The Holy City (20 page)

In a twist of serpentine purple, the incense continued twining upwards as the pendulous silver thurible swung, temporarily obscuring the boy's darkly shining countenance, so overcome with emotion that his cheeks too were stained silver by his tears. As he gestured expansively before an altar heaped with blossoms. White flowers that
were clear and silent as his soul, a soul as radiant as the Eucharist itself.

As I bowed my head, my soul irrevocably snared, held for ever in abject bondage. But, paradoxically, also finding its release. For I had never experienced anything quite like this: gone now were the confusions, the cumulative assaults of fallen hope and wounded pride. And in their place, an inexpressible ecstasy.

Truly glorious.

For that simple reason — I still remained in a state of
excelsis
— I decided afterwards to make it my business to locate Dolly. Who did her shopping late, in the Five Star. Taking such a decision in itself was quite remarkable — an indication in itself of just how far weakness and timidity had fallen from me.

Thus, on the very dot of five o'clock, I found myself striding into the Five Star supermarket, and, as luck would have it, within seconds, happening upon the lady in question. And who looked, I have to say, even more beautiful than ever on this occasion.

I made it my business to engage her immediately in conversation. I couldn't stop talking, actually, such was the effect the performance had exerted. I don't think I had even switched off the engine of the Massey. I think, perhaps, that, in retrospect, I may have made her uneasy — displaying such an
effusive and quite forthright manner. I mean it's not what Protestants expect or tend to be comfortable with. But then Dolly had always been different, I persuaded myself. Always had been. A Protestant in a league of her own — that was how I'd always thought of Dolores McCausland. And why I felt certain that, given a moment or two, she would come round.

Which is the reason I found myself extremely startled, very taken aback indeed, when I heard her announce, very sharply, that she intended leaving town. Was packing her bags the following Thursday, in fact.

As soon as I heard her say it, almost immediately I found myself beginning to regret the cold detachment and indifference that had become a part of our relations towards the end. And couldn't stop thinking of all the fun we'd had in the beginning — all those nights in the Mayflower and the Good Times, singing and dancing: and how I was sad that it hadn't worked out.

For, at the back of it all, I think that Dolores had genuinely expected — had been confident, in fact — that she and I would eventually become engaged. But it was not to be. I set my teeth and summoned what reserves of self-possession remained, but could sense the commingling forces of confused ardour and regret beginning to converge. Doing my best to simultaneously evade and deny them, tapping my foot as I leaned against the brass checkout rail:

— Yes, the great Summer of Love, it now draws to a close. Will you ever forget it — the Beatles, the Animals, Eric Burdon!
In the dirty old part of the city, where the sun refuse to shine! Yeah!

— It's lovely to meet you, she said, but I really now must be going.

— Is it because of the letter? I asked.

— That's not the only thing, she said. The letter was one thing …

— What else could there be?

— Maybe you should ask your little black friend, she said bitterly.

It was only later that I was to learn that some difficulty had developed between Dolores and Marcus's mother. Who had discovered something she did not quite appreciate about her lodger and former friend. Had not liked at all what she had discovered, regarding certain unwholesome affections between Dolly Mixtures and her son. And, like any mother, did not find herself disposed to laying the blaming on the boy.

— Please, Dolly! Don't go yet! I implored her.

She gathered up her belongings and groceries, refusing to acknowledge me as I accompanied her towards the exit.

— Did you ever think of seeing someone? she said then, turning abruptly — and these were to be her parting words to me, as she added:

— It might be a good idea before you start deceiving other people, Christopher.

— But it was you! You did it with him — that night in Butlin's!

— You know what I'm talking about, now if you don't mind I have to go.

And as I watched her walking down the road — suddenly somehow seeming much older, with her sheepskin ill-fitting
and her headscarf somewhat drab — I shook my head and mused, regretfully: Yes, she had been beautiful, my Dolores.

