Half-Sick of Shadows (19 page)

And why was Alf no longer in any of my classes? When I thought about it, he hadn’t been for years. Whitehead House had special classes for boys who needed extra help, but Alf would hardly have gone to those. Perhaps Blinky had sent him into a programme of one-to-one tuition for the preposterously gifted. I didn’t know of any such programme, but it was all I could think of
.

Alf Unleashed

14

Alf and Me in UniversET

A letter from Sophia, in November of my final year at school, warned me that Mother’s health was declining. I hardly noticed – self-obsessed, really. Mother had sniffles, I thought – if I thought anything. Concerning the abstract, the theoretical, and matters less immediate than Mother’s health, however, I thought a great deal. When Physics became interesting, time became a preoccupation … and its heading towards a conclusion.

Time did seem to be concluding … and faster than before.

I thought a lot about time. I didn’t do it intentionally. I didn’t, for example, say to myself in bed at night, or staring from windows at the rain, I’m going to close my eyes and think about time. Instead, thoughts about time happened – like breathing.

My memory is a store for things that happened before the present. The present only exists as a ghost, since it is constantly slipping into the past. Events that will happen later, after the ghostly present – future events – have a space in my memory – a recently vacated one – with their names on. My memory contains countless images different from but like the image of Alf’s Adam’s apple. I think of these images as photographs because they are still. It seems strange to me that past things – called memories – are almost always still, but future things – called daydreams – are almost always animated. Past
things
tend to be still because you cannot change the past, and future things tend to be animated because you can create the future. You can create the future by the decisions you make in the fleeting present.

At least, futures have the appearance of being open and arbitrary. But, if you look at the facts, maybe it’s all predestined.

‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Alf, huddled on a corner of my bed, back against the wall, scratching in a notebook while I, hands in pockets, stared through the window.

‘Why?’ I asked, because it was easier than trying to explain why I was depressed; I could put my finger on twenty reasons and none.

‘Your eyebrows: drawn down they are.’

‘How do you know? You aren’t looking at me.’

‘Are you thinking about Sophia, your sister?’

‘Yes,’ I said, although I hadn’t been.

‘You’re sad for her.’

‘I’m perpetually sad for her.’

‘Why?’

‘Can’t you guess? Haven’t I told you?’ I was sure I’d told him once before. I had a memory of having told him. But it was an animated memory, and so must have been from the future. ‘I’m sure I told you.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘She once made our father a promise that she would never leave the Manse. Our father meant the promise to be that she would never desert our mother and the responsibilities of a daughter. But Sophia took the promise never to leave the Manse literally. And so the promise solidified, hardened in Sophia like cement.’

‘She’s confined to the Manse.’

‘That’s what she thinks she promised.’

‘What if she breaks her promise?’

I shrugged. ‘I think she thinks she’ll die.’

He was thoughtful for a while, then replied with a question from a different conversation with a different person in a different time.

‘Have you ever been kissed?’

‘Beg pardon?’ He looked at me, aware that I knew that he knew that I’d heard him correctly. ‘Yes. Of course I have been kissed. No. Actually, I haven’t … Only by Sophia … And Mother.’

I was going to ask why he wanted to know, but something stopped me: fear, perhaps. Alf got on with scratching in his notebook. His Adam’s apple jumped out from his throat when he swallowed; I’d never seen it doing that before … And yet, I had.

That truly happened: the question about a kiss. It was significant enough to ensconce a place in my memory box.

‘The boy,’ said Alf.

‘What?’

Having cast me an annoyed glance, he started over. He was reading from his notebook.

‘The boy, intensely hands in pockets,

Glaring t’wards her golden locket

Gently on a breast so fair

Calling him to here from there

His sister, far away.’

Obviously, it was about me and Sophia. ‘That’s nice,’ I said.

‘It’s dreadful,’ Alf replied.

‘Nonsense. You’re a wonderful poet.’

‘I’m no poet. I’m only a muse.’

‘Amused?’

‘Muse. Rhymes with blues.’

‘You’re a muse.’

‘Yes,’ he said sadly.

‘I see. And who do you muse for? Is that the right way to express what muses do? Or, who’s your musee? Musette?’

‘Get,’ said Alf.

