Arden

by Nick Corbett

  “Peyote? That’s a hallucinogenic drug isn’t it? Is he all right? I don’t even know where he’s living. Is he in London?”

  Joe takes a deep breath. “Surely you know he’s living in London, don’t you? Why don’t you call him, then you’ll know if he’s all right?”

  Luke looks scolded.

  Joe quizzes him further. “Why haven’t you been in touch?”

  “I’ve been away a lot, working with a boatyard.”

  “You’re not a lobster fisherman, are you? That’s what you said you’d be, when we talked about what we were going to do, remember? That night in the forest?”

  Luke doesn’t have the faintest idea what Joe is talking about. Rather than fishing for lobsters, he explains he sells yachts to wealthy patrons from a Mayfair office, and he also spends time at the boatyard in Devon.

  “The best thing about the job,” adds Luke, “Is that I get to deliver some of the yachts around the world.” He’s just come back from Cannes, hence his suntan. Joe is impressed, but he still looks pensive. He’s reflecting upon the fact that Luke spends a lot of time in London, and yet he never makes the effort to get in touch.

  Luke tries to put Joe at ease. “I love sailing Joe, but I’ve probably learnt more from volunteering with the homeless. We do it with this church in Knightsbridge, you should come along.”

  Joe snorts. “Have you got a fish on the back of your car now?”

  Luke laughs. “You’re joking aren’t you? With my driving, they’d never let me have one! Look, Joe, I’m really sorry for not keeping in touch, let’s arrange to get together.”

  Joe accepts the apology. They spend a while chatting about the others.

  “Hannah’s still working for an aid agency with refugee kids in Lebanon,” says Joe. I send her post cards, but don’t get replies.”

  “There’s trouble again in Lebanon. It’s a dangerous place,” replies Luke.

  Joe winces. “Oh, no.”

  They move on to Cathy. Joe tells Luke what he knows.

  “I saw her about a year ago, when I was last at home. She’s working as a PA for a government minister. Oh, and she’s going out with a Frenchman.”

  “I know about the government minister, my dad gave her a reference. The French boyfriend’s news though, you met him?”

  “Nah.”

  “And how’s Grandad?”

  “Oh, alright, I think. Actually, I haven’t spoken to him for ages, that’s bad isn’t it?”

  “Oh, so I’m not the only one that’s crap at communication!”

  “Point taken.” Joe looks away sheepishly.

  Joe sees the homeless couple, wrapped up in sleeping bags, eating their meal out of plastic dishes. A well-dressed couple, a man and a woman in their mid-thirties, walk by. The man shouts over to them.

  “Losers!”

  The homeless lad gives the man a wave and a smile. Joe’s taken aback. The woman slaps her partner on the shoulder, admonishing him, but when they’ve gone a little further, they start laughing. The homeless couple finish off their food. The volunteers pack things away.

  Luke pats Joe on the back.

  “You’re not going to rush off are you?”

  “Eh, no, I’m not in a rush.”

  “Good, listen, we’ve been walking the streets for a few hours, we’re going to get a coffee now. Will you join us? I want you to meet Serena, my girlfriend.”

  Before Joe can answer, the homeless lad walks up to him. He thanks Joe for everything he’s done to help. Joe smiles back, feeling slightly embarrassed, and explains he hasn’t done anything. His smile suddenly drops. The boy’s body is emaciated. Joe hadn’t realised just how painfully thin and pale he is. Luke interrupts.

  “Joe, come here a second, let me introduce you to the others.”

  Joe pulls himself together. Luke places his arm around the attractive girl who’s been helping to serve the food. She has bright blue eyes, blonde hair, full lips, and her soft skin is tanned.

  “This is Serena, my girlfriend.” Luke turns to Serena.“This is Joe, my best friend from home.”

  “Oh, Joe? I’ve heard all about you!” says Serena, which warms Joe’s heart.

  “All good I hope? Hey, you look really familiar, have we met before?”

  Luke interjects. “Serena’s an actress. You’ve probably seen her on the telly.”

