Charlotte Street by Danny Wallace
Damien looked up at the sky, laughed.
‘So you just fancy her?’
He laughed again. A colder laugh this time.
‘It’s … it’s difficult to explain … it’s …’
‘That’s sweet. It’s deliciously sad and pathetic and if you don’t mind my saying so, odd, too, but it’s sweet. Why can’t you just go to a bar? Or a wedding? Better still, a wedding she’s at. She seems up for it at weddings.’
I didn’t like this. He was trying to ruin it. Ruin her. He saw that I could see what he was doing.
‘Look, we didn’t end on good terms. For obvious reasons. And she changed her number, otherwise—’
He shrugged.
‘Email?’ I tried.
He shook his head and brought something out from his pocket.
‘Can I keep this?’ he said. It was the photo he’d taken from me that day.
Of course, I kept thinking. She was yours. And you took the shot!
But instead, I said, ‘It’s not really mine to give.’
Damien held the photo. He seemed to be considering what to do: whether to hand it over or just shove it back in his pocket.
‘Pub in Finchley,’ he said. ‘The Adelaide. That’s where this was taken. That was kind of our thing.’
‘Pubs?’
He handed it back, shook off whatever he was about to say, and looked at me with disdain.
‘No, not pubs.’
I shrugged. I didn’t get it.
‘There’s something about you,’ he said, ‘that makes this acceptable. But you’re on thin ice here, you know that, right?’
I didn’t know what to say. So I said, ‘I like beginnings. I like the way things start. Because if they start well enough they can see you through to the end.’
‘But everything ends,’ said Damien.
Then, as collected himself together, got ready to go: ‘Why wouldn’t you give me the photo?’
‘I told you – it’s not mine to give.’
‘You didn’t give it back because this isn’t over for you,’ he said. ‘You’re not moving on. You haven’t.’
I could’ve watched him as he left, now, assured this had been dealt with, it was finished, it would not come back to haunt him. But there was something else – one little thing – that had been bothering me. And as he turned away and looked at the ground it just came out.
‘You said you don’t drive,’ I blurted, clumsily, ‘but in one of the pictures, there’s this car, and I sort of assumed—’
‘Facel Vega,’ he smiled. ‘Not mine. Really not mine. Slightly insulted you might think it was mine, actually.’
‘It’s a good car,’ I tried, but as you know, my experience is mainly limited to a Nissan Cherry covered in Calippos, plus no one on Top Gear ever calls anything ‘good’; you have to compare cars to horses, or tits.
‘No, I’m afraid I’ve been off the road for a little while. I was a little “happy” in my driving. Tried pleading Exceptional Hardship, but even with four PRCAs I couldn’t manage it.’
I pretended to know what that meant.
‘That big old thing is hers. It was her dad’s. She couldn’t let it go. She said it would be like letting him go.’
Now Damien did walk off, showing me his back, striding towards the edge of the park. But by the gates, he stopped, and thought for a second. I watched as he did, unsure of what I was supposed to do, suddenly aware I had no idea what to do with my arms, and then he turned, and cupped his hands around his mouth.
‘Jason!’ he called out. ‘Her name’s Shona!’
And then, with a nod, he returned to his world, and I remained in mine. And that would be the last time I would ever see Damien Anders Laskin.
‘The chakata fruit on the ground belongs to all, but the one on the tree is for she who can climb.’
Traditional Shona Tribe proverb, Zimbabwe
The last time I ever saw him, I had this idea.
It’s one that won’t go away. I’ve resisted telling you, because I fear it makes me sound pathetic and weedy. I watched that Julia Roberts film where she eats, prays and loves (I forget its name) and I’m a little terrified of turning into her.
At first I thought all it might take is a change in career. A teacher, maybe. That’s a job. That was Dad’s job.
