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Unfinished Business

Monday 22 March 2004 11:45 – Saturday 10 April 2004 22:23 (in RTF format - 32 kilobytes)

Sic transit gloria mundi

Last September I had the opportunity to stay at Royal Holloway for the evening. It was the occasion of a colleague’s wedding, and I was invited to attend the reception at the Runnymede Hotel on the outskirts of Egham. A number of people from work were going. The groom was a popular man. I had worked with him closely for the best part of two years, in sometimes difficult and bizarre circumstances, and came to regard myself as spoilt for the experience.

Now, as luck would have it, he had chosen the Runnymede for a venue, and I had the perfect opportunity to face the place again without sitting in one or more pubs on my own all night. It would be a privilege to be on home ground again, I felt, with a valid excuse. I told everyone my plan: Get there early and get wrecked as quickly as possible. Not much of a plan I know - but I suspected it would be interesting.

I left at Saturday lunchtime on the fast train after fairly meticulous preparation bourn from years of experience.

This journey, only 17 minutes long, always involves for me a disassociation, anticipation and recollections of states of mind and soul - including memories of madness. A silent visual and psychological music begins to play around me even as the train cranks its wheels at Twickenham. The theme is one of leaving prison, heading for freedom, possibility, open skies, cleaner air and darker nights. I watched the landscape roll by as I rushed into my past, towards Egham.

When I arrived I treated myself to a cab up the hill. The driver, as I recall, did not say much. He drove me past what used to be The Ascot and, just visible from the road, the house that used to be Hollywood, where I once lived.

The Ascot had been a traditional pub, steeped, I imagine, in history. It had been salubrious inside, with luxurious blood-red leather upholstered seating and dark wood panelling. In eleven years I had only seen it busy once – after the performance of a Fernando Arrabal play about incest and disfigurement at the Royal Holloway Drama Centre. I had been drinking with the leading man when a classics student from the class I rarely attended idled up and began poking me in the shoulder and chiding me for being a layabout. I wanted to grab him by the throat but I was holding two pints of beer at the time. I merely told him that he was not at public school now, although I may have also called him a cocksucker. Sometimes I regret not throwing a beer over him. I could have afforded to have been barred from the Ascot - besides any cachet and relief I may have felt.

The last drink I had in The Ascot, before it was raped, came at the culmination of a three day drinking session. It was a Friday morning - 1998 - 10 years after the Arrabal play and only a few minutes after my last lecture ever at the college. I had been drinking since the Wednesday and had been variously lost on the main road in Twickenham (where I have lived for twenty-eight years), vomited explosively, drifted in a twilight state between consciousness and sleep in a rented guest room, come close to collapse and been constantly hung over. Our tutor had suggested a drink in the pub after the 10 o’clock class. I watched him get drunk on one spritzer, next to my friend Ray, who seemed to have gone a wino shade of pink, whilst drinking from a gigantic Hoegarten glass and smiling benignly like a stoned Buddha.

Some years later The Ascot became The Monkey’s Elbow, a ‘sports bar’ not dissimilar in layout and atmosphere to a classy incarnation of a McDonalds.

The next place we passed on the hill, as I mentioned, was Hollywood.

I remember Hollywood, and the people who lived there. I had moved into the squat on the ground floor in 1989 after a spectacularly disastrous dinner party played out to celebrate the Battle of the Boyne. It was a joke, of course. Drama, equivocation, quiddities and various forms of glamour were the flavour of the month.

The house had been haunted. Not by ghosts, which I don’t believe in, but by a sense of the past, which drew me back from any thoughts of the future. I sometimes had the impression that I was the protagonist in a ritualistic locus drama that never changed, even though the occupants of the house might be rotated every few years. In reality, it was one big psychodrama.

The world was there, as they say. A flooded basement, antique oak furniture, the plaster in the hall cracked, like my mind. Luxury too. Art Deco posters and ornaments. Thick velvet drapes and real fires. Good food and music. Champagne and spiders webs, so to speak. All surrounded with wild boscage and massive trees – taller than the house itself. From the breakfast table in my host’s apartment, my bare feet on the table, I would look lazily at the giant tree no more than twenty yards from the oriel window where I sat, watching the leaves move in the wind and summer sun. Naturally, we had a family of cats.

Curiously – I never dream about Hollywood.

The cabbie dropped me off at The Happy Man. I walked into the pub, bought a beer, found a quiet spot, dumped my stuff, sat down and eyed the surroundings with mixed feelings.

The pub had changed hands about year ago. The new landlord was a Scouser who had got the idea in his head to make some ‘improvements.’ Much of the old furniture had gone, the menu boards had come down – replaced with gay table menus. Even worse, he had got a few lads down from Liverpool the previous night to rip out the partition between the bars. It had changed the atmosphere radically. He seemed to be in the process of wrecking the pub.

