He sort of looked at me. Then he said, ‘Is that your way of trying to say that I’m ancient, Raymond?’
I shook my head and started to apologise. But he just laughed and said, ‘Hey! Hey, it’s OK, I’m only teasing.’
I nodded.
And then he said, ‘Well, good luck, Raymond.’ He shook me by the hand again and went and got in his car.
And it was only as I was walking away that I heard him calling out, ‘Hey, Ray.’
I stopped. And he was leaned over, with the passenger window wound down.
‘I meant to ask,’ he said, ‘what’s in the book?’
I didn’t know what he was talking about at first. I just frowned.
And then he pointed at me. ‘Ever since I picked you up you been clutching hold of it like your life depended on it.’
Realising he meant my lyric book I shrugged. ‘It’s just my book’, I said, ‘that I write in.’
It was his turn to frown then. ‘Yeah?’ he said, ‘Like what? What do you write?’
‘Lyrics,’ I said, ‘my lyrics. And things like that. Ideas and stuff. And letters, to Morrissey.’
He stared at me, nodding his head. ‘Lyrics,’ he said. ‘You like that, huh? Writing lyrics?’
I nodded. He seemed to think about that for a second. And I wondered what for.
But then he just smiled and shook his head a bit, before winding up the window and driving off.
I stood there watching the car as it began to pull away. And I even started to wonder if it was just something I’d imagined, the nice American man with his silver car and his greying hair; and his genuine feeling for the songs and the lyrics I love. I thought perhaps I’d just dreamed it all up. But it was like one of those dreams where you don’t want to wake up because you know that when you do, everything’ll just be ordinary again and you’ll have to get on with all the things you’ve got to get on with. That’s why I didn’t want him to drive off and leave me standing by a sign that said Fish Dock Number 9.
Watching the silver car as it moved away, it was just like something my Mam had told me years ago, about how she was once stood in a hospital corridor and knew that she was safe and secure, because she was with Dr Janice.
And when Dr Janice was walking away, my Mam wanted to stop her and make her stay so that my Mam could go on feeling safe. But she knew, my Mam, that it was a stupid thing, wanting to stop a person, a doctor person you didn’t even really know, just so that you could still have that person near you.
And that’s what I felt like, Morrissey, watching the American man drive away. I didn’t want him to leave me there, on that corner of a street by the docks in Grimsby. Because he made me feel safe. But just like my Mam, I knew it was a stupid thing, wanting a person to stay close to you, a person you didn’t really know; just so that you could feel safe again.
That’s why at first I thought I might be dreaming it up again, when I saw the brake lights suddenly light up, saw the car stopping. And saw him, the American man, step out of the car and begin waving me over.
I started running. But it felt like I was flying! Like I was being lifted up and borne away beyond the roads and houses and shops, beyond the city of Grimsby, up and away and soaring free from building sites, black vests and Fish Dock Number 9.
But then, as I was running up towards the car I heard him calling out, as he pointed. ‘I just happened to glance up,’ he said, ‘and there it is. Look! It’s here, look, Slinger Street.’
I slowed down. Started falling back to earth. I managed to smile and say, ‘Thanks.’
And he said, ‘So, you’re all set now, yeah?’
I nodded.
And he waved a hand as he started to get back into the car, telling me, ‘Hey! Raymond, keep good! OK? You keep good!’
I nodded again. And watched the car until it disappeared. Then I turned into Slinger Street. And I thought about how brilliant they were at being American; American people. They’re the only people who can do it. Because if anybody from England had ever said to me something like Keep good! I probably would have vomited! But American people can do it and get away with it; because American people aren’t embarrassed about being American.
That’s what I was thinking about as I wandered down the street and found the guest house.
And I should have known, Morrissey, even before I knocked on the door and rang the bell, I should have known. In the end I didn’t even care, really.
She said, ‘I’m not bothered when y’ booked; I can’t be letting you have a room if you can’t pay your deposit.’
‘But my money,’ I said, ‘I told you, it was stolen off me. I’m starting work tomorrow though and I’ll be able to get a sub and pay you the deposit then.’
