(What can I call her? I want to call her Laura but of course that was her sister’s name.)
Whatever, when I look closer at the houses, I can see I’m mistaken. Most are divided into apartments, and look decidedly run down. Some have obviously been taken over by builders and are having work done to them; others look as though they need some work doing. A few houses remain as family homes, but this still isn’t the area I imagine she lives in or grew up in. I walk on up the hill; it’s nice enough but it’s just not her. She looked like money to me, as did her kids. I think if she had a fixer-upper it would already be fixed up.
There’s a pub up the road and I call in for a sit down. I order a Bloody Mary and take a seat at the bar. Again, it’s nice enough but not quite what I had in mind. I try to picture myself drinking in here, looking for an apartment along Springfield Road, and I know it’s just not going to happen. I think I’m already too hooked on my idea of Brighton and this is completely tied in to the sea. I’ve learnt what I needed to know about finding a place for myself. I pick up a copy of the Argus off the bar and flick through the property ads. I imagine anything with access to the sea, or even a view of the sea, is going to cost a fortune – though maybe not as much as staying in the Grand Hotel for five years.
After finishing my drink, I thank the barman and leave the bar. I’ve done enough exploring for one day, so I switch on my music and turn back down towards London Road But then I finally see something of what I’ve been looking for – another pub almost hidden from the main road; a real pub this time and one that I know I just have to try. There are a few punters sat outside in the last of the day’s sunshine. Although it’s nowhere near getting dark, the sun is fast disappearing behind the surrounding buildings. As I walk up, I have a feeling that most people here are having a quick pint on their way home from work.
I turn off my music and step inside. I order a pint of bitter and ask about food. There are two bar areas and I take my drink through to sit down in the lounge. There are only a few people inside. The pub has a good feel to it, despite having the obligatory fucking fruit machine – what is it about the English and their fruit machines?
A drunken couple are directly in my line of sight and I change seats in an attempt to ignore them. The bloke’s obviously an alcoholic; what the woman’s doing with him, I don’t know. Does she think she can change him or something?
I order some food and enjoy my pint. There’s a steady flow of new punters. Most stay for a quick one, but I can see a few regulars getting set up for the evening. One young woman comes in, orders a drink, and sits at the bar talking into her mobile phone. I hear the drunk’s girlfriend say she’s leaving to put on the dinner.
“I’m coming after this pint,” he slurs.
Yeah, right, I think.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.
“Just go, can’t you?” he shouts, too loud for the pub. Everybody looks and then looks away; maybe they know him? She leaves and he grips his stomach in pain. It’s pissing me off to have to watch him, so I pick up a paper from a rack on the wall. Naturally it’s the Daily Mail.
‘AL QAEDA’S CHILLING PLOT TO TARGET BRITAIN’ is the headline.
The drunk opposite is shaking so bad, he has to hold on to his arm like he’s having a stroke. He tries to stand and knocks his empty glass flying. I’m amazed they don’t throw him out, but then I see he’s leaving anyway. He has trouble with the door and I’m tempted to open it if only to get rid of him sooner, but then he’s gone.
“It’s a shame,” one of the regulars at the bar says.
Sure, I think: a shame we all have to see it.
“It’s happening so quickly,” someone else says. “I never thought he’d deteriorate so fast.”
So maybe he wasn’t a drunk after all? Fuck it – my food arrives and I forget all about him.
There’s a great music selection being played throughout the pub. I see a poster for a gig here this Saturday – The Andy Williams Experience – and I smile. It might be something to come out to.
I order a second pint to have with my dinner. A different couple – some young one and her fella – take the drunk’s seat. They look like students and I can see they’re in love. She’s hanging on his every word and they keep giving each other that special look that only they know what it means.
The food’s good, the beer’s good and the music’s good; I just can’t stand to watch happy girl opposite holding her man’s stubbly chin while he kisses her on the neck.
The lounge area starts to fill up, mostly with young people who seem to know each other. I’m tired after all my walking and sleepy after the beer and the food, so I decide to leave. Just as I stand up, though, the woman I see each morning on the beach walks in from the bar. She looks at me. She nods and smiles at me and says hello.
“Are you here for the meeting?” she asks.
“Meeting? No, I’m sorry.”
I look around and see a couple of tables being pushed together. I feel a bit awkward and make to leave.
“We’re trying to build a response to Blair for the Labour Conference next month,” she says. She hands over a pile of photocopies she’s carrying to a young lad who can’t be more than fifteen. “Thanks, Damien,” she says to him. “About five minutes, yes? We’ll just wait and see if we get any late arrivals. You can stay if you like.”
This last bit is to me. She talks like she walks on the beach: strong and confident and taking everything in her stride.
“I – maybe,” I say. “I recognized you when you came in.”
“You recognized me? From where?”
“From seeing you walk your dog on the beach each morning.”
“Yes?”
“You’ve a beautiful dog,” I say, like an idiot.
“That’s Max,” she says, and then, “Oh God! You’re the man in the dark glasses on the prom!”
“I guess so, yeah.” I forget sometimes that my glasses have reactor lenses for the sunshine. This is such a mistake; I’m uncomfortable that she’s noticed me watching her each morning.
