The Colour of Memory (16 page)

Shoulders still aching from carrying the cans of paint I got back to the phone and answered an apparently random series of questions.

Have I heard of Sellafield? Do I know what it does? (I’m not sure: something to do with nuclear fuel – these interviews made you feel really ignorant sometimes.) Do I own a carpet
cleaner? Would I like to? How often do I shave? Do I use an electric shaver? Do I wish I did? Have I heard of the new butter that you do not have to spread? (‘Yes!’ I snapped, eager to
be of help, ‘Yes!’) Who would I vote for? What do I think are the most important issues of our time? How many times a week do I take exercise? Would I be interested in using a new tummy
flab reducer? How many hours’ television do I watch per week? Which programmes?

‘About two hours a week – all sport, plus three or four hours of “The World at War” on video but I suppose that doesn’t count.’

‘The World at War?’

‘It’s a kind of hobby,’ I said, and with that the interview came to an end. I put the phone down feeling slightly bewildered. Usually I felt pleased and happy when I’d
done one, as if I’d played my part in shaping reality. It seemed a much more effective form of political involvement than voting. Even in a survey with a large sample I was still speaking on
behalf of tens of thousands of other people. My every opinion got multiplied many times over and in the course of time most subjects would probably be broached. Bearing this in mind I usually
tried, when asked to express an opinion or preference, to pitch my answers within a broad consensus of approval or disapproval. There was no point in voicing opinions which were so extreme or
confessing to habits so insistently peculiar as to consign you to an irrelevant one per cent of hardened eccentrics. As a general rule it was useful to ally yourself with the twenty per cent who
dissented mildly on any given issue. If you played your cards tactically you could be influential in preventing a new chocolate bar coming on to the market; or you could be part of a significant
minority who thought English newspapers should be printed in Arabic. We were living in an era of strong opinions: anything was possible.

Before getting down to painting my living-room – that morning I had realised quite suddenly that I couldn’t stand the piss-coloured wallpaper a moment longer – I made some tea
and fiddled with the radio. I wanted to listen to one of those pirate radio stations that play great music all day but I couldn’t find one. I couldn’t find
one
; I found
hundreds, all cancelling each other out: snatches of reggae blending into chat shows, lunch-time plays and chart shows. I got a faint echo of soul music but as soon as I moved the knob the barest
fraction I lost the soul and ended up with what seemed to be Belgian Radio 2. So many people wanted to have their say that nobody could make themselves heard. These days it was a twenty-four hour
rush-hour on the airwaves, and at certain times it was probably possible to pick up every kind of music: everything from Bach to go-go in one ear-drum bursting roar, the whole of the world’s
music in a single second.

I settled for silence – for the noise of the traffic – and levered open a can of emulsion. Magnolia: not a colour to get excited about, hardly a colour at all, not even not a colour.
It hugged the pot neatly, the very image of soon to be disrupted serenity.

Slapping the paint on the wide expanse of walls was very pleasant – you got extremely good mileage out of those rollers. Unfortunately you also got a thin film of magnolia sprayed over
carpet, chairs and stereo, none of which I’d properly covered with rags and newspapers. I only noticed this when someone rapped on the door and I made my way through the wreckage to see who
it was.

‘Foomie!’ She was eating a pale yellow banana.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked. I kissed her carefully to avoid getting paint over her clothes.

‘This is not your lucky day. I’m decorating,’ I said, reboiling the kettle. ‘Actually maybe it is your lucky day . . .’

She was shaking her head.

‘It’s creative, stimulating and great fun. Good practice for when you want to do your flat. I’ll give you a few tips.’

‘I bet. You’re covered in paint – look you must have stepped in some: you’re treading white footprints everywhere.’

‘Oh fuck. It’s not white, it’s magnolia actually. See, you’re picking up useful knowledge already and you learn even quicker on the job.’

‘Not me Michelangelo.’

‘Go on.’

‘Out of the question.’

In the end she agreed to help on condition that she was able to drink as much lager and smoke as much grass as was ‘reasonably possible’.

‘What does that mean?’

‘As much as I want.’

