by Sam Lock
Oh dear, though: now that I’ve got into the habit of writing things down, there seems such a lot that I need to say. I was even thinking at work this afternoon that if I decided to set down here in detail all the memories that have piled up in me during my thirty-odd years of existence, this journal of mine – this notebook – would become something much bigger than the Bible!
Every day of your life things happen: things that are interesting; and that mark, if you take a good look at them, the continual change taking place in your development. I’ve just remembered a chap called Patrick Flanagan, for example, who, for almost a year after I moved here from Battersea, lived in the flat above me. I have to say something about him, for he certainly played a part in my growing up, and in my getting used to life in the city. An Irishman, as is pretty obvious from his name, he lived alone, after having parted from his ‘lady-friend’, as he spoke of her – who (or so he said) left him because of his drinking. And I can recall as if it was yesterday the moment when he came knocking at my door.
‘I’m your neighbour,’ he said, ‘and I’m there in the flat upstairs. You’ll not be minding, I hope, my coming to call on you like this … My name is Patrick,’ he added, with a winning smile. ‘And my guess is that you’ll be new here in the city … You like eggs?’ he suddenly asked.
‘Eggs?’ I answered, unable to imagine why he should be asking me that question.
‘Yes, eggs,’ he said. ‘I’ve got four dozen of ’em, and don’t know what to do with ’em. Won them, I did, as part of a prize – in a competition. Asked me what I’d do with eggs, they did, and I said “Smash ’em”. So they gave me money – a cheque, if you can be thinking of such a thing – and these eggs. A bloody great boxful of ’em.’
He laughed nervously as he said this, causing his tall, wiry frame to shake and his rather protruding ears to flap. ‘Because I answered this advert, you see, asking you what you do with eggs, and I said “Smash ’em”, just for a bloody joke – so there’s going to be this big poster or somethin’ with eggs runnin’ down it, and tellin’ you that eggs is good for you, or you should be going to work on one, or something like that … So,’ he went on, having paused to catch his breath, ‘I was thinkin’ that maybe you’d care to help me get rid of some – scrambled, perhaps, or in an omelette – so we could get to know each other a little.’
This quick gush of words had rather startled me. First of all, because I could hardly believe that what he had been telling me was true; and also because I could smell that he had been drinking, and wondered, with my being so young at the time, and so inexperienced as well, whether I ought to accept his offer or not.
He didn’t look dangerous, however: he wasn’t untidy-looking or dishevelled in any way, or needing a shave. In fact, he looked bright and perky and in an odd way rather attractive. So I said to him ‘When?’ – meaning, when did he want me to join him for this feast.
‘Well, now, I thought,’ he replied with a disarming grin. ‘It’ll be gone midday, and you’ll have eaten nothing since breakfast, I’ll be thinking. So what about now – eh?’
‘I’d – I’d have to change first,’ I said, just to gain time.
‘Change?’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘What for, for fuck’s sake? You’re tidy as a pin-box. Come as you are, son.’
‘Edwin,’ I said, realising that I hadn’t yet told him my name.
‘Oh, so it’s Edwin, is it?’ he answered. ‘Well, Edwin, you’ll do fine for me as you are. But if you want to put on something else, just come up to me when you’re ready.’
I thanked him and off he went; and I recall thinking as he left that London life for me seemed to be full of eccentric characters. Already there had been Rufus and Charlie. They weren’t exactly what one would call everyday types; and now there was this Irishman – Patrick – who had come knocking at my door and had gabbled on to me about eggs. Still, it was interesting, and certainly unlike anything I had experienced in the country, or was ever likely to experience, I thought, had I stayed on there – unless I had got to know some of its tramps, perhaps, or gypsies. So I changed and went, feeling a little nervous, as I recall, but driven on by curiosity. For the very idea of my having a neighbour of that kind seemed an excitement in itself. It was all part of my new adventure. I was still working in Len’s restaurant in Battersea, and had to leave for there at about four in the afternoon; but with my not having found enough courage as yet to go out and explore the city (other than the streets of my immediate area, with which I had quickly become familiar) my days at home seemed long; and the only people I saw socially at that time were Len and Thelma. I saw Len each day at work, of course, but only spent time with both of them on a Sunday, which meant that the other days of the week were often quite lonely ones for me.
As I locked the door of my flat and turned to mount the stairs to the upper floor, I began to picture in my mind what Patrick’s flat might be like. Would it be dark, light; tidy, untidy? Would there be paintings, books? Would his crockery be clean? (This was a thought that quite worried me.) Would his clothes be strewn about his room, or rooms? Did he use gas for cooking, or electricity?
It is amazing how quickly the mind is able to explore an unknown space in this fashion, building pictures of it and furnishing it in one’s fantasy. But it seems to me that the fantasy and the reality seldom match. One’s idea about how a thing will be, or how it will look, tends to be an illusion that will be shattered. Certainly mine was regarding my neighbour’s rooms and habits of living. For nothing there was as I had pictured it in my mind. There was none of the darkness I had settled upon; no pictures, very few books; and he cooked by electricity, not gas. Nor were his clothes strewn about the place, as I had half made up my mind that they would be. And, moreover, instead of it being dirty and unwashed, his glassware and crockery were spotless.