“You look like a man without a dog to walk,” she says. “I thought you were Special Branch or someone. You look so mysterious up there on the prom.”
“Special Branch? No, I don’t think so.” I laugh but it comes out wrong, more like a yelp. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here before I make a complete fool of myself.
“You might laugh, but that gentleman over there is Special Branch.” She points to some anonymous bloke sat alone at the bar. “Aren’t you?” she asks him in a loud voice. The bloke turns away without replying.
“You’re telling me Special Branch send someone to your meetings?” I ask her quietly.
“Yes – it’s pathetic, isn’t it?”
I’m sure she’s talking deliberately loudly just to provoke him. I look around and I don’t know which is the more pathetic – the bunch of losers she has at the meeting or the fact that somebody somewhere should give a damn what they have to say.
“Please stay,” she says. “We really do need to let Blair know what we think of all his lies. I’m Juliette, by the way.”
She holds out her hand and I shake it. She says her name in the French way, with a soft ‘J’. She looks to be in her late twenties, but I may be as bad at guessing the age of women as I am of children.
“Marshall,” I say.
She looks at me oddly, like she has me rumbled.
“And will you stay?”
I’m caught now.
“Yes, sure – why not?”
She smiles and turns to help set up the meeting. I catch the guy she said was Special Branch staring at me and I look away. I take a seat at what I hope will be the back of the meeting.
“You met Juliette then?” A young woman – late twenties again – sits down next to me. “I’m Anna,” she says and smiles.
“Marshall.”
“She’s very driven.”
“Juliette?”
“Juliet
te,” she corrects me, giving it the full French. She has on a heavy pair of glasses that I guess are meant to hide her looks but only succeed in making me look closer.
The meeting is very intense and very predictable. Juliette tries her best to get commitments out the few people there, mainly to encourage others to come along to the next meeting. Everybody talks about what must be done and what we have to get Blair to understand and how we must build for a real show of strength – like if he didn’t listen before the war he might listen now. Blair believes what he believes and nothing we might say or do will ever change that.
Anna takes on the responsibility of contacting other groups to try to form a united front for the week of the Labour Conference. The music playing in the pub is more interesting than anything anybody has to say, and everybody has plenty to say. As soon as I sense the meeting wrapping up, I sneak away, first to the toilet and then out through the bar.
On my way out the door, I notice another Daily Mail reader half-sitting on a bar stool and half-leaning against the wall. I look closely and realise I’ve got it right; it’s Bob, Laura’s boyfriend from the flight into Stanstead. So he’s the Springfield Road connection. It figures – his address on the luggage and an apartment in one of the sub-divided houses just crying out for renovation. He sees me looking and I nod.
“Cheers mate,” I say. “Remember me from the flight the other day?”
He folds up his paper and looks at me, not taking too kindly to having his space invaded. But he finally recognizes me.
“Yeah,” he says, “you helped me with my luggage. Fucking hell, it’s a small world, ain’t it?” He says this like fucking is spelt with an ‘a’ and hell ends with a ‘w’. He holds out his hand and I shake it. “You live ’round ’ere?”
“Just doing a bit of work, mate. You got back all right then?”
“Yeah, no problem. You prob’ly did the same as us, didjya – cheap flight, last minute?”
“That’s right, but I had no idea I was going to be sent down to Brighton the next day. This is a great pub. Your local, is it?”
“Yeah, it’s alright, ain’t it? ’Cept for that fucking crowd of shit-stirrers through there at the moment. I don’t know why they’re allowed to meet ’ere like that.”
I nod vaguely in agreement.
“Sorry, mate. That’s not why you’re in ’ere, is it?”
“No, Jesus – no way. I got caught by them, is all.”
“Yeah, they’re like that.” I think if he was anywhere else but in his own local, he might spit on the floor in disgust. “Will you ’ave a pint? Bob’s the name.”
“Marshall,” I say. “Cheers, but I’d best be off.”
“Another time, maybe?”
“Yeah, I’d like that. I see they have music here on a Saturday night?”
“Whatever rocks ya boat,” he says. “I’ll be ’ere anyway.”
I bet you will, I think.
At the door I see Anna from the meeting is also about to leave.
“I wondered where you’d got to,” she says.
I hold the door for her to go through. I look back at Bob and raise an eyebrow; he nods his approval at what he’s seen.
I don’t ask Anna where she lives but rather start walking in the direction of the seafront. She falls into step beside me.
“Who’s Omar?” I ask, nodding at the graffiti on the viaduct wall.
“He’s Brighton’s prisoner in Guantanamo Bay.” She looks at me. “You don’t live in Brighton, do you?”
“No – just working here for a few days.”
“But you came to the meeting anyway?”
“I think it’s really important that we do something. If not, they’ll think they can get away with anything.”
“That’s the problem, though, isn’t it – that they get away with whatever they like?”
“I think it’s great that people such as yourself are prepared to take a stand; without it, we’d be lost.”
I can feel the warm glow it gives her to know that she’s just doing her bit. She’s like a political version of those Christian evangelists who’ll fuck your brains out if only you talk their talk.