Then I thought maybe I need to make my mark somehow and do something even more out of the ordinary. Have you heard of Phyllis Pearsall? She was very brilliant. In the 1920s and 30s she used to get up every day at 5 a.m. and go for an eighteen-mile walk through the streets of London, taking precise notes of where everything was and then stashing 23,000 individual street names in a shoebox under her bed.
I realise that you’re probably thinking she sounds mentally ill.
But that was the first London A-Z, and even though everyone she approached completely refused to publish it, she used to walk around with a wheelbarrow delivering copies to all the WH Smiths. She only died in 1996, by which time she’d sold millions of editions and become pretty much my favourite Londoner ever. Do you ever feel like you’re not really using your life, the way someone like Phyllis Pearsall did? Like the everyday is too everyday and it’s time for the magic?
All of which has made me think: I want to make the thing that nearly happened happen.
For myself this time.
I don’t want to just rely on someone else to make it happen for me, because really, that’s how I got into this mess.
And I honestly think I can make this work.
I was thinking about it all last night and I woke up this morning thinking about it. All day I’ve thought about it and there comes a time when really, you should stop thinking about it, because really, you could be hit by a bus tomorrow. Instead, you should start making it happen.
Perhaps the first step is just deciding to.
Sx
TWENTY-TWO
Or ‘Adult Education’
I walked into the staff room and there he was, Mr Willis, holding court with his favourite red mug.
I had formed a childish insistence on calling everyone by their teacher names. It was rebellion by formality.
‘Course, it was a breakdown, you see,’ he was saying. ‘Couldn’t deal with it, but you know, this is an inner city school. There was a Panorama on …’
I caught Mrs Woollacombe’s eye and instinctively she went for her butterfly brooch, running her fingers over its wings for comfort. Her eyes darted nervously around to see who else had noticed me standing self-consciously in the doorway.
‘Everyone thinks we can do something better, but of course, when it came to it, he—’
‘Jason!’ said Miss Pitt (BSc) loudly and obviously, and I could see the others – the lab technician whose name I could never remember, and Mr Peterson, fresh from Loughborough and eager to revolutionise the world of barely-funded PE – trying to work out how they were going to get out of this one.
‘It wasn’t a breakdown,’ I said, in as friendly way as I could, although it was, of course, it undeniably was. ‘It was just a shock to the system. Which I needed, I think.’
‘Jason, no,’ said Mr Willis, spinning around, guilty and anxious. ‘I was just saying how hard it must be to—’
‘Yes, how hard it must be,’ said Mrs Woollacombe. ‘Particularly when you set out to do something and you failed at that, too. I mean, not failed, because you didn’t “fail”, but—’
‘It’s fine, everyone. It’s all fine.’
I sat down on the sofa, surrounded by years of coffee rings and sandwich stains. If the police ever did a DNA test on this sofa it would be ninety per cent disappointment.
‘So what else is going on?’ I said, lightly.
‘Gary’s sick again.’
‘Mr Dodd? Have you tried Ladbrokes?’
Good-natured laughter.
See? I could make jokes. I wasn’t going to have another breakdown, everyone! Because that’s where that conversation had been heading, hadn’t it? I’m a ful
‘Well, it just means we’ve got to draw straws, you see,’ said Mrs Woollacombe, rolling her eyes.
‘Straws for what?’ I said.
‘Friday.’
‘What’s Friday?’
Here’s an interesting fact to share with your friends. I found it on the Internet, while Googling furiously the second I got home from Postman’s Park.
Shona is a Scottish form of Joan.
Okay, fair enough, not interesting exactly. But true.
So maybe she was Scottish. Maybe she grew up on a Scottish farm in Scotland, with Scottish people and a Scottish name.
Shona is also the name of a people and a language of Zimbabwe, but it seemed less likely she was Zimbabwean.
There’s the island of Eilean Shona, too, just off the West Coast of Scotland, with a population of just two, making it either the most romantic or depressing place possible.
And these were talking points, after all, in case I should bump into her one night. I nearly had, after all.
