Meet Me Under the Westway

by Stephen Thompson

  She thinks a moment. ‘That’s certainly true enough but what can be done about it?’

  ‘We need to be more courageous. It takes courage to live your life the way you want to.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Courageous?’

  ‘Up to a point. I’ll fight for what I believe in … so long as it doesn’t involve actual violence.’

  She smiles. ‘Wimp.’

  ‘Too right, I am. Oscar Wilde said it best, “Give me the moral pain, spare me the physical.”’

  She throws her head back and laughs. My eyes linger on her slender neck, work their way down to her protruding clavicle and settle on her exquisite breasts. As ever, she looks fabulous. Her shades sit atop her head and she’s pulled her hair back into a ponytail, the better to show off her silver hoop earrings. She’s wearing a brown halter-neck top and a pair of orange hipster trousers. Scholl sandals complete the ensemble.

  We’re sitting under a tree, through whose branches the light falls, dappled, on to her face. The effect seems to enhance her beauty. I suddenly get the urge to be closer to her. I edge up so that our thighs are almost touching. She gives me an enigmatic smile then, just as I’m about to put my arm around her, she falls forward on to her stomach and stretches her legs out behind her. I gaze for a moment at her pert buttocks, before looking away towards Kensington Palace.

  She must have been watching me for she says, ‘It’s hard to imagine that Diana lived in that big old place all by herself.’

  ‘She had her children. And the servants.’

  ‘Yes but you know what I mean. To all intents and purposes, she was alone.’

  ‘I’m sure any number of suitors passed through those golden gates.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. But did any of them stay? You lot never do.’

  I swivel round but she’s not looking at me. She’s trying to form a chain of daisies.

  ‘That’s a bit of generalisation,’ I say.

  ‘It is. I know.’

  Her tone, I think, is meant to be apologetic but I also detect a note of intransigence.

  ‘That’s my biggest fear,’ she says, ‘ending up alone.’

  I watch her lengthening the daisy chain. Her long fingers seem to be operating independently of one another, as though controlled by wires. She finishes the chain and puts it around my neck. It’s such a lovely, spontaneous gesture that to thank her would have cheapened it.

  ‘I’m surprised to hear you say that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re a beautiful woman who could have any man.’

  ‘And what happens when my looks start to fade?’

  ‘Plastic surgery?’

  She punches me hard in the stomach. Women, it seems, are always hitting me.

  Later that afternoon, following a leisurely stroll around Kensington Gardens, we arrive back at Sarah’s place. It’s a flat above a shop on the disgustingly trendy section of Westbourne Grove. I’ve never been in it but, from the outside, it looks quite appealing. Sarah warns me not to be fooled by the exterior of things – says it’s the stuff inside that counts.

  ‘It’s actually quite a pokey flat and draughty and not worth half the money we pay for it. But it beats living in Acton, right?’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Want to come in for a bit?’

  ‘A bit of what? Slap and tickle?’

  Disappointment crawls over her face like ivy. ‘Is that all you’re after, Jem?’

  ‘T’were a joke, chuck.’

  I can see she’s not convinced.

  ‘Let’s be clear on one thing, Jem. I like you, you know that, but I don’t do casual.’

  And I don’t do deep and meaningful – not at the moment – perhaps never again.

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Good.’ She brightens once more. ‘Now, then, once more – would you like to come in?’

  ‘No, thanks – I really should go home and do some writing.’

  ‘Fair enough. Call me later?’

  ‘Sure.’ I’m about to walk away when I suddenly remember. ‘You haven’t told me your good news?’

  What she says takes me completely by surprise. She says she’ll be going to Edinburgh and that there’s room for me at the flat where she’ll be staying. It belongs to her flatmate’s aunt, a woman with the unfortunate name of Morag.

  ‘So what do you say? Come with me? You still want to go, right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Excellent. But I must warn you – Beth and her boyfriend will be coming as well.’

  My heart sinks. It was too good to be true.