  Joe is impressed with Serena; she is kindly, beautiful, and has star quality, a perfect match for Luke. He feels a bit jealous, wonders if she’s got friends he could meet.

  The other volunteers are introduced to Joe, with friendly handshakes. Joe is feeling tired, awkward and uneasy. He is clutching his briefcase defensively close to his chest again. He is in two minds about joining Luke and his friends for a coffee. He would love to talk some more to Luke, and his friends seem nice enough, but he is anxious to get home, it’s getting late.

  “I’ll tell you what Luke, how about if I give you my telephone number and we can meet up at the weekend, if you’re free?”

  “Yeah, okay, but are you sure you won’t join us for a coffee?”

  “Go on, come with us,” says Serena, but Joe shakes his head and smiles. Luke knows when Joe has made up his mind, and how stubborn he can be, so he just gives Joe a card with his contact details on it.

  “Blimey, that’s one of the smartest streets in Kensington,” says Joe staring at the card. Luke shrugs his shoulders.

  Joe yawns and stares blankly into his computer screen. He is bored and his thoughts are drifting towards the Bounty advert. The working day is only half done. It’s the private viewing of the Stacey McCall exhibition tonight, in North Kensington. Joe has the tickets in is wallet, but he’s decided he won’t go, unless a friend wants to go with him. His new mobile phone rings. It’s Archie.

  “Hi Joe, do you fancy meeting up for a pint tonight?”

  Joe’s face lights up, he thinks: Archie’s a good mate; maybe he’ll come to the exhibition. For the last couple of years, Archie has been riding a wave of excess, screaming, “Look at me!” He is enthralled by London life and all of its possibilities. He has a group of aficionados, actors and artists, all of whom are “filling-in-time” with more mundane jobs, such as being clerks in the civil service. Archie moved to London when Joe and Luke were still at university, he sussed the place out for them. Archie is telephoning at the expense of his employer, the Peckham Chronicle. He’s worked for this free newspaper for six years, selling advertising space.

  Archie continues. “I’m sooo bored Joe. I can’t wait for the weekend! I’m on my park-where-you-want scooter today, so I can meet you anywhere you want. How about a beer in the West End?” Archie parks his scooter on any strip of private land that’s available, secure in the knowledge that the traffic wardens can’t ticket him there.

  “It’s good to hear your dulcet tones Archie. Hey, do you fancy a bit of the high life tonight?”

  “High life? What do you know about the high life? When I wanted to go to a lap dancing club, you said it was too seedy.”

  “Lap dancing isn’t the high life, Archie, it’s naff. Listen, you’ve said you want to see all sides of life, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, listen.”

  “I’m listening Joe.”

  “I shall say this only once.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “I’ve got an invite to see Stacey McCall’s exhibition, do you want to come?”

  “Can you repeat the question please?”

  “No.”

  “Stacey McCall, you mean the lanky Mancunian bird, who does the modern art?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Look, I’ve got an out-of-work actress sitting next to me, d’you remember Sam?”

  “Big baps?”

  “That’s the one, you got off with her.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Anyway, she’s Stacey’s biggest fan. Can she come too?”

  “I don’t know if we’ll all get in, it just says to bring a
guest on the ticket. I suppose we could give it a go.”

  “Where is this gig?”

  “North Kensington”

  “Well, if we don’t get in, we’ll just go to one of the trendy bars around there.”

  “Okay, let’s meet at half past seven at the corner of Notting Hill Square, okay?”

  Archie’s boss must have come in at this point.

  “That’s a half-page spread with your fifty percent loyalty discount.”

  “Eh?”

  “Goodbye sir.”

  Joe passes through the turnstiles at the busy Notting Hill tube station, just before seven thirty. He’s not in a rush, Archie is always late. There are people everywhere, criss-crossing the underground plaza, making their way to the various exit points. They seem to have an inbuilt device, enabling them to navigate their way at considerable speed, without bumping into each other. Most of the people know exactly where they’re going, but a few change their direction, resulting in some near misses. One young man seems to be particularly confused. He’s trying to get to a map on the wall, to see which exit point he should take. He’s got a guitar case in one hand, and he’s trying to manoeuvre a bicycle with his other hand. He keeps stumbling into people, offers profuse apologies, but nobody stops to listen. Joe weaves his way through the crowd. He gives the young man with the bicycle and guitar a wide berth. He wonders if he might have looked so out of place when he first arrived in London but, no, he’d never take a bike and a guitar on the tube, that’s just daft.