‘Get?’

‘Get. As in bastard offspring. Not my bastard offspring. It just means human, really. All humans are bastard offsprings.’

‘Charming! We humans revere your lot and call you muses, and your lot call us gets. Get a life! Get lost! Who’s your get, then?’

He raised his head. I was surprised by his sincerity and anger. Maybe he was just an exceptional actor. ‘I can’t communicate with him as I should. I can’t get through to him.’

Ah! Me? No! Surely … Did Alf see himself as my muse? Was I his get? ‘Do you mean, you can’t get through to me?’

‘Not you. God forbid. I’m very fond of my get. Even, dare I admit it, a little bit in love. So it couldn’t possibly be you. No. It’s my means of transportation. Sometimes the gearstick refuses to go into reverse.’

I laughed. I did! Out loud!

‘He has received no communication from me for ages.’

‘Oh well,’ I said, pathetically and without originality and I wished I’d said nothing. ‘No muse is good muse.’

January saw freezing rain, snow, sleet, frosty radiators, frozen pupils and sneezing staff – the ones who weren’t off sick. It was wonderful, the best January ever. I’d been back at Whitehead House for one week of my final term at school – which was why it was the best January ever – when Blinky chanced upon me on a corridor.

‘Ah! Edward. I’ve been meaning to have a word. My office.’

He led. I followed.

He asked if I’d like an overnight stay at a university. Blimey! Yes. What for? Orientation, apparently, getting a feel for the place. When? March, prior to getting stuck into exam revision.

I didn’t know at the time, but all schools ran these orientation visits for university hopefuls. A master accompanied pupils from each school, but not in my case. Whitehead House couldn’t spare a master for just one boy, alone, solo, singular, who already knew how to get on and off a train.

In my excitement I wrote to Sophia and told her about it. I even
gave
her the university’s address and telephone number in case she needed to contact me urgently about anything. When I knew it, I sent another letter with the date of my trip. It was only a one-night stay at a crummy university, but to me it was like exploring the Amazon.

Blinky said I would be an excellent ambassador for Whitehead House. An ambassador. Wow! I hadn’t thought of it like that.

March arrived, and the day of my departure for the Northern Island University. I was to go directly there from Whitehead House – no time en route to visit Sophia.

It was six o’clock in the morning, still dark. Unfortunately, everyone was in bed and no one saw me leaving. My ambassadorial overnight bag and I exited the building walking tall – well, tall-er – and swaggered through icy drizzle to the railway station. Plato’s
Republic
kept me company on the journey. Feeling sophisticated – although I wasn’t – and grown up – although I hadn’t – I ate a late breakfast at the railway station in the city across the border before boarding my connection for the university.

Approaching the Northern Island University, my nervousness increased. Plato became an unintelligible blur and I tucked him away in my pocket. The university had its own station, which had so many signposts that getting lost was almost impossible. I arrived in too much of a state to notice anything other than the sky, which was as miserable as the sky down south. I’d to make it to Lindsay Hall by two o’clock, and arrived with two minutes to spare. They had already started – someone’s watch was fast or slow. It didn’t matter; there were over a hundred boys my age and nobody noticed my entrance.

After the echoing, barely audible introduction by a man with a beard, a girl at a desk ticked my name and assigned me to a room on campus. I walked around some other desks and picked up leaflets advertising clubs and societies because that’s what everybody else did. One of these leaflets was the schedule. There wasn’t much to it:
16:00–18:00
The
library (meet outside main door)
. I wondered how they would manage a 100-boy tour of the library when, presumably, students would be working in it.
Evening free (dining room closes at 21:00). 9:00 –11:00 Lindsay Hall
.

I found my lodgings for the night by following a large group with a few masters to a sort of mini housing estate across car parks and gardens. Actually, it looked less like a mini housing estate than some stacks of mini houses. Each one had an apartment downstairs and another upstairs, and each apartment slept four. My apartment was upstairs, and I was the first to arrive. Except, I wasn’t.

‘Alf!’

‘At your squirrels.’ He bowed before me.

‘Alf?’

He sang, ‘… a sixpence is better than’ alf a penny,’ and did a little dance sideways across the room.

