Obstacles to Young Love

by David Nobbs

  In her anxious state she can’t decide whether to ring the bell or rap the knocker. Juliet, reduced to this. She really does consider running away, writing a letter. It’s her last chance.

  She presses the bell. She doesn’t hear it ring. She presses again. Again, she doesn’t hear it ring. Well, it’s their fault if their bell doesn’t ring. Call it a business, R. Pickering and Son? Can’t maintain a lawn or a gravel path, can’t be bothered to make sure the bell rings, what sort of business is this? She would be well within her rights to run away.

  But she doesn’t. To tell the truth, she has such happy memories of those three nights in Earls Court, especially the second one, that she doesn’t want to run away.

  So she tries the knocker. Sharply. Three times. Rat tat tat.

  Roly Pickering comes to the door, shirtsleeves rolled up, hair unwashed, morning gunge still in the corners of his bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Naomi!’ He smiles a careful welcome. ‘How’s tricks, then, eh, Naomi?’

  He casts a very quick look down towards her crotch. He always does this. She doesn’t mind. It’s irrelevant, and sad. His face approaches hers, slowing down, like a train nearing the buffers. He makes gentle contact with her cheek, apologetically, mournfully.

  ‘Is Timothy in?’

  ‘He most certainly is. You’ve caught us in mid-squirrel, he really is shaping up, but he’ll be thrilled to see you.’

  Wrong.

  ‘Could I have a word with him?’

  ‘Course you can. Let’s go and find him.’

  They walk up the stairs, Roly leading the way. At the top of the stairs, a moose regards them balefully.

  ‘All the way from Canada,’ says Roly Pickering. ‘That’s the kind of business my boy’s inheriting.’

  Naomi can think of nothing to say. Her legs are weak. She feels sick. She finds herself being led up another flight of narrower, rickety stairs, past two jays and a sparrowhawk in glass cases.

  By the door to the workshop there is a peregrine falcon in full flight, about to catch a goldfinch.

  ‘Look at that,’ says Timothy’s father. ‘See those rocks. I climbed Gormley Crag to take an impression of the cliff face, so that those rocks would be authentic. They say pride’s a sin, but I’m proud of that. Couldn’t bear to let it go. Couldn’t sell it. It wings its way straight to my heart, every time I clap eyes on it.’

  Naomi realises that Timothy’s father is incapable of doing anything as ordinary as seeing something. He has to clap eyes on it. She feels guilty about this thought. Timothy has told her that before many years have passed his father will not be able to clap eyes on anything any more. But oh, how she wishes he’d be quiet.

  Roly opens the workshop door, which squeaks.

  ‘Young lass to see you, Timothy my lad,’ he says with dreadful good cheer.

  Timothy smiles. It’s the smile of a proud, professional young man interrupted in his work.

  His father points to an assembly of three sculptured forms with wire sticking out of them.

  ‘Going to be three puffins,’ he says. ‘Just waiting for them to come from Iceland.’

  Timothy sees the horror on Naomi’s face.

  ‘They’re pests there,’ he says. ‘They cull them. We don’t use anything that has been killed illegally.’

  ‘They’re made of brand new stuff,’ says Roly Pickering proudly. ‘Rigid polyurethane foam. Far more flexible and workable than papier mâché.’

  Naomi doesn’t want to know. Not now of all days.

  But Roly Pickering is unstoppable. Now he is showing her the large board to the right of the tiny window. Here hang the many tools of his trade – wire cutters, bolt cutters, pliers, scissors, and sinister things that she doesn’t recognise. The words ‘Scalpel, nurse’ float inappropriately into her mind.

  ‘I didn’t realise.’

  She can see how elaborate the work is, how clever. It is indeed an art, as Timothy had claimed. Her curlew didn’t feel stiff because of rigor mortis, as she had believed, but because it was solid, a sculpture, the feathers spread over the sculpted form so neatly that she should have been proud of Timothy. But it’s too late. She was wrong when she thought that it is never too late. It’s almost always too late.

