Meet Me Under the Westway

by Stephen Thompson

  ‘I’m seeing Clifford Stevens himself.’

  ‘No. Not the Clifford Stevens?’

  He fixes me a cold, penetrating stare. ‘You’re a real bastard, you know that?’

  I laugh then clap him on the back. ‘Only joking, mate. I’m made up for you. Honestly.’

  ‘Bastard,’ he repeats.

  We leave the park and head back to the square for coffee. By now, I’m in full loafing mode. The prospect of going home to write has all the appeal of sleeping in an abattoir and I make up my mind to stay outdoors and take advantage of the rapidly improving weather.

  I have to behave myself in the square. Though there are lots of sexy women about, I can’t make any obvious overtures – not with Sarah working across the road. Evan understands my predicament and is doing his best not to lead me astray. He’s eyeing up women all right but subtly. In that sense, he’s the complete opposite to someone like Ollie, who has the disgusting habit of approaching women in the street and propositioning them for sex. When Evan meets a woman he fancies, he reaches straight for the textbook – flowers, candlelit dinners, romantic weekends away. He becomes deeply involved very quickly and suffers for it.

  His last relationship is a case in point. Things had been going fairly well. He’d been with his girlfriend, Vicky, for just under two years, which, as everyone knows, is hardly any time at all. Foolishly, and despite my telling him not to, he decided to propose. He took her to dinner on her birthday and got down on bended knee. He’d barely produced the ring before she was out the door and flagging down a taxi. The last he heard, she was living in the Australian outback. After she left, he fell into a trough that he has only recently hauled himself out of.

  At one point, Sarah joins us for a quick coffee. It turns into an awkward few minutes – she wants to discuss our night together but, in front of Evan, I’m unable to show that side of myself. Instead I’m detached, mocking, and Sarah leaves feeling embarrassed. I want to run after her and apologise but she’s gone before I can get up the courage.

  ‘Why must you always act the fool?’ asks Evan.

  ‘It’s part of my charm.’

  ‘Quite. So you had a date, did you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t call it that exactly.’

  ‘What happened?’

  I tell him all about it. When I’m finished, he starts tutting disapprovingly.

  ‘The door was open, mate, but you’ve just gone and kicked it shut again.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I reckon. Some major grovelling is now required.’

  ‘Damn!’

  We remain in the square for the rest of the afternoon. Around six o’clock we head off to the Bed Bar where we bump into Ollie and Mo. Ollie’s pleased to see us but not Mo. It’s not that he doesn’t like us – it’s just that he feels he has to compete with us for Ollie’s attention. Among the four of us, he sees himself as the odd man out. We three share a common bond in that we belong to the theatre. It’s all we ever talk about so it’s no wonder Mo feels a bit left out at times. The fact that he has no other friends besides Ollie is surprising. I once asked him what became of all his celebrity mates and he told me they all shunned him when he was on his belly. This, he said, made him realise the shifting sands upon which friendships in pop are based and, while he was in rehab, he made up his mind to get back on top and ‘show the bastards’. Revenge. This is the fuel that drives him. In many ways, his is a pathetic story. The closest he’ll ever come again to hero worship is through his friendship with Ollie, for whom he can do no wrong. He needs Ollie, which explains why he’s so possessive over him.

  After a few drinks, we start baiting one another in the way that only men do. This is how it works. Each of us has a weak point, which the other three will spend a bit of time attacking. Mo, at thirty-five, is teased about the fact that he’s too old to be a pop star; Evan takes a lot of stick over his inactive sex life; Ollie’s dismissed as smutty; while I’m damned for having a superiority complex.

  Later that night, around a quarter to twelve, I get a call from Hana. We have quite a long chat on the phone, during which I learn a good deal more about her. She tells me that she lives above an off-licence on Golborne Road with another Macedonian, a guy, and that she leads a rather colourless life. She says she spends practically all her time working at the Bed Bar and that, when she isn’t working, she’s cooped up in her flat. She says she never goes anywhere or sees anyone. On top of that, she’s spent the last year dodging Immigration. Her visa has expired and she fears deportation more than anything in the world.

