Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  With our detour confirmed, we both stare silently at the advertising posters opposite. I suspect neither of us has any great need for a budget flight to Amsterdam or a half-price colonic irrigation treatment.

  Another minute passes and a low whine leaks from the tunnel, followed by a wave of warm air.

  A flash of red zooms past followed by the red, white, and blue carriages. The train quickly loses speed and grinds to a halt with a set of red doors conveniently opening opposite our position.

  We wait a moment for the departing passengers to clear the doors. Clement then takes three strides and stoops into the carriage before I’ve moved off the wall. Like a clingy child, I scuttle across the platform and join him. Unusually, there are seats available so we sit next to each other, opposite the young couple from the platform. With inadvertent eye contact near impossible to avoid, I hate the awkwardness of sitting directly opposite a stranger.

  As the train pulls away, my concerns are eased as the couple stare longingly at each other, whispering in hushed tones. Clearly a couple in the exciting first throes of a new relationship.

  Don’t believe a word he says, girl. They’re all full of crap.

  I lower my gaze and keep my eyes fixed on my trainers.

  We’re about to make our third stop when Clement clambers to his feet.

  “We need to change here,” he says, as the train pulls into Piccadilly Circus.

  Both the platform and walkways are much busier than Waterloo and I struggle to keep up with Clement. We follow the signs for the Piccadilly Line and emerge onto the crowded platform for northbound trains. Both the heat and the tight crowd contribute to my growing sense of claustrophobia. Clement, on the other hand, seems at home as he casually casts his gaze above the sea of heads.

  Although the digital sign suggested it would only be a two minute wait, I’m sure an entire hour passes before our train arrives.

  Ignoring the poor souls trying to escape the carriages, the crowd shuffles towards the doors. Clement is standing a few feet to my right, nobody keen to invade his personal space. I feel like half of London is pressed up against me, with somebody’s hot breath on my neck, and a clumsy idiot stepping on my foot. Unsurprisingly, no apology follows.

  Like herded cattle, we eventually squeeze into the carriage and I try to force my way across the packed aisle towards Clement.

  A thirty-something guy in a cheap suit takes umbrage at my efforts to pass, and stands his ground.

  “You want to get in my pocket?” he barks, scowling down at me.

  “Sorry, I just need to get to the far doors.”

  “Tough. You’ll just have to wait,” he snaps back.

  A low, rumbling voice passes over my head.

  “Oi, dickhead. Let the lady through.”

  I crane my neck and spot Clement’s face beyond the man’s shoulder. It’s not what I would call a happy face.

  The man in the suit, clearly agitated, turns to challenge his aggressor. His challenge is short-lived once he identifies the owner of the voice, and he shuffles to his left, allowing me to pass.

  I squeeze past and offer him a smile, or more a smirk if I’m honest. “Thank you.”

  He doesn’t smile back.

  Two more passengers step out of my way without a word. Clement is standing with his right arm raised, holding on to the ceiling rail. I position myself next to him, directly under his armpit. It’s not the most fragrant of havens but I’ll take it.

  He looks down at me and winks.

  I’ve always believed it’s perfectly acceptable for a father to wink at his young children. But men winking at women sits somewhere between sad and creepy. I can’t put my finger on the reason why, but I didn’t find Clement’s wink to be either sad or creepy. Without thinking about it, I smile back at him.

  The train rattles through the darkness and we stop at several stations. Some of the names I recognise: Leicester Square, Covent Garden, and King’s Cross. Others, I don’t think I’ve ever passed through, let alone visited.

  As more stations come and go, so does the number of passengers in our carriage. By the time we depart from Holloway Road station, there are even a handful of empty seats.

  “Shall we sit down?” I ask.

  “We’re getting off at the next stop.”

  Barely a minute later, the platform of our destination station fills the windows.

  “Ready, doll?”

  I nod as the doors open.

  Whatever sacrilegious site he’s come to pay homage to, Clement is obviously keen to get there. I have to gallop along behind him to keep pace as we navigate another series of walkways and escalators towards the exit. We’re in such a hurry, I don’t even notice the name of the station, not that it matters as I’m well beyond the parts of London I know.

  We eventually exit the station onto a residential street that isn’t too dissimilar to the one I live on. Clement pauses for a moment and slowly looks up and down the street, seemingly reacquainting himself with the area.

  “It’s just a few minutes away.”

  “What is?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He turns to his left and strides away.

  We get barely thirty yards before I have to call out to him.

  “Can you slow down? Please.”

  He stops and waits for me to catch up.

  “Sorry, doll.”

  We continue at a more leisurely pace, past rows of Victorian terraced houses. Clement shows a passing interest in a few of the cars parked on the street, occasionally slowing to stare through the windows. I’m not sure what his fascination is, and like each of the cars, the street itself is nondescript, ordinary. We could just as easily be in Liverpool or Leicester as London.

