A Friend of the Family (22 page)

Bud and Gervase started to get more and more animated
the nearer they got to the doors of the Old White Horse. They started singing again and Bud started doing Buddy Holly-style air guitar, his big meringue of a quiff bouncing up and down like an overexcited poodle. Ned followed them dismally into the pub and waited at the back while Gervase and Bud queued up for drinks at the packed bar. He looked round him while he waited. To his right was an enormous whale of a man wearing a bomber jacket designed for someone half his size. His head was shaved completely bald save for a solitary ginger tuft at the front, which he’d teased into a tiny quiff that looked like a bunny’s tail. To his left stood a rock-like man in head-to-toe black leather, with bumpy skin and jet-black hair. His fringe had been coiled into a grease-slicked ringlet that sat on his forehead and tickled the end of his nose.

The girls of this new and undiscovered world seemed to come in two main varieties. There was the peroxideponytailed and leather-jacketed type with, on the whole, a slightly hatched-faced appearance, not complemented by enormous black beetles for eyebrows. The alternative was the more feminine, pin-curled and vintage-clothed variety with dirndl skirts and stiletto heels.

Ned fingered his bum-fluff beard and looked down at his Nikes and felt hugely, enormously out of place.

Where did all these people come from? Ned never saw people like this walking down Beulah Hill, on the Tube, in airports, on the television. Where did they all live? What did they do when they weren’t going to Robert Gordon gigs in Wood Green? What did they all
do for a living? Did they have families? Children? Did they flatten their quiffs and mothball their leather jackets when they got home?

Ned remembered Tony going through a brief phase of being a rockabilly when he was a teenager. He’d Brylcreemed his hair into a quiff and worn faded checked shirts from Flip and brothel creepers from Robot. But it had just been a phase – it had passed, and by the time Tony was nineteen he was a fledgling yuppie, buying himself suits from Cecil Gee. But these people, they weren’t teenagers going through a phase – they were living it, breathing it, doing it,
believing
it.

‘There you go, mate.’ Gervase emerged from the throng at the bar clutching two plastic pints of beer. Bud followed behind with an orange juice and lemonade with a straw in it, looking like a slightly over-coiffed schoolboy. Ned downed his plastic lager in about ten gulps while he stood and chatted with Bud and Gervase.

‘So. Bud,’ he said, hoping to gain a little insight into the ageing-rockers scene, ‘what do you do?’

‘Civil servant.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. I’m chief executive in charge of paperclips. And vice president of retractable pencils.’

‘He works for the Town Planning Office in Croydon,’ said Gervase, helpfully. ‘Office-supplies manager.’

Bud nodded enthusiastically. ‘Been there twelve years,’ he said proudly. As they chatted it transpired that Bud lived in a three-bedroom house in Shirley with his wife and their three kids (one of whom was a teenager). Any
money he had left over after paying the mortgage and bills went on his car and his clothes and he was, Ned realized as they talked, truly, unapologetically happy with his lot.

‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘if I was to win the Lottery, I’d keep, say, fifty, sixty grand. Just enough to pay off the mortgage, pay for a couple of decent holidays. Then I’d give the rest away. Wouldn’t want it. It might
ruin
everything. You know?’

Ned nodded, not knowing, but wishing more than anything that he did. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the sort of happiness that could potentially be ‘ruined’ by three million quid.

His parents had it, though, he thought. They’d attained Bud-like levels of contentment. Both of them loved everything about their lives. They loved their big messy house, their jobs, their kids,
each other.
And his brothers were on their way to existential nirvana, too. They both had job-satisfaction, self-confidence, great girlfriends. Even Gervase seemed content with his lot, in his own strange way. And now that all Ned’s friends were coupling off and climbing the career ladder – where did that leave him? Twenty-seven, no career, no flat, no girlfriend.

What was wrong with him? If runty little Bud with his rat-teeth and strange taste in cars could find true happiness, then why couldn’t he? Ned was better-looking than Bud, he was taller, younger, better educated, less
weird,
yet Bud had everything and Ned had nothing – except his ex-girlfriend’s toenail clippings.