A few metres ahead a car is parked up on the pavement. Somebody’s leaning in through the open passenger window with his arse stuck out, blocking our way. He looks up and sees us walking towards the car but doesn’t move out the way. I step up my pace and walk right through him, kneeing him hard on the thigh.
“What the –”
He bangs his head on the side of the car as he corrects his balance. I carry on walking.
“Sorry mate,” I say. “Didn’t see you there.”
He catches my shoulder and spins me around to face him.
“Marshall,” Anna says, and pulls on my other arm to get me away. I look at the guy – he’s black. I can hear music thumping in the car and voices inside asking him what’s happening.
“You should watch where you’re going, mate,” he says.
I just look at him. He’s going to have to hit me or turn away; it doesn’t matter which to me. He makes his decision and leans back inside the car window. Anna pulls me away, linking her arm through mine.
“Are you crazy?” she asks once we’ve walked a good distance away. “What if he had a gun?”
“Then he’d have had to shoot me. Maybe he’ll move out the way next time.”
“Yeah, or maybe he’ll just use his gun next time – Jesus!”
We walk on, but I feel her lean into me.
“Where are you staying?” she asks.
“At the Grand.”
“The Grand Hotel?”
This is the moment. The combination of all that political talk and my staying at the Grand is just too much for her. If I want, if I choose, we might have sex – the adventurous sex of strangers where we both get to do things we’ve never dared before, because there’s freedom in our relative anonymity – but what’s the point? When we reach the sea front, I say good night and walk away.
On Saturday I settle my bill at the Grand but check in for another week. They give me a price reduction because by now I’ve become a valued guest, but it’s still a lot of money. Mr. Concierge is as snooty as ever, but we both enjoy the game he plays. I’ve taken to swimming in the sea each afternoon, but I’ve given up tramping around the streets of Brighton. I read through the Argus but my heart isn’t in the search for an apartment. I think I’m waiting to see if my meeting with Bob will actually lead anywhere. It’d be nice to find a place close to where she lives. I could call around during the day while that prick of a husband is out at work. We could have fun.
Bob’s already in his favourite spot by the time I arrive in the pub. It’s a smarter crowd tonight and an older one too – no socialist agitators taking up valuable drinking space. This is Saturday night. There’s a guy in the corner setting up an amp and keyboard; it looks like The Andy Williams Experience might be a one-man show.
“What’ll you ’ave?” asks Bob.
“No,” I say, “my shout. Lager, is it?”
“Cheers mate.”
Bob’s Mail is beneath his elbow.
“Good ’ere on a Saturday night,” he says.
“It’s a great pub. I’d say you’re never out of it, are you?”
“I’m not that bad; just a pint or two during the week and a few more at the weekend.”
Just every fucking day, then, I think.
“Live close by, do you?” I ask.
“Just up the road; got an apartment, ain’t I?” He’s so easy to read. “What about you?
“I’m up on the seafront.”
“And where you from then – up north?”
Ap noaf!
“Yeah, but to tell you the truth, I travel around so much these days there’s nowhere I could really call home any more.”
“So what – you just stay in ’otels like, wherever you ’appen to be working? That’s alright, ain’t it? What is it you do then?”
I’ve been
over and over my cover story all week, so much so that by now I’ve even begun to believe it myself.
“I’m in property development.”
“That right? So am I, in a way. I’m a builder like, doing up ’ouses and stuff? Is that what you do? That what brought you ’round here?”
“Don’t worry,” I reassure him. “I’m more in the line of hotels and offices; looking for potential sites – that kind of thing.”
“And what – they pay you to go sniffing ’round for places to invest in?”
“Well, that and actually persuading the owners to sell.”
“So you make ’em an offer they can’t refuse?”
“Yeah, only more often than not they do refuse and we have to up our price.”
Andy Williams walks by and Bob nods his head by way of a greeting.
“’e’s very good,” he says of Andy. “Gone out to ’is van now to get ’is gear on. My girlfriend Laura should be ’ere any moment – ’Fact, ’ere she is now.”
Laura walks in through the door and she’s everything I remember her to be.
“Laura,” Bob says, “this is – Marvin, did you say your name was?”
“Marshall,” I say and shake her hand.
“I’ll get some drinks in,” Bob says.
I can’t believe that this is what Bob does with Laura on a Saturday night. I tell her how I recognized Bob from the plane and then bumped in to him by chance during the week.
“I don’t remember seeing you,” she says.
“No?” I let her make up her own mind as to whether I remember seeing her.
“Small world, ain’t it?” Bob says when he comes back with the drinks.
“Look,” I say, “if you two guys want to be alone, I can just stay for the one drink. I had no idea you’d be here on a night out together.”
“Not at all,” Bob says. “We don’t mind, do we love? Much better than you spending a Saturday night on your own in a strange city, ain’t it?”
“Are you sure?” I ask Laura.
“It’s fine really,” she says and smiles. She looks like she means it too.
Andy walks back through and approaches the mike. He’s transformed himself into the consummate lounge singer, complete with tinted glasses and cufflinks.
Dancing to the End of Love Page 6