‘Well, that’s fine,’ she said, ‘you do that! But I can’t be having you stopping here tonight, not without your deposit being paid!’
I carried on trying, but it was useless. I gave up. I walked back down the hall.
‘I’ve got a business to run!’ she said. ‘I can’t be holding rooms for people who turn up at this hour and then say they can’t pay the deposit.’
She carried on but I just left her to it and walked out.
I was glad! It smelt of cats and yellow fish.
I wouldn’t have wanted to stay there anyway.
I just started walking. I didn’t mind staying outside, not when it was so warm.
And that’s how I ended up here, in Cleethorpes. It’s only down the road from Grimsby but it’s like it’s a seaside resort. I’m in this sort of wooden sun shelter on the esplanade. I think it’s a place where the pensioners must come and sit in the daytime, to feed the seagulls and talk about their sciatica. The benches are a bit hard but I used my bag as a pillow and I managed to get a few hours’ sleep. But then the sun came up really early and I couldn’t get back to sleep after that.
It’s dead old-fashioned here, Morrissey, with a pier and roundabouts and all kinds of arcades and cafés and candy-floss stalls. They’re all shuttered up at this time of the morning though. And maybe that’s why it’s sort of nice here, Morrissey; before Cleethorpes wakes up, comes to its senses and gets on with doing its day job of being a screaming shrine to fun and frivolity.
Now though, it’s serene and sort of saintly, in the holy silence of the empty streets and the deserted esplanade. And far, far out beyond the sands, Morrissey, I can see the shapes of ships and boats in the distance as they lumber up the Humber, getting smaller and fainter as they move to the mouth of the estuary, head out into the North Sea and finally disappear.
And that’s what I was looking at, just staring blankly out across the sand, when I first noticed her.
She was a good way off, walking along the beach, silhouetted against the silver glare of the sun on the water.
Or maybe I didn’t even see her at all! Perhaps I just conjured her up in my mind.
She looked real though, shoes in one hand as she moved across the sands, a sort of spring in her step as she moved towards the morning sun.
And I know it was just something in my mind and she couldn’t have been there really. Because what would she be doing in a place like Cleethorpes, the Girl with the Chestnut Eyes?
I told myself it must be because I’d had hardly any sleep, Morrissey. And that’s why I must be imagining things. That’s what I said to myself. But I was a bit worried as well, Morrissey. Because since I’d left Swintonfield it had never happened to me again. I didn’t do it any more, see things that weren’t there, like the Lerts or the turnips or the man behind the curtains, the one with the upside-down head.
And I know that this was different, because this was seeing somebody nice, seeing the Girl with the Chestnut Eyes.
It was still seeing somebody who wasn’t there though, seeing something that wasn’t real!
It wasn’t even as though it could have been somebody else, some other girl on the beach who just looked like her. I know that because I walked across to the pier where the telescopes
were. I put in a 50p piece. And there she was! In close-up, right in front of me, her eyes as dark and shining as I’d always remembered. She was twisting and twirling around on the sand, with her head thrown back and her arms stretched out. And if I needed any more proof of who it was I was watching, I only had to look at the tee shirt she had on; it was the really really rare one featuring the picture from the Australian version of the Viva Hate album when it was wrongly titled Education In Reverse!
That’s why I knew, Morrissey, I knew it couldn’t be anyone else but her.
But then my 50p ran out.
And when I looked down the beach again, it was empty.
That’s why I was worried. I didn’t want to start seeing things that weren’t there again, even nice things, like the Girl with the Chestnut Eyes. And the man!
The American man with the silver car and the Smiths cassettes. Had I just imagined him and all? Conjured it all up in my mind?
I’m tired, Morrissey; tired and worn out. Maybe that’s why I saw her, because I wanted to see her.
And what I don’t want to do is do what I have to do; to go back down that road; back towards Fish Dock Number 9; into that place where they’re expecting me;
where I’ll work, and be normal and ordinary and a part of it all.
