Starter For Ten Part 36

'And I'm okay about the B and B too. I'll come down in the Easter break and clear out my stuff and then it's all yours. Like you said, it's only a load of model planes, after all. So what I'm saying, what I mean to say, is that I think it's a good thing. I'm . . . pleased you're happy.' There's no reply from the other end of the line, just the sound of Mum's breathing, s.h.i.+fting the receiver from one hand to another. 'As long as you don't expect me to call him "Dad", that's all!' I say, as light-heartedly as I can manage.

'Of course not, Brian . . .' and she's about to say something, then decides not to, stops.

'Well, that's it really. You're still coming tomorrow?'

"Course I am - wouldn't miss it for the world.'

'And you're sure you can afford it, the train fare and everything?'

'Brian, don't worry about that . . .'

'The ticket will be on the door, in your name . . .'

'Oh, and Brian? There's one other thing . . .' The pips are going and even though I can feel the weight of the loose change in my pocket, it feels as if I've said all I need to say. 'Got to go now Mum, out of money . . .'

'Brian, I need to ask you something else . . .'

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'Go on then, quick . . .'

'Can Des come, too?' and then the line goes dead.

I stand in the phone-box with the receiver in my hand. The fact is I'd always expected Dad to be there. Not literally, obviously, not with him being dead and everything, but in my head, it had been Dad sat in the audience, next to Mum, smiling, clapping, putting two thumbs up, and Mum must have known this too, otherwise she wouldn't have been so nervous about asking. And now it's not Dad, but Des, some bloke called Des, who I don't really know and I don't really like, and . . .

I take change from my pocket, pick up the phone, dial the number, and Mum picks up almost immediately.

'Mum?'

'Oh, yes, Brian, I was just going to ask . . .'

'I heard you Mum. Of course you can bring Des.'

'Oh. Okay.'

Till sort out the ticket tomorrow.' 'Oh. Okay then, Brian. If you're sure . . .'

'I'm sure.'

'Bye then.'

'Bye then.'

And I hang up.

I stay in the phone-box for a while after that, standing, thinking, well, it's early days but the Wisdom, Kindness, Courage policy seems to be working out pretty well, so far. I think I might even have done something good for once. And even though I should go home to work out what to wear for the filming tomorrow and get a good night's sleep and everything, I decide to go and see Alice, because it is Valentine's Day after all, and she'll have read my poem by now.

324.

38.

QUESTION: Adam Heyer, Frank Gusenberg, Pete Gusen berg, John May, Al Weinshank and James Clark were amongst the victims of which b.l.o.o.d.y event on North Clark Street, Chicago in February 1929?

ANSWER: The St Valentine's Day Ma.s.sacre.

'Listen Alice, I've been doing some thinking, about us, and, well, there's this great poem by the Metaphysical poet John Donne, The Triple Foole, which goes "7 am two fools I know/For loving, and for saying so/In whining poetry" and I think, well, 7've been a bit like that. What I mean to say is I've been coming on a bit strong, what with dragging you kicking-and-screaming into the photo-booth and that crazy, bad poetry in the Valentine's card and everything, and I know how important your independence is, and that's fine by me, it really, really is. I'm in love with you of course, ma.s.sively so, but that's not important, that needn't get in the way, because at the end of the day I think we get along really well, that we're good friends, soul-mates even. I'd certainly rather spend time with you than anyone in the world, really I would, even though I know I can be a complete p.r.i.c.k sometimes. Most of the time in fact, and, alright, look, I'm not completely stupid, I know you don't love me now, but you might do, mightn't you, one day? I mean you might grow to? It is possible, it does happen, and I've got patience, loads and loads of patience, and I don't mind waiting. So what I'm trying to say is - let's wait and see. Just wait and see what happens. Let's not push things, let's just 325.

keep spending time together and have some fun. And wait. And see. Okay?'

That's what I'm going to say to Alice when I see her, more or less. I'm not sure if I can get away with the John Donne quote, because I'm worried it might come across as a tiny bit pretentious, but I'm going to see how it plays in the moment. I'm going to say all of the above, nothing more, and see how she takes it, but not get into a big, heavy discussion, and then I'm going to pull on my coat, go home and get a good eight hours' sleep. And I'm definitely not going to try and kiss her. Even if she asks me to stay and make love to her or whatever, I'm going to say no, because it's The Challenge in the morning. We've both got to be fresh for The Challenge. Like boxers no s.e.x before a fight.

I'm standing outside her door. I knock.

There's no reply.

I knock again. Wisdom, Kindness, Courage, Wisdom, Kindness, Courage . . .

'Who is it?'

'It's Brian.'

'Brian! It's nearly midnight!'

The know, sorry, I just wanted to say hi!'

I hear her get out of bed, the rustle of her pulling on some clothes, and then she peers round the edge of the door, in the Snoopy T-s.h.i.+rt and a black pair of knickers.

'I'm actually asleep, Bri . . .' she says, rubbing her eyes.

'Are you? G.o.d, sorry. It's just I've had a bit of an eventful day, and I wanted to talk to someone about it.'

'Can't it wait 'til . . . ?'

'Not someone. You.'

She bites her lip, and tugs the front of her T-s.h.i.+rt down with her spare hand.

'Oh, come on then.' And she opens up the door. I go and sit on the edge of the unmade bed, which is warm to the touch from where she was sleeping.

326.

'So - how was Valentine's Day?'

'Oh fine, fine . . .'

'Get anything special?' I ask meaningfully. 'In the post this morning? Get anything nice? . . .' I wish she'd come and sit next to me.

'Ye-eees, I did, thank you Brian, and it was a lovely, lovely poem.'

