Charlotte Street by Danny Wallace
‘Funny, things like Facebook, or Twitter. Just seeing a second of someone else’s life. Almost means you don’t have to see them again. You’re just drip-fed their moments. You lose all the other stuff in between. It’s efficient friendship.’
I played with my spoon. Maybe I didn’t want efficient friendship. I suddenly wanted our old, inefficient, slow-moving friendship.
I should see Dev. With Abbey it was kind of her choice; she’d have to warm to me again, and given how long we’d known each other I couldn’t count on that happening. Sarah had made her feelings perfectly clear, and pillow-talk with Gary meant they weren’t in any danger of changing.
But with Dev … well, that was down to me.
I’d build up to that, I decided. No sense rushing things. Maybe I could swing by Brick Lane, have a curry. Actually, I’d had an idea for Dev. Something great. Something to warm things up between us. I’d asked Zoe if she could sort it, and she’d put in a few calls, and I’d been promised a yes.
First, though, there was someone else I wanted to see. And as I thought about the how and whens, my pocket started vibrating.
‘Unrecognised number,’ I said, staring at my phone. ‘It is undoubtedly another glamorous woman from breakfast television, urging me to unleash my romantic dreams upon the nation.’
I hit ACCEPT.
‘Hello!’
‘Jason?’
‘Yes, it is!’
A pause. Then: ‘This is Damien Laskin.’
TWENTY-ONE
Or ‘Go Solo’
‘Hi,’ I said, both hands on my phone, in the corridor outside the flat, with its stained, blue carpet tiles and cracked back window. ‘Hi, Damien.’
‘Listen, I’ll be brief about this,’ he said. ‘We should meet.’
I must’ve stalled for a second, because very quickly he followed up with, ‘Look, I jumped down your throat that day because I wasn’t sure what you wanted. I’m still not sure what you want, but I’m fairly sure it’s not to hurt me. Would you agree with that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Say it.’
‘I do not want to hurt you.’
‘Or my family.’
‘Or your family, of course! Look, Damien, it’s a strange thing, and—’
‘No, no, we’ll meet and talk, okay? Monday, fiveish. Suggest a place.’
I did as he asked, but then felt inexplicably nervous. What did he want? And why now? And also …
‘How, um, how did you get my number?’
‘I could have got your number in myriad different ways, Jason. In actual fact – and to be honest, this is what prompted me to phone today – I got your number from the window of my local fucking kebab house.’
He laughed, and then hung up.
I told Zoe and she nearly choked on her hot dog. She slapped the table and all the forks fell to the floor.
The Old Queen’s Head is on Essex Road, a former gay pub now serving up leather sofas and imported French table football tables for the middle classes, halfway between the quirky antique shops with their stuffed bears and brass lamps and the more chi-chi chain restaurants where friendly foreigners tie balloons to toddlers’ highchairs on command.
I stood outside for a bit as the closing-time crowd thinned, heading for buses or a last can from the Tesco Express on the corner. I could see him inside, dressed in black, leaning on the bar as an old soak with rolling tobacco prepared his little kiss goodnight.
I pushed through the doors, trying to look busy and distracted, ready to feign surprise when I spotted him, though it was him that spotted me, straight away.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Matt!’ I said, trying not to make my double-take too cartoony. ‘What are you doing here?’
I made the appropriate confused face as he dropped another glass into its plastic crate for the night.
He smiled to himself for just a second.
‘My little brother told you, yeah?’ he said.
‘He did, yeah,’ I said. ‘Your brother’s the one with the tiny tie, yeah?’
He smiled. ‘That’s him.’
‘So how are you? What’s going on?’
‘I’m all right, yeah,’ he nodded, and I was a little taken aback. Not because he was all right. But because he’d said he was. I don’t think I’d ever heard him say he was all right before. I guess for the first time I realised how sad he’d always seemed by comparison. But then, maybe that’s what I wanted.
‘What time does your shift end?’ I asked.
