14.3.70 [two aerogrammes]
Dear Mum, you’ll be glad to know
that the cold seems to have been dealt a blow on the head, in a way I hadn’t
quite anticipated: but at least it’s been gotten rid of. I explain how,
presently. [Actually I never get round to explaining why!]
You know, it seems to be one of my things in life (I remember
Margaret saying that everyone seems to have a particular thing: she says she
had never had to worry about money, for instance, it just appeared) to be picking up lame ducks and attempting some sort of
repair job; though it’s only in the last couple of years, or even less, that I’ve
really been reasonably capable of doing it. [That might have been overstating the case, I think.]
Remember Jimmy Wilson at school? He
must have been about the first. Well, you will recall that in my recent letters
when I talked about the PO class, I mentioned Jerry Levy? I’m afraid (no, not
afraid, but...I don’t know what the word would be) he’s my latest acquisition. He
has let drop the occasional hint of some unhappiness at home (he’s 38, has a
boy and a girl, and ‘a wife of independent means’ as he puts it) and quite
obviously doesn’t have a happy marriage. Anyway, yesterday after work, we
finished up at Wren House, getting our lockers etc in order for next week ˗ we
will work there in future (right next door to St Paul’s; what more inspiring
locale could you have?). Jerry, who normally rushes off, mentioned ultra-casually
that I might like to have a cup of coffee if I wasn’t pressed for time? I wasn’t,
and so we went to the nearest joint. One thing led to another and we finally
spent the whole evening together talking and drinking, and he finished up on
half of the bed at the flat here. I slept on the floor on the mattress part of
it ˗ quite comfortably; in fact, I suspect I was better off altogether.
It transpired in the coffee shop, after a
little prodding and coaxing from yours truly, that Jerry wasn’t going home that
night, again ˗ he’d spent the
previous night in some hotel ˗ and he suggested going and having a drink. He was
obviously not looking forward to spending the remainder of the evening on his
own, and so I said if I could have something to eat I’d have a drink or two. We
went to a place still nearby, in the newly-built St Paul’s Piazza or
whatever-it-is, and over the meal we got to talking and I got some more out of
him. To be fair, he did some prodding and prying of his own, which made me feel
less rude (rude? not the word either). But due to this conversation and the
ensuing very lengthy one in the St Christopher Wren, just round the corner (it
could be very old ˗ it could be very fake) we seemed to discover that we were
sort of soul-mates, to put it in an odd way. But do you know what I mean? When you
find that someone is quite content to be in your company and to talk and be
rude to you and laugh at your jokes and put with all your foibles (while also
pointing them out!) and you are equally content to be in his.
At that stage of the evening I hadn’t
really felt in the position of assisting his lame-duckness ˗ we were quite on a
par, friendship-wise, and just sitting around talking, keeping each other
alive. Jerry, it seems, has had a sort of recurring thing where he goes off and
leaves his wife ˗ or is told to go (I
think the latter often as not), and after a while they somehow come back to
each other, through some indefinable ‘x’ factor that holds marriages like his
together. On the last bout, he went off to Spain for two months until he was
forced to return because he couldn’t get any more work, and he doesn’t know how
long he’ll be away this time. He was off to find a bed-sit when I last saw him
today. It’s terrible, isn’t it? But it’s nice to know that the Good Lord looks
after everybody, really. This guy is so no particular believer, or any more
good than the next guy, but somehow or other our paths have crossed, and, last
night, at least I was able to fill a gap for him.
He’s mad on old films, too, and
for much of the time we just talked favourite film scenes. He was amazed that I’d
seen so many films that were made before I was born even, and at one stage
said, in a sort of grateful way to no one in particular, that he had to meet up
with some bloke from 12,000 miles away before he could talk on his own level
about a subject like this. It’s all rather incredible, isn’t it really?
I gave up thinking about going
home at any particular time in the end, and just let the evening go on
unplanned. One of the strangest things of the whole rather strange evening
however was when, after I’d been to the loo and had come up the stairs thinking
‘I wonder if he’d sooner come home to the flat and spend the night there;
(rather than spend it in a bleak hotel room in Kings Cross as he planned?) and
had practically decided that I couldn’t really ask him, he then turned round
and asked if he could kip down on the floor at my flat! Now, that is odd. I was
very glad he’d asked and naturally said, Yes.
