Noah's Heart

by Neil Rowland

  “Now you’ve hooked up with her again,” he observes. “You were hanging out with each other at our party, weren’t you? You disappeared together for a while. I think you made sure everyone noticed.”

  “We coupled and decoupled, if you’re really interested.” Bob H was talking about pears and now I’m dreaming about her perfection again.

  “Is that such a clever idea?”

  “Do you have any more obvious questions?”

  “Is she really interested in you, Noah?”

  “She’s really into me,” I assure him.

  There’s a sceptical ripple. “Aren’t you laying yourself wide open?” he suggests, cradling his ale.

  “We dig each other, as always.” I knew this was shallow, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “She isn’t going to burn you up and leave you behind?” he wonders. Maybe he really did notice her style of leaving a room.

  “She’s already left her Dunlop pattern across my rib cage,” I recall.

  “You sound disillusioned. That’s a good start.”

  “What are you saying? You have a negative vibe about her?” I ask, struggling to pierce a high run from the trumpet player.

  “You don’t have a healthy relationship with that woman.”

  “I don’t? Why should I care about what’s healthy or not?” I argue. I rock back precariously as I take another flagon of forgetfulness.

  “Go ahead,” he tells me. “Get out of consciousness, Noah. But that’s never been your philosophy in the past. So why adopt such a blind attitude now?”

  “I went into that relationship with both eyes open,” I say. With both feet would be more accurate.

  “Since when did you get a fatalistic handle on love and life?” he challenges. Can’t he take three guesses?

  But he’s knocked me off balance: I shrug and stumble for a disposable gloss and appendix.

  Bob H is annoyed, animated, shuffling his sandals around the spit and sawdust. He gapes up at me with big bespectacled eyes. “Did you marry Lizzie from that negative spirit? Did you guys have those great kids for that motive? We know you for being an idealistic, conscious guy. Where’s your positive take on the future?”

  “Where’s the future?” I repost.

  “Cynicism isn’t your style, Noah. Don’t allow your judgement to slip now, man, just because your health isn’t so great.”

  “Sorry, Bob, but maybe I don’t deserve any better,” I say.

  “You got down on yourself? You don’t know who you are? Is that why you allow Corrina to work her charms? That makes everything in your life all right? This excuses all the bad attitudes and mistakes you’ve made?”

  “Corrina’s taking me to the Chinese laundry. I admit that. Why should I worry? Maybe I enjoy it,” I declare. It must be all that press and steam.

  “As you already admit to that,” he yelps above the trombone.

  “She brushes me with her wing tips,” I remark. She was travelling at over a ton - that was the problem.

  “Don’t let her drag you down, man,” he warns, refusing to look at me still.

  “She’s gorgeous,” I bleat.

  “You’re also coming from completely different generations.”

  “She’s over thirty one you know,” I point out.

  “She’s not so well past it,” he says.

  “Come on, Bob, you’re not even speaking for yourself. She’s a match for me.” Do uncompetitive matches count?

  “I was talking about generational attitude. Social and economic times have changed,” he argues.

  “It’s been cool to hang out with her... with a younger woman. We’ve had our good and fun times.” My youth went backpacking around the world. While I was stuck at home.

  “You’re not serious?” he protests. Maybe he’d seen a few of her holiday snaps. His brows lift like the suspension bridge, to emphasise critical points.

  “Are you advising me to lay off? That could wreck my health even more.”

  “Corrina isn’t the girl for you. Susan and I agree on that.”

  “Well, that’s settled,” I comment. “Whose round is it anyway? Shall we get another one in?”

  Bob holds fire, allowing another crashing drum solo to progress, accompanied by whoops of approval from the clientele around the room.

  He comes forward to tackle me again, scratching me with his coarse beard. At Uni he was an understudy in an amateur production of Hair; he had the most macho facial growth of any undergraduate in Bristol; as well as a reasonable contralto.

  “You have a risky love life following your divorce,” he says. “This young woman could push you over the edge.”

  “I’ve always been of that colour. That’s the way I walk,” I insist.

  Bob’s disgruntled with my offhand attitude towards modern love. He never likes to raise his voice or get annoyed, so he has to feel strongly about this. A very tolerant, easy going, peaceful kind of guy is Bob H. How else could he put up with me over the years? particularly over recent months?

  “What happened to Rachael? She’s a bright woman. Why don’t you look her up again?” he suggests.

  “Rachael? Isn’t she! Sure, I may do that. Great idea.”

  “Seriously, Noah, you should think about dating a more sympathetic person,” he argues.

  “But I’m not a sympathetic person either,” I say.

  Bob puzzles it over. “How did you figure that one?” he asks.

  “Years of exhaustive research,” I argue, “leading to a deeper self-understanding.”

  “Corrina doesn’t want to understand you,” he says.

  “How did you get that? You been putting me under surveillance? Sticking microphones up in her bedroom?” I object.

  “You’re got your own version of the truth,” he comments.

  “I realise we don’t have the perfect relationship. Let me alone to figure it all out.” Sitting on the dock of the bay?

