1982 Janine (13 page)

Why did he like me? He had my admiration of course but he got that from most folk. The only useful thing I gave him was help with mathematics. He cannot have attended a single mathematics class in his entire year. Had he done so the lecturer would have noticed him the first day then noticed he was absent afterwards. But mathematics was the only subject in which he had full attendance marks, because I always answered his name when the roll was called. A few days before the maths exam I visited his home and read him my lecture notes. He heard them lying in bed with a patient frown on his face like a Roman cardinal hearing the sermon of a very young priest. I never knew how much he understood of what I was saying though once, when I had recounted many calculations relating to the acceleration of falling bodies, strain pressure, spontaneous change and the tendency of systems to minimise their free energy, he yawned and said, “Very worthy. But it only tells us how things run down and spread out.”

This was true, of course. All calculation involving time describes the heat-death of the universe, a stage between the big bang which made everything and the cold porridge it will amount to in the end. But Alan's description of the process was mechanical. Electricians seldom think of mathematics in these terms. Yet Alan always managed to pass the maths exam and was a first-class electrician. My failure to understand this comes from ignorance, not from something mysterious in Alan's mind. To him the forces of gravitation, and electricity, and whatever is generated in a centrifuge, or when we strike a match, were obviously the same thing. You need a big mind to see that, a mind as big as the mind of God, if God has a mind.

I must keep telling myself that I was not his best or his only friend, he had many friends. When we had free time we called at his house (where he was usually in bed) and
hung about gossiping together until he got up. I met a lot of different people by doing that. When he got up we usually went for long, slow, completely aimless walks on which everything we saw was interesting: the conduct of pigeons on a roof, the stitching of a shoe in a shop window, the expression of a girl waiting at a street corner, a phrase in an advertisement, crumbling mortar between the bricks of a new building, the tint of paintwork on a car. Alan never seemed to be leading the group (he walked in the middle) and he did not dominate the conversation, unless with an occasional question, glance or pointing finger. I think that while we talked he was learning from us. He seemed to know everything in the world but was completely un-intellectual and had never read a book, unless perhaps
The
Casebook of Sherlock Holmes
. He said “An educated man need know only one author thoroughly. Conan Doyle has given me all I require. I am not referring to his novels. A man like myself, with far-reaching responsibilities in the worlds of high finance and international power-politics, has no time for novels.”

This remark led me to read all the Sherlock Holmes stories but when I referrred to them later Alan was strangely reticent. I suspect that the Holmes influence on him came through the old Basil Rathbone films he had enjoyed as a child.

He saw the true strength in a thing, that is where his own strength lay. He recognised at once tools and furniture which had been shaped to catch the eye by reducing their efficiency, or where the designer had tried for durability by using so much material that the structure was weakened. On a walk he stopped in midstride, stared at an office block and said, “If I was that building I would be aching all over, but especially here, here and here.”

He slapped his neck, chest and knee. He could place his finger on the diagram of a slide coupling or electric circuit and say, “We don't need that bit.”

I would patiently explain why that bit was essential then he would point out a simple adaptation which would totally abolish it. I believe that the hugest laugh in the world came from his mouth on hearing a radio interview with a carpenter who made reproductions of oldfashioned
spinning-wheels and sold them to tourists in a West Highland shop.

INTERVIEWER: This is a beautiful-looking piece. Expertly shaped. Exquisitely crafted.

CARPENTER: Thankyou.

INTERVIEWER: But does it work?

CARPENTER: Oh yes, it's perfectly functional. Plug it in, screw a bulb in the socket and it will make an excellent standard lamp.

For a week that exchange dominated our repartee.

ALAN (
Pointing to a new make of car/Glasgow's municipal
building/the Principal of the Technical College
): That's a beautiful-looking piece. Expertly shaped. Exquisitely crafted.

MYSELF: Yes indeed, but does it work?

ALAN: Oh it's perfectly functional. Plug it in, screw a bulb in the socket and it will make an excellent standard lamp. Later this was greatly shortened. If he got angry with someone he told them to screw a bulb in their socket.

