20
The losers club
Maddy dreaded telling Cath but it had to be done. Cath was her partner in her love affair. Her ex-love affair.
Cath was outraged.
“You have to kill her! I’m serious. You have to smash her cute little face into a bloody pulp.”
“I don’t hit people, Cath.”
“Now’s the time to start.”
“I almost wish I could.”
“That is just the worst thing I’ve ever heard.” Cath kept shaking her head. “That is so mean! I knew Grace could be mean, but that is the pits. How could they do that to you?”
“I think they thought it was all just a bit of fun.”
“Fun? Love isn’t fun!”
“They didn’t know about that.”
“You can’t defend them, Mad. They’re monsters. They’re devils.”
“I just took it all a bit too seriously,” said Maddy. “It’s my own fault really.”
“Bollocks, Maddy Fisher. Don’t be so noble.”
“I’m not noble,” said Maddy. “I’m unhappy.”
“Oh, God! Don’t cry! I’ll start crying. And then my nose’ll run.”
They hugged each other and Maddy did her best not to cry.
“I did love him,” she said. “I still do, really. I can’t help it. And I don’t blame him for loving Grace. She’s so gorgeous.”
“She’s a cow,” said Cath.
The more Cath took in what the two of them had done the more incensed she grew.
“You have to stop them, Maddy. What they’re doing to Gemma’s almost even worse than what they did to you.”
“Grace says it’s for Gemma’s good in the end.”
“She doesn’t care about Gemma. She just cares about herself. I think you should tell Gemma.”
“Oh, no. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because of Joe.”
“You owe Joe nothing, Mad.”
“I know that. But even so.”
It was hard to explain her feelings to Cath. Maddy felt that she was the one to blame for everything because she had allowed herself to believe Joe loved her. She had wanted it so much to be true. That alone should have warned her. The things you really want never come true. Not in the real world. But she had let herself believe in Joe’s love, and now she deserved all the unhappiness she felt.
“Well, then,” said Cath, “I’m going to tell her.”
“No! You mustn’t!”
“We can’t let them carry on with their poisonous little scheme.”
“Just leave them alone, Cath. Forget about it. I don’t want to ever have to think about any of them ever again. Please.”
“What about Grace? How am I supposed to be with her?”
“Just don’t talk about it. For my sake.”
“I’m through with Grace. I can tell you that right now.”
“Yes, okay. But just don’t make it be about me.”
Cath did her best to be a loyal friend, but she found it hard.
“Don’t you want to punish them, Mad? Don’t you want to hurt them?”
“No. I just want to hide.”
“They’re the ones should be hiding. They should both be put in a bag and dropped in the river.”
This conversation took place in an otherwise empty classroom, when both of them were supposed to be catching up with their course work. Maddy was quite unable to work. Since the catastrophe she had done nothing but sleep or cry, apart from eating yum-yums, and the time she had spent at Rich’s house watching him work on the doll’s house.
She saw Rich again at school. He told her he had tracked down where Mr. Pico had gone to hide. He had gone nowhere, and he wasn’t hiding. He was at his home.
“You know the lane that goes up to the golf course? There’s a fork with a track that goes left though the trees. He lives in the little house just past the fork. The one with the eyebrows.”
As soon as he said that Maddy knew which house he meant. The two windows on the upper floor were topped with pointed gables that cut into the roofline just like eyebrows. It was a very pretty former farm cottage.
“I thought of an excuse to call on him. I have to give him back that book he lent me.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve still got it.”
“Could you bring it in to school tomorrow?”
“Yes, sure. Why do you want to call on him?”
“See if he’s all right. See if he really did get sacked. I bet that creep Jury lied to me.”
Joe Finnigan passed by. Maddy lowered her head.
“Maddy Fisher!” he called out as he passed, giving his cheery wave just as if nothing had happened.
Maddy flushed, but Rich seemed not to notice. He was following the departing figure of Joe with his eyes.
“That Joe Finnigan,” he said. “He always looks like he’s just woken up from this really satisfying sleep where he’s been dreaming this really satisfying dream.”
“Yes, he does,” said Maddy, also now looking at the distant Joe. “That’s a good description.”
Cath came hobbling over to join them. She had a blister on the back of her right heel.
Rich thanked her for signing his petition.
“How many signatures did you get in the end?”
“Two.”
“You mean I doubled the petition?”
“You did.”
They all laughed.
“I just hated the way they were all making a joke out of what you were doing,” said Cath. “And I don’t care what they think of me anyway.”
“You can join our club,” said Rich. “We’re going to get T-shirts saying LOSER.”
“It has to be really exclusive,” said Maddy. “We don’t want all the riffraff in.”
“Certainly not,” said Rich. “Only genuine, certified losers.”
Max Heilbron joined them. He was eating a packet of crisps.
“I’d offer them round,” he said, “but I want them all for myself.”
“Also you need feeding up,” said Cath.
“Small is beautiful,” retorted Max.
“Then you can’t join our club. Can he, Rich?”
“No, I think Max can join.”
“What club?”