‘It’s a deal,’ I said, handing over money for her to pick up beer from the off-licence. While she was out I sorted out a sweatshirt and some old trousers for her to wear. From
then on we were really flying. We drank beer almost continually and stopped for a joint every hour. I slapped on dripping coats of emulsion and she touched up neatly around the edges. In what
seemed hardly any time at all the flat was transformed into a bright haze of not-quite white. The thick, fresh smell of paint felt heavy in our nostrils. By the time we finished I was so thickly
covered in paint that I cracked as I walked; standing against one of the walls I was invisible except for two dark eyes. Foomie had only a couple of smears of paint on her hands and a small white
dot the size of a mole on her face.

When I’d had a bath and peeled off my emulsion skin I cooked some sort of vegetable mush which Foomie ate without complaint. I tipped the dishes into the sink and we sat in the
bright-smelling living-room, playing music quietly and drinking tequila. I turned on the main light, dyeing the night outside a deeper blue. The patter of rain.

‘Is this the trumpet you bought from Steranko?’ Foomie said, opening the case.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you learned to play it yet?’

‘No. I couldn’t get the hang of it at all. I was really determined to learn. For a while I practised for about twenty minutes a day. Then it dropped to ten. Then I just practised
whenever I felt like it which was about once a week. After that I just left it lying around because it looked nice. Now I keep it in the case to stop it getting dusty. It’s principal function
now is to serve as a symbol of non-achievement.’

‘I’m like that with my self-defence classes. I go for a couple of weeks. Then for some reason I can’t go and after that I stop going for about six months. Then I go again and
wish I’d kept at it.’

We listened to the music which was only slightly louder than the rain.

‘What shall we do this evening?’ I said after a while. ‘What’s Steranko doing?’

‘He’s having dinner at his brother’s. He won’t be back till late.’

‘So shall we do something?’

‘Yes.’

‘What would you like to do?’

‘Let’s go out dancing.’

‘I knew you were going to say that.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘I hate discos.’

‘We wouldn’t go to a disco,’ Foomie said. ‘We’d go to a club.’

‘All clubs are really discos.’

‘Have you ever been to one?’

‘Several. Hundreds. Years ago I went to loads and I never had a moment’s pleasure in any of them. All I did was watch people having what I thought was a good time but which I now
realise was simply a highly ritualised form of boredom. Besides I’m allergic to clubs.’

‘I love dancing,’ Foomie said. ‘Don’t you like dancing?’

‘Hate it. Can’t stand it. It’s one of those things I’m really glad I don’t do. Every time I don’t do it I get a small thrill of pleasure. It’s like
playing chess or doing crossword puzzles. Chess, I don’t like to even think about; I can rest easy knowing that it’s something I’m never going to be interested in and will never
regret not having taken up. As for crosswords . . .’

‘We’re supposed to be talking about dancing.’

‘Right, actually I sometimes have an urge to dance but I’m always too embarrassed to actually do it.’

‘It doesn’t matter how you dance. It’s just whether you do it.’ As she finished speaking Foomie started dancing a little, moving slightly to an imagined beat. She held
her hands up like fists and moved them slowly and rhythmically, her eyes half-shut.

‘See?’ she said, rocking her head to the beat. ‘Come on: groove that body.’

‘Can’t I just watch you and imagine you’ve got no clothes on?’ I said.

There was a sharp intake of breath as Foomie prepared to shout.

‘I’m joking, I’m joking!’ I said. ‘Look, I’m dancing, see? My heads nodding, my foot’s tapping.’

I went out to the kitchen to fetch the bottle of tequila. When I came back Foomie was standing at the window, looking out.

‘Hmmn, chilly,’ she said, putting on her cardigan.

The block opposite was invisible except for the angular pattern of windows which appeared as squares of coloured light – warm yellow, mauve blue – hanging in emptiness, capillaried
by the scribbled silhouettes of twigs. The room was filled with the cool breath of the rain. The sound of dripping trees, the faint moan of traffic. I poured Foomie another drink.

‘We could go to the cinema. What’s on at the Ritzy?’ I said.

‘Oh, it’s that stupid Japanese film about a man getting his willy cut off. What’s it called? “I’m not a Corridor” or something like that.’