Sexually he was as lucky as a man could be. He loved a girl who loved him, and they made each other miserable, and were sometimes very happy. In those days I was as lucky as he, but was eighteen and did not know this. I envied him (though without rancour) because his girlfriend was more glamorous than mine, and because he could have enjoyed many other women, especially young ones who recognised him as the tall dark irresistible stranger they had dreamed about. He was flattered by their attention and turned them away playfully and kindly. From his height they must have looked terribly fragile and he never took advantage of people weaker than himself. He never took advantage of anyone. He had only one defect.

I came home to my digs after midnight and found I had lost the key. There were no lights in the windows. Not wanting to wake the other lodgers by knocking I went into the backgreen and saw that a ronepipe was near my half-open window with some branches running sideways to kitchen sinks and bathrooms. I climbed up the wall by these and found the windowsill beyond my reach by a mere
half-inch. I knew that Alan could easily reach it, that his home was near, that he would be up and doing because he preferred working when others were asleep. I visited him and asked for help. Without saying a word he accompanied me to the lodgings, quickly climbed the pipe and entered the window, which was on the fourth floor. I went upstairs expecting to find the front door opened for me, but some minutes passed before Alan opened it and his appearance was shocking. His face was white and staring, he seemed not to see or even hear me. I led him back to my room and made a mug of tea. He crouched in an armchair clutching the mug with both hands and staring into it as if he saw something dreadful there. Gradually his colour returned, he swallowed the tea, smiled and said, “Now you know that I'm afraid of heights.”

That man was my friend and I have turned into
this
man. Oh never remember Alan again. Forget him and forget Denny who waits outside the door wanting to come in here and DESTROY me with her sad eyes which I was never able to face and have avoided for more than twenty years. Oh Denny, please leave me alone. Be a good girl and go away.

Helga will save me from her. Sip. Helga will lead my mind back into pleasant places. Sip.

What Alan saw in that mug was his own death. I can see mine in this glass, taste it on my tongue, feel it in the forgetfulness creeping across this brain. There are many things I used to remember, used to depend on remembering which I cannot remember now. Helen and I must have had many calm and pleasant times in ten or twelve years together but I cannot remember them. We must have had many holidays together. I cannot remember one. The braincells containing these memories have dissolved. There is now a black hole in my brain where light once shone, a hole which will get larger day by day until everything I know, everything I am has slid into it. Sip. Sip. Poor Alan, you were appalled by the sight of your death. You must have loved life. I loved life in those days but now I can take it or let it alone.

So in the private viewing theatre Helga sits watching for a second time a film of her tallslenderhandsomelonghaired blonde self having these tight jeans and blouse ripped off by the wire then stumbling through weeds all nude except for little kilt of rags around bum and cunt until she falls at the feet of Hugo and Cupid etcetera. But what is she wearing in the theatre itself? Verimportant that. In the absence of solid cuddleable women it is verimportant to rember to imagine desirable containers for them. Helga wears a crisp tight white blouse which emphasises small firm breasts, and very baggy jeans which I saw on a girl a few days or a few years ago. They were pale blue and gathered into the ankles like harem pants. Apart from the anklebands and waistband the only line which clung tight to the body was the seam between the legs so the anal cleft was quite distinct while the cloth rippled and flirted over her moving hips. Can women feel the pressure of jeans like an erotic caress? What was Helen wearing when I saw her enter the college canteen? I cannot remember, though the style clearly indicated a drama or art student. She looked wonderful. She was moving through a crowd of men so her face was a little disdainful as it floated above her tall, slender, handsome, longnecked body, turning slightly from side to side in search of someone she knew.

She was looking for Alan. When she saw him her face stopped being disdainful and became a little too bright and eager. As she came purposefully toward us he whispered, “Damn,” under his breath but he greeted her with a pleasant, “Hullo Helen. What brings you here?”

She said, “Well, the show does. When can you come? We're rehearsing every night this week and it starts in a fortnight.”

“Ah, the show. Naturally, the show. Yes of course, the show. Sit down and tell me exactly what you are talking about.”

He pulled up a chair beside him and she sat down looking depressed and helpless. She said, “You've forgotten about it and you promised you wouldn't. I met you at a drama school party three weeks ago. You said you might help with the lighting of a show some friends and I are putting on at the festival.”