  ‘Don’t look so sad. They’ll be doing their own thing. We’ll just be sharing the flat with them.’ To encourage me further, she adds, ‘We’ll have a great time – you’ll see.’

  * * *

  For the next six weeks, I spend practically all my time indoors, either reading plays for Piers or working feverishly to finish my own. I do very little socialising mostly because there’s no one around. Ollie spends an entire month away on location in Liverpool, which I find very odd indeed, given that he has only one scene in the film. I get but one sighting of Mo. I ran into him one afternoon on Portobello Road. Without Ollie or the film crew, he seemed insubstantial, incomplete, like a cartoon character yet to be coloured in. He was literally without colour – his face as pallid as a geisha girl’s, which he put down to spending too much time in the studio.

  As for Evan, I hardly see him at all. He’s too busy doing rewrites and having argumentative script meetings with Milo the Genius. He keeps me abreast of developments by phone, which is how I learn that he had secured representation with Stevens, Arnold and Stevens – although not, as he’d hoped, with Clifford Stevens himself but with someone called Melanie, a very lowly, very junior agent who’s just started up her own client list. He describes her as ‘hungry and ambitious’ and thinks it will work in his favour. I know he doesn’t really believe this but I suppose he has to tell himself something to cushion the blow of being snubbed by the grand fromage.

  Sarah is the one constant throughout this period. We have lunch once a week and meet up for drinks at least two evenings a week. One night she invites me round to hers for dinner. I finally meet her flatmate, Beth, and Beth’s boyfriend, Miguel. I don’t hit it off with either of them – especially not with Beth. I know I must make allowances for her depression but a ruder person would be difficult to find. She doesn’t even try to be friendly, barely says a word to me all evening, and, as soon as the meal ends, she drags Miguel off to her bedroom and doesn’t come out again not even to say goodbye when Sarah shouts to her that I’m leaving. Sarah becomes really embarrassed.

  ‘Is this how it’s going be in Edinburgh?’

  ‘Don’t ask, Jem – just don’t ask.’

  * * *

  When the carnival comes round, I go off to see my parents. I do the same thing every year. I can’t stand the carnival. It wasn’t so bad when I first moved into the area but its appeal quickly wore off. Nowadays, I find the whole thing deeply depressing. Imagine waking up to find hundreds of thousands of people in your street. Imagine the noise of a million whistles. Imagine answering your door every five minutes to pissheads wanting to use your loo. Think what it must be like to be a prisoner in your own neighbourhood, not being able to get about because of all the police checkpoints and roadblocks. I remember one year I couldn’t get home because I couldn’t provide evidence of my address. I had to wait for hours, being almost crushed to death, till the area had been cleared of all the visitors. The imposition on the residents is nothing short of a crime. And, when the whole thing is over, the area looks and smells like a massive rubbish dump. The clean-up operation can take as much as a week while the acrid stench of stale food and stale alcohol lingers for much longer.

  * * *

  Despite Mum’s constant reminders, I forget Dad’s birthday. It’s a day late when I do remember and, when I call, he and Mu
m are out. I leave a message on their machine and later that evening Dad calls me back. I sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him down the phone and apologise for not calling the previous day. He tells me not to worry, reminds me that he doesn’t like a fuss being made then puts Mum on the phone. She’s nowhere near as forgiving and gives me a real earful. I can hear Dad in the background pleading with her on my behalf but she’s determined to have her say. She calls me uncaring, unthinking and much more besides. When she’s finished, I feel as guilty as a rat in a kitchen. The following day, I go out and buy Dad a fairly expensive watch and get Mum a little something into the bargain.

  On the eve of leaving for Edinburgh, I finish writing my play – or at least a first draft of it. Pleased with the results, I despatch copies to both Piers and Evan, partly to encourage their opinions, partly to show off. I also send a copy to Richard with a note expressing gratitude for his input and to ask how he was progressing with his own writing. A few days later, I get a letter from him saying he’d begun reading my play and was really enjoying it and that, as it happens, things were beginning to look up for him. He doesn’t specify what he means but I know he’s referring to his play being on the grid. Piers believes it won’t go any further yet I find myself hoping that perhaps, just perhaps, it might get a little two-week run at the Theatre Downstairs.