  The idea of Corrina and me creates an internal sea of strife. Bob tries to follow the complex train of music; a boisterous ensemble counterpoint. Yet, even as he’s turned away from me, I notice that his facial muscles are in spasm. Sound advice is often painful to impart - as it is hard to accept. Hopefully he understands my eternal gratitude for enduring friendship. Especially during these anguished contemporary times. You can’t buy that for love or money.

  At the conclusion to their Tiger Rag the quintet meaningfully lower their instruments. As the musicians grin and gesture between one another, in mutual recognition of the music made together, the pub atmosphere returns to relative tranquillity.

  In contrast to the band’s harmony, Bob and I continue to pursue the argument about Corrina. I’ve told him that her bad attitude towards me is not the most important factor.

  “She’s an exciting woman,” I argue.

  “So you still need excitement,” he notes. He’s crossed his arms and set his stance against me.

  “She was the closest I came to love at first sight.” Just a split-second after uttering this, I realise that it’s untrue. Couldn’t I hear myself?

  “You mean lust,” he bluntly states. As with cupid’s dart, he’s not a feather-width off target with this shot.

  Patrons are knocking our elbows, in a push for the exits, but we don’t peel away.

  “Just because you see somebody’s hard side... that doesn’t mean you change your feelings about them, does it?”

  “She’s definitely wasting your precious time,” he says.

  Don’t think twice, Babe, it’s all right!

  Rotolo: does that mean completely broken?

  The truth of his comment strikes me like a constant drip of icy water. “Sure, Bob, I suppose that she has wasted a lot of my precious time. But how much time do I s
till have left?” I say. Precious or otherwise.

  He growls and considers. “You going to Rupert’s dinner party next week?” he wonders.

  “Rup’ and I don’t see eye to eye...or even eyeball to eyeball. But we’re a group, aren’t we? And he wants to watch me with a certain lady...”

  “They’ve invited Corinna,” he informs me. “She may be there, if she’s really so much into you, as you claim. Or it may be wiser to stay away.”

  “She’ll be there! We’re still cool.”

  Bob H considers me quizzically again. “You’ll have Susan and I, because we’ve accepted. Then what are you doing this Thursday evening?”

  “Thursday evening? There’s nothing scheduled,” I say. Only a candlelit dinner for one as usual - you can’t draw a pretty face on the wall.

  “D’you fancy checking out a Truffaut, showing at the Arnofini?”

  “Yeah, great. You’re on. I noticed they had a season of French new wave cinema. I haven’t seen them on a big screen for years,” I tell him.

  “So how much do you know about Corrina’s background anyway?” he returns.

  “Her background?”

  “How much did she tell you about her previous life and origins?”

  “Man, you’re being mysterious. We’ve only been on holiday together,” I remind him.

  “You’re never around when her friends are invited. So didn’t you notice that she cuts you out of her life? The biggest part of her life that is most significant to her?”

  “Cuts me out?” I say.

  “I’ve listened to the way Corrina and her friends talk. They speak a different language to us, Noah. I don’t like it.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you, Bob.”

  “Susan and I bumped into her socially, at the Watershed. Just the other week.”

  “Oh yes, so she was with her friends, was she? As you mention it, I don’t believe I have met any of her friends... not as such. Did she say hello to you?” I ask, more brightly.

  “No. She didn’t say hello. She didn’t acknowledge us, to be straight up about it.”

  “Oh, well, that seems rude,” I admit. “I know what I’m up against,” I assure him. “I know she belongs to a tight set. I know she’s jealous of my business. She wonders how a bloke like me could have started such a business...built it up over the years and made a success of things...at least until now. This makes our position vulnerable. She’d like to run her eyes over my order book and interview the bank manager,” I explain.

  “Takes a close interest in business, does she?” Bob points out.

  We share a moment of insight. “They don’t understand us. We followed our passions and interests and took them as far as possible.”

  “They’re coming from a completely new direction,” Bob observes. He shakes his greying locks, but he still needs a haircut. Space time is smoothing off my own scalp.

  “You’d think love was something to be ashamed of,” I complain. “To tell another human being that you love them. A dirty word, a sign of weakness,” I muse. Then: “Are you going to get a last round in?”

  “All right,” he agrees. “But did she ever talk to you about her father?”

  “What about her father? Do you mean she has one?”

  “You sound like your brother sometimes,” he notes. “Her father was an entrepreneur himself. Only he managed to lose all his money and most of his wife’s too. So obviously Corrina hasn’t discussed this with you,” he concludes.

  “What a terrible disappointment for her,” I say. “No, she hasn’t breathed a word.”

  “Listen, the guy went out and shot himself.”

  “He didn’t,” I observe flatly. Gravity tugs on me.

  “Colin Farlane was a motorcycle engineer and designer, you see.”

  “Makes sense,” I have to admit.

  “Farlane decided to begin motorcycle manufacturing for himself.”

  “But he couldn’t get the thing started. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “He spent years in preparation, designing two models of innovative motorbikes. He got building permission and built a state of the art, for the period, factory. Unfortunately, months into start up, the currency shot up, collapsing his export market. There was an influx of cheap foreign machines in the UK at the time.”