He pointed at the now-empty pub.
‘I was surprised when I heard what you were back doing, man,’ said Matt, fiddling with his cuffs. We sat at our table in McDonald’s by the roundabout, me with a flat Fanta, him with a Filet-O-Fish and a shake.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Didn’t think you’d go back to that,’ he said, wiping sauce from his mouth. ‘You were always on about moving forward.’
I thought back. Was I?
‘When?’
‘Well, you left St John’s, didn’t you? You made a change. But like, also, when you was a teacher. You told us we could all do it, too. You said that in life you can make things happen.’
I nodded, but had I? I didn’t remember that. I remembered coffee breath and waiting for the break and bluffing through questions and 9 a.m. Nurofen, but no, according to Matt, I was like the bloke out of Dead Poets Society.
‘But you said that to make them happen, you had to make them happen.’
Oh, hang on. This sounded familiar. The one assembly I’d not managed to wriggle out of, so fearful was I of the complete lack of reaction from a bored and listless mass of lost causes.
Mr Ashcroft, the old head, had been insistent, though. He’d thought it important that we absolutely take it turns to speak in front of the kids. ‘Inspire them. Come at them with words of motivation and positivity! Show them the world they could have!’
I’d called mine ‘Making It Happen!’, and some of it I’d actually written myself. The rest I’d found on an Anthony Robbins quote page I’d Googled. But there were parts I remember being quite proud of.
Never, at any point, though, did I think anyone was listening.
‘You said that even standing still was going backwards, because if you stand still the world passes you by, and that’s the same thing.’
‘And … you took that on board, yeah?’
‘The words stuck with me, yeah. But I still thought you were full of shit. Mr Ashcroft used to make all you lot do that once a month, innit, to “inspire” us. Mr Cole just used to do his about Arsenal.’
He started laughing.
‘We all used to do impressions of you after. “Making it happen! Ooh! Look at me, I’m making it happen!”’
He laughed again.
‘But then I met you again, right. And you’d done it. You’d actually done it. Most of those teachers: they’re still there. They’re teaching my little brother now.’
‘Little Tony.’
‘Yeah! Ha. Little Tony, exactly. They’ll probably end up teaching my kid. ‘Cos they’re not ever gonna leave.’
‘It’s a good job. And baby Elgar would be lucky to have them.’
‘Yeah, but if your heart isn’t in it, you need to be where your heart is.’
‘Well put.’
He raised his eyebrows, put his Filet-O-Fish down.
‘You put it that way. Jesus, do you even remember any of this?’
I shrugged, caught out.
‘Because actually, it doesn’t matter if you don’t. You got up, you left your cosy little job, you put things at risk, you made it happen. You wanted to be a journalist or whatever, so you did it, yeah? And when we were in Whitby that night you said I should do a course or something and I remembered what you were on about that day at school and I looked at you and I thought, Maybe he meant it after all.’
Wow.
‘But maybe you didn’t.’
‘I did. I did mean it, Matt. Definitel
‘So why are you back there?’
‘Sometimes … you know, sometimes life gets in the way. Like, you might want to go travelling for a year, but then your boiler explodes or your car needs a new exhaust and everything changes.’
‘There’s always an excuse. That’s what you said, too, in your little speech or whatever.’
‘Christ, look, okay, I was making all that up, Matt. I’d never taken a risk. I’d never made it happen.’
‘But then one day you did. And that’s what inspired me. Not what you said, but what you did.’
I looked at him, realised he’d used the word ‘inspired’, realised I’d never had that before, and remembered a time when perhaps that’s all I’d needed to hear.
‘Turns out you’re a good teacher,’ he said, smiling. ‘But maybe teaching’s not your thing.’
I got in late, that night. Late but happy.
My chat with Matt had reminded me of all sorts of things. How my career at St John’s had started. How I’d been. How slowly that had ebbed away. How I’d lost my mojo. But to lose it, you had to have had it. If ever I’d had it, I now wanted it back. Not necessarily for teaching. A week in, and I knew that boat had sailed. But for life. For something.