“The losers club. It’s seriously exclusive. We’re going to have a T-shirt.”
“You know what?” said Rich. “I think we should have two levels in the club. Ordinary members would have T-shirts saying LOSER. But the really top losers would have T-shirts saying GAY LOSER FREAK.”
“Like a gold card.”
“Or going first class.”
“Now wait a minute here, guys,” said Max. “I can see why me and Rich count as losers. But how’s Maddy a loser?”
“I notice you don’t mention me,” said Cath.
“Trust me,” said Maddy. “I’m a loser.”
“You sure you’re not just saying that to impress me?”
“Hey! Hey!” said Cath. “This is all getting out of control. Back to basics, guys. How to spot a loser.” She pointed at her own face. “Ugly mug.” She pointed at Max. “Little creep.”
“That’s nice,” said Max, offended.
“The rest of you are just self-pitying phoneys.”
So long as she was joking about her misery Maddy could cope. But as soon as the ordinary life of the school resumed, the misery rose up and burst its bounds and threatened to drown her. All the public places in the school were danger zones: she did not want to meet Joe or Grace. Even when they were nowhere in sight their spirits hung over classroom and library, sports hall and dining hall. She found her copy of Hay Fever while rooting in her bag, and at once saw, with unbearable clarity, the Joe she had so loved, sitting in the dance studio, book in hand, speaking his lines with his easy smile. And there was Grace responding, “Abnormal, Simon—that’s what we are, abnormal.” And everyone was laughing.
Going home reminded her of Joe too. There outside the shop was Cyril
the camel, who had always been her friend. But now he belonged to Joe, and to the memories that gave her pain. Once indoors there was Imo, who was going out with Joe’s brother, and who had still not forgiven Maddy for the bad things she had said about Leo. One more week and the college term would begin and Imo at least would be gone.
“I don’t know why you told all those lies,” said Imo. “Leo’s talked to Joe and he knows nothing about it. Nothing at all. I don’t understand. What have you got against Leo?”
“Forget it, okay? It doesn’t matter.”
“But why did you do it?”
“I don’t know. I just did. Leave me alone.”
She dug out the copy of The Art of Loving, but didn’t read any more of it. Who needed the art when there was no one to love? She took it with her to school the next day and gave it back to Rich.
“How did you get along with it?” he asked her.
“I only read a few pages. It’s a bit too theoretical for me.”
“I thought it was really good once, but now I can’t remember why.”
“When are you going to see Mr. Pico?”
“I don’t know. Maybe today.”
“Tell him we’re all really sorry the play got cancelled.”
Maddy wasn’t sorry at all now. It would have been impossible for her to go on rehearsing with Joe and Grace now that everything had changed.
“You know what?” said Rich. “It’s a bit tricky me calling on Pablo, what with all this gay thing going round. But if you wanted to come too, that would be different.”
“Like, as your chaperone?”
“Yes, in a way.”
“Well, I suppose I could.”
Maddy wasn’t greatly interested in seeing Mr. Pico, but she was finding she liked hanging out with Rich. Somehow, presumably because he too had been hurt by Grace, he was the only person who didn’t annoy her. Even Cath could be annoying because she continued to be so angry over what had happened.
“Look at them!” she would hiss at Maddy whenever Grace or Joe passed by. “They’ve no shame! Let’s go and spit on them!”
So Maddy agreed to go with Rich as his chaperone and visit Mr. Pico. It would be a couple more hours away from Cyril’s pitying smile.
21
Mr. Pico’s secret
On the way to Mr. Pico’s house they talked about their favorite films. In a concession to honesty Maddy admitted she still loved The Sound of Music. Rich said his best film ever was Once Upon A Time in the West. He explained the long opening sequence waiting for the train.
“What’s good about that?” said Maddy.
“It’s amazing. Wait till you see it. The music’s great too. Everything Ennio Morricone ever wrote was great. It’s lyrical and strange, both at the same time. Like Philip Larkin. Do you know Larkin’s poems?”
“Not really, no.”
“Larkin is one of my gods.”
He quoted from memory:
“Strange to know nothing, never to be sure
Of what is true or right or real.”
Maddy didn’t mind that Rich knew things she didn’t know. He was no threat to her, he was just this strange boy she found it easy to talk to, maybe because they’d both been wounded in the same war. Somehow he existed outside her social world, so she didn’t really concern herself with what opinion he had of her, and she never asked herself what opinion she had of him. She liked it that he had all these eccentric tastes, if only because Morricone and Larkin and the Beach Boys had played no part in her life so far, and so triggered no hurtful memories.
“Do you really read poetry, Rich? I mean, other than for class?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It puts into words things you feel.” Then, after a pause, “If I thought everyone who’d ever existed was like the idiots at school I’d kill myself.”
“Why do you want to be different to everyone else?”
“Why would I want to be them? All they talk about is football and cars. All they want is tits and booze.”
Maddy laughed.
“And you don’t?”
“Well, I wouldn’t complain. But is that it? Is that how big your dream gets?”
“Even so, Rich. You really should get yourself a phone.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“You can’t just live in your own world.”