  We stroll along in silence. I don’t think Clement is one for small talk, and that suits me. Although our surroundings are ordinary, I can’t ignore the niggling fact that my reason for being here is extraordinary. This time yesterday I was busy in the shop with customers. I thought all my problems were behind me. Now, I’m wandering through the back streets of London, on some ridiculous quest, with the oddest of strangers for company.

  I’ve read some outlandish plots in my time, but now it seems I’m living one.

  After several hundred yards of what feels like aimless traipsing, we cross the road and turn into another residential street. The road sign, fixed to the side wall of a house on the corner, tells me we’re now in Avenell Road. Utterly meaningless to me.

  We pass more terraced houses, and just as I’m about to ask how much further, Clement breaks into a jog. The paving slabs between us increase as he jogs further away. Twenty yards. Thirty yards. Forty yards.

  He stops. So do I, primarily because Clement’s mood has changed. His hands are clamped to his head, and he’s yelling obscenities. For the first time since he barged into my life yesterday evening, he’s displaying some emotion. Clearly something has upset him, but as there isn’t another soul on the street, it’s obviously not a person.

  I tentatively move forward to within twenty yards, and his mood changes again. He appears to have spent his initial anger and his head is now stooped, his hands on his hips.

  I move closer.

  “Clement? What’s wrong?”

  He keeps his head bowed and slowly shakes it.

  I’m only a couple of feet away when he finally looks up at me.

  “What the hell happened here?”

  I look around, trying to identify what he could possibly be talking about. To my left there are just more terraced houses. To my right there’s a railed fence with a gate opening onto the communal gardens of what looks like an apartment block.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Clement.”

  He suddenly turns and darts across the road. Once he reaches the other side, his hands return to his head and he stares up at the facade of the apartment block.

  I let out a sigh and slowly cross the road, trying to suppress my growing agitation. I sidle up to him and follow
his gaze.

  The front facade of the apartment block is part brick, part stone; very much in the Art Deco style. Standing opposite, I’m able to gauge the full scale of the building, and it’s huge, stretching at least a hundred yards down the street. I’m still none the wiser as to what Clement’s problem is.

  “What is it? Is this the place you were talking about?”

  He doesn’t answer, but points up at a series of large red letters, fixed to the stone part of the building — EAST STAND.

  I realise what I’m looking at.

  “Ohh, this used to be a football ground?”

  “No, doll. This was the football ground.”

  He strides off down the street without further explanation. I trudge after him for another forty yards until he stops again. He looks up at the building and I mirror his action. More red letters - ARSENAL STADIUM.

  At some point last year, I unearthed a book about the Highbury Stadium from one of the charity shop boxes. It actually sold pretty quickly, to one of my regular customers. I know this because he bored me witless on the subject the next time he came in.

  The house behind us has a two-foot high wall to the front, separating it from the pavement. Clement perches himself on the edge and stares up at the former home of Arsenal Football Club.

  “When did it die?” he asks, his voice low.

  “Die? What are you on about?”

  “The club. Arsenal. When did it die?”

  “It didn’t. They moved to a new stadium.”

  “There’s still a club? A team?”

  “Yes, not far from here I believe. This building is actually listed, which is why they converted it into apartments rather than knocking it down.”

  He shakes his head and mumbles to himself.

  I can feel my irritation bubbling below the surface. This isn’t what I had in mind when I agreed to this detour.

  “When you said you wanted to visit a place of refuge, I thought you meant a church or something. I didn’t realise you wanted to reminisce over a bloody football ground.”

  Clement turns to face me, clearly riled. “Listen, doll. I’ve said more prayers and offered more thanks in that stadium, than any bleedin’ church. Shit, it was my church, for almost thirty years, man and boy.”

  “Yes, well, it is just a football club though. I don’t understand why you’re so upset about it.”

  The moment the words leave my mouth, I’m already wishing I could retract them.

  “Don’t get it, do you, doll?” he growls. “It’s not just a football club, not to me, anyway. The other fans, they were my family, and the terraces were more of a home than the house I grew up in.”

  I’ve think I’ve just put my foot in it again.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  My irritation gives way to guilt. No matter how ridiculous this whole episode may be, and despite Clement’s questionable motives, I really need to work with this guy.

  Clement puffs his cheeks and closes his eyes. I resist the urge to say anything else and wait for him to speak.

  It takes almost a minute.

  “That’s twice in the last hour,” he says, his voice now calm.

  “Twice what?”

  “You’ve had to apologise.”

  “Fair point. I’m afraid sometimes I don’t think before I open my mouth.”

  “You’re not alone there, doll. But in my experience, you achieve more by keeping your mind open and your mouth closed.”

  Noted.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. There’s your hat trick.”

  A rueful smile breaks on his face. “Last hat trick this place will ever see.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes. I’d love to know what Clement is thinking, but I daren’t ask. Probably best to let him work through his memories while I try to fathom out why he’s so willing to put up with me.

  In the end, I decide a conciliatory gesture might be in order.

  “I think we can look at the grounds, through that gate, if you wanted to?”

  The moustache receives a stroke or two.

  “Nah. You’re alright, doll. Think it’d break my heart to see it now.”