Anyway, after we’d finished up at
the C Wren, he suggested going along to the Spanish Bar which is near Leicester
Square, just for a last drink, or some similar ridiculous excuse. So we went,
and eventually found ourselves in the hot and smoky and atmosphere-laden
basement bar: it was as phoney as a film set, and full of real Spaniards and phoney ones. Jerry was one of the
phoney ones! He has Spanish ancestry not very far back, and with that and
[second aerogramme]
the recent Spain trip, and the
fact that he is quite a linguist: (he
has German and French up his sleeve too) he was able to speak quite reasonable
Spanish to the people who would talk to him. Actually the atmosphere was quite
friendly, and people were talking on the most casual bases. But, for some crazy reason, he was
determined that he shouldn’t be an Englishman
for the night, and neither should I and I finally wound up being, at his
decision, a Norwegian! And the funniest thing was that we had a couple of
people on! A little Indo-European man and his Derbyshire girlfriend were the
victims ˗ Jerry’s victims I hasten to add; I barely said a word, though I rather
put my foot in it. I was not supposed to be able to speak English, and Jerry
and I were talking in awkward German as a sort of mutual language (I can’t
remember whether he was supposed to be a very linguistic Spaniard at this stage or
not) when the girl asked how long I’d been here, thinking no doubt it was
strange I hadn’t picked up any English. I said, like a fathead, in a mixture of
sort of bad German and bad English, 18 months, and she then said to Jerry,
assuming that I wouldn’t understand that it was a bit odd that I hadn’t learned
any English in that time ˗ how on earth did I get around? After that I shut up
and pretended to be a homesick Norwegian or something, and looked especially
gloomy, and Jerry carried on bantering them in Spanish and English and heaven
knows what! All extremely mad, and highly improbable, but never mind.
It got fairly late and we were
there till nearly closing time in the end. (They do have a sort of cabaret at
this place ˗ Spanish dancing and guitar-playing, done on an infinitesimally-raised
level, so that you to be six-foot tall to see; but since you don’t pay any
special price, this is what you must put with.)
Anyway, Jerry and I wended our way
to a bus and eventually got home. By this time he was starting to fall apart
quite a lot, which surprised me really, as he seems generally to have bags of
energy. We got home and he must have nearly gone berserk trying to figure out
who all the people were ˗ it was one of those nights when they all arrived one
after the other, and there seemed to be no end to the stream. So finally David
and I put him to be, as it were, and shut up shop. But he kept making me feel
as though I was making him a special guest of honour and showering him with
riches. I told him to shut up in the end, and he did, pretty well. But in fact I
wasn’t really treating him any better than I would have done if Mike had come
or someone like that.
To hark, way back, to the lame
duck bit; this seems to have come about late in the evening, when he lost some
of his verve, and I became sort of father to the child if you see what I mean. So
that’s the general picture of our Odyssey (the situation reminds me somewhat of
James Joyce’s Ulysses where a young
man and a middle-aged man become friendly over the space of one night).
Why do older people get on with me
at all? I ought to make them feel out of date or something, shouldn’t I, by the
law of the average statistical man? I think though, last night’s happening(s)
came about partly by my new policy of trying to be open (at the risk of getting
another mess) the same as I did with Margaret (who incidentally hasn’t yet been
any bother, and if I have room I may be able to explain why I think this is
so). And if it’s going to help somebody through an otherwise miserable and
lonely night, I’m glad to do it, because I’ve had the same sort of loneliness myself
at times. London is a terrible city for this, and I don’t intend to let it do
its damage to anyone if I can help it. (New Policy Ruling Number Four!)
Thanks for your comments on the
CIB (not CID, mother!) business. You’re
not being old-fashioned in what you say about the financial side of things,
though I must say I have the feeling that these days the girl herself
contributes more to the marriage that she might have done 20 or 30 years ago,
finance-wise. But I don’t rely on that. I must admit to feeling a little too
impoverished to even be contemplating such a thing as marriage, but since there
is not a great deal I can do about that at present, I can only save as much as
possible (more possible in this job ˗
though not when I’ve spent the night drinking!) and remember my promised daily
bread. And it does come. I don’t really get too uptight about money matters;
whenever I do, I think, This is ridiculous ˗ I’m ten times better off than a
lot of folk.
Jerry and I were discussing
marriage quite a lot last night actually, though not from this point of view,
and it would seem I’m pretty idealistic about certain aspects of it. But I don’t
think I’m foolish about it. I know marriage is bloomin’ hard work, and I think I’m
prepared for that.
So! What a funny letter. I hope
you don’t think I’m taking up with all sorts of odd people ˗ no, I’m sure you
don’t ˗ but helping them helps me,
and I’m one of the most incredibly selfish people around!
Rod, one of the flatmates, has a party on here tonight, so I don’t expect much sleep. I think I’ll go up to the laundrette actually! Lots of love, Mike.
I haven't been able to identify the two pubs mentioned in this post: I think the Christopher Wren may no longer exist, and perhaps the Spanish Bar is now a restaurant. But perhaps not....