  Part Two

  9

  The trip to Edinburgh turns into a group affair. The original plan was for Beth and Miguel to go on ahead then for Sarah and me to follow on a few days later. But, through a series of complications, the four of us end up travelling together. To make matters worse, we get an overnight coach, which takes twelve hours. What a nightmare. Beth and Miguel spend most of the journey bickering about this, that and t’other while Sarah and I do our damnedest to get a bit of shut-eye. I arrive in Edinburgh feeling groggier than a mescal worm and all for the sake of saving a few measly quid.

  Aunt Morag’s flat is in the northern part of the New Town, on the top two floors of a Georgian town house that backs on to the Botanical Gardens. It’s an area I know quite well from previous visits. Slightly off the beaten track, it’s perfect for getting away from the crush of the city centre.

  Access to the flat is on the side of the house, what must have been the servants’ entrance. The front door opens on to a broad, winding staircase. On entering, the first thing that strikes me is the light. Initially I wonder where it’s coming from, then I look up and notice the massive skylight in the roof.

  We mount the uncarpeted staircase, which has wobbly banisters set into worn stone steps and is lined with potted plants. The living room and kitchen are on the first floor and on the second there are two bedrooms, a bathroom and a small toilet. Beth insists on giving us the full guided tour, which I’m not keen on but which I agree to out of a desire not to make waves.

  We start with the kitchen. It has big check tiles and wide sash windows overlooking a weed-clogged back garden. The windows, we discover, are broken.

  ‘You’ll have to wedge them open,’ says Beth.

  The kitchen units, though cheap and cheerful, are in perfect condition. There’s a Welsh dresser, its ledge covered in old newspapers, and a big wooden table surrounded by high stools and high-backed chairs. I notice a door in the wall, slightly ajar.

  ‘What’s through there?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s the larder,’ says Beth. We peer into it.

  There are boxes upon boxes of dried goods.

  ‘My aunt collects them for various charities. These are bound for Niger, I think.’

  Next up is the living room. It’s vast, light, with a high, corniced ceiling and a grand ornate fireplace. It has a dado rail and the original floorboards, which have been varnished to a shine. There’s a floral sofa, with a couple of matching armchairs, and a small dining table with four ill-matching chairs. Curiously, there isn’t a TV or any sign of a music system. There are, however, plenty of books, mostly leather-bound hardbacks, stacked neatly on long shelves that have been built into a couple of shallow alcoves. On a narrow sideboard, there’s a silver salver with three cut-glass decanters filled with what looks like whisky. It’s a nice enough room, I suppose, very neat, very ordered, but I get the feeling that it’s little used. It’s not a room in which you linger. You enter it, do what you have to do then leave. For the next few days it’ll be mine.

  The two bedrooms on the upper floor complete the tour. The first, Aunt Morag’s, is spacious and well furnished. The second, designated to Sarah, is spartan and tiny. The only things in it are a tailor’s rail, with perhaps a dozen metal coat hangers, and a single bed with a candlewick spread. An unobstructed view of the Botanical Gardens is its only redeeming feature.

  That night, Sarah and I head into the city centre for a bite to eat. We end up at a faux-Mexican restaurant in the Grassmarket, which claims to offer ‘honest Mexican food at reasonable prices’. A couple of hours later, we fetch up at a pub on the wonderfully named Candlemaker Row and stay there till two o’clock in the morning, quaffing and talking nonsense with a group of Austrian students who are on a mission to see five shows a day for the next week.

  We get back to the flat drunk and giggly, leaning on one another as we stagger up the stairs. Not yet ready for bed, we go into the living room and help ourselves to some of Aunt Morag’s whisky. At one point, we hear a noise coming from above, from Beth’s bedroom. On careful listening, we realise there’s a little bit of spanking going on. We begin to speculate as to who’s doing the spanking. The blows sound quite hefty, brutal even, which leads Sarah to believe that it must be Miguel, until I remind her about Beth’s shot-putter arms. To clear up the confusion, I suggest we go and listen outside the door.