The Facel Vega. The night I saw it leaving the NCP on Poland Street and ducked out the way. If I’d looked closer, if I’d been braver …
Anyway, ‘Hey, isn’t Shona the name of a Zimbabwean people and language?’ I could finally say, if I did see her again, tapping the tobacco out of my pipe and looking urbane and sophisticated as I sat down beside her, sliding her Tango out of my way, uninvited but clearly welcome.
‘Yes,’ she would purr, in her soft Scottish brogue, perhaps blushing (nearly) imperceptibly at the confidence of a very slightly older man with a pipe, avoiding my eye lest she give too much away. ‘Indeed it is the language and name of the proud Shona folk, with whom I studied during my gap year and came to know as a wise and gracious people, as we fought side-by-side to vanquish the Western developers intent on their destruction.’
I would look unimpressed.
‘Does it not also mean “sweet” in the language of the Bengal?’ I would add, staring into the middle-distance, aloof, unattainable, fascinating, and she would lean forward, her chin on her hands, and say, ‘I did not know that …’
And then I’d tell her about my many cats, and she’d squeal, because she fucking loves cats.
It was weird, knowing her name. I mean, I always knew she’d probably have one. I don’t know anybody who doesn’t, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to name them.
But now that I knew what it was … she’d become real to me. Not just a girl in a moment. But a girl who right this moment was somewhere, doing something.
Damien had talked about her with affection and regret. Two things you wouldn’t do if she’d been a horrible person, or selfish, short-tempered, angry, arrogant, belligerent, wilful or cold. He’d talked about her like the one who’d got away, or the one he’d always regret; the one he’d never mean harm to.
And she was out there.
And though I told myself I’d given up, though I’d convinced myself that this particular beginning had already ended, part of me was pleased that now I could decide the ending for myself.
Whether that ending was trying … or whether it was stopping.
At least I was in control.
‘POWER UP! IS POWERING DOWN’ said the Facebook invite. ‘COME AND SAY GOODBYE TO A LEGEND.’
I checked to see who else had been invited. A couple of regulars. Someone I didn’t know but had seen in the shop. Pawel, who didn’t really understand social networking and was yet to figure out how to reply to things. And me.
The plan seemed to be to have a short eulogy in the shop before retiring to the Den for the evening. A typically ambitious night from Dev.
I was sure it’d be fun.
I looked at the RSVP options.
Are you attending? Yes, No, or Maybe.
And I clicked No.
It wasn’t just that I was ashamed of showing Dev I’d taken a giant step backwards when all we’d really talked about was moving forwards. It was that in some ways, not attending was moving forwards. Because what’s moving forwards if not not looking backwards?
This is how confusing things get when you’re trying to convince yourself that all is well. You bend logic to your will.
But anyway. It wasn’t like I hadn’t made an effort with Dev. I’d sent him the golden envelope I’d managed to get from Zoe. He’d loved it. He’d sent me a text with a little kiss on the end. So there was time for me and Dev to get close again.
But first I had to sort myself out.
I would be moving out of Blackstock Road in a month.
I’d found myself a nice little studio flat in Canonbury Square, so small I’d constantly smell of kitchen, but with a desk by the window that filled the place with light. The rent was high, but I reasoned this was good for me. It would force me to work. I couldn’t just rely on supply teaching that way; I’d have to freelance, find ideas, write, maybe even progress.
Zoe was pretty down. London Now was finally on its way out.
‘Could be any day,’ she said. ‘They could literally just shut us down at any time they like.’
She’d started making calls already and thought she’d made a few in-roads with a couple of papers, but budgets were tight these days, she said. We’d still spend our evenings cooking together, then finding our way to the Bank of Friendship, and it was there, this night, that she slid an envelope across the table to me.
‘What’s this?’ I said.
My name was still on a few out-of-date PR lists, and every now and again she’d bring home an invitation to interview the star of a bad new musical, or a heavily packaged new pie from Ginsters, and I’d read the release or try the pie, but both would inevitably find the bin. This one, though, was different.