Ned sighed and looked down into the bottom of his
empty plastic pint. And then he thought about Monday night and his meeting with Carly. Oh yes – what a truly depressing experience that had been. Jesus. He really was all alone now. He couldn’t turn to anyone else to make him feel better about things. There was no soft cushion of Carly, no ever-available circle of friends – even his family didn’t seem to get together as frequently as they used to. How do you start again at twenty-seven, he wondered to himself? How do you make a fresh start? Maybe you couldn’t. Jesus, what a horrible thought. He’d blown it. He was never going to have what Bud and Sean and Tony had. He’d turn into a reclusive weirdo. He’d end up looking forward to watching Simon playing in his ten-pin bowling tournaments in Streatham on a Friday night. Jesus – he’d probably end up being best friends with Gervase. He might even get his hair cut into a quiff and… Oh God. Why the hell had he ever gone to Australia? Why hadn’t he just stayed here like a normal human being and got on with his life?

Ned marched to the bar and ordered another round of drinks. He was starting to feel quite panicky and maudlin. He needed to get drunk. Very drunk. Ugly drunk. He necked his pint while he was still at the bar and ordered another one and by the time they finally moved through to the stable block at the back, where the gig was being held, Ned was feeling decidedly unsteady.

Bud disappeared after a few minutes to talk to some mates and Ned and Gervase stood in amiable silence at the back of the hall watching the support band. There
was something strangely soothing about the atmosphere in here, about standing with Gervase among all these odd people, watching a band, feeling pissed. Ned turned to look at Gervase in profile, at his flashy purple shirt, razor-sharp hair and pointy boots, and felt a sudden overwhelming urge to hug him. Gervase turned to look at him.

‘You all right?’

‘Uh-huh.’Ned turned away abruptly and looked at the band.

He really wanted to talk to Gervase. He was getting that chocolaty feeling in his stomach again and he had so much on his mind. He hesitated for a moment before turning back to Gervase. ‘Am I…’ he began, ‘am I wearing a cape tonight?’

Gervase smiled and looked him up and down. ‘Yeah.’

‘Well, how come you didn’t say anything?’

‘Thought I’d give you a break. I could tell I was getting on your nerves.’

‘What does it look like?’

Gervase turned and squinted at him. ‘Scared and pathetic’

Ned nodded keenly. That was exactly how he was feeling.

‘Wanna talk about it?’ said Gervase, grimacing as he took the final drag on a cigarette and dropped it to the floor.

‘I thought you said you didn’t like talking about stuff?’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it – I said I wasn’t any good
at it. Subtle difference, Ned. But I can listen. I’m good at listening. Wanna tell me what you’re so scared of?’

Ned looked at him thoughtfully and then nodded. ‘But you’ve got to promise me you won’t say anything to anyone else. To Mum or Dad or my brothers. Promise?’

Gervase gave him his Scout’s honour. ‘The very soul of discretion,’ he said, ‘that’s what I am.’

And then, with his mouth an inch away from Gervase’s ear to be heard over the live music, Ned told him everything. He told him about Carly and their disastrous night out, how much he missed her and how scared he was that he was missing the boat, that everyone was leaving him behind. He told him about Monica and how he’d done a runner and was now being plagued by rude text messages and unsavoury parts of her person. He told him how even though it made him really angry he still couldn’t stop feeling guilty and worrying about her, how she was in his thoughts all the time, how it was like even though she was on the other side of the planet he still couldn’t escape her. And as Ned talked he could feel all his deepest fears dissolving into a big warm mulch, like he’d been emotionally constipated and Gervase’s ear was a pint of prune juice. He’d never felt like this before, he’d never had this sense of total and utter honesty and, more importantly, of being truly listened to. It was like there was some kind of invisible telegraph wire between his mouth and Gervase’s ear and his thoughts were being transmitted directly into Gervase’s head without the awkwardness of having to translate them into cumbersome words first. He felt like his
mouth and Gervase’s ear were all alone in the room, hermetically sealed in a warm, pink bubble. It was like being on E but a hundred times better.

‘Well,’ said Gervase thoughtfully, when Ned had finally finished speaking. ‘Well, well, well.’ He pulled a Chesterfield out of his top pocket and lit it. ‘You feeling a bit better now?’

‘Er – yeah,’ said Ned, ‘definitely.’

‘Good,’ said Gervase, patting his shoulder, ‘good.’

Ned waited for a moment, expecting Gervase to say something, to comment on the litany of human patheticness he’d just regaled him with. But he didn’t say a word. Just stood there, smoking his fag, watching the band.

Ned felt himself deflate a little. But then Gervase turned round and looked at him. ‘Monica,’ he said, ‘she’s not your responsibility, all right?’

‘Yes, but she
feels
like my responsibility. All the time. For three years and even now. I can’t get rid of her.’

