Call Me

by P-P Hartnett

  “Have you ever answered an ad before?”

  “Never ever. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Ever placed one?”

  “No, but it’s worth considering.”

  Hamish winked at me, then flew off, landing on the Yamaha to look out at sky.

  * * *

  Some dog had a good bark for the duration of our brief rendezvous the following Tuesday. The dog belonged to a Swiss girl called Elizabeth who I’d got chatting to when I arrived. She was a little distressed, crying on the bench farthest from the crowds, by the last fountain which had weak water pressure and spluttered. I asked if I could help. She asked for a cigarette. I bought her a pack. I didn’t dare tell her everything would be alright.

  She was ignored when Graeme arrived, five minutes late, wearing jeans, a Polo open neck, carrying a soft grey leather jacket under his arm. He dragged along a certain mood with him, like he’d just received results of a blood sample taken two weeks back. There was quite a shine on his brogues and bald head. No smile. Perhaps he’d seen me talking to the girl, had spotted the bubble around us. Maybe he’d even caught a glimpse of her reddened eyes and was suspicious. We both stared across green water at a church covered with plastic sheeting the colour of pale, frosted glass.

  We shook hands, but it was the hello-goodbye contact of an executioner. I wore a plain, single-breasted suit. Silver grey. Ox blood brogues. Graeme looked at my blue cotton Oxford button-down shirt collar like it was a passage of air into which he could make a deep deep dive, but wouldn’t. It had been Ray’s favourite shirt, the one he’d been wearing when we first met.

  The unfashionably tight clothing revealed the well-defined body he was fighting to preserve. Maybe he hadn’t expected me to turn up. He certainly didn’t have much to say, he’d burned himself out on the phone. As a body I think I was quite acceptable, but he didn’t go much on my soul.

  “Graeme, you mentioned that you’d like a step-by-step striptease spread in a wank magazine. Who’d be your ideal model. Richard Gere? Keanu Reeves?”

  He could have punched me on the nose. He gathered up his jacket: “I’d love to dress Bruce Willis formally—top hat and tails, white gloves—and photograph him before a full-length mirror peeling off, going ever so slowly on the studs, braces, laces and buttons.”

  Even this failed to get smiling eye contact from me, though I was curious about the look on his face as he said, “Then I’d thrash his arse until it bled. I hope you find what you’re looking for young man.”

  He seemed to be clenching his buttocks very tightly as he walked away. I wonder if he watched from a distance to see what I did once he’d evacuated the meeting point. He wouldn’t have liked what he saw. Wiping my brow, I returned to the space beside the Swiss girl and one stroke of her cross-breed dog’s neck quietened it like he was mine. We looked more like lovers than strangers meeting for the second time in half an hour. She lived in Cricklewood and was an estimated nine weeks pregnant. If she had she told me that earlier I wouldn’t have bought her the cigarettes.

  * * *

  Before he burst into my ear there was some late-night, long-distance static which came to be a tell-tale sign of his calls. These calls also ended with that long-distance pip, probably something he wasn’t aware of. The pip can be soothing and sweet sometimes, a cute fullstop to a conversation. Not with this caller though. Through the crackle and grit, more suited to Tierra del Fuego than Cambridgeshire, he had access. Dai was his name (pronounced die, as in Die bitch!) but he preferred to be called David.

  He’d been careful, years back, to swap that Welsh accent of his for a nondescript educational drone. Only when excited or angry did it thicken his voice. Just one look at the man’s handwriting would have steered me clear of that closet case.

  “Is that Owen?”

  Though my eyes scanned the sheet above the phone, I guessed it was the Welsh Chap who’d advertised in The Pink Paper. I smiled very wide. “Yes.”

  “Ah, my name’s David. I’m calling from March in Cambridgeshire. I had a card off you yesterday in reply to my ad in The Pink. Does this mean anything to you?”

  “Oh, yes. Hi. Thanks for phoning.”

  “How are you?”

  For some daft reason I turned a blind eye to the edginess lurking beneath his well-practiced cheery voice, his shortness of breath, the close proximity of his teeth to the mouthpiece.