  It’s a sad story but my only interest is how I might exploit it. What hot-blooded single man wouldn’t? A bored, housebound, overworked, buxom barmaid who’s desperate for a bit of excitement? Please. I take her address and fifteen minutes later I show up at her flat. I’m surprised to find her waiting for me outside. Her excuse is that she didn’t want me to ring the doorbell and alert her flatmate to what’s going on. She likes to keep her business private and, for that reason, would rather we went to my place. A short while later, I’m lying with my face buried between her enormous mammaries.

  5

  For the next three days, I shut myself up indoors, with no plans other than to write. It takes me a while to get going and, for most of the first day, I sit staring at the computer screen. My mind drifts, I daydream, I talk to myself – but finally, through a combination of perseverance and sheer bloody-mindedness, I manage to get myself into what Richard likes to call ‘the zone’. Staying there requires even more effort and I have to call on all my reserves of stamina. The rewards, however, are noticeable. I know better than to make any grand claims for it at this early stage but I do think the play’s shaping up quite nicely. And, who knows? At the rate I’m going, I may even make the deadline. More miraculous things have happened.

  I leave the flat on Friday evening and head off to the CCTV. I feel full of life, bright as a firefly.

  Emily answers the door, looking very summery indeed. She’s wearing purple-tinted John Lennon specs, a frilly white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a pair of turquoise crushed-linen trousers that fall just above her Birkenstock sandals. She has the beginnings of a tan and already her hair is becoming bleached.

  ‘Jem.’

  ‘Hey, Em.’

  We peck each other on the cheek and embrace. I don’t usually go in for all this touchy-feely stuff – I find it so bogus – but I’ve always made an exception where Emily’s concerned. She feels warm and I detect a smell of freshly cut grass on her. I imagine she must have spent the afternoon in a park. I know she lives near one (Battersea) and I picture her, perhaps with one or two of her mates, hanging out there enjoying a picnic. The image that comes to me in soft focus is strangely alluring and, for a moment, I too am there, laughing and joking and eating bread and cheese and drinking warm beer. We unclasp each other, reluctantly, and I look her up and down.

  ‘You look nice,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks. So do you.’

  She’s being kind – fashion isn’t my forte. I’m wearing my usual faded jeans and a novelty orange T-shirt with the word ‘Forgotten’ inexplicably printed on the front. I bought it in a local jumble sale for a pound, despite the fact it’s too small.

  ‘What?’ asks Emily, grinning.

  ‘What do you mean “What”?’

  ‘You’re staring.’

  ‘Am I? Sorry.’ I stare some more then say, ‘So who’s here?’

  ‘Come see for yourself.’

  She bounds down the stairs, two and three at a time, as though she were twelve years old. I enter the building proper and close the door behind me, feeling even chirpier than when I arrived.

  Everyone’s present except Evan, which is no great surprise to any of us. As a formality, Richard asks after his whereabouts. The catty remarks aren’t slow in coming.

  ‘He’s probably dining with Carol Llewellyn,’ says Fatima.

  ‘Shafting her more like,’ says Rajeev.

/>   Laughter fills the room. I take the chance to slip off and make a cup of tea. Feeling generous, I deposit a pound coin in the contributions tin, which is otherwise empty.

  ‘All right, that’s enough, you guys,’ says Richard. ‘Let’s get on.’

  We come to order like naughty MPs chastised by the Speaker of the House. The session is soon under way.

  The best piece of the evening belongs to Emily, yet again. It’s an extract from her showcase play, as are all the others, including mine. The opening line is, ‘Woman, please let me explain,’ taken from John Lennon’s ‘Woman’. I can’t speak for the others but, in my opinion, she need only show up to secure one of the two full-length slots. The rest of us will be battling for the other one.

  Afterwards, we go off to the old men’s pub – joined, on this occasion, by Richard. It’s the last session of the current term so he feels obliged. We sit in a circle and, as usual, draw stares from the geriatric regulars.

  Richard holds court, as is his wont. He tries to get us to talk about our plays in more detail, to explain where we got our ideas from and discuss some of the problems we might be having trying to develop them. He thinks he’s being a dramaturge but is acting more like a dramaturd. He gets nothing out of us. We’re far too experienced to fall into the trap of talking our ideas to death. We’re content to discuss the usual technical difficulties and are more than willing to share a few tips on how to overcome them but, other than that, mum’s very much the word.

