trying not to lose face.
“There isn’t one dame in this world that isn’t replaceable.”
I process the stale air at speed, but he doesn’t take the hint.
“Did you ever meet my fiancée?”
“Seriously?”
He nudges a twenty something blonde, who must have won a shopping trolley of free cosmetics. “Noah, this is Shirley. My ‘Shirley Valentine’!” he beams.
“Well done.”
“Isn’t it.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Valentine,” I say. Must give the old lothario some credit however.
Ross is discomforted for a split second. “Shirley sugar, this is Noah Sheer. One of the big wheels of Bristol industry and commerce. One of the most respected businessmen in the city.”
“Glad to meet you!”
“Really, Ross, that’s a very generous introduction but...” Makes me sound like Al Capone.
“When Noah first began his business, he and his missus were practically eating off the floor.”
“Yes but the wife’d wipe it over first. Look, Ross, there’s no need to...”
“But don’t worry, sugar, cos he’s got a lot more in the bank vault these days.”
Shows how much he knows.
Ross sets his sizeable lower jaw like a prehistoric aquatic carnivore. You could rest your pint glass in there when he opens his mouth.
“Got away on your holidays this year, Noah?” he asks, chattily.
“Holiday?” I retort. The negatives come back to haunt me.
“Yeah, holiday.”
“That’s a long story,” I bluster.
“Shirley and me went to the Windward Isles on a practice honeymoon. We wanted to get a taste of somewhere exotically different. It was extremely pleasant.”
“Is that a US Air Force base?” I wonder.
“What is?” His penetrating eyes search me in bafflement.
“The Windward Isles?”
Perhaps I was thinking of Cuba. In truth I’m not the best travelled guy. Much of my world knowledge comes from television documentaries.