‘I’ll tell you what we could do,’ I said, laughing and reaching for the bag of grass. ‘There’s a dog fight tonight in Stockwell. We could go to that.’

Foomie shook her head.

‘What about badger-baiting over in Essex?’

‘Badger-baiting is the pits,’ said Foomie. ‘What time is it? How much longer before I can go home?’

‘It’s early yet and we’re having a great time . . .’

‘Like a house smouldering.’

We ended up going to the Atlantic. Foomie walked straight in; I got delayed at the door.

‘You want sinsee?’

‘No I’m fine.’

‘Black ash?’

‘No man I’m skint.’

‘How much money you got?’

‘I’ve just got enough for a couple of drinks . . .’

‘You want a five pound draw?’

‘I told you, I’m skint . . .’

The guy got fed up with me and waved me into the pub. Foomie bought two glasses of beer and we waited for the band to come on.

It was the first time I’d been in the Atlantic for a while. Since the night of the raids on Railton Road the pub had got into that cycle of dealing, arguments, fights and police. Despite
this, it had been getting more and more crowded and Foomie and I devoted a lot of our energy to making sure we didn’t nudge somebody or spill their drink. Previously it had always been nice
to get stoned and listen to music here; now I found myself overcome by waves of gulping paranoia.

Ray, an American who had been living in Brixton for a year, came over to where we were standing. I introduced him to Foomie and he told us how a gang was out to get him. He’d got into a
fight after someone had spat in his hair while he was on a bus. When the bus stopped he dragged the guy on to the pavement and cracked him in the mouth a couple of times. By this time the
guy’s friends had got off the bus too and Ray had had to run for it. Now the whole gang were out to get him.

The purpose of this story was to impress Foomie; he looked at her almost continually while he spoke. He even looked at her when he asked me what I would have done in his shoes.

‘On the bus?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing? I can’t believe it.’

‘I’d rather get spat on than beaten-up.’

‘Man, you can’t live like that. You’ve got to have some self-respect.’

‘That kind of thing is a question of self-preservation, not self-respect.’

‘So you’ll let people do anything to you? I can’t believe it.’

‘Look,’ I said, wondering what Foomie was making of all this. ‘I don’t like the idea of being spat on but apart from the unpleasantness – having to wash it off or
whatever – it doesn’t really bother me. Obviously I think the guy who does it is a right fucking bastard but I’m not going to do anything about it. It’s like a code, that
idea of self-respect. Either you buy into it or you don’t. That’s the one good thing about fighting; it usually takes place between people who share the same values. But I don’t
share those values. That’s not where my self-respect lies.’

‘Where does it lie then?’

‘That’s a good question. Maybe I haven’t got any at all – which makes life a lot easier . . .’

I thought of the guy who’d been beaten up on the tube. Nobody had done anything to help him; we were all paralysed by our fear. But there was a logic to our fear as well, a logic that we
all shared: better he gets a pasting than I get stabbed trying to help.

Ray, meanwhile, was talking to Foomie who responded to his questions with the same formal politeness that I’d noticed when I first met her. As Ray spoke she slipped her arm through mine.
Suddenly, off to the right, three young guys with knives were slashing at a big guy who batted them away with a bar stool. As they caught the bright lights of the stage their knives left gleaming
hoops and arcs hanging in the darkness. The four of them gradually carved a path across the floor of the pub and disappeared around the corner of the bar.

‘Let’s go,’ said Foomie.

As we walked up Cold Harbour Lane I asked her what she thought of Ray. Laughing, she formed a circle with her thumb and index finger and shook her left hand slowly.

In the newspaper I read about the death of a violinist in a famous quartet. Like the other members of the quartet he was highly respected as an individual musician but it was
the quartet itself rather than the individual members of it that was well known. Anyone who enjoyed chamber music would have heard of them but only a small percentage of these would have been able
to name any of the members. Together they recorded complete cycles of Beethoven and Schubert quartets. When the violinist died – he was in his sixties – the quartet decided to disband
rather than try to continue with a replacement. They had been playing together for about thirty years.