  “Right then lad, what can I say to you? I’ll be coming down to London every Wednesday for a year as from July. Starts in July, the course does. Um, I just wanted to meet people from London, really. I’ll finish round four, see. As my expenses are paid I thought I could see a bit of London. Now then, what I’ve got is … I’ve a week’s holiday next week and I’m coming to London one day but I can’t stay too late as I’ll have to get the eight thirty to get the Peterborough connection at nine fifty. When can we meet?” he asked.

  “Perhaps next week some time, for tea.”

  “Where? Wednesday alright with you? I’ll be up Gower Street way filling out forms and gettin’ things sorted. Finding out where everything is, taking a look about like. Maybe we could meet at Kings Cross station. Wednesday?”

  “Wednesday’s fine, but Kings Cross is not the best place to get a cuppa. How about the base of Nelson’s column?”

  “How will I recognise you?”

  “I’ll be all in white on a mountain bike. I’m 22, tall, with slicked-back dark hair.”

  “Rather a dramatic meeting place,” he said, excited and imagining. “But … oh no,” he continued, “… that’ll do. Right then. What time on Wednesday?”

  “Four thirty. By the lions, right at the base.”

  “You will turn up? You are genuine?”

  “You can trust me.”

  “I’ll be wearing…”

  “Don’t say. If you don’t like the look of me and want to forget it, you can. I’ll wait up to half an hour, then be off.”

  “That’s … I know what you mean … that’s kind but … We could go for a meal, my treat.”

  “Let’s just call it tea for the moment, eh? What’s your line? I guess it has to be Medicine or Education if you’re going to be over in Gower Street.”

  “Education. I’m a school inspector for Humanities and the National Curriculum is doing my head in!”

  It was more than the National Curriculum that was doing the man’s head in. We met as arranged. He wore a raincoat on what turned out to be a sweltering day. If there is such a thing as a God and if s/he gives merit marks, then there should be half a dozen gold stars on my page for befriending the Welsh lonely heart of D fucking Parry. What my mum would call a really nice man. His neighbours would probably agree. A nicely clipped lawn, washing out on a Monday, lights out by eleven. A man who keeps himself to himself. The sort of description given by neighbours framed in their hallways speaking to news crews after the discovery of the latest serial killer or schoolroom mass murderer.

  There’s a refreshment hut in St James’ Park, opposite the ICA. We had tea there. His eyes studied the male torso printed on my white teeshirt promoting The Smiths’ first release. The rolled-up sock down the front of my white Levi’s also gained eye-popping attention.

  His blushing was close to haemorrhage, his breathing a concern, his skin a heavy challenge to deodorant spray. All this was made less repulsive by the taste and soft fleshy texture of sweet sultanas in my Danish.

  I gave him my name, not sure why. My real name, my full name. Being ex-directory, it felt safe. I didn’t give him my address, but careful questioning let me slip out mention of Camden Passage, just up the road next to Angel tube. There aren’t a lot of Hanmores in Ealing, either. I let too many details slip. When he asked about my parents I told a lot of horrible truths.

  He’d had the usual quota of heartbreaks which he sketched at low volume as I walked him around the Photographers’ Gallery. He seemed harmless, easy enough to swat away. I waved him goodbye at Leicester Square tube and forgot abou
t him as I browsed in Dillons. He’d been in search of someone to love (or hate) for a long time.

  * * *

  Interflora guarantees satisfaction with their vast selection of beautifully arranged flowers, same-day delivery if the order’s placed before one pm. At four the delivery man looked embarrassed as he handed over a large, cellophane-wrapped apricot card with a floral display of creams, yellows and pinks bursting through its oval front window. Living Card.

  It felt like a fuse wire had been lit and the hissing had begun. It had been three days since I’d met Dai. The card read:

  D

  (Dai/David)

  Remember me?

  Letter to follow.

  The letter came the following day.

  –,–––– Rd,

  March,

  Cambridgeshire

  Tel: 01354 –––

  Liam,

  Surprise! Surprise!