That’s why I’ve got to go and get changed in a minute and put on the stupid vest, the stonewashed jeans and the builders’ boots. And worst of all, Morrissey, I’ve got to comb out my quiff.
There’s a public toilet, further down the esplanade. I’ll be able to get changed in there.
I hope you can understand, Morrissey, that I haven’t really got any choice. I’ve got to do it. I’m not doing it because I’m ashamed, Morrissey, or because I want to wipe out the past.
It’s just that things’ll be different, you see. I might even end up making friends with some of the other people who work there. And if I do that well I’ll probably have to join in and do all kinds of boring and embarrassing things that you wouldn’t want to hear about; like going out to clubs and sometimes going for a drink after work; and even watching football, I suppose, sometimes. I know that you wouldn’t want to hear about any of that kind of stuff, Morrissey. That’s why I wouldn’t bother you by writing to you about it. And the thing is, Morrissey, from now on, I don’t think I’ll be writing very much of anything in my lyric book.
I suppose there must be thousands of people like me, Morrissey, who became so captivated by you and your lyrics that they all thought they could write as well. But what we all forgot, Morrissey, is that you’re a genius; and the rest of us are just fairly ordinary really. And not very remarkable. I think that’s probably why I left the guitar, Morrissey. I didn’t do it on purpose, not like I was meaning to do it. I just forgot it really. He’d put it in the boot. And I never thought about it, not till he’d driven off and gone. It doesn’t matter though. I won’t be needing a guitar any more!
You see, the thing is … I lied to you, Morrissey, I didn’t come to Grimsby just because my Uncle forced me into it. I could have resisted it. I could have pleaded with my Mam or pretended that I wasn’t well again. But I didn’t, Morrissey. So I suppose you’ve got to know; I suppose it’s only fair to tell you, Morrissey, that I came here for a reason! I came here to Grimsby because I wanted … to leave you behind!
Morrissey, I’m sorry. I’m really really sorry!
But I can’t help it, Morrissey.
I’d just got exhausted, worn out with the effort of being not normal, being criticised and disapproved of, taking the sneers and the jeers and the jibes; and the isolation, the loneliness.
Morrissey, I’m all right on my own. I don’t even mind being on my own. But I never wanted to be on my own. That was just how it turned out. And I tried to make the best of it. You helped me with that, Morrissey. You made it seem all right, feeling lonely. And it was, in a way, it was all right being lonely and misunderstood, because I had my love of you and everything that went with that, all the records and posters and videos and all the mementoes and memorabilia. I had all of that.
But sometimes I’d find myself thinking about the future, Morrissey. And that’s when I’d get frightened. Because it’s all right being a bit lonely when you’re only nineteen and you can wear all that loneliness like it’s cool and defiant and a bit mysterious; like it’s something you’ve chosen. But when you’re not nineteen any more, Morrissey, when you’ve ended up older and you’re still sitting there in your room, on your own, with a brilliant collection of Smiths and Morrissey memorabilia, what then? I’ve seen them, Morrissey, when I’ve been at conventions and all the fans have been gathered to wallow in all the wonderfulness of you and The Smiths, I’ve seen them, the older fans, the ones who were probably fans right back at the beginning, back in the early days when you and The Smiths first emerged, when they were only nineteen or twenty-somethings themselves. And then, back then, they must have seemed really ‘it’, Morrissey, those early fans with their fledgling quiffs, their shy smiles, their Meat Is Murder and Morrissey-mania. They must have looked lovely in all their cultivated loneliness, giddy not-normalness and exquisite indiesuperiority. But ten years on, hanging around at concerts or conventions, their quiffs somewhat wilted and starting to recede, they just look sad; and faintly cheesy, all their enigmatic loneliness looking more like quiet desperation. And do you know what occurred to me, Morrissey, what occurred to me is that you must despise them – fans like that. Fans so devoted that they became trapped inside their devotion, imprisoned by their idolatry; those who clung onto worship because they were afraid to let go; in case they discovered that outside of you, Morrissey, and beyond the bedrooms of their own minds, they didn’t exist. Which is why they’re still there, at all of the concerts and all the conventions, with all the right books and rare records and pictures, all the right poses and strike-the-right-attitudes, all the right facts, dates and figures, discographies, bios and trivia and Morrissey-lore; those who dared adore you for just a little too long, Morrissey; those whose love is so needy that it blinds them to that look in your eyes, Morrissey; that look of pained contempt.
