Meeting the English (15 page)

Through Ivan, Myfanwy had understood that, when it came to young men, one must remember one's Jung. Jake was in the wandering phase of life, when a young man must separate from the Father and find his own Identity. But Jake's Father had failed him and that other Father, his college, had cruelly rejected him. Jake's psychic landscape, therefore, was a blasted heath of terror and insecurity. Stumbling across it, Jake had sought to return to his First Home (Yewtree). This must have been around the eighth of the month, when he'd eaten the eggs in the Finchley Road. Stumbling through the house, he had found not only a False Mother in his Father's bed (he was surely used to that) but a False Son in his very own room. Yes, in his very own Primal Attic, he had stumbled on Struan Robertson, with his incomprehensible accent, his horrible cheap clothes. One could only imagine the psychic damage. No wonder he was angry with his Mother! She, Myfanwy, had allowed this to happen. She had moved Struan in herself.

‘An excellent arrangement,' said Shirin, prissy posh. And Struan Robertson, so grey and slow with his long spade fingers, like a great louse, leant over Phillip's wheelchair and said: ‘Mr Prys signalled clearly, Mrs Prys, I saw it.' Struan Robertson, blocking the deal with the Literary Giant and Jake's future with it. By now, Myfanwy Prys' body had formed a strong muscular vector of anger: she was sitting up, in fact, flushed with rage. It was Struan and his vaunted skills with the commode who let Shirin carry on living in Cloud Cuckoo Land and Yewtree Row. It was Struan who saved Juliet from the reality of the incontinence pad and turned her priggish and cold. Struan who infected even Giles with his foolish tales, his unrealistic optimism, his ridiculous, repeated, nonsensical tale of a blink.

And just then the telephone rang, and Myfanwy answered it with a fungal-creamed hand, and on the other end was Mr Riley.

14

Struan wore his checked shirt to the pub. And his trousers with the elastic belt. Juliet said he should wear his singlet and shorts instead, but what sort of person wore their underwear outside?

In his pocket, Struan put the £10 from the bank. He had a feeling he could spend all of that, easily, this evening. Half a week's money. But his dad had always bought the drinks in the pub, carefully asking each person what they wanted before going up the bar and coming back with everything arranged on a tray and an Irn-Bru for Struan and a bitter shandy for himself. At his wake, he'd had an open bar, special instructions, though his gran had rued it afterwards.

Besides, if he bought the drinks, he could check the drinks. He himself would have bitter shandy. That didn't get you drunk. And Juliet was sticking to the Diet Coke, whatever she said. Juliet was sixteen, and she needed to remember that. He was really disturbed by the sight of her prancing along the pavement in heels and a glittery jacket and that wee pink dress. She didn't use to have that jacket. She'd put on make-up, definitely, besides, and brushed her hair all up and shiny and crimped – she looked pretty but—

‘What are you so worried about, Struan?' said Juliet.

‘Your dad,' he said, and it became true.

‘What about him?' said Juliet.

‘Just – you know. Is he getting better, and that.'

‘Yeah, well I hope he does now, you know,' said Juliet, talking in that peculiar, helium way she did in the evenings. ‘Honestly, I do. I quite like him now. I didn't used to, so that's good. It's normal to like your dad, isn't it? And I like living here now, with him and Shirin, so I want to carry on in the term time. I don't care if I've failed everything, I can go to the comp. You can help me with my maths, Struan, cos I've one hundred per cent failed that, you wait and see tomorrow, I'm so bad at maths it's really hilarious. Mum doesn't want me to, she wants me to move back in with her which is really mad, it's much better for me in Yewtree and I'm very helpful too, aren't I? And anyway I've got a secret weapon on Mum now, do you know she's been spending my education money on Pot Noodles and Mr Riley, and so I can say to her, Mum, you've given away any right to tell me what to do…'

‘On Mr Riley?' said Struan.

‘Yeah,' said Juliet, ‘Shirin told me, it's mad, but maybe it's because of Cricklewood going pear-shaped, I reckon it is, you know.'

‘Cricklewood?' said Struan. ‘Pears?' And they arrived at the pub. It was right there on the street with tables on the pavement and its swing doors pinned open on its woody dark mouth. Juliet plunked herself down on a chair. ‘Nice pub. Bagsie an outside seat, Struan. Outside is best.'