I chatted to him at the bar as I got another beer. He seemed surprised that I had come from Twickenham for a drink. I explained that I was here for the reception. Within a few minutes he passed my table, where I was reading the local paper for the third time, and asked me what I thought of the changes.

“Do you want me to be honest?”
He looked slightly phased. “Yeah.”
“Well…I’ve been coming here for…sixteen?...yes, sixteen years, and I remember how it was. If I had my way I wouldn’t change anything. If I had a load of money I would buy the place to make sure – but that’s just me.”

And I remember The Happy Man too. Many evenings and feelings, and moments of near satori that I can’t escape. The time I first saw John from St Johns. The evening some clique buzzed and Ian and I smiled at each other and I felt like I had entered a real Utopia – here on this Earth, in my life. The lunchtime we spent in the garden with no money drinking beer and scotch miniatures, smoking joints with Gideon – this after I had left home with the words I won’t be in for dinner and was gone for five days or more, despite repeated attempts to make it to the train station.

All the way to moments like this, which I described a long time ago…

“My powers of observation are too inadequate to recall who said what. You must understand, though, that there was no talk of the past – we were far beyond that possibility. I couldn’t engage myself in the conversation. I would have only made a fool of myself.

After an hour of madness, sitting there like a statue, it seemed that the polyphonic hubbub of the bar was reaching a crescendo. It gave the impression of a pool of ether on an exact level with my inner ear. The crowd behind me became pond skaters, sending out ripples that demanded, questioned, reassured, tickled, eulogised and prophesised. I sat frozen in my seat, unable to turn my head. The volume got louder and the people at my table got more animated. Ian seemed excited, frenetic. Then slowly, over the course of about a quarter of an hour, the noise of voices in the bar died away. I had the definite impression now that the crowd had fallen silent and were staring at me – at my back. Perhaps it was punishment for my hubris – for thinking that I was the centre of attention. I wouldn’t look over my shoulder. I wouldn’t fall into their trap, or let them pin me down. But eventually, mystified, I plucked up the courage to turn around and face them.

The bar was completely empty.”

After three or four beers I put my rucksack behind the bar and walked round to Victoria Road to pick up the present. I had brought some cello tape and wrapping paper with me.

In Victoria Wines I explained that I wanted to buy a case of wine. The lady behind the counter called her husband on the phone, who was upstairs decorating. He came down with paint on his hands. I recognised them both. They had been here since the eighties, the only Asian shopkeepers in the village at that time, I seem to remember. He hadn’t changed much.

I was loud and effusive. Reminding him of the times I bought Sheep Dip whiskey and VSOP Courvoisier. He pinned down the years I was here and said he remembered me, commenting that I had put on a lot of weight and that we had both started to go grey. Then he said reflexively, distantly: “So you were here in the heyday of The Happy Man?”

I didn’t mention that I had also been in the area from ’95 to ’96. Neither did he.

He took me to the cellar and we cut a deal on a case of Rioja, which I had subliminal plans for. Back in the shop, when we were done and dusted he handed me the case. I put it on my shoulder. I was so overcome with emotion I went to shake his hand, fumbled and dropped the wine on the floor. Six of the twelve bottles smashed open in the box. I was mortified. He didn’t seem to give a fuck. He knew he had to move quickly and said: “Don’t worry. It was meant to happen.” I was apologising profusely as we watched the large red stain spread over his carpet tiles.

“But smell the wine!” he said, waving his arms. “Smell the aroma!”

He gave me a deal on another six bottles. I put the new case on the floor and shook his hand.

I walked back to The Man gripping the box like it was a bomb.

So you were here in the heyday of The Happy Man?

I told myself I would have paid a hundred pounds just to have heard that.

Because it was true.

But when I got back to The Man I was still badly shaken. I put the wine down carefully and ordered another pint and a double Black Bush immediately.

Sweating badly, I related the story of the broken wine to the landlord and his wife and asked for some scissors.

I wrapped the box in black tissue paper and asked the landlord’s wife if I could leave it in the pub until later that evening.

She agreed, but I wondered how nervous she was. Here was this strange man, sweating and drinking recklessly, who had admitted to her husband that he had a preternatural and antique love for the pub they were in the process of destroying, carrying in an unmarked heavy cardboard box in a paranoid fashion and regaling her with unconvincing stories of broken wine, wrapping the box in black paper and asking her if he could leave the package at her pub for a few hours.

I headed for the campus, a drunken bone fide maniac with every intention to wreck what was left of my mind with a controlled substance.