And maybe in another universe the two of us could have made it — lived a fulfilled and contented life as Mr and Mrs Christopher Thornton. With the ceremony being performed by both a vicar and a Catholic priest — just to keep all sides happy, as they say. How beautiful that might have been, I considered. But now, for ever — to remain a mystery.

In any case, as I knew only too well, something even more beautiful had happened. In a Catholic cathedral that very day. How could I have been so fortunate? I struck my breast in gratitude, reproaching myself for former failings and shortcomings of belief.

Then I drove the Massey out to the Nook, chanting ‘The Holy City' all the way there. Before searching for and finding the single item that I loved more than anything in the world. I was like a kid on Christmas morning, for heaven's sake, preparing to wrap it up in brown paper, pausing for a moment to admire its metallic cover, the gold-leaf lettering arched above its many water-coloured wonders — including the clear crystal fountain, the two looping bluebirds and the fantailing sprinkle of silver, nightfalling stars.
A Child's Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson,
its tide read. Kissing the cover and tucking it excitedly underneath my arm, before heading, immediately, back into town.

The new Novotel in the centre of Cullymore East is one of a number which have been constructed in recent times and I have only just been reading that plans are already afoot to begin work on yet another thousand-room, conference-hosting establishment — a Radisson, this time, I believe. Which, it has been proposed, will be sited in the centre of the Plaza, not far in fact from the place where Green Shield Stamps used to be.

Vesna and I used to go to the Novotel every weekend. That is to say before what you might call the ‘final betrayal'. To which I'd been alerted by the
Perfidia
website. Which, as a matter of course, cautioned all spouses, without exception, against complacency.
Common manifestations of deceit. Adultery — signs to look out for,
the masthead read.

I used to enjoy it there in the Novotel, though, with Vesna touching my hand as we relaxed there together, sipping a drink or taking afternoon tea perhaps. As the noiseless glass lift elevated and descended, with the pearly disc of the receptionist's head bobbing so gently.

The manager liked to see us coming in and generally made it his business to join us. Just for a little while to ensure that we were comfortable. He is a man in his
forties, customarily attired in a sharp pinstripe suit, with a high collar and tie and an oval face which seems softer, a little less featureless than many of the others. I used always to listen dutifully to his dithering and fussing and can only hope that my nods were both appropriate and convincing. He still asks about her, obviously, whenever he happens to see me. So I just trot out the usual fluff about Dubrovnik.

— Ah, she's gone to see Mama, he smiles, his egghead unmoving like a great massive dot.

Featureless, however, though his countenance might have been, it was plain to me quite early on that the Eggman hotelier harboured certain affections for Vesna from Dubrovnik, touching her, I noticed, in a manner quite inappropriate at times. Not in a sexually intimate way — just little glancing brushes along her arm or the back of her hand.

Not that I blame him. Indeed it would be churlish not to say childish of me to do so — especially whenever Vesna was sporting one of her more figure-hugging numbers. She had come a long way now from her old-fashioned image, when she looked like someone thirty years out of date, who ought to have been strumming a stupid guitar, crooning ‘Moon Shadow' or some comparable drivel. She even had a photo of herself looking like that, with a bunch of her friends sitting with guitars near a beach hut somewhere, waving at the camera in their bikinis and blue jeans as if to announce: Our songs will save the world, iss good?

*   *   *

The Mood Indigo Club, as it happens, is actually making a fortune now, or so I heard from Mike when I met him recently. Thanks to the enduring popularity of the sixties ‘retro' boom. The Chordettes, as a result, having decided to completely remodel themselves, dropping the Las Vegas image altogether, he tells me. Yes, the wide lapels, frilled shirts and gold chains have all, apparently, gone. With yachting blazers and neat grey slacks now the order of the day, a trend best decribed, perhaps, as ‘grandpa chic'. He asked me in for a Martini and I agreed, as it slipped down finding myself returning to that final day in Cullymore. When I made my way across the fields, along the railway track that led to their little restored greenhouse.