  We stay in the pub till closing time. Before we part company, Richard reminds us that on Monday the acting group will be giving its end-of-term performance. They would, he informs us, very much appreciate our support. We let out a collective groan and promise to do our best to attend.

  The following day I go and see the folks. My intention is to spend the weekend with them but then that’s always my intention. Usually I leave after one day, bored out of my mind. I may not be covering myself in glory by saying I find my parents boring but the fact is I do and I’d be worried if I didn’t. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who find their parents interesting.

  As ever, the moment I enter my old street, I feel out of sorts, disconcerted. The silence is like the roar of a waterfall. As I child, I hadn’t really noticed it but now, when I come back, it’s the first thing that strikes me – that and the lifelessness. There’s not a creature in sight – not a dog, not a cat. And the uniformity! The sameness! It’s truly eerie. All but a handful of the two-dozen semis are pebble-dashed. There’s not one without a neatly trimmed hedge. Each one has a driveway, each driveway has a car in it, most of them estates. My parents are always telling me that one day, when I’m old, I’ll come to appreciate the merits of such a place. According to them, I’ll grow tired of London and start yearning for a more peaceful existence. Yeah, right.

  Mum and Dad aren’t in. I ring the doorbell repeatedly but there’s no answer. It serves me right for turning up unannounced. Luckily I have a key. I let myself in and Dougal, our pet Labrador, comes sloping along the corridor towards me, his eyes rheumy, his tail barely wagging. I crouch beside him and ruffle his floppy ears. ‘There’s a good boy.’ He tries to lick my face but I recoil – I love the old mutt dearly but his breath is as lethal as mustard gas.

  I walk through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While I wait for it to boil, I look about for signs of change. There aren’t any. Mum’s kitchen – and it’s very much her kitchen – is just as fussy and cluttered as it’s always been. Implements and utensils abound, there are cookery books galore, ornamental dishes line the walls, the fridge door contains innumerable recipes cut from magazines and the work surfaces are covered in jars and bowls and tins and weighing scales and potted herbs and all kinds of other knick-knacks. But that’s not so say it’s disorderly. There’s a place for everything and everything is in its place. As a child, because of my tendency to run amok, I was denied unsupervised access to it. I came to view it as forbidden territory and a residue of that has remained with me to this day.

  Dougal pads in, sniffing for food. Mum has ordered me not to be feed him between meals (at his age he has to watch his weight) but I don’t have it in me to deny him. It’s his eyes. They get me every time. I empty a few doggie biscuits into his bowl and take my tea through to the living room.

  The living room is not my favourite part of the house, never has been. It stinks of Dougal and could seriously do with sprucing up. I sip my tea and begin to imagine where I might ring a few changes. I’d start by getting rid of the paisley-patterned wallpaper, which, quite frankly, is offensive. French impressionists are passé so I’d slash the Monet prints and make a bonfire of the frames. There are too many photographs of me. The cute baby ones could stay but I’d bin those featuring me as a sneering, badly dressed teenager. I’d rip up the threadbare carpet and expose the floorboards. The ancient TV and video I’d take and dump in the nearest skip, together with the lumpy sofa, the sunburst wall clock, the fake log fire and the ‘antique’ dining table, which can barely take the weight of a candle. And, when it had all been cleared, I’d fumigate the room and ban Dougal from ever entering it again.

  I finish my tea and go out to the garden. It’s slightly overcast but I figure it’s better than sitting indoors. Our garden has nothing to recommend it but then that’s what makes it a suburban garden. It’s long and narrow, with a patchy uneven lawn flanked by weeds on one side and by Dad’s excuse for a flower bed on the other. (Dad sees himself as a gardener – a delusion which neither Mum nor I have the heart to discourage him from.) At the bottom, there’s a pear tree. In season, you daren’t go near it for fruit flies. It also blocks a lot of the light and, for this reason, has for years been a source of contention between my parents. Mum would have it uprooted but only over Dad’s corpse. To appease her, he spent years pruning and cutting it back but, since the operation on his slipped disc, it’s returned to the way nature intended it – wild and imposing. Next to it is a shed, which houses all the garden furniture and a million other things both useful and not.