  “It was a complete wipe out for British motorcycles,” I recall.

  “They actually turned out some of those Farlane machines,” Bob tells me. “They could be valuable today. You know, collectors’ pieces.”

  “They realised that motorbikes had already been invented.”

  “You didn’t know about her father? She didn’t touch on the subject? Then what do you guys talk about?” he asks.

  “So you’re telling me she was pushed into poverty?” I say.

  “After Colin Farlane blew his own head off, the family lost everything. They were uprooted from their Oxfordshire home. She was pulled out of school.”

  “These experiences must have left a mark,” I conclude.

  “She was close to her father. They shared the same passions. For motorcycles. Her sense of humiliation and shame must have been sharp.”

  “Why did she keep all this from me?” Couldn’t I guess?

  “She must be aware of a stigma, in her social circles. She was glad to leave all that behind, when she went off to university and began work in Bristol.”

  “She’s found an interesting career at Whig Wham,” I consider. “Has to keep her mind and energies directed elsewhere. I only wish that my daughter had that kind of drive and ambition.” But did I really?

  Our experience is closer than I imagined - Corrina and me. But does that matter to her, even if she is conscious of our comparable experience? Are these the family secrets I failed to decipher?

  Chapter 24

  After trying to return me to the road of enlightenment, Bob drops me back at Big Pink. Not before he’s arranged my tour itinerary for weeks ahead. The Huntingdons always keep a handle on the big picture. But if they go away on their travels again, I’ll be crushed.

  After his snail Citroen rattles frothily down the street, red antennae receding, I note that there are lights blazing in our front room. Our kids have returned to the haunted castle. I won’t be facing an empty dungeon tonight. Back in the hallway I discover something being passed off as music. I maintain a cool paternal mind-set, but for how much longer?

  I blunder into the room to find a gaggle of youngsters sprawled over the floor and upholstery. Either from fright or amazement they freeze into attitudes of indifference. The sweet smouldering aroma of marijuana fills my nostrils and lungs.

  “Dad. You’re back,” exhales Angie. “Where’d you come from?”

  She’s lounging on the floorboards against the bottom of an armchair. In appearance she is dishevelled, grimy from lack of sleep or showers. Her pallor has a greyish, twilight tinge, which doesn’t originate from major surgery or anxiety.

  “What’s happening here?” I declare.

  In an unnaturally loud and confident voice she says: “You been out on the town, Dad?”

  “Aren’t I allowed to?” I reply. “D’you expect me to hide up the chimney?” This draws ironic snorts of derision from the young people. I’ve turned myself into the establishment. The art of satire isn’t dead.

  “You been in this boozer tonight? Are you hammered?” she says.

  “I’ve been down to the quayside listening to some classic jazz.”

  There’s laughter.

  “You think that jazz is funny, do you? What’s the origins of rock music?” I challenge. Unfortunately this isn’t the time slot for University Challenge.

  “That’s anybody’s bloody guess,” says this lad.

  “You’re not going to load me i
nto the deep freeze yet,” I declare strangely.

  “Is it smart for you to get drunk like this, Dad?”

  “Is that irony?” I object.

  “No, this is pharmaceutical,” she retorts.

  Like getting chastity lectures from Anais Nin, fidelity classes from that Colette chick, this is hard to swallow. Angie’s been raiding her parents’ intellectual parlour. She’s been reading the feminist writers that Liz used to quote. Except that her mother wouldn’t be impressed anymore.

  “You’re not listening to doctor’s advice?” Angie says.

  “Are you thinking of a medical career?”

  “I reckon you wanna look after yourself better...in your present condition,” she informs me. Those black orbs turn up at me through smoke rings.

  “I’m not drunk and I know my limits.”

  There’s no miracle cure at the pub, but it certainly raised my spirits.

  Her pack of friends eye me spitefully. Looks as if my rapport with the city’s youth has broken down, since that morning outside Mike’s café. I’m not a Guthrie, Kerouac or Ginsberg figure. I’m a scarecrow of yesteryear. I can’t find the puff to talk up my kites and balloons again. It’s getting late, I’m wacked, shattered. I’m not inspired to re-run my disoriented trip around Tokyo. Man, I was like a fly in a bowl of spaghetti soup.

  “Angie, what happened to you this afternoon? Grandma was disappointed not to see you. She was worried what may have happened.”

  “Grandma wouldn’t want me to miss out on life,” she argues.

  “You better tune into reality, Angie, or you’re gonna lose the signal,” I warn.

  Angela rolls her eyes in teenage mock despair; except she’s no longer a teenager. All right, she’s fragile, adolescent in body construction, yet as Corrina pointed out, unmistakably a grown woman. Why can’t she be more like Ossie’s girl?

  “You need to smoke your peace pipe,” a lad comments.

  “Does this need your contribution?” I retort.

  I’m stranded on the peak of our alpine rug - inevitably a gift from our friends - which Liz chose not to pull out from under my feet.