But I tried to step back from the situation, to look at it sensibly, structurally, and for once it didn’t seem quite the hilarious, whirligig adventure that my self-consciousness would have me believe. This was the fifth occasion on which we had met. Did that mean anything, or did people do it all the time? I wondered what Rachel thought of me and could come up with no answer, not even an opinion. I shrugged.
‘What will you do when he goes to Oxford ?’
‘God, that’s so far ahead. We haven’t really —’
‘I mean what do you think you’ll do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How do you feel about him ? Are you going to tell me ?’
Now, to growled obscenities, after much sparring and feinting, one of the milkmen began actually to fight the fruit-machine, rocking it on its base with flat-palmed jabs. Rachel glanced towards the bar, and back again.
We were sitting at right-angles. She was looking at me, I faced straight ahead. It was no accident that my spot was on her blind side. Rachel’s eyes dropped to her lap, where she was fondling a ball of stained tissue. Big boy beating like a young man’s heart, I hung my head, exhaled a chestful of air, and spoke.
‘I feel vaguely ridiculous saying this, it may be quite out of line – I can’t tell any more where I stand with people – but listen. I … well, I just think about you all the time, that’s all, and I thought I’d better find out how you feel so that we can see what’s best to do.’ I waited. ‘And because I’d really like to know. I’m getting tired —’
The fruit-machine burped, gave a deep, guttural judder, and, while the milkmen whooped, started to cough out a string of clamorous tokens.
‘It’s difficult—’ Rachel began.
‘What ? I can’t hear.’
She bit her lip, again, and shook her head.
The machine hawked. The milkmen shrieked.
I patted the hand on her lap. ‘Well. Never mind,’ I said, relaxing, sinking, drained and battered into my seat. I felt completely hollow, as if I were a child. She could have sneaked away then without me lifting a finger, without me noticing.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
Rachel said that.
Outside: in the middle of the pavement; my hands on Rachel’s upper arms, her hands playing with my jacket button. I could see the line of her centre-parting, and she smelled agreeably of hairdressing salons. I cupped her chin, lifting her face to mine.
‘Are you crying?’
She dropped her head again. ‘Not for you.’
I held her reasonably tight and gazed across the road at a dimly lit antique-shop. There was some reflection. I looked better fun than she did.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Are you listening?’ She sniffed and nodded. ‘I don’t care what happens now. Honestly. I can wait as long as it takes. But remember I’m thinking about you non-stop. And don’t worry.’ I stroked her hair. ‘How’re you getting back?’
‘Taxi, I suppose.’
‘Taxi!’
I wasn’t shouting it back at her, but hailing a cab that had pulled up at the lights. I opened the door and Rachel gave instructions ‘to the driver. She turned, and would doubtless have said goodbye had I not silenced her with a potent, valedictory stare. Rachel might have looked out of the tinted window to catch a last glimpse of me so I stood on the pavement and waved, with sinister beckoning motions, until the taxi was out of sight.
I regained the saloon bar, finished my shandy, killed a further two barley wines, and (tousling my hair and accent) managed to get a game of darts with three very serious car mechanics. Then I walked down the Fulham Road to South Kensington Underground, pausing several times to look at myself in shop windows, or just to think.
Nine: the bathroom
Flipping through my Odds and Sods file just now I came across two rather curious items, stapled together, which is in itself unusual because I’m always trying to keep things fluid.
The first is dated the eve of my eighteenth birthday. It says :
As regards toilet training. Remember when I was 8 (?) asked mother how turds should behave. She said that, ideally, turds should be brown and should float. Looked next time – black as night and sank like a stone – never looked since. Hence, possibly, my anal sense of humour?