‘Like to keep the place shipshape,’ he said as he let me in, seeing me looking about in astonishment. ‘Clean, trim,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing like order, you know … Now, Edwin,’ he asked, ‘do you think you’ll be having a tot of whisky, perhaps?’
I said no to that, for I drank very little. ‘Just water, please,’ I added, ‘if you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind, lad – Eddie, I mean. I don’t mind at all. I’m not lookin’ for you to be a drinking buddy, you know. Just someone to talk to from time to time, and to stop me from feeling lonely; which I do feel on occasions … You kept?’ he suddenly asked.
‘Kept?’ I answered, having no idea of what he meant.
‘Yes, kept? Or a rent-boy, or something?’
‘Rent-boy?’
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know what a rent-boy is? Well, it’s someone who sells himself – rents himself out to other men: that’s what it is. You never heard of a rent-boy, laddie?’
‘Eddie,’ I said, hoping he would soon get used to my name.
‘Eddie,’ he repeated.
‘What for?’ I asked. ‘What do they sell themselves for?’
‘Oh, Jesus!’ he exclaimed, ruffling his blue-black hair. ‘Look – forget it. You don’t know, and it’s as well that you don’t. How old are you, for fuck’s sake?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘What!’
‘Sixteen,’ I repeated.
‘Well, you don’t look it. You look about eighteen, I’d say, or even older. Holy Moses! And you say you’re new to London – to the city?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘From where?’ he asked.
‘From Somerset. From the West Country … What do they sell themselves for?’ I asked a second time, wanting to have him tell me, in spite of the fact that I had half guessed by then what the term meant.
‘For sex,’ he said. ‘That’s what for. For sex. For men to have sex with them – for money.’
‘Oh,’ I answered, the idea of such an arrangement intriguing me. ‘Where?’
‘Where what? Where do they do it? Where do they sell themselves? Or where do they
have sex?’
‘Sell themselves,’ I answered.
‘Look, lad.’
‘Eddie,’ I said.
‘Look, Eddie, you’ll know all about this in time. If you’re new here, you’ll soon learn about things like that. Not because you’ll be doing it yourself – or I hope you won’t – but because every city person gets to know of it. You queer, perhaps?’ he asked, looking directly at me. ‘Is that what it is?’
I didn’t answer this, much as I understood what the word meant. I just paused – then looked up at him and asked if he was himself, which caught him out.
‘Jesus!’ he said, as his face coloured. ‘You’re a bit of a card, you know … Look. How do you like your eggs? And what about a drink? Don’t you drink at all?’
‘Just water, please,’ I replied. ‘You asked me that before.’
‘Oh, look,’ he said with a laugh, ‘I’m not wantin’ to lure you into bad habits. But what about a beer, Eddie? I can’t think that a beer would do you harm.’
‘A beer?’ I said. ‘Well, yes – perhaps,’ since I felt it was somewhat rude of me not to be joining him.
‘Well, a beer, then,’ he said, ‘and I’ll have a whisky.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Oh, no thanks, son – please.’
‘Eddie,’ I said.
‘Eddie,’ he answered. ‘No thanks – please. I can see that we’re going to get along fine together. I’ll take you out; show you the city: get you about a bit. What’ve you seen of it so far?’
‘Not much,’ I answered. ‘In fact, I haven’t gone far from here as yet. I like Chelsea, and I work at night in a restaurant south of the river – in Battersea; and only have Sundays free, when I see Len and Thelma, my friends … Len owns the restaurant where I work, where I wash dishes.’
‘Oh,’ Patrick answered, handing me a drink, ‘so that’s what you do, is it? That’s why you’re home during the day … Well, take a sip of this. Good stuff, it is. The best bottled beer you can find … Here’s to us, then, Eddie.’ He raised his glass and stretched out to pat me upon the shoulder. ‘Jesus, Eddie,’ he said, ‘you’re quite a card, you are. You are, you know. I can see … Oh, Jesus! – what a lot you have to learn, and what a lot it is too that I’ll be havin’ to teach you.’
Patrick made the most delicious scrambled eggs, which we had on toast, and I enjoyed his company a lot. I knew that I needed him and felt that he had a genuine need of me. In his case, it was just for company, I thought, for I could tell that he was lonely. But what I needed was someone who would act for me as a guide and help me to know the city.
Was he unemployed? I recall asking myself, as he had said nothing to me about work that day. And if he was, then how could he afford whisky? But the following morning I heard him leave his flat quite early, and I rushed up the stairs to speak to him.
‘Patrick,’ I said, a little out of breath, surprised to find that he was wearing workman’s overalls. ‘Thanks for yesterday. It was smashing,’ I said, making a joke that I thought he might appreciate.
He chuckled at this. ‘It was nothing, Eddie,’ he answered. ‘You must come again. We must get to know each other better … Have to go,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Work, you know. I’ll see you later.’