Why won't she come and sit next to me?

'You really think so? Phew! Because I was a bit embarra.s.sed about it. It's the first time anyone's actually read anything I've written so . . .'

'No, I thought it was lovely, really. Very . . . frank. And . . . raw. Emotionally. Quite derivative of e.e.c.u.mmings I thought, well not derivative, inspired by, it reminded me of him, I mean. In fact I think there were some lines that I actually recognised . . .' Hang on, is she accusing me of plagiarism! '. . . but anyway, it was lovely, really. Thank you. I was very . . . touched . . .'

'That is a.s.suming it was from me!' I say lightheartedly. 'What poem! I didn't send any poetry!' I'm jabbering, I know I am, but she smiles, and scratches her elbow and makes a tent of her T-s.h.i.+rt by stretching it down and hooking it over her bare knees. And I'm struggling to keep things lighthearted now, because I can't help noticing that on the desk behind her, looming over her shoulder, is a ma.s.sive bouquet of perfect red roses slumping sideways in a huge, battered aluminium saucepan of water that she's nicked from the communal kitchen. Of course there's no reason why she shouldn't receive Valentine's gifts from other men, I'd be a fool not to realise that she would, I'm not naive, she's bound to, what with being beautiful and popular and conventionally s.e.xually attractive and everything, but this bouquet is just . . . vulgar. So vulgar that I'm trying not to draw attention to it, and to focus instead on my small, sincere, little heartfelt hand-crafted homemade poem. But there they are, looming over her shoulder, stinking 327.

up the place like cheap air-freshener, that big f.u.c.k-off bunch of perfect f.u.c.king red f.u.c.king roses . . .

'Lovely roses!' I say.

'Oh, those!' she says, doing a little double-take over her shoulder, as if they'd somehow crept up behind her, like Birnam b.l.o.o.d.y Wood . . .

'Any idea . . . who might have sent them?' I say, lightly.

'No idea at all!' she says. It's some posh b.a.s.t.a.r.d obviously. That's a whole term's grant there, slumped in that saucepan of water. And of course she knows who they're from; because what's the point of being that generous if you're going to remain anonymous?

'Well - was there a card attached or . . . ?'

'Is this any of your business, Brian?' she snaps.

'No. No, I suppose not.'

'Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry . . .' she says, and gets out of her chair, and puts her arms round me, and gives me a stooped hug. I look down along the length of her back, where the T-s.h.i.+rt has ridden up, and put one hand on the warm bare skin just above her underwear, which incidentally seems to be made of some sort of translucent black mesh or lace or something, and we stay like that for a time, while I stare at the roses lolling in the saucepan.

'Sorry . . .' she whispers in my ear. 'I'm such a b.i.t.c.h for snapping at you, it's just we had a really long, difficult rehearsal tonight, and I think I might still be in character . . .' then she sits next to me and laughing, says, 'G.o.d, did I really just say that? That is without a doubt the most pretentious thing I've ever said in my life . . .' and we're both smiling again, and I wonder if I might try for a kiss, but then remember my new mantra. Wisdom, Kindness, Courage.

'Look, I really ought to be getting back to bed now, Brian. Big day tomorrow and all that . . .'

'Of course, I'll go . . .' and I half-stand, then sit down again. 'But can I just say something first . . . ?'

328.

'O-kay,' she says warily, sitting down beside me.

'Don't worry - it's nothing scary. I just wanted to say . . .' and I take her hand, take a deep breath and say, 'Alice . . . Okay, listen, Alice I've been doing some thinking, about us, and, well, there's this great poem by the Metaphysical poet John Donne, The Triple Foole, which goes "/ am two fools I know/For loving, and for saying so/In whining poetry" and I think, well, I've been a bit like that. What I mean to say is I've been coming on a bit strong, what with dragging you kicking and screaming into the photo-booth and that crazy, bad poetry in the Valentine's card and everything, and I know how much you value your independence, and that's fine by me, it really, really is. I'm in love with you of course, ma.s.sively so . . .'

'Brian . . .' she says.

'. . . but that's not important, that needn't get in the way, because at the end of the day . . .'

'Brian . . .' she says. '. . . hang on, Alice, just let me finish . . .'

'. . . no, Brian, you have to stop . . .' she says, standing up and crossing to the far side of the room. 'This isn't right . . .'

'But, it's not what you think it is, Alice . . .'

'No, I'm sorry, Brian, I can't take it any more. Let's get this over with . . .'

And the strange thing is, she doesn't say this to me, she says it to her wardrobe.

'Come on, Neil, this isn't funny any more . . .'

'That's strange,' I think, 'why is she calling her wardrobe Neil? What does she call her chest of drawers!' I wonder, as she knocks on Neil the Wardrobe's door with the flat of her hand, and the door opens slowly by itself, as if in a conjuring trick.

There's a man in the wardrobe.

He's holding his trousers in his hand.

I don't understand.

'Brian, this is Neil,' says Alice.

329.

Neil unfolds out of the wardrobe, gets to his feet.

'Neil is playing Eilert Lovborg. In Hedda Gabler.'

'h.e.l.lo, Neil,' I say.

'h.e.l.lo, Brian,' says Neil.

'We were . . . rehearsing,' says Alice.

'Oh,' I say, as if this explained everything.

And then, I think, I shake his hand.

J.

33O.

The Final Round 'What do you think of her?'

'I don't like to say,' I stammered.

'Tell me in my ear,' said Miss Havisham, bending down.

'I think she is very proud,' I replied, in a whisper.

'Anything else?'

'I think she is very pretty . . .'

'. . . Anything else?'