  ‘Don’t be a pervert,’ says Sarah.

  A few minutes later, the spanking sound dies away. Our laughter, however, goes on a lot longer. It’s past four o’clock before we decide to call it a night. Sarah goes off to her shoebox and I settle down on the sofa. I spend the next couple of hours tossing and turning, partly because I can’t get comfortable, partly because I’m dying to go upstairs and get into bed with Sarah.

  I convince myself that she’s lying awake waiting for me and eventually I get up and creep to her room. I gently push the door open and discover her fast asleep. For a moment, I stand in the doorway watching her in the half-light, feeling like a would-be rapist. She has one arm above her head and the other dangling over the side of the bed. Her breathing is audible but gentle and regular. There’s nothing about her appearance to indicate that she’s waiting for me to come and give her a good shafting. I head back downstairs, my erection subsiding as I go.

  * * *

  The next day, Sarah and I leave the house determined to see some shows. We pick up the official programmes from the Fringe Office then head off to make our choices over breakfast. By this stage, Sarah is beside herself with excitement. Being a veteran, I can’t quite get myself up for it they way she has but I’m doing my best. The last thing I want to do is spoil her enjoyment.

  The first thing we see is a play staged in a church hall. Called Johnny You’re Too Bad, it’s about a guy who runs a record shop specialising in ska music. He doesn’t do much business, needless to say, and the shop is effectively a hang-out for him and his mates. Not much happens in the way of a plot. The characters are little more than talking heads, mouthpieces through which the playwright spouts his hackneyed views on what has caused the youth of today to become stymied. Fortunately it lasts only an hour. It was my choice and, for the rest of the day, Sarah doesn’t let me forget it.

  The next show is a free comedy revue at a pub car park. The performers are all ex-convicts, going by the name of The Jailbirds. Their material, mostly in the form of slapstick, deals with various aspects of prison life. It takes them a while to win us over, sceptical audience that we are, but, by the end, they have us weeping with laughter. Their ovation is long and much deserved and, when the hat comes round, Sarah and I both make generous contributions.

/>   After that, we decide to have some lunch. As we wander around looking for a place, Sarah manages to accumulate a fistful of flyers. One show in particular takes her fancy. It’s a piece of performance art, which, according to the flyer, takes place in a loo. Sarah demands we go and see it and, against my better judgement, I agree.

  After lunch, we track down the performance piece, the venue for which is a grubby first-floor flat off Princes Street. We weren’t sure what to expect but it certainly wasn’t a bony old guy with his head inside a toilet bowl wearing nothing but a loincloth with a sign above his head saying, ‘Eat shit and die!’ You have to admire some people’s temerity.

  Our final show of the day is a performance given by the Reduced Shakespeare Company at the Pleasance Courtyard. I believe their reputation was established at Edinburgh and they seem to perform there every year. Their party piece, for the benefit of the uninitiated, is to cram all of Shakespeare’s plays into one hour. I’ve never wanted to see them. My natural suspicion towards gimmick theatre keeps me away from shows of this type. I only go along to please Sarah but, much to my surprise, I end up having quite a good time. We both do.

  By the end of the day, we’re completely exhausted. We have a dinner of fish and chips on the Royal Mile – served to us by a surly Pole with bad English – then head back to the flat around eleven o’clock. Beth and Miguel get back at roughly the same time, both in a foul mood. Beth storms upstairs and locks herself in her room. Miguel goes after her and, for the next few minutes, Sarah and I, sipping coffee in the kitchen, listen to them trading insults. Miguel can’t get into the room and, by the sound of it, is trying to kick the door down. Beth is screaming and threatening to call the police.

  ‘You think I should do something?’

  ‘Best not,’ says Sarah. ‘They’ll calm down in a bit.’

  ‘Are they always like this?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Has he ever hit her?’

  ‘No. He’s all bluster. He loves her, really.’