I watched him as he jogged off down the street, his hands thrust into his pockets, and thought how much I liked him: that there was something special about him. At which point he turned to look back at me and to smile and wave a hand.
‘Later, Eddie,’ he called out. ‘I’ll see you later.’
I lingered until I saw him hop on to a bus, then turned to go inside and down to my flat, where I soon made myself some breakfast.
VI
A big shock for me during the past year – an enormous one, now that I come to think of it – was my discovering that my father died almost penniless. Even the house wasn’t entirely his, but was partly owned, I learned, by my aunt Sarah – my mother’s sister.
This was something I hadn’t allowed for. I had long accepted the idea that my father might not mention me in his will, however much I was sure that my mother would have wanted it; so I wasn’t expecting to inherit anything from him at all. But the knowledge that he had debts, some of which were quite large, suddenly changed my view of him. For rather than the stern, moral figure of authority he had always stood for in my mind, I now saw him as not having been a crook exactly, but certainly something of a gambler.
‘My goodness, yes,’ my aunt had said to me, once we had been told the contents of the will, which had made my aunt and I the sole inheritors. ‘Didn’t you know? He was always like that; always living beyond his means … Your dear mother – it worried her such a lot. He did have money at one time, of course, that he had inherited from his family. But he squandered it. And he never did much in the way of business. You do realise that, I suppose. He used to call that room at the back of the house his office, but it was hardly ever used as such. It was more of a betting shop, if anything, for he was always backing the horses. Just occasionally, though, he’d do well at something: some bit of business. Some deal he’d fixed over a sale of cattle, perhaps, or land. But he relied mainly on the pension he had from the war. The one for the injury to his leg. It wasn’t much, though, and after their first few years together, I don’t think that he and your mother had an easy time of it; which is why they never went anywhere much – never travelled.’
As my aunt was telling me this, I began to feel a kind of sadness regarding my father – something I’d not felt before in my life. For suddenly he was flawed. Suddenly he was an impaired, an imperfect, being, in the way that I was one myself; and I saw us as being more alike than I could have imagined.
‘The house will just about pay off all the debts, though,’ my aunt assured me, ‘so we don’t need to worry about that. And there’ll be its contents as well. We can share those – do what we like with them. Even sell some of them, if you want us to: if you are in need of money, Eddie.’
I explained to her that I had to live carefully, since I did only clerical work and my salary was small, but that I had savings, none the less (this didn’t include my ‘spoils’), and wasn’t in desperate need of money.
‘But you could do with some,’ my aunt had added, ‘I’m sure. So that’s what we’ll do – shall we? Everything’s more yours by rights than it is mine, in any case; so just take what you want, Eddie dear. What do I need it for, at my age? Just leave me a few pieces, perhaps, as a reminder of them both, and keep the rest for yourself.’ Which is exactly what we have done; and this coming weekend, when I’ve arranged to go down to the country to visit her, my aunt and I are going to decide what to do with the few things that are left. Then it will be finished. My father’s estate will be cleared – settled, over and done with; and in just a little more than a year after his death.
‘You didn’t like your father, Eddie – did you?’ my aunt had said to me after the funeral.
‘No. I didn’t. He frightened me,’ I answered truthfully.
‘Frightened you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why? Because of the spankings when you were small – the beatings?’
‘Yes, partly,’ I said, ‘but also because I never heard him say a good word about me to anyone.’
‘Oh, Eddie, he must have,’ my aunt replied. ‘I’m sure he did. He wasn’t that bad, was he? Surely he wasn’t.’
I can’t remember what I said to this, but she then asked if it had really been because of my father that I had left home.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she replied, ‘I’m sorry. I wish I’d known, wish I had realised. I could have told you things about him that might have helped.’
‘I don’t think anything would have helped, Aunt Sarah,’ I answered quietly. ‘Those beatings were savage. Even now, the thought of him and the look in his eye frightens me, gives me the shivers. He’d force me to push down my pants and then he’d take off the belt he always wore around his waist.’
‘Oh, Eddie, dear,’ my aunt replied, her eyes suddenly wet with tears. ‘How hurt you have been.’
‘Yes, Aunt Sarah – I have. Those things stay with you, you know. And even when he was dying it didn’t change. I tried to make amends. I did try to touch him to show some affection, but he still rejected me and turned away.’
My aunt said nothing to this. I recall that we were seated at the dining table in my parents’ house, upon which we had arranged various papers; and that the light outside was just beginning to fade.
‘Oh dear,’ my aunt said at last, suddenly rising to her feet and crossing towards the window. ‘Why is it that family things so often have to be like this?’
‘I don’t know, Aunt Sarah,’ I said, rising to join her and to look out at the town square, where the shops were now lit, and where, floating against the evening’s lavender sky, the town hall clock was soon to become the ghostly, pale-green moon with which I was so familiar. Then, for one brief moment, my aunt took hold of one of my hands and pressed it between her own.
‘Bless you, Eddie,’ she said, as the tears began to roll steadily down her cheeks. ‘Bless you,’ she repeated, then released me and turned to leave the room.