  Just a short note to let you know what I felt following our first meeting. The very fundamental thing is to say YES, I did enjoy it very much. I couldn’t go through it all again so when I got home I destroyed the other seven replies to my ad. My name is Dai as you know, but please call me David. I’d be delighted to hear from you very soon and look forward to it. For two people to meet for the first time ever is quite an ordeal, I suppose, but I must say that as soon as I saw you I felt some warmth. Believe you me, if you had been otherwise you would probably still be cycling round Nelson’s Column. You handled the tour very well. I’d never been to that photographic gallery.

  Tomorrow I am going to Wales for the weekend to stay with my sister. Anyway, I have waffled on enough and all I really wanted to say was thanks for your kindness and I hope that we can do it again. It was kind of you to treat me to tea. My treat next time. Dinner, on me. (If you want a next time, that is.) Hope you like the flowers.

  Look after yourself now lad.

  (I do hope you’ll phone.)

  All the very best.

  Yours,

  D

  PS You’re probably wondering how I got your address. I’ve got a friend who works for British Telecom and he gave it me. Hope you don’t mind.

  I remembered the shiny black of his eyes. Dogs get that look when they want to screw or when they see something they’re desperate to consume. An extremely rapid succession of unwanted communications had begun.

  * * *

  Hamish tip-toed up to the top of my head and, once in a while, banged his beak against a headphone ear-piece, curious about the sound leaking out.

  I didn’t like the AUTO HARMONY, a feature which automatically added cloying harmony notes to a melody played. I never selected any of the five different types of harmony.

  * * *

  The Creative American Female replied on darkest purple paper in silver ink. Maybe that’s the way they do things in Pittsburgh.

  PO BOX —–

  Pittsburgh

  USA

  Dear Uri,

  Thanks for your letter!

  London is my destination, although a few months away, 4-6 in fact. Unfortunately I’ve had to delay a trip there until my financial future warrants moving to a foreign country.

  Being that you photograph and write about your culture, I’m sure you can be of assistance to me. I want to video your city in my free time. I’d like to know where the best shots may be taken from an artistic point of view. Could you assist me there do you think?

  I’ve decided to go to London because I feel it offers a culture where social concern is still abundant unlike Pittsburgh where everyone appears apathetic.

  If you’d care to comment on your social culture be it zestful or dull—please do. I’ll give you my view of the city where I live as a waitress at the moment. Write soon if possible as my curiosity is unruly.

  Take care!

  Kathy

  Verdict: I considered an aerogram on UK decay but didn’t write back, then lived in fear of a knock at the door from a waitress wielding a video camera, suffering a financial crisis and seeking assistance.

  Now, Janis was a girl. She gave me all the inside stories of life in the record department of a South London branch of Woolworths. One particular perk is discount on the discounts. She adores clearance sales. She replied with speed, blunt pencil on pink.

  –, ––– Close,

  Abbey Wood

  Dear Patrick,

  Thanks for the line + the offer to phone you after I advertised in Time Out. Can’t phone you yet, my phone won’t be on until next month. Will this letter do? Hope so.

  Well, this should reach you by Wednesday with luck so how about calling round my flat Friday eve? About 7, after I’ve finished my hard days work. I’ll play you some of my favourite records.

  See you Friday then.

  Don’t let this sensitive woman down!!

  Janis.

  Verdict: Crazy. But the tv pages didn’t fill me with excitement, so I decided to turn up on her doorstep as suggested.

  * * *

  I wore the same silver-grey suit I’d worn for the baldy not so far back, same shirt. I still cycled. Having worn cycle shorts and teeshirts for weeks, a suit felt awkward and heavy.

  There wasn’t a spyhole in the front door, a council flat irregularity. No darkening of the small dot of glass to give a once-over. Instead, the letter-box opened like a cat-flap.

  “Hello,” the voice whispered. “Who is it?”

  Any melody in her voice had been scraped away with nicotine. She sounded like a cartoon mad woman. The fake name had slipped from my mind, I nearly said Bike Boy.

  “It’s me,” I whispered.

  I bent to eye level, gave her a winning three-stage smile.

  “Didn’t think you’d come,” she said more to herself as she eyed me carefully.