And that’s why you have to understand, Morrissey, that I’ve not done all this just for myself; I’m doing it for you as well, Morrissey. Because I promised that I would never ever do that to you; never grow into the sort of fan whom you would have to despise.
So it’s for both of us, Morrissey, me and you.
I’m just going to try and get on with things now. That’s why I’m wearing them, the stupid jeans and the tee shirt and the brawny builders’ boots. And even though I hate it really and I’m a bit frightened, I’m going to try my very very best to fit in at this job. Who knows, Morrissey, I might even learn to like it. And if I enjoy it and I make some friends, I might even meet a girlfriend. Then I’ll probably be fairly happy and won’t have much time to think about things like lyrics and you, Morrissey; and the times when I wore my hair in a quiff, so that all the world could see that I was a Morrissey fan.
Yours sincerely,
Raymond Marks
Dear M . . . . . .
I don’t know . . . . . . .
Dear Mor . . . I can’t, I . . . . . . .
What? . . . I don’t . . . Morrissey? . . . What . . . have I done, what have I done?
Where am . . . I
It’s . . . . . dark . . . I shouldn’t . . . . .
De . . . Dear . . . . . Morri . . . . . I tried . . . forgive me, Mor . . . . . .
I don’t . . . know . . . I was . . . . . . . wrong . . . so wrong . . .
I shouldn’t be . . . It’s . . . Where? Dear . . . . .
I think . . . . . . .
Where am I? . . . . . . . Morrissey please . . . . come back . . . I didn’t mean . . . where am I
I can’t . . . . . . . just don’t . . . . . . can’t . . . Morrissey . . . are you still there?
Morrissey, MORRISSEY? Help me, Morrissey . . . Please . . . . . . . . . help me . . . . . . . . . . MORRISSEY
&nb
sp; The Grounds,
Wednesday
Dear Morrissey,
All the walls were white. And there were flowers! A vase of flowers on the table next to the bed. There was a window high up, a small window set in the thick white wall, with a shaft of yellow sunlight leaking through.
I didn’t move, apart from my eyes scanning the white room, seeing the grey cabinet at the end of the bed – like the ones in the hospital – where you keep your personal things, your slippers and your dressing gown. I’d seen them, rooms like this. Side rooms, off the main ward. Rooms where they put the worst cases. Or when somebody from the ward had lost it, and had had to be sedated and then kept in the side room for a couple of days.
I didn’t move. I didn’t even try to move. Because I knew it would hurt! Like it was hurting now, even when I wasn’t trying to move but still it hurt, itching and stinging across my shoulders, my neck and down my back. And my head! It was that dull pain: the heavy, leaden pain, like the inside of my skull had been stuffed to bursting with pounds and pounds of cotton wool; the sort of pain that you feel in your head when you’re just coming round, after heavy medication. I didn’t move. I just lay there, trying to remember; trying to think back … in bits … just in bits, here and there … beginning to remember … the wallet … my wallet … but before that … the sun, blazing … burning … the headache … my eyes … the splitting pain behind my eyes … and wondering how I was going to tell my Mam … how I could even get home … get back … to Failsworth … and my Uncle Bastard … blaming me, blaming me, telling me I couldn’t do anything right …
But I tried! … I know I did my best … I gave up everything. Gave up you, Morrissey. And still it didn’t work!
I know now!
I know … it could never have worked. But I tried.
That’s why I wore the boots, the stupid jeans and the hideous Springsteen top. That’s why I didn’t try and argue or even get gobby and answer back; why I just shrugged and said nowt, that morning, at the site when I turned up for work and the Ganger said I looked like ‘a right fuckin’ wanker!’
The Wrong Boy Page 45