‘What you want to do, Ned, is
delegate.
Pass the baton. Yeah?’

‘No. What do you mean?’

‘I mean – you wanna hand responsibility over to someone else. Her family, for example. Give them a ring. Tell them you’re worried. Tell them what she’s been doing. Then
they
can worry about her instead
of you.
You’ve done your bit, Ned. It’s time to pass the buck.’

Ned nodded enthusiastically. Of course, he thought, her parents. He had their address in his book at home. That was the thing to do. Definitely.

‘And I’ll tell you another thing, Ned. You want to try and be a bit more
philosophical
about things.’

‘What – think about them more?’

‘No, Ned. Think about them
less.
Everything in life happens for a reason, Ned. I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true. There’s a pattern to life and if you just stop worrying and stressing, if you just relax a little bit, then you can see it.’

‘What?’

‘The pattern, Ned – the fucking pattern. And you’ll see that, if you’re a good man, everything’ll work out in the end. Just let go, man. Stop trying to control everything, let go, see where life takes you. You’re a good man, Ned. Good things will come to you. Chill.’

Ned nodded mutely. And then the support band finished their set and Gervase went to the bar to get another round and Ned stood there swaying slightly in among this sea of sweaty, boozy, slightly bizarre humanity, feeling completely shell-shocked.
Chill
, he thought,
see where life takes me.
But wasn’t that exactly what he’d been doing all his life? Wasn’t that the Story of Ned? All he’d done for the past twenty-odd years was chill – and look where life had brought him: Wood fucking Green.

‘All right?’

Ned looked around and then down at Bud.

‘Yeah.’

‘You enjoying it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Ned. ‘It’s different. But, yeah.’

Bud grinned at him. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how long’ve you known Gervase, then?’

Ned shrugged. ‘A couple of weeks.’

Bud looked a bit surprised. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘right.’

‘You?’ said Ned, expecting Bud to say that they’d know each since they were kids.

‘Same.’

‘What – you mean you’ve only just met him?’

‘Yeah. Met him at a record fair in Addington. Got talking about music. Funny – I got the impression you’d known him longer. That he was some kind of family friend, you know?’

‘No,’ said Ned, ‘he met my mum in a pub three months ago and she rented him a room. I’ve only known him since I got back from Australia. Funny – I thought you’d known him for a while, too. You seem to have such a strong rapport.’

Bud nodded. Yeah! That’s it! That’s spot on,’ he said, ‘we’re on the same wavelength.’ He waggled his fingers out from his forehead to demonstrate the wavelength. ‘It’s incredible, man. I feel like I’ve known him for ever.’Bud pulled himself up, then, and smoothed his quiff, obviously feeling he’d been a bit too forthcoming about his feelings for another man. ‘He’s a good bloke, though, that one. Diamond. Solid gold.’ He cleared his throat and turned back to watch the roadies loading equipment on to the stage, and Ned stood there wondering more than ever who the hell Gervase was and why he suddenly felt like he loved him.

Horse Shit on Beulah Hill

Ned ended up drinking somewhere in the region of eight pints that night. There might have been more, he couldn’t remember. He’d been so pissed that he’d managed to get into Bud’s car really easily at the end of the night and didn’t recall feeling any discomfort whatsoever. All he could remember was being dropped off on Beulah Hill at some unspecific time of the night, falling backwards out of the car and landing straight in a pile of what had at first appeared to be mud but soon identified itself as horse shit.
Horse shit
. On Beulah Hill. In the middle of the night. For fuck’s sake.

He’d had a shower when he got in. He couldn’t remember much about that either but he had a very uneasy feeling that Gervase might have helped him get undressed. He’d woken up this morning completely naked with very strange hair where it had dried against his pillow in the night.

He’d also woken up with one of the worst hangovers he could remember since his university days. It had been so long since he’d had a hangover like this that he’d actually been under the impression that he didn’t
get
hangovers any more. He thought he was hardened to it,
that he could take his alcohol like a real man. But what he realized, as he contemplated the extent of his unwellness that morning, was that these days he simply didn’t drink as much as he’d drunk as a student. And he also didn’t drink things with Pernod in them. He’d subconsciously developed a cut-off point over the years – five pints usually did it these days – then he’d switch to water or go home. But he’d felt so morose last night, so alone and out of his depth, that he’d lost sight of his usual boundaries. And actually, as bad as he was feeling now, he was glad in a way that he’d lost control. He’d had a top, top night.