I knew I’d always be Matt’s old teacher first, his friend second. But that was kind of okay with me. Because as it turned out, I hadn’t been that bad a teacher. Even when I was just his friend.
And now, whether on purpose or by accident, he’d helped me, too.
Zoe was already in bed when I’d crept in, but the TV was on low. Some panel game. I plumped my pillow, made my little bed on the sofa, and fired up my laptop.
It felt like time to sort myself out, at last. Find a place of my own. Take responsibility.
Next to my pillow had been a small golden envelope, marked Jase.
I’d opened it, and smiled. Zoe had done well.
If I ever got round to seeing him again, Dev would absolutely adore me for this.
Not yet, though. Not while I’d given up and gone back to St John’s. I’d be ready to see Dev soon. But I had some things to sort out first.
Top of the list was my life.
Monday, 5.15 p.m. So here I was, back in Postman’s Park. I hadn’t known where else to suggest and I thought a paranoid Damien would appreciate its secluded-yet-public nature. What were we? Spies?
It was a grey day, one of those days where everything’s out of focus, and I was maybe fifteen minutes early. I have a crushing fear of lateness. I would rather be an hour early than cause someone a minute’s wait. Dev would always say, ‘We’re not late until we’re late.’ I knew what he meant and it was technically true, but it never worked for me. Knowing I’ll be late is always bad enough. The least I can do is get the worrying in early.
I kicked a can so it was nearer a wall. I just did; no one had asked me to. I suppose I should’ve picked it up and put it in a bin, but kicking it a few feet to one side seemed to demonstrate enough effort. I puffed out some air, interested to see whether I could see my own breath yet.
I realised I was nervous about seeing Damien again.
I stopped, looked up at the Memorial to Heroic Self Sacrifice.
WILLIAM GOODRUM
Signalman, aged 60
Lost his life at Kingsland Road Bridge in saving a workman from death under the approaching train from Kew.
February 28th 1880
I must’ve read that one a hundred times.
‘Jason?’
I turned. Damien was standing by the grass, and nodded when our eyes met. He was wearing one of those three-quarter-length jackets you see men in magazines wear, standing next to classic Jags on windy days on airstrips while silent blonde women in sunglasses and headscarves pretend to light fags in the passenger seat. There was a hint of crisp light blue shirt at the collar, most of it hidden by a scarf I guess I’d say was probably cashmere.
‘How are you?’ he said, though coldly, and if I’m right, without a question mark.
‘I’m fine, yeah,’ I said, low-key. ‘Thanks for coming.’
Thanks for coming? He’d summoned me.
‘Cold day,’ I said. ‘Did you drive, or …?’
‘I don’t drive,’ he snapped, so quickly and so full of snip I was shocked. ‘Look, I suggest you ask me your question again and I will tell you what you want to know but that is all I will do. I will not entertain a barrage of questions, I will not enter into some huge conversation. I just, for the sake of my own peace of mind, want this resolved.’
I nodded my understanding.
‘So go on, then,’ he said. ‘Ask me your question.’
I shifted, uncomfortably, from one foot to the other.
‘It doesn’t really matter any more,’ I said. ‘I’m moving on.’
‘Moving on from what?’
‘From whatever it was. I was in a weird place. There was a lot going on. To do with my past. To do with my present not quite living up to what I’d wanted. To do with the future looking the same.’
‘Ask me your question.’
‘We don’t have to do this —’
‘I want to talk about it.’
I looked at him. He looked at his shoes. It seemed like he needed me for something, for this, whatever ‘this’ is.
Sod it. Why not.
‘So who’s the girl?’ I asked.
‘I met her at a wedding,’ he said, as we both leaned back onto the bench, pretending it wasn’t weird we weren’t looking at each other. ‘She was a bridesmaid, wearing the worst dress I had ever seen in my life. Generally bridesmaids dresses are quite nice, but she was like something out of an Anne Hathaway film. Some things are just too green, y’know? We were seated on the same table and I inveigled my way round to the seat next to hers.’