  “Sure?”

  He stands and takes a final glance at the building. “Yeah, let’s get going.”

  19

  My record is four days.

  Boyfriend number four, Stuart, once forgot to record Coronation Street, despite two reminders. I didn’t speak to him for four days. There have been countless other occasions where I’ve sent a boyfriend to Coventry after an argument. Once you get past the first hour, it’s surprisingly easy to keep it up. I see it as a point of principle — he who has sinned, shall be ignored, at least until I’ve calmed down.

  For this reason, I am intrigued by Clement’s ability to move on so easily after a disagreement.

  Despite my efforts to bitch him out, he is currently humming a tune as we walk back toward the tube station. No hint of latent resentment, no snide comments, and no period of enforced silence. He just draws a line, and moves on. I have to admit it’s an admirable quality, and one I wish I could adopt.

  “What’s that tune?” I ask.

  “It’s called Wielder of Words.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s by some band I used to do a bit of minding for, back in the late sixties. They gave me a copy of their first album as a thank you.”

  “The late sixties?”

  He looks down at me, and without a flicker of hesitation, repeats himself. “Yeah. The late sixties.”

  I’m sure he’s not lying, but he’s patently not telling the truth either. Either way, I’m curious enough to look past his claim.

  “What does minding a band involve then?”

  “A lot of hanging around pubs and clubs, doing sod all until some drunken dickhead in the audience decides they’ve heard enough. The money was shit ‘cos they were always skint, and soon as they started making a few quid, they hired proper security.”

  “Any bands I might have heard of?”

  “Doubt it. They were all fairly small time. Some of them did okay though, one or two even got into the charts, but The Stones and The Beatles they weren’t.”

  He lights a cigarette and pulls a deep drag. “Better than the shit I heard on your radio, though.”

  I can’t argue with him.

  By the time we reach the tube station, Clement has sucked the life out of his cigarette and flicks the butt into the gutter.

  “You can get a fine for that, you know?”

  “For what? Flicking a fag end?”

  “Yes. I think it’s sixty pounds if you get caught.”

  “Gotta catch me though, don’t they? And if I’m good at anything, it’s breaking rules and not getting caught.”

  That’s a statement I can well believe.

  We descend back into the Underground and down to the southbound platform.

  “How far is it to Camden?” I ask as we wait.

  “We take the line down to King’s Cross, then hop on the Northern Line to Camden Town. Fifteen minutes I guess.”

  A minute later we’re sitting on the train to King’s Cross, watching the standing passengers wobble gently back and forth to the motion of the carriage. Even if I felt like a chat with Clement, it’s too noisy, and there are too many people within earshot. While I’m willing to humour him, I don’t think I could bear the embarrassment of anyone else overhearing his outlandish anecdotes, let alone his outdated views on certain subjects.

  We arrive at King’s Cross within six minutes and make our way through the crowds towards the Northern Line platform. For the first time since we arrived in London, Clement appears to have lost his bearings.

  “This is nothing like I remember,” he grumbles.

  “When were you last here?”

  “Not sure. October ‘75 I suppose.”

  Let it pass, Beth. Let it pass.

  “It’s like a different station now,” he adds.

  “It prob
ably is a different station. I’d imagine there’s been a lot of changes here over the years, not least because of the fire.”

  “What fire?”

  I point to two slate plaques, fixed to the wall across the walkway. Clement squints as he tries to read them, but apparently can’t. He wanders over to take a closer look and I join him.

  “There was a huge fire here, in the late eighties. How can you not have heard about it? It caused a lot of damage, and as you can see, cost thirty-odd people their lives.”

  He looks down at the lower plaque, listing the names of all the victims.

  “Shit.”

  “And, Clement, can you guess how the fire started?”

  “No idea.”

  “Somebody lit a cigarette and dropped the match on the escalator. It slipped through a gap and set fire to all the rubbish below. That’s why you can no longer smoke down here.”

  “Seems you can’t smoke anywhere, doll.”

  “And for good reason. Can we get on now?”

  He presses his fingers against the top plaque and lowers his head a fraction. “Yeah.”

  Following the signs, we find our way to the Northern Line platform. Another crowd, another crush, and my craving for a shower surpasses the level usually reserved for camping weekends.

  I’m grateful the journey to Camden Town is only five minutes, albeit five long minutes. However, I’m conscious it’s already early afternoon, and we haven’t achieved anything. I’m not convinced we’re likely to, but even the cynic in me can’t ignore the sliver of chance that Clement might not be leading us on a wild goose chase. It’s madness, of course, but I suspect most people would be willing to search a few haystacks for such a valuable needle.

  I’m no exception.

  We exit the station into muted sunshine and the hustle of Camden High Street. Just an ordinary Saturday afternoon on a fairly ordinary High Street. There are plenty of people around, some even more ridiculously dressed than Clement. I’ve been to Camden twice before: once to see a Kings of Leon gig at the Electric Ballroom, and once to visit a book dealer. Both my previous visits proved worthwhile, and I desperately need that run to continue.