And Struan's wandering anxieties switched from the question of what was up with Phillip to if it was mebbe a good idea to sit outside because then you could pretend you weren't really in the pub at all but had just paused on your way home to talk to an acquaintance, or if it was just asking for trouble because a passing policeman would definitely spot the both of them for underage.

‘Struan,' hissed Juliet, ‘take off your Cuik face or we'll never get served. I totally look old enough to go in.'

‘You do not,' said Struan. ‘No way.'

‘Way,' said Juliet, her hand on his arm, and she would have pinched him, had not Mr Fox bustled out the pub in his 501s, his sunglasses pushed up on his head.

‘Struan!' he said, and ‘Juliet!' and most confusingly, he stooped down to her chair and kissed her on the cheek.

‘You look,' he murmured, ‘tremendous.'

‘Mr Fox,' said Struan, ‘will I get the drinks?'

Mr Fox was called Ronald. Ron. It was of course impossible for Struan to call him this, but Juliet could manage it. No problem. Juliet could ask him about his new job too, the one at the publisher's, as confidently as if she'd worked in one herself. Mr Fox was in charge of the ‘slush pile' and he wasn't being paid much but it was really inspiring, he could really allow himself to be creative in an environment like that.

‘And what do you do, Juliet?' asked Mr Fox. He hadn't let Struan buy the round. He'd got a jug of a browny-coloured drink instead, with strawberries in it. It was called Pimm's, and tasted of Irn-Bru and Tixylix, but Struan was worried there was alcohol in it. He was worried Mr Fox thought Juliet was older than she was.

Juliet said she was a student. On a sort of a gap year. And she saw Struan about to say something, and jumped in. ‘I'm not much of a one for studying, actually. I drove my teachers wild.'

‘I bet you did,' said Mr Fox.

‘Not like Struan,' said Juliet.

‘No,' said Mr Fox, ‘Struan, now, he's a wonder. Did the Highers come out well, Struan?'

‘Aye,' said Struan. ‘Aye, Ah was pleased.'

‘You see,' said Mr Fox, ‘Struan even survived my teaching,' and there was a pause in which Struan didn't say anything at all.

‘Was it really hard up there?' said Juliet.

‘It was,' said Mr Fox. ‘It was a hard, hard school. Rough kids. Lives shattered, just shattered by the closing of the mines.' He leant back in the chair, thumbs in the pockets of his 501s. ‘Teaching, Juliet. You give out all day, and come home at night and know you've done no more than put a sticking-plaster on a wound, shone the smallest, smallest light on a dark life.'

Struan raised his eyebrows and sipped his drink. It was cold at first but had a strange burning effect in the pit of the stomach, followed by a flush all the way up the body. It almost certainly had alcohol in it. He remembered the morning: swimming in the pond. It seemed a terrible long time ago, another era. Mr Fox was still going on about Cuik.

‘You see,' he was saying, ‘you see, Juliet, these were communities built round a single industry. The mines. The mines or nothing—'

‘Dad's play is about that,' put in Juliet.

‘Yes,' said Mr Fox, ‘it is.
The Pit
is one of the few true works of art we have about a world like that. And that's why I chose to expose Struan to that text. But what it does not tackle – it can't, by definition – is what happens to that world when the mines go. When the spine, so to speak, is removed from that body.'

The drink pushed the blood to your nose. Like diving in the Pond full throttle. Like scanning the bottom of Cuik Baths for a rubber brick. Struan was suddenly sure of something. ‘Are you,' said Struan, ‘are you writing about that, by any chance, Mr Fox? About Cuik.'

‘Ron,' said Mr Fox. ‘Yes, Struan, I am. I am trying, shall we say…'

But it was Juliet who asked Mr Fox about his short stories. Struan turned his head into the cloud of lemon muddle that had appeared by his right shoulder and thought about Mr Mackay the science teacher. He'd never even written to him, after he got the certificate, to thank him. And he'd never asked Shirin yet about giving Phillip a dip. And then about Phillip, and the blink. They were all connected thoughts, all about Struan getting it wrong. He'd let Mr Mackay down, and now Phillip had asked Struan to help him and Struan was letting him down. But he didn't know how to not let him down. Who should he tell, about the blink? What should he say?

Juliet got out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Mr Fox. Mr Fox took one, got a lighter from his pocket and actually lit them both. Struan rose up in his chair and subsided again.