“I remember perfectly,” said Alan, “and of course I will help you with the lighting. Where is this show going on?”

“In Edinburgh of course. At the festival. We've got in with some people who have rented this fantastic place, an old condemned sweet-factory right in the centre. We can move in whenever we like. There's so much room we'll be able to sleep on the premises – all kinds of things will be happening there, jazz groups and folk groups and dancing and an all-night café with a cabaret. Art students are decorating the place. You
must
come. You'll enjoy it thoroughly and everyone will love to have you.”

“I'm sorry,” said Alan, “I can't visit Edinburgh in the near future. I am committed to solving the case of the nine Coptic prelates and the engineer's thumb. Luckily you don't need me. I'm brilliant, of course, but notoriously unreliable. The man you need is here, beside you.”

Helen hardly glanced at me. In a distressed voice she said, “Are you sure you can't help us, Alan?”

He placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder and said, “You're a beautiful piece, Helen, but you ought to plug yourself in. The slightly undersized, perfectly formed unit I am offering you is a unique man. Many ignore him because he is obviously inoffensive. They are idiots. This man is magic. Describe anything you want done and he will do it quietly, expertly, and – if you arouse his blood a little – quickly. I am not suggesting that you seduce him. He gets all the real sex he needs. But he has been confused by the movies and the underwear advertisements. He wants some high life and glamour. In return for your company in a crowded room and a few sparkling glances (you know the sort I mean) he'll give you all the services of a first-rate workman. He operates with an astonishing lack of friction.”

Helen had to glance at me then. I said firmly, “I know nothing about stage lighting.”

“Good,” cried Alan, “you will teach yourself to do it properly. You know my methods. Apply them, and soon lovely girls like Helen here will be flitting around you in all kinds of fascinating undress. They will all passionately want to be loved – by the public – but will be shadows in the dark, whispers in the void unless you press the right switches. Think of the power you will wield! You won't have time to
feel guilty about having so much beauty within touching distance because THE SHOW MUST GO ON.”

In the cavelike rooms of that vast old factory in the shadow of the castle I saw Helen in jeans which exactly suited those lovely legs which stopped bleeding and we were married in six weeks so go away Denny the show MUST go on but only if Helga's jeans cuddle her cunt like an erotic caress. An idea. An orgasm race using hairdryers.

Helga, Big Momma, Superb and Janine stand in a row wearing very tight shrinkfit jeans which have not yet been shrunk. Ropes tie their wrists high above their heads but they do not hang from these although they would have to do so if someone pulled off their steep wedgesoled sandals with, ah, eight-inch high heels. These open-toed sandals allow me to imagine perfectly each lacquered scarlet toenail. The bucklestrap circling each ankle has a little bell fastened to the side of it, the sort pampered pussies have on their collars. Tinkle tinkle. A pleasant sound, yahooohay, a yawn. I am very tired. Where was I? Yes the high heels make my women stick out their bums while the ropes round their wrists stretch their limbs as taut as guitarstrings. But they are standing astride astride astride astride because each foot rests, not on the floor, but on an isolated block or brick which is twelve inches high and far apart from its neighbour. Singly each woman stands like an upsidedown capital Y and together they look like a short row of
 
 
 
 
yes
 
 
 
 
yes
 
 
 
 
yes but try not to get carried away. They have been standing a long time like this, they are very tired, yahooohay. Their sweatdamp white silk shirts (no bras) are unbuttoned but in different states. Helga's white silk unbuttoned shirt is still tucked into her jeans. Big Momma's white silk yahooohay, I mean unbuttoned shirt is torn in two, each ragged half dangles from a sleeve which has sunk into a ragged wreath round the armpit. The white silk shirts of the other two hang wide open outside their jeans. This is a soft pillow. Yahoohay sleepy all my women wear the same kind of white silk shirt unbuttoned but in different states, my mummies share the shame mind of shite sick dirt, gunbuttered sluts in stiffening states
 
 
 
 
hullo my dears
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
yes carry on
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y You bastard Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Yahoohay, another of those dreams. I have not dreamed that for twenty-five years. I used to dream it all the time.