…

Music.

I made my way down to Athalone and walked into the reception. There was a woman on duty I had not seen before. She looked like a receptionist, which I found reassuring. She was attractive. Late twenties. Long hair. Provincial.

She was just finishing dealing with a guest, a technician of some sort here for some event. It was obvious she had every angle covered.

I approached the desk with the usual sense of irony – also knowing that we had it wrapped up.

She chatted to me as I checked in…

“Are you an ex-student then?”
“Yeah. I graduated in ’98, but I was here in the eighties as well.”
“It must have been very different.”
“Oh yes, it’s changed a lot. Does Jude still work here?”
“Yes, Jude still works here.”
“I’ve dealt with Jude a few times. She’s lovely.”
“Everyone remembers Jude. No-one remembers me.”
That slowed me down. She seemed remote in some way, as if something had touched her. She was quite beautiful.
“What’s your name?”
She told me.
“I’ll remember you.”
She gave me the key and said, “You’re lucky. It’s very quite at the moment. There’s hardly anyone around, especially in your part of the hall.”

I made my way through Athalone and up five flights of stairs. It was quiet.

I had paid a premium for a double room with en-suite bathroom. Everything seemed to be in order. The television worked and there was plenty of coffee, tea and fresh towels. I had brought some Allan keys with me to dismantle the security lock on the window leading to the balcony, but noticed with satisfaction that some kind soul had already ripped the lock off its hinges.

I went out on the balcony and peered round the corner to the adjacent guest room. The window was closed and the curtains drawn. What I could see of the campus - Runnymede One and Two - seemed sedate. Typical summer at Holloway. Small groups of students were sitting in the communal kitchens. In the distance, music played. I looked over London. It was a lovely afternoon.

I had about four hours until I needed to make my way to the hotel for the reception. I set the iPod and portable speakers up, put the kettle on and settled down to roll a joint.

I was 21 when I got into Royal Holloway and Bedford New College through the UCAS clearing system. I had spent about eight months working as a library assistant in London - my first real taste of the working world - and it had frightened and soured me. I left the library after my Father died, backpacking around the Cornish Coastal Path, with half an idea to never come back. I returned within six weeks, with no real prospects and a general feeling of disgust at the way everyone seemed to sell themselves out to drudgery and pettiness.

So out of desperation, I started my Batchelor’s Degree in Classical Studies in September 1987. During the first lesson the tutor, dead now, went round the class asking students what language qualifications they had. When he came to me and I said ‘none’ he stopped and asked me: ‘What are you doing here?’ We had to be up to an A–level standard of Latin or Ancient Greek within nine months. I knew I didn’t stand a chance. I gave up the ghost and concentrated on the dope-orientated social scene in my 220 strong solitary Hall – Kingswood – at the top of Egham Hill. It was only a matter of time before they expelled me.

I had a good spell though, making a lot of friends and blowing a £2,000 inheritance. I cared for nothing, not even writing. Everything was different – including the passage of time. There seemed to be no past or future. It was a kind of love then, I suppose.

Sure enough, after the second term the department let me know that I wouldn’t be coming back. I started a series of short-term jobs, my life split between home in Twickenham and various rooms, squats and joints at or near the college.

Yes, I took ‘drugs’ – plenty of dope, pissant amounts of mushrooms and acid on a couple of nights, but the closer I got to my friends the more difficult I found it to justify the state of my life, my intrinsic loneliness, my inability to touch base, indeed - my fate, and that, more than anything, was what drove me off the rails. It must have been quite a sight.

And here I am again, after the again, but closer to the time before, getting stoned on some commercial grade but serviceable hash, listening to Miles of Aisles once more – now coming from portable speakers and an expensive gadget smaller than a cigarette packet.

And yes, I can feel the place around me. The same laden potential. The same otherness. I can sense what it means to me and, goddess help me, what I mean to it. A lazy draught and gentle light spills through a gap in the curtains. I find myself frighteningly pole axed, barely able to cross the room. I take my clothes off and literally collapse onto the bed. Evening will come on soon. I plan to be at the hotel at seven.

…

Darkness.

I woke up at eight still stoned. Getting ready wasn’t easy and required some braggadocio. I decided to leave the camera in the room. The thought of taking pictures terrified me. I knew I would now have to switch to stealth mode.

I put my tired pair of khaki chinos on, an old mauve Blazer polo shirt I had brought at a car boot sale, a brown casual jacket and my Brasher boots.