‘Arrived this morning,’ she said. ‘It looked personal, so I didn’t open it. Although that was also what made me want to open it.’
It had a stamp, for one thing, rather than the red splotch of a hurried in-house franking machine. And the address was in ink, in a small and spidery hand. I looked at the postmark.
Brighton.
I opened it, and inside was no note, no explanation – just a colourful flyer, with a guitar, and a rainbow, and a soft photo of a girl with a fringe and electric blue eyeliner sitting by the shore.
Abbey Grant
‘Lightness of touch meets soulful seaside splendour’ – London
Now
The Open House & Performer Bar
Thursday, 9pm
I was thrilled. And I beamed. She was doing it.
Then, inspired, using the moment, I got home, I opened up the only two boxes I’d yet packed, and I rifled around, pulling out the file I’d hung on to from my last time at St John’s, hoping I hadn’t chucked out the one stapled-together document I actually never thought I’d need again.
Brighton’s Open House & Performer Bar is all Chesterfield sofas and rough wooden tables, red walls and Jim Morrison pop art, and really needs a catchier name.
There’s a student crowd, but locals, too, and on this Thursday night at half-past eight I found myself somewhere near the back of the room and quietly pretended to read a discarded Argus.
I hadn’t told Abbey I was coming. I know she’d sent me the flyer, but there was no note, nothing to indicate she wanted me there. I got the sense it was out of politeness. Something to say, look, I’m doing this, I’m trying it, wish me luck, all the best.
I’d stared at the flyer on the train down, played Abbey’s songs on my iPod as the city sun faded into a countryside night. They were beautiful. Not perfect, but they were her. They were fragile, but full of life, so delicate and breakable, but so hopeful, too. I hadn’t been lying when I’d written that review. I was, in fact, I think, being more honest than I’d ever been. My gift to Abbey would have been my gift whether I knew her or not, but somehow that had been devalued and lost.
Ha. My ‘gift’. Like five stars from a mildly disgraced half-sacked acting reviews editor was a gift. But those five sta
Then the crowd settled as the lights dimmed, and Abbey walked out, eyes down and self-conscious, plugged in her guitar, and started to play.
And I felt so happy, so thrilled, so full.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ said Abbey, afterwards.
‘I wasn’t sure you wanted me here,’ I said.
‘I wasn’t either.’
‘You were brilliant, Abbey. It was—’
‘Jase, I’m sorry about reacting the way I did.’
‘It’s my fault. I messed up. If it’s any consolation, it was one of at least nine things that lost me my job as acting reviews editor. So we’re even. Although you did drug my ex-girlfriend’s fiancé and friend, so actually, I think you still owe me one because now she’s not talking to me and my wedding invite was revoked.’
She giggled, guiltily.
‘God, I don’t know what I was thinking. Escapism, I suppose. Guess we are even.’
‘That’s not what I said. I said you still owed me one. And afterwards, after that gig, I just got excited when I realised that you did have an ambition. You were lying, before, or—’
‘I wasn’t lying,’ she said, rolling her eyes, and I was quick to get this back on track.
‘No, I mean not lying exactly, obviously. Just wrong. Because you clearly did.’
I’d wondered about Abbey, when I first met her. Why was she always following The Kicks about? Or the other bands she seemed to know and trail and traipse after? I’d wondered if maybe she was some kind of groupie, taking senior position among the other girls, because she was ‘with’ the band, knew them to talk to and drink with. But that wasn’t her at all. Now I realised she hung around with those people simply because they were doing what she wanted to do. She loved the music, not the band, and she loved the universe of it all. She wanted to watch, quietly, from the side of the stage, as others gave it a shot, because maybe she just wasn’t brave enough to walk out there herself and tell the world what she was thinking.
Yet.
‘You’re doing it,’ I said. ‘Going for it.’