  Mum and Dad arrive to find me in the living room snoozing on the sofa, Dougal’s head in my lap. Mum downs her shopping bags and practically leaps on me. Dad hangs back, patting me on the head now and then over Mum’s shoulder. When the time comes for him to greet his one and only child, he shakes my hand as though I were one of his clients. Dougal makes a half-hearted attempt to join in the fun but, ignored, he soon gives up and goes and settles on to his cushion.

  During dinner, I suffer a series of probing questions as to my progress as a ‘dramatist’ to use Mum’s word. She delights in all my setbacks, viewing me as a man suffering for his art, while Dad sighs and shakes his head a lot. After dinner, we go and sit in the garden. It’s a warm, almost balmy evening and Mum opens a bottle of Chardonnay. Dad doesn’t like wine and so has whisky. I like neither but, as there’s no lager or stout, I settle for the closest thing they have – vile-tasting brown ale.

  After an hour in the garden, Mum and Dad begin to get on my nerves. They talk too much, mostly about my childhood, the drink loosening their tongues and sentimentalising their recollections, while I struggle to get a word in edgeways. Already I’ve got itchy feet and I make up my mind to escape first thing in the morning.

  I wake the next morning and decide to stick around for another day. I attribute my change of heart to a good night’s sleep, but deep down I know it’s guilt.

  I go down for breakfast dressed in my old bathrobe, which I’ve had since my mid-teens and which is now at least two sizes too small for me. It’s a red towelling thing, badly worn in patches, with a hideous check pattern. Whenever I’m home, I make a point of wearing it because it amuses my parents. One aims to please.

  I come down to find Mum and Dad at the long kitchen table, reading the papers. I can just about see the top of Mum’s grey-streaked bob over the Mail on Sunday, while Dad is completely obscured behind the Sunday Times. Dougal’s curled up under the table, his head resting on
his front paws. If ever there was a picture of suburban bliss, this is it.

  ‘Morning, you guys.’

  They lower the papers to look at me and immediately start chuckling. I roll my eyes and join them at the table.

  ‘Any tea left in that pot?’

  Mum starts to pour me a cup, at which point Dougal begins to whine pitifully.

  ‘Shoosh, Dougal,’ says Mum.

  ‘Be quiet, Dougal,’ says Dad.

  Dougal whines on. There follows a lengthy discussion as to whether he’s ailing in some way and whether he wouldn’t benefit from a trip to the vet. During this exchange, many of Dougal’s past afflictions are recalled and analysed, everything from gallstones to psoriasis to flatulence. I listen to this litany of illnesses and almost forget they’re discussing a dumb animal. For what it’s worth, I suggest that he perhaps needs to be let out for a poo.

  After breakfast, Mum and Dad announce they’re taking Dougal for a walk. I feel sorry for the old boy for this undoubtedly means he’ll be dragged around the local park for hours. Exercise at his age, I believe, should consist of a gentle pacing of the back garden, followed by a few minutes of chasing his tail.

  ‘Why don’t you get dressed and come with us?’ asks Dad.

  ‘Er … I’ll pass, thanks.’

  ‘When did you become so lazy?’ asks Mum, rhetorically.

  Shortly afterwards she puts Dougal on his leash and they’re gone. I rustle up an egg sandwich and spend the rest of the morning reading the Sunday supplements.

  That afternoon Mum serves up a scrumptious lunch, a stomach-stretching plate of lamb with roast vegetables, followed by bread-and-butter pudding – and to think I almost missed it. Afterwards we repair to the living room. Mum and Dad are straight on to the sauce. I begin to wonder if they’re becoming alcoholics. Before they get a chance to talk my ears off, I suggest we watch a video. They’ve seen everything in the library of films in the TV cabinet but express a willingness to re-watch anything I might choose. I’m in the mood for a classic – something not too long, not too heavy and not too old. I opt for Breakfast at Tiffany’s and immediately Mum starts comparing it unfavourably to the Capote novella. When it comes to literature, she’s the world’s biggest snob. Dad lets her prattle on till the end of the opening credits then tells her to ‘pipe down’. Mum gives him a frosty stare but meekly obeys. If only she had brained him with a dull implement – that would really have livened things up – but, depressingly, this is what passes for confrontation between them.