  “Hello.”

  Once vetted, okayed, I was in.

  She was older than the advertised age of twenty nine. She’d lopped off a lot of unhappy years. She had the look of an obstinate middle-aged man got up in bad drag. A dim, fly-specked lightbulb treated my senses to brown Paisley wallpaper and canary yellow glossed doors.

  “Didn’t think you’d come. Place is a mess. I’d’ve tidied up a bit.” She gave up-from-the-cauldron laughter, as if she realised that a bit would not have been enough.

  I sat on a filthy three-seater sofa. Plastic. To my left a pile of Casualty Department women’s magazines. To my right a pile of intimately stained knickers and beige bras. Three record players dominated the room: a polished new one with a CD; a tired-out Sony of mediocre-to-poor quality and an old Dansette, a possible collector’s item ruined with the same canary yellow gloss. She made a cup of tea in a corner while I endured Iron Maiden at considerable volume from the mediocre player.

  Her long bleached hair, worn in an untidy bun, would have suited her better down. Despite the squalor she seemed quite a happy sad soul. She spent a lot of loose change on discount jewellery.

  “I love photography. It’s my number one hobby. Look at these.”

  She’d started. I witnessed the last three years’ unhappy collaboration between her, an old Zenith and Woolies’ photographic department. Prints galore of East End scenes, architectural decay being her big delight. She’s in the right country for that. Many of the photos had sticky smudges on them like they’d been passed round at a kiddies’ party.

  “You are gay, I hope. You don’t look very gay. Not, you know…”

  “Queeny.”

  “Yes.”

  “I do my best.”

  “You’ve got a nice face, Patrick. I’ll take your picture.”

  Pulling all three sets of roller blinds down, she eyed me with cruel speculation: Can I get him to put some make-up on? Rhythms the universe is not used to hearing began to pound in that room which had the not unfamiliar stink of my mother’s handbag in the early seventies. She wanted a picture to show her mates at work.

  This photograph was taken half an hour later after I’d talked ASA speeds and how to adjust
the camera for different film types and conditions. Tips on focusing in low light, the use of f stops. She nodded and said, “I see…” when she didn’t really, then asked me to smile. I gave the desired pose and expression: cute, with a heavy hint of faggot. The camera waited at the foot of her chair, ON flashing.

  We looked at the response to her ad. A chap named Chris, aka Christine, had written seeking tips on hair and make-up. Poor Christine, in need of a good hot meal, fresh air and at least eight hours a night, alone, in clean white sheets for a month. State.

  “This one’s in Venice. Look! Very butch. Don’t like the look of him. And this one, well, just plain boring.”

  Someone, had to be male, started having a very audible piss. I was just that little bit alarmed, the way you get when a restaurant bill is so much more than you’d estimated. My hostess turned to me:

  “My brother. It’s okay. He keeps himself to himself. He only comes in here to listen to music. That’s his machine there, the new one. He keeps his headphones in his room, in a box, the box they come in. Hardly ever goes out ’cept to sign on. If he wants something he gets it out of the Argos. Spends his time drawing cartoons on his computer, mostly. Twenty eight. But he’s good company and makes a wicked omelette when he’s in the mood. Can we do another picture? Your fringe has flopped down a bit and looks pretty.”

  Flash. Shot against the wall.

  “Shall I take one of you, Janis?”

  “But I’ve got no make-up on!” She rolled her eyes like a ventriloquist’s dummy at the very idea. I was intrigued with the bloodshot whites of her eyes, yellowed like a sheep’s.

  She put on her little bit of fake, lots of it. Street-market bargains at prices difficult to resist. Colours improbable on a woman outside of Turkey. Lipstick the colour Jessie next door paints her front step. How she ever expected the baked-bean foundation to lay happily on so much Nivea I do not know. On went a brazen shawl, fairground prize earrings and a pair of tarty slingbacks. While she had her back turned I pocketed a Gary Glitter CD and a pair of dirty pink knickers, then breathed heavily on the camera lens.

  Focusing on her exceptionally thin lips I saw her look change from shifty to ever so slightly sensuous, then quickly back again.