Inveigled. He could use the word inveigled.
‘Whose wedding was it?’ I asked, almost involuntarily and just to show friendly interest, but now Damien shot me a withering glance.
‘What did I just say? I’m not going to enter into some grand dialogue about this. I’ll tell you what you asked, I want to do that, but I won’t tell you everything you ask. What does it matter whose wedding it was? Why would that matter at all?’
‘Carry on,’ I said, avoiding his eye, finding a bin to look at. ‘Sorry.’
‘It was a friend’s wedding, okay? In Berkshire. Well, this friend is also a client. She put me on that table, and she winked at me when she did. She knew we’d get on.’
‘You and the girl?’
‘Me and … the girl, yes. I’d had a bit to drink, I was probably a bit too friendly, I don’t wear a wedding ring and she was in the mood for romance.’
He said all that liked he’d practised it. Like he’d rehearsed the reasons at home until he could say them with no passion so that maybe they’d lose their meaning. Or maybe this was his story, the one he’d decided on, and he was sticking to it. I turned my head to look at him but still he stared straight ahead.
‘There were these cameras on the tables, these …’
‘Disposables?’
‘Disposables, yes. The idea was we’d all take pictures of each other and hand them in at the end. Nice way of letting the photographer go home early and saving a few quid. Anyway, I grabbed it and took a photo of us together. And then she wanted to dance. Some AC/DC thing came on; she said it was the best song ever written or something.’
I smiled.
‘“Back in Black”?’
He looked at me, askance.
‘I’m really not sure. I told her I hated it but she made me get up. And then later she looked at me and, I don’t know, it just felt right.’
God. I’d been looking at the photos. At the moments. I’d ignored the moments after each one – the moments I couldn’t see. Now I resented them, slightly: partly because they’d surprised me and partly because those moments belonged to Damien and not me.
‘So that was the beginning. That was how it started. Two people
‘What did you chat about?’ I asked, and Damien stared at me.
‘Did you follow me that day?’ he said. ‘Did you follow me into the restaurant?’
‘I did.’
‘And you think that’s acceptable?’
I imagine I looked a little ashamed here. It’s hard to justify following someone. Difficult to admit everything started on a lie, or that trust was misplaced and abused.
We took a second; Damien reset.
‘I have a place in Bermondsey,’ he said. ‘We were there our first weekend together. It’s in an old factory, and—’
He paused.
‘But then you know all this.’
I smiled, embarrassed.
‘So anyway, we got talking about the world. I’d just been to Sarajevo for the film festival; she said she’d always wanted to go. She’d never really travelled. Grew up on a farm.’
A farm!
‘I told her about Bosnia … Croatia. She said they sounded incredible. I said maybe one day I’d take her to places like that. You know? Said I’d show her the world. We talked about that a lot.’
‘Sounds … like something people say,’ I said, and I shook my head. This seemed to jar with Damien, and I could understand why. He wasn’t used to his own weaknesses, exposed.
Quickly, he continued: ‘Then, we talked for a couple more hours, we kissed, I texted her, we met up, met up a lot, I broke her heart, I’m a dick, and that’s that.’
He clapped his hands to his knees and stood.
‘So there you go,’ he said. ‘That was your question answered, with a couple of juicy extras thrown in for free.’
‘It was big of you to meet with me,’ I said, and he nodded a no-thanks-necessary.
As he wrapped his possibly cashmere scarf round his neck again, he stopped and looked me in the eye.
‘So now you tell me something …’
In a flash it was clear this was why he’d come. He was curious, just like me.
‘Why did you want to do this? I mean, I thought maybe you were her brother, or a jealous ex, or perhaps her new bloke intent on, I dunno, revenge or extortion or blackmail or something?’
‘I met her one night on Charlotte Street,’ I said. ‘I found her camera afterwards. And I want to give it back to her.’