  His father opens a series of small drawers. They are full of eyes, foxes’ eyes, badgers’ eyes, jays’ eyes, stags’ eyes.

  ‘All from Germany,’ he says. ‘We get all our eyes from Germany.’

  They aren’t frightening. They’re like buttons. And yet…the eyes of her curlew had sparkled with alertness. She appreciates now what a miracle of skill her curlew is, what an illusion it is. It’s not a dead bird, it’s a work of art.

  ‘I didn’t realise,’ she repeats feebly, and then she pulls herself together. ‘Mr Pickering, can I see Timothy in private?’

  Timothy suddenly looks serious. Has he an intimation?

  ‘Yes, of course. You could use the office. Crowded, but clean.’

  Timothy looks at her questioningly, then leads the way down the narrow stairs to the landing.

  ‘He uses one of the bedrooms. We never have guests,’ says Timothy. ‘Nobody ever comes.’

  This door squeaks too. Naomi just wouldn’t be able to stand it. If she lived here, the first thing she’d do would be to invest in a huge supply of WD40. If she lived here. She surprises herself even thinking it.

  They enter a small room with a desk piled high with unruly invoices and calendars from zoos. There’s an unwelcoming hard wooden chair of the most basic kind, and a black leather chair which desperately needs a taxidermist’s skill to patch up its bursting insides. A dead badger lies on the wide windowsill, which needs painting.

  Naomi chooses the hard chair. It wobbles. The right-hand rear leg is wonky.

  ‘Sit down, Timothy.’

  It’s a command.

  He has gone white. He sits down. He knows. He’s not quite such an innocent, after all.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Timothy.’

  His mouth opens but no sound emerges.

  ‘I can’t marry you.’

  ‘Naomi!’ He may have known but the confirmation of it destroys him. He cowers. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t love you.’

  ‘You said you did!’

  ‘I did, and now I don’t. I’ve…there’s someone else.’

  Timothy crumples. He bursts into tears. He is pathetic. Tears stream down his face and he whimpers like a dog. She despises him and sympathises with him and hates herself and loves Steven all at the same time.

  ‘Don’t be so pathetic.’

  She doesn’t mean to be cruel, but she hates the scene, the horrid room, the badger judgemental even in death, her former lover sobbing like a baby. She is repulsed. What a good move she is making in freeing herself from this wretch, and yet…and yet…she still recalls those three nights, especially the second one, and she cannot leave him while he is like this.

  She goes over and stands by the chair, holds her hand out, touches his wet cheek. His sobs slowly subside.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s the shock.’

  ‘I know. Timothy, I’ve got to tell you.’ She swallows. She longs for a pint of cool water. ‘It’s Steven.’

  ‘Steven! No!’ It’s a scream of fury, and she’s pleased to hear it, after all this whimpering. ‘Not Steven!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s…he’s…he’s not even nice, Naomi.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He clutches at this.

  ‘Well, then. You loved me. You said you did. Give it another go. I’ll be different. I promise. I can. I promise.’

  ‘It isn’t a case of your being different. It’s just…it hasn’t worked.’

  ‘It’s the curlew, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t break it off over a present.’

  ‘I knew you didn’t like it. I just couldn’t accept the fact. I
fooled myself.’

  ‘I do like it. I understand it now. I thought all its old insides were still there, liver and kidneys and things, preserved. I can appreciate it now. It will always be one of my most treasured possessions.’

  She took it to the municipal dump yesterday. And this is the young lady who promised God only a few months ago that she would never tell a lie if she lived to be a hundred. But she doesn’t believe in God any more, and besides, she has learned already that it isn’t always bad to tell lies.

  ‘Is it…religion?’

  ‘Well…it hasn’t helped.’

  ‘I’ll never ever try to convert you. I promise.’

  ‘You mean it, but Christians always do try. They can’t help it. And you will. You won’t be able to help yourself.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise. Naomi, I’ll do anything. Anything you want.’

  ‘That’s just silly. Don’t be silly. I don’t want to remember you as silly. Who knows…one day…’ No! She curses herself for saying this. She needs to be totally definite.