This was the evening of ‘the great performance', a mere few hours after Marcus Otoyo had taken the town by storm, delivering a rendition of ‘The Holy City' that would be talked about years hence in the town. Which was the reason, of course, that I'd waited in the main street for an opportunity to present to him the golden treasury, and to congratulate him on a truly wonderful performance. I'd seen it, really, as a token of gratitude. Simply wanted to display my appreciation. Of his bountiful talents and achievements.

That it didn't work out is unfortunate, that's all. It didn't happen, and there isn't really a lot more you can say. And, in a way, it was nobody's fault. Although I did probably come across as excessively enthusiastic, far too eager by half. Such an approach was almost inevitably going to embarrass a boy of his tender age. So, no matter how one views it, I had essentially been the architect of my own misfortune. And,
hardly had the words even left my mouth, than I myself became aware that this was indeed the case. But in no way does it excuse my subsequent behaviour. Which was heedless, to say the least — quite callous, in fact. Maybe even unforgivable, in the eyes of some people.

There was one unfortunate individual in particular, I remember, a regular lady customer of mine, as it happened, who had made a point of calling me over — apparently she wanted to cancel the following week's egg and milk order. Explaining, quite reasonably, that she had changed her plans and was going away on holiday.

— Hello, Christopher, she'd called, signalling from across the street. I wonder could I have a wee word?

To which I had responded by laughing into her face as I sang her a verse of Herman's Hermits' popular hit:

— No milk today, my love has gone away!

I regret very much that that had to happen, for it left the lady in question hurt and extremely confused, to the advantage of no one. To make matters worse, I continued repeating the lyrics as I walked away, doing a little dance routine that Dolores and I had learned from the Shadows, and with which we had amused ourselves in the Mayflower of old.

It was about a mile from the town to the Holy of Holies and all the way there I kept doggedly trying — absurd as it now seems, for we were only talking about a matter of hours — to reclaim the equanimity I had known directly before the performance of
The Soul's Ascent.
How I longed to be once
more the person that I had been then, a mere few hours previously. In my strenuous efforts to do so becoming so overwrought that just for one second I harboured a dark desire to become as Henry Thornton had been — for that fleeting moment inhabit his reptilian skin. For that single instant to be permitted to gain access to qualities I now yearned for: those of incuriosity, neutrality, of calculated detachment and indifference.

But it never would happen, as I knew. With my own words to Marcus Otoyo now returning — bringing a blush to my already burning cheeks:

— Muh-muh-Marcus, wuh-wuh-will you uh-appease the longings of my yuh-yuh-yearning heart? Will you, Muh-Marcus, Minor?

His reaction, I knew, would remain with me for ever. As I thought of him standing there, in the drab drizzle of the main street, pushing his tongue aggressively against his teeth, shrugging his shoulders as he fixed me with an accusatory gaze, his patient jaws ever so slowly rotating. Before, eventually, parting his lips and exclaiming:

— Freak.

Making my way now across the fields, past the deserted warehouses and engine sheds, along the rusted railway tracks, already in my mind all thoughts of the great sixties decade and what it had been supposed to represent in history fading in my mind and fading fast.

— A false dream! I complained bitterly, as I stumbled awkwardly over the sharp glittering chunks of shale piled up
between the wooden sleepers, my eyes blinded by tears of disappointment.

A false dream constructed by advertising executives and cynical exploiters of human frailty and emotion — Billy Butlin included. It was astonishing, I thought, as, heartsick, I pressed onwards, that any right-thinking individual could ever have entertained such frivolous nonsense. The bubblegum decade, flimsy and ephemeral. But for which, I reflected, I myself was almost the perfect avatar, the very embodiment of what I was deriding. Clad as I was in my candy-striped jacket, with an absurdly large knot on my purple paisley tie, perfectly matching my enormous scalloped collar.