‘I'm allowed to smoke, Struan!' said Juliet, and, to Mr Fox, ‘Honestly! It's like living with the police!'

‘The po-lis,' said Mr Fox, in a mock Scots accent. ‘I can imagine. You know, Juliet, it's a sad fact, but everyone I've ever really liked smokes. I think it's an artist thing. A sort of death wish, you know?'

And away they puffed. Juliet was sort of waving her fag about, and leaning back in her chair a lot so that her chest popped out of the pink dress. Her wee brown jacket made her look older. Like a wee toughie. Struan swallowed the rest of his drink and felt its odd burning and bracing. He quite liked it. Mr Fox was going on about Cuik again. The narrow culture. How it wasn't just the poverty of the body but the poverty of the imagination that besieged those children.

‘Even Struan,' he said, ‘who goodness knows is as bright as they come. Even Struan couldn't see his way out of that trap. If there's one thing I take credit for, it's opening that door for him, forcing him out of that rut. Look at him now. Living with Phillip Prys. Eating London for breakfast. Who would ever have thought it?'

Struan thought about breakfast in London. Coffee from the wee machine in the hot pink kitchen. Juliet skipping by in her oversized T-shirt. A cold omelette. Shirin fluttering in, angelic in her painting smock. Bill and the pond. It was true that none of these things were in Cuik.

Two slim, hairy wrists with bracelets slid down on the table in front of Struan. He gazed upwards. They were attached to the heavy shoulders and chiselled jaw and blond fringe of Jake Prys.

‘Who indeed,' said Jake.

‘Jake,' said Juliet, ‘what are you doing here?'

And then there was a pause. Struan stood up.

‘You take my seat, Jake,' he said. ‘Mr Fox, this is Jake Prys, Juliet's brother. Jake, this is Mr Fox. He used to teach me English. I'll go to the bar, will I? What can I get you all?'

Struan got himself a pint of Pimm's. He didn't mean to – it just came out when he was doing the ordering. The drinks cost him £9.67, including a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, and he decided that was it for the night, it had to be. What he'd do was, he'd go home and check if Mr Prys was OK, and then, if she was around, maybe in the kitchen or even if she had the light on in her room (he could knock), he'd talk the whole thing through with Shirin. It's what he should have done in the first place, probably where he went wrong. Mr Prys was afraid of something, but you could understand that. His dad had been afraid of dying. Shirin knew about all that. Shirin had made him a shining picture of it all. Shirin would understand.

Yes. That was the notion. When he finished the drink, he'd push it to the middle of the table and say, ‘I'm pushing off for the night, good to see you all.' Which was what his dad used to say, on the rare occasions they'd gone into a pub on a Sunday. And then they would push off, Dad's hand on Struan's small shoulder. Except, thought Struan, arranging the drinks on a round tray, except Dad had never had a Juliet to cope with. A wee pink sixteen-year-old pretending she was ten years older than she was and making up – he thought that was a fair enough description of her behaviour – to his former English teacher, a person of dubious provenance now calling himself Ron. He couldn't just leave her, whatever she said. He'd introduced her to Mr Fox. He was in charge of the consequences, because you shouldn't start something you can't finish. Shirin was surely relying on him. When he stood up to go, he'd have to take Juliet with him—

‘Struan,' said Juliet, popping up at his elbow, ‘Celia's here.'

‘Is she?' said Struan. ‘Well, you'll have to get her drink, then, cos I'm skint.'

‘I haven't got any money,' said Juliet.

‘I'll give her yours, then,' said Struan, picking up the tray.

‘That's not the point, Struan,' said Juliet. ‘Stop a minute. Bend down, I need to whisper.'

Struan bent to Juliet's fat shiny mouth, and she hissed, in a blast of cigarettes: ‘I think my brother Jake is Celia's mystery man. You know, her midnight bone-jumper.'

‘Really?' said Struan.

‘Jake,' said Juliet, ‘said to me, he was just passing by, he's got a job near here, and I said, why aren't you in Edinburgh, and he said he was in Edinburgh, it was huge, but he is not in Edinburgh he is in Flask Walk, and I think he is taking money from Mum and saying he is in Edinburgh and all the time staying down here and shagging Celia and I said to Celia bring your boyfriend to the pub or I'll tell on you and I think Celia must have asked him to come out and not said she was meeting me, I think she did it on purpose. You see, it all makes sense.'