  Joe makes his way to the right exit point. He passes a beggar, a busker, a colourful stall selling fruit, vegetables and magazines to rushing commuters. Joe looks up the steps that lead to the street, traffic’s roaring, smell of rain. He runs up the steps, leaving the underworld for the cosmopolitan commotion of Notting Hill Gate. Joe elbows his way through congested pavements. He stops for a moment, peers through the window of a bookstore, it’s late night opening. A middle-aged white couple stand beside him, interested in an esoteric book. They are a perfectly ordinary English couple, but for the fact they’re both wearing embroidered turbans. Joe flashes a look at them, he rolls his eyes, judgementally.

  Where do they think they are, Beverley Hills?

  After a short walk, Joe arrives at Notting Hill Square, eager to meet his friends. He looks around the street corner, there’s no sign of Archie.

  Why’s he always so late?

  Light grey drizzle, it’s quite cold and dark. Joe shelters under a tree, rubbing his hands for warmth. Fifteen minutes of waiting, still no sign of Archie or Sam. Workers leave offices and studios converted from the Victorian town houses fronting the square. They’re off to meet friends at nearby restaurants and bars. Some of the buildings are still houses, as originally intended, now worth millions. An elderly lady comes out from one of them, she doesn’t return Joe’s smile, just puts a rubbish bag beside him. The middle of the square has a lush garden, enclosed by black railings. An incongruous line of recycling bins has recently been introduced to the square; they are little used. But then the old lady reappears beside them, diligently sorting through other bags, depositing various items with clangs and crashes. Then around the corner - two swaggering figures, arm in arm, under a large, green golfing umbrella. It’s Archie and his friend Sam. As they draw nearer, Joe notices Archie isn’t wearing his glasses. They greet each other with playful high fives.

  “Late as usual,” says Joe. “What’s happened to your glasses?”

  “Hello Joey boy. I’ve got contact lenses now, you know Samantha don’t you?”

  “Yeah, hello again, Sam,” says Joe with a nod and a smile.

  “Hello again, Joe. Have you recovered from your hangover?” asks Sam smoothly, blushing slightly.

  “Oh, they’ve all rolled into one.”

  Sam is fairly plain, but she’s got a marvellous, curvaceous figure, spiky, bleached blonde hair, and three earrings in one ear. Archie still has his bright ginger hair, and he’s put a bit of weight on, which doesn’t escape Joe’s attention.

  “Archie, are you putting on weight intentionally?”

  “Yeah, it’s a sign of my wealth.”

  Sam is an arts buff, she knows all about Stacey McCall. Joe knows nothing about modern art, he’s more interested in the fact that there’ll be free alcohol. The friends discuss where the art gallery is; none of them know that particular neighbourhood. Sam rummages in her tiny bright green handbag. She reveals a surprisingly large London street atlas.

  “What else have you got in there?” asks Archie. After studying the invite and doing a little map reading, they realise the gallery is further away than they thought. Joe explains it’s best to go up the Ladbroke Grove. Archie suggests a taxi.

  “Nah,” replies Joe. “There’s a good little boozer around the corner, let’s have a drink, get warmed up, do some more map reading, then we’ll walk. Come on, we’ll soon be with the in-crowd up’t north.”

  The three of them walk arm in arm, under the umbrella, around the corner. Then they disappear into a local pub.

  It is a comely tavern, dark wood panelling and stained glass partitions. The friends step through a “secret” doorway, set within the panelling. There is a sign above, “Residents Only”, which they ignore. They have entered a tiny, dimly-lit lounge. Joe’s been here many times before.

  “The separate compartments were originally designed to segregate the different social classes,” he says.

  “Really? Oh, you’re very knowledgeable aren’t you, Joe?” says Sam admiringly.