  She picks the badger up. Now that she understands a bit about taxidermy she feels no fear of it. It isn’t a dead badger. It’s a badger brought to eternal life by art. She turns it round so that it won’t see the last embers of their love, and lowers it onto the windowsill with the respect its life deserves.

  ‘One last kiss,’ she says.

  ‘I can’t bear this.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  They hold each other, hug each other. She kisses his wet cheek. He moves his mouth towards her, but she turns her mouth away.

  ‘Thank you for having the courage to come and tell me,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Thank you for loving me,’ she says.

  She breaks away, goes to the door, turns, gives him a painful smile, and leaves. A moment later, he hears the squeak of the front door.

  Tears stream down his face, but he doesn’t crumple. He walks over to the badger, picks it up, turns it round, and lays it down again almost as gently as she had. There is no reason for his father ever to know any of the details of what happened.

  PART TWO

  The Other Side of the World 1982

  They climb for well over an hour, high into the parched hills. At last they see a crowd of people standing outside a simple house. The best man claps Simon warmly on the shoulder and beams at Naomi. They shake hands with all the guests, even with some tiny toddlers. Everyone smiles. These are real mestizo people, a mixture of Spanish and Indian.

  They say – translated by Paul, of course – that they are very grateful to Simon and Naomi for having honoured them with their presence on this great day. Simon and Naomi look instinctively for mockery. There is none. These people’s hard lives leave no room for mockery.

  Paul – Padre Pablo to his parishioners – is Simon’s uncle. He has been a parish priest in Peru for thirteen years, and has invited them to visit before he returns to England next month. He found the climb difficult. He likes his rum and is somewhat overweight. Simon and Naomi, however, have no problems with the altitude. They are fit. After all, it was at Simon’s gym that they met.

  The little house is no more than a small barn. It’s built of mud reinforced by lines of stones. The roof is tiled. Paul explains that one day it will be a two-storey house, but Naomi wonders if the second floor will ever become more than an intention.

  There’s no toilet, no running water, no electric light, and no possibility of their ever having those things.

  Normally the only decoration on the walls is a small mat, rather like the mat Naomi bought on a reed island in Lake Titicaca. Hers told the story of the life of the woman who wove it. She will give it to her mother, who will love it. She thinks for a moment of her mother, and is suddenly homesick for L’Ancresse.

  Today, the house has been turned into a church, and there are decorations hanging from the beams, pictures of buses, condors, rabbits, pumas, a fish, a dog and some dancers. There is a table covered by a white cloth, and a simple homemade shrine to the Virgin. The simplicity overwhelms Naomi. She’s afraid that she will burst into tears. Hastily, she pretends that she’s an actress in a film, that she’s being directed by John Huston, that he has told her that if she cries she will never work for him again.

  Round the walls on two sides of the dirt floor are low benches. A cloth covers one of the benches.

  ‘The cloth is there for our privileged, first-world arses to park themselves on,’ explains Father Paul with a gleam.

  Padre Pablo dons a long, beautiful white robe and stole, and the ceremony begins. Naomi and Simon feel extraordinarily privileged to be able to witness the wedding of Marcelina Mosquiera Teatino and Alberto Cerquin Chuqchukan. Paul has explained that they had a natural wedding many years ago, when they worshipped the Sun God, but now they have converted to Catholicism. They’ve had eight children, three of whom have died. ‘It’s par for the course in these parts, I’m afraid.’

  Naomi feels so happy for them in their happiness, and yet so sad, for she is convinced that they are deluded, and she cannot think it good to be deluded. Yet she realises that her reactions are more suited to Coningsfield than to the village of Tartar Chico, high above the Cajamarca Valley in the mighty Andes.

  The service is very simple. One woman breastfeeds throughout. A dog drifts in, decides that there’s nothing for him, and wanders out. Paul’s voice is low and warm and kind. The groom repeats his vows strongly. The bride repeats hers shyly, almost inaudibly. Some things are the same the world over. Father Paul puts the stole over them both, and they take communion. Their intense pride is heartbreaking. There is absolute silence in this simple home. Naomi feels the desperate heat of the faith that is warming this cold room. Again, she fears that she may cry. She fights the emotion by becoming a government inspector, directed by Stanley Kubrick, who will bully her if she breaks down.