I walked to The Happy Man to pick up the wine and call for a cab. It was fairly busy. The landlord and his wife were not in evidence. Two students were serving behind the bar. I was in a cannabinated haze, and I had the shakes and was sweating again. I asked one of the bar staff if I could collect my wine from the store room. He looked nonplussed, but agreed. He seemed very friendly and laid back. Possibly too friendly and too laid back. When I walked back to the payphone, near the bar, he asked me if he could help. I declined and said loudly that I just needed to make a call. I tried to look normal.

I called the biggest cab company in the area and their dispatch told me it would take at least an hour and then hung up on me. I called again – no answer. Crisis. Then I rang the number on a card over the payphone. King Cabs. Sounded like an independent. He fielded the call on his mobile immediately and said he would be at the pub in five minutes. A lucky break.

True to his word, he arrived in minutes. A middle aged pro. Nice paunch. Friendly. Talkative. Seemed to be enjoying life. Some kind of maniac apparently.

After a pleasant drive he pulled me up at the Runnymede with style. Feeling like a VIP I glided up to the reception desk, put the black bomb down on the desk and announced my purpose. The receptionist was icily efficient, bordering on contemptuous. She gave me directions and glared at the bomb with what looked like disgust before I took it away.

It was roughly nine o’clock and the reception was well under way. I put the wine down with the rest of the presents and scanned the guests for friendly faces. I was easily the worst dressed person in the room. It was obvious that a lot of money had been spent here.

It was crowded and a number of people were dancing, blocking easy access to the bar. The groom appeared out of the crowd and greeted me. He was sober. Possibly spent. It had been a long build-up and, by all accounts, a highly emotional ceremony.

We chatted for a while and then I quickly made my way to the expansive riverside terrace.

The night was mild, and quite a few of the guests were already outside to escape the noise and bustle. I met some people I knew from work and chatted awkwardly for a while. I had no real enthusiasm for any conversation that was likely to develop and, more than likely, they felt the same way about me. To put it another way: I had nothing to say. I walked over to one of the hotel riverside bars and bought a whisky.

I remembered being out here by the Thames ten years before - for an enigmatic chat about a mysterious job I knew I had no chance of getting. Having explained to the agency type who invited me that at least I could tell the DSS that I had attended an interview - I left the hotel and walked through the pastures and woods of Runnymede with my empty briefcase, plagued by Horse Flies, up to Kingswood at the top of the hill. I stripped to the waist in the process. I had never been fitter in my life.

The evening wore on and inevitably my thoughts turned towards getting back to Athalone. I had drunk myself sober and was nursing a mild, breathless hangover. I was smoking constantly – probably out of desperate boredom. I spent much of the time looking over the moonlit river.

Towards midnight the crowd began to thin out and I sat at a table in the function room waiting for people to talk to me. At one point a beautiful young lady asked me if I wanted to dance. I told her that I was old enough now to know that I couldn’t do that.

At the end of the event the DJ asked all the women to line up on one side of the room, the men on the other. The bride went down one side, kissing the men. The groom went down the other, kissing the women. I kissed the bride. It was midnight.

Outside the hotel I called the saint again on my mobile. He turned up within five minutes and drove me back to Athalone.

I got to the room, locked the door and recce’d the balcony. I paused for a moment. The yellow lights of London shimmered in the murk. I went back into the room, switched on the iPod and adjusted the volume to a comfortable level.

I had another smoke and lay on the bed, intoxicated, with a mixed feeling of exhaltation, mystery and freedom. I needed to do nothing, now, to feel like a native son. In the distance, without ever consciously crossing my mind, they were there, trapped in a moment of time: Andy, Charis, Charlie, Dorothy, Franco, Geraldine, Giles, Ian, James, John, Jules, Julia, Looby, Mike, Nigel, Pete, Phil, Toby, Roger, Sue et al. Gone forever. What a mess I made of things. A largess universal, and for all I know I broke it all to pieces.

Perhaps I think none of this - but it is there in the background. It never goes away. I drift out of time in the darkness to the music – as if I had died and gone to heaven, the god of my own memories. This bliss is my anamnesis. I am one again. I look down on myself as I was - and send myself a blessing. I sleep.

I woke up at around seven, still whacked. I had three hours before I needed to check out and was vaguely hoping that I could straighten myself in that time. I made myself an instant coffee and went out on the balcony to smoke a cigarette. It was light, but the sun had not yet risen. A heavy mist lay over the land. It looked like the blanket of fire-smoke you see at dusk over the fields of Glastonbury. I grabbed the camera and began shooting randomly. As the sun rose above the horizon the vista became almost terrifying – what could only be a vision of polluted hell. Then blue broke the nightmare. I looked up at great white sheets of dappled cloud. They seemed so close. For a moment I could feel them inside me. My eyes watered.

Copyright Chris Light 2004