  “I am, quite.”

  Archie takes their orders. He walks over to the bar, waving a ten pound note at a disinterested barmaid. She’s preoccupied with her new mobile phone. Archie returns the sympathetic nods received from three elderly, purple-faced men, propping up the bar.

  “The service is terrible, but the beers worth the wait,” one of them confides. Another one of them keeps looking over at Sam. Eventually, the young South African barmaid serves Archie. He returns to Joe and Sam, hands full with drinks, pockets stuffed with packets of crisps. His pale face is flushed. Joe tastes the beer. “Very fruity.”

  “Hey, it’s a shame Luke isn’t here isn’t it?” says Archie, out of the blue.

  “Oh, I meant to tell you, I saw him the other day.”

  “What? You saw Luke?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I haven’t seen him for ages. You never told me you saw him. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

  “Did you go for a drink together?”

  “No, we just passed each other in the street.”

  “What? You just bumped into him, in the street?”

  Joe nods back. Archie continues to press.

  “In a city of eight million people, you just bumped into each other?”

  “Yeah. It’s weird isn’t it?”

  “I just can’t believe it, and you didn’t call me?”

  Sam interjects at this point.

  “If you two are going to have a domestic, I’m leaving.”

  The boys shut up, stare into their crisp packets.

  A little brown terrier trots over, sits on the floor next to their table, looks up at them. Joe bites off half a crisp and feeds it to the dog. The terrier takes the morsel, very gently.

  “Does he remind you of Defoor?” Joe asks Archie, but he doesn’t get a reply. Archie looks very distant. There is another side to Archie that Joe doesn’t know about. When he’s alone, in his tenth-floor council flat in Peckham, Archie sometimes finds himself weeping. He hasn’t told his friends, but a few months ago his dad took old Deefor to the vets, and had him put to sleep. Archie’s parents didn’t tell him what had happened until a few days after the event. Archie still hasn’t come to terms with it. Seeing this little dog now, which looks just like Deefor, reminds him of his loss. He wants to tell Joe about it, but he’s afraid he might cry. When Archie feels really let down, he finds it hard to forgive. He can remain offen
ded for a very long time.

  An hour later, the three friends emerge from the pub. There’s a slight drizzle and it’s colder.

  “I’ve only had a packet of crisps to eat,” says Joe. “There’d better be some big nibbles at this do. I’m feeling quite pissed and I’m starving.”

  “You’re always going on about your stomach aren’t you?” replies Archie, rather severely. Joe ignores the insult, huddles up beside Archie and Sam under the big green umbrella, which Archie presses against the weather. They march forward purposefully, following the route planned in the pub. They walk along residential streets, every corner has a pub, or a church, or an interesting shop to notice. They cross garden squares, take short cuts down cobbled mews. Feeling damp and cold, they stand beside a parade of shops. At the end of the street stands a massive brooding tower block. The top of it thrusts forward, like the prow of a ship cutting into the sky, and it’s all lit up. It’s like a sentinel, guarding the northern gateway into Kensington.

  “That’s Trellick Tower,” says Joe, bracing himself against the weather.

  “I like it,” replies Sam.

  “Bloody architects!” Archie begins to rant.

  Shielded behind the umbrella, the three friends continue their walk. Sam tries to look at the display in a designer boutique, but the boys drag her on, towards the towering edifice. They reach the base of the tower, a gloomy space, beside a noisy, heavily-trafficked flyover. They walk over Kensington’s northern frontier. It’s a darker night. Joe feels uneasy, as if they are being watched. This night will change the course of his life.

  They walk through gloomy, confusing spaces, defined by warehouses and flyovers. With every step, they are being forced underground. There’s relief when a graffiti-covered street name matches the address on their invitation. It’s a grey, cobbled street. This area is new to Joe, he hadn’t realised how industrial it was on the other side of the flyover. The high walls flanking the narrow street belong to manufactories, the sense of enclosure is foreboding. No windows, just blind brick walls. There’s a hump in the road in front of them. Archie looks over a low wall. There’s a canal, black as tar.