He looked different in jeans and a pullover instead of school uniform. He looked cheerful: most unAlflike.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Aren’t you pleased to see me, Edward?’

‘Yes, but what are you doing here?’

‘The same as you.’

‘But … Have you been drinking? I smell alcohol.’

‘There’s a bar in the students’ union.’

‘Blinky didn’t tell me you were coming too.’

‘I’m here independently, Edward. Whitehead House knows nothing about it. Can you keep my presence a secret?’

‘A secret?’

‘Can you keep a secret?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good! You’re in, then.’

‘In? In what?’

‘The secret service. It’s a sketch … Never mind. I’m glad you’re here in one piece and unmolested. Which bed do you want?’

‘I …’

‘I’d prefer this one if it’s …’

‘What do you mean independently? Blinky led me to believe I’d be here alone. I don’t …’

‘You’re never alone, dear boy: not with an Alf.’

‘What?’

‘Look, Edward.’ He held my arm and spoke most sincerely. ‘I’ve my own agenda, which may or may not become clear to you one day. For now, our time’s our own from six o’clock tonight, and I for one intend to make the most of it. I’m in the mood to let down my hair.’

I looked at his hair, which was much too short to be put up, never mind let down. ‘That’s not like you.’

‘I know,’ he said, ‘but it’s getting near the finale.’

‘What is?’

‘Everything, really. It’s exciting. It’s always exciting near the finale. No matter how many times. Exciting, exciting.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Don’t let lostness trouble your pretty little head. Trust me, I’m an Alf. Moreover, I happen to know there’s a seaside town six miles from here and a railway track that goes there. It’s called Ruse Bay – not the railway track, the seaside town – and it’s where the students go for entertainment and liquid refreshment. Well, their entertainment is liquid refreshment. We can get a train there after the library tour, and a taxi back. What about it?’

‘I …’

‘Good. We should eat first.’

‘It’s just that I don’t have much …’

‘Money? Don’t worry about money. I’ve plenty of that.’

‘How do you know these things, Alf? How did you get here?’

‘Where?’

‘Here in this room. I didn’t see you in Lindsay Hall. You weren’t on the train. You just,’ I shrugged, ‘show up.’

‘Let’s find the dining room,’ said Alf. ‘The last thing I want to do is Ruse Bay on an empty stomach.’

What could I do? What could I say? Alf had taken over. To be honest, I was glad to be in the command of someone who seemed to know what he was doing. As for his secretive agenda: Lord knew!

It became clear, during double egg and chips – Alf had moussaka and chips – that my enigmatic friend had in mind an evening of liquid excess. This surprised me greatly because I didn’t think him that kind of fellow. He was different, however, away from Whitehead House; an animal let off its leash.

15

The Debacle in Mr Darcy’s Arms

Ruse Bay was a pretty fishing port. At least, I think it was pretty. I didn’t see much of it because it was night, the rain came down in sheets, and we had to run from pub to pub. Every third door seemed to be the entrance to a pub. By the time we got to Mr Darcy’s Arms, we were not wholly sober. We had not been wholly sober for a pub or two. In Mr Darcy’s Arms, we decided to remain – in preference to going back outside and drowning, and because a pub quiz would begin at ten o’clock. Alf was ever so excited; he’d never taken part in a pub quiz. Neither had I. Noise more raucous than any I had known previously came from Mr Darcy’s Arms that night. Standing room only for new arrivals, a 120-minute happy hour, and much beer on the floor.

Said the quizmaster – more often barman, occasionally DJ, ‘Name a palace in Istanbul beginning with the letter T. The official residence of the Ottoman sultans.’

Someone cried, ‘The Blue Mosque.’

Someone else: ‘The Bosphorus.’

‘Not B! T for tits,’ corrected the quizmaster. ‘Dickheads.’

After much jeering, someone cried, ‘Tockpaki Palace.’ The quizmaster deemed him either correct or close enough.

‘What is the speed of light?’

Alf’s voice alone in the silence: ‘The speed of light depends on the transmission medium. Light’s maximum speed happens in a vacuum.’ The quizmaster consulted the sheet of paper with the answer. Alf added, ‘One hundred and eighty-six thousand, two hundred and eighty-two point three nine seven miles per second.’