“Yes, I can. And anyway, it’s not just me. I’ve got Philip Larkin and Bob Dylan and Janis Joplin and William Blake.”
“But they’re all dead.”
“Dylan’s not dead.”
“You’re strange.”
“Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”
They had been walking up the road to the golf course. Now they arrived at the cottage where Mr. Pico was reputed to live.
Rich approached the door, and then hesitated.
“Do you think he’ll mind?”
“I don’t think he’s in,” said Maddy.
All the window curtains were drawn.
“Maybe he’s committed suicide.”
“Jesus, Rich! Don’t say things like that.”
“I don’t want to stumble over his rotting corpse. I’m squeamish about things like that.”
“Honestly.”
Maddy knocked on the door herself.
“You read too many books. Being different’s okay. Being creepy’s not okay.”
“Nor is being ordinary,” said Rich, nettled.
“I’m not ordinary. Are you saying I’m ordinary?”
“What’s not ordinary about you?”
“Well, I’m here with you, for a start.”
“True. There’s hope for you yet.”
There came a shuffling sound from the other side of the door. A cross voice called out, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, sir,” said Rich. “I’ve brought your book back.”
“What me? What book?”
“Richard Ross, sir. The Erich Fromm book.”
There was a silence, then the sound of the bolt being withdrawn. The door opened to reveal Mr. Pico wearing what looked like a nightdress. He stared at them, eyes blinking through his thick lenses.
He pointed an accusing finger at Maddy.
“There’s another one.”
“Maddy came with me so that …”
Rich couldn’t think of a good reason for Maddy to be there other than the true reason, so he allowed the sentence to tail away into nothing.
“I wanted to be sure you were all right,” said Maddy.
“Oh,” said Mr. Pico. He frowned at Maddy. “And am I all right?”
“Yes,” said Maddy. “I think.”
“It’s not a nightdress, you know. It’s a djellaba. Men wear them in Morocco. Perfectly normal.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rich.
Mr. Pico gazed at them in silence for a moment.
“Well, you might as well come in,” he said.
They followed him into a tiny hallway. He shut and bolted the door behind them. Rich met Maddy’s eyes: had they walked in to some kind of trap?
Mr. Pico led them into what had once been a living room. Here in curtained gloom stood a single armchair with a powerful reading lamp leaning over it and a table beside it. On the table stood a bottle of wine, a glass, and two bowls. One bowl contained olives, the other held the pits from the olives. The rest of the room was completely filled with stacks of books and magazines. Some stacks were low, no more than four or five books; but some were great buttressed towers, walls of books reaching up to the ceiling, supported by heaped-up mounds of magazines, mainly copies of The New York Review of Books.
Mr. Pico stood frowning at the room, suddenly made aware of its limitations.
“I’m afraid there isn’t really anywhere for you to sit,” he said.
“Yes, there is,” said Maddy. “Look. We can make stools out of the magazines.”
She chose a pile of magazines of a suitable height and sat down.
“So y
ou can. Would you think me very rude if I take my usual chair?”
“Of course not. This is your home.”
Rich listened to Maddy with surprise. She was handling things so well.
Mr. Pico sat in his chair. Rich followed Maddy’s example and sat on a pile of New York Reviews.
“I expect it will sound ridiculous to you,” said Mr. Pico, “but I find one of the greatest pleasures in an otherwise unsatisfactory world is sitting in a comfortable chair.”
He reached out for an olive, ate it, and discreetly transferred the pit from his mouth to the bowl.
“Would you like an olive?”
They both shook their heads.
“So you came to see if I’m all right, did you? I call that very civic of you. There was a time when one would have called it Christian. Concern for others, now seen as the function of the state. Yes, I am all right.”
He smiled at them and nodded and they understood that he had decided to be pleased by their coming.
“No one’s said why you left, sir,” said Rich. “Are you coming back?”
“No. I am not coming back.”
“Rich started a petition,” said Maddy. “To support you.”
“Did he? How many signatures did you get?”
“Not many,” said Rich. “The Head stopped me. He said you’d requested leave of absence for personal reasons.”
“This is perfectly true.”
“Oh.” Rich couldn’t hide his disappointment. “I thought Mr. Jury was just telling me a lie to make me stop.”
“You don’t have a high opinion of Mr. Jury?”
“I think he’s a loathsome creep,” said Rich.
“A little harsh.” But his eyes twinkled with amusement. “He did his best to tolerate my eccentricities. He never asked me to go. But nor did he urge me to stay.”
“I wish you’d come back,” said Rich. “And so does Maddy.”
“Yes, I do,” said Maddy.
Mr. Pico sighed.
“There are difficulties,” he said. “There have been complaints. It seems my teaching methods aren’t appreciated. And there have been suggestions that I’m a danger to the students.” He shook his head a little sadly. “All quite hurtful in their way.”
“But it’s nonsense,” said Rich.
“So it is. But as Socrates learned, it’s not enough to be in the right. Sometimes the delusions of the crowd are too powerful to be overcome. Also, you know, one does rather want to be wanted.”
Rich and Mad Page 14