  After the ceremony, everyone goes outside. A vast pot of boiled maize appears, and they offer some to Paul, Simon and Naomi.

  ‘We must accept,’ says Father Paul. ‘It would be a great insult not to.’

  The three of them go back inside, but the other guests don’t follow. Naomi lowers her privileged, much-admired, occasionally kissed, first-world backside onto the cloth that saves it from coming into contact with the hard, rough bench beneath.

  Paul explains that nobody will eat until they have eaten.

  ‘You may hate it, Naomi, but it has to be like this. I tried to change it, and it didn’t work. Believing that all men are equal is one of the privileges enjoyed by those who are more equal than others. These people have incontrovertible evidence to the contrary.’

  A tray, with a cloth on it, is brought in. On it are two vast bowls of maize, one with one spoon, one with two. Married people eat out of the same bowl. It is the custom.

  A bowl of sauce is brought. Paul warns that it will be very fiery.

  ‘These people wouldn’t be so poor if they were allowed to practise birth control,’ says Naomi.

  ‘Naomi!’ hisses Simon. ‘This is not the time.’

  ‘No, no. Feel free to say what you think, my friends,’ says Paul, ‘but say it casually, as if we’re discussing the weather. Don’t let these good people see that we are arguing. They would be very upset.’

  ‘I don’t know that I’m up to that,’ says Naomi.

  ‘Really? I thought you’d just left drama school,’ says Simon. ‘I thought you were a fully fledged actress now.’

  The remark hits Naomi just as she is experiencing her first taste of the sauce. The fire burns right down her throat. She can’t breathe.

  ‘That wasn’t very nice, Simon,’ she gasps.

  ‘Children, please. We’re on show. Don’t spoil their day,’ warns Paul again.

  The maize is palatable, if not exciting.

  ‘This will be their permanent diet,’ Paul tells them. ‘Ten years ago, there’d probably have been a little meat. Not now, even for a wedding. These people are cut off from everything except the eff
ects of recession. Prices for their pathetic little crops remain stable, while inflation rises.’ His voice remains calm, he is smiling, only his eyes show his anger. ‘And these are the people with whom, in markets and railway stations, tourists think it clever to haggle.’

  Paul’s little history lesson defuses the situation, but Naomi is still shocked by the tartness in Simon’s remark about her. It seems as if in the tension and embarrassment of the occasion some deeper, less pleasant aspect of his personality has been revealed.

  The sauce is fearsome, but in tiny quantities, worked very thinly into the maize, it makes a tolerable meal – if you don’t have to eat it every day.

  Their bowls hardly seem to empty, and there is a whole wedding reception out there, waiting patiently. Patience is sprinkled over this land like a condiment.

  ‘In Cajamarca,’ Paul continues, ‘there’s a room called El Cuarto del Rescarte – the Ransom Chamber. After he’d been defeated and captured by Pizarro and his little band of conquistadores in 1532, Atahualpa realised how greedy for gold the Spaniards were.’

  Naomi thinks back to Peter Shaffer’s play, and wonders, briefly, what Timothy is doing at this moment.

  ‘So Atahualpa offered to fill a large room with gold and silver in exchange for his release. But Pizarro had no intention of releasing him. Realising this, Atahualpa tried to escape. Pizarro wanted to keep him alive, but was overruled. He was led out into the Plaza de Armas, to be burnt at the stake. He accepted baptism, and the sentence was commuted to strangulation.’

  Naomi winces and mutters, ‘Fear. Always fear,’ through a mouthful of recalcitrant maize.

  ‘I took an American economist to the Ransom Chamber a few years ago,’ continues Father Paul. ‘He looked at it in deep awe, and said, in tones of wonderment, “I’ve always been telling my students that inflation began in this room in Cajamarca, and now I’m here.” I really think he was almost on the point of having an orgasm about inflation.’