The Acid House (6 page)

I never supposed for the love of me that it would all be so vivid; it makes what I plan to do feel just right. I mean, I almost expect to see Joan on the boat, to just sort of run into her on deck, in the dining-room, or the bar, or even the casino. When I get to thinking about her in that way, my heart races and I feel giddy and generally have to retire to the cabin. When I turn the key I even think that I might find her there, perhaps in bed, reading. It's ridiculous I know, the whole thing, just blessed ridiculous.

I've been on this liner now for two weeks; two lonely weeks. The sight of people having fun can be so hurtful, so offensive, when you feel like I do. All I do is wander around the ship; as if I'm looking for something. That and the weights, of course. Surely I don't expect to see Joan here; surely not? I can't settle. I can't lie on the deck with Harold Robbins or Dick Francis or Desmond Bagley. I can't sit at the bar and get drunk. I can't engage in any of these trivial conversations which take place concerning the weather or the itinerary. I've walked out of two movies in the cinema.
Dead Again,
with that British chap playing the American detective. Terrible film. There was another one with that American fellow, the white-haired chap who used to be funny but isn't anymore. Perhaps that's just me: a lot of thing aren't funny anymore.

I go to my cabin and prepare my sports bag for another excursion to the gym. The only blessed place I've any interest in going to.

— You must be the fittest man on this ship, the instructor says to me. I just smile. I don't want to make conversation with this fellow. Funny fellow, if you know what I mean. Nothing against them myself, live and let live and all that, but I don't want to talk to anyone right now, let alone some blessed nancy boy.

— Never out of this place, he persists, giving a quick nod to a fat, puffing red-faced man on an exercise bike, — are you Mister Banks?

— Excellent facilities, I reply curtly, surveying the free weights and picking up two hand dumb-bells.

Thankfully the instructor chappie has noticed an overweight lady in a scarlet leotard attempting to do sit-ups. — No no no Mrs Coxton! Not like that! You're putting too much of a strain on your back. Sit further up and bend those knees. Forty-five degrees. Lovely. And one . . . and two . . .

I take a couple of weights from the dumb-bell and surreptitiously stick them into my sports bag. I go through the motions, but I don't need exercise. I'm fit enough. Joan always said that I had a good body; wiry, she used to say. That's what a lifetime in the building trade, combined with sober habits does for you. I have to concede that there is a bit of a paunch, as I've let myself go since Joan. Seemed no point. I drink more now man I've ever done, since the retirement. Well, I was never one for the golf.

Back in my cabin I lie down and drift off into that realm between thought and sleep, thinking of Joan. She was such a wonderful and decent woman, all you could hope for in a wife and mother.

Why Joan? Why, my darling, why? These could have been the best years of our life. Paul's at university, Sally's living in the nurses' home. They finally left the nest, Joan. We would have had it all to ourselves. The way they coped though, Joan, they were a credit to you, both of them. A credit to us. Me? Well I died trith you, Joanie. I'm just a blessed ghost.

I'm not asleep. I'm awake and talking to myself and crying. Ten years after Joan.

At dinner I'm alone at the table with Marianne Howells. The Kennedys, Nick and Patsy, a very nice outgoing young couple, have not shown up for the meal. It's a deliberate ploy. Patsy Kennedy has a conspiratorial eye. Marianne and I are alone for the first time on the cruise. Marianne: unmarried, here to get away from her own bereavement, the recent death of her widowed mother.

— So I'm to have you all to myself, Jim, she said, in a manner far too jocular and self-deprecating to be flirtatious. There is no doubt, though, that Marianne is a fine-looking woman. Someone ought to have married a woman like that. A waste. No, that's a dreadful way to think. Old chauvinistic Jim Banks at it again. Perhaps that's the way Marianne wanted it, perhaps she got the best from life that way. Perhaps if Joanie and I hadn't... No. The seafood, the seafood.

— Yes, I smile, — this seafood salad is excellent. Still, if you can't get good seafood at sea, where can you get it, eh?

Marianne grins and we small-talk for a bit. Then she says, — It's a tragedy about Yugoslavia.

I'm wondering whether she means because we can't land there because of the troubles, or because of the misery the troubles have inflicted on people. I decide to plump for the compassionate interpretation. Marianne seems a caring sort. — Yes, terrible suffering. Dubrovnik was one of the highlights of the trip when I was here with Joan.

— Oh yes, your wife ... what happened to her, if you don't mind me asking?

— Eh, an accident. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about it, I said, shoving a forkful of that lettuce into my mouth. I'm sure it's a garnish rather than there to be eaten, something to do with where it's positioned on the plate. I was never one for etiquette. Joanie, you'd have kept me right.

— I'm really sorry, Jim, she says.

I smile. The accident. On this boat, on this cruise. An accident? No.

She'd been down for a while. Depressed. The change in life, or who can say what? I don't know why. That's the most horrible thing about it, I don't know why. I thought that the cruise would do her the world of good. It even seemed to, for a while. Just as we got towards the end of the Adriatic, on the way back into the Med, she took the pills and just slipped off the side of the boat into the night. Into the sea. I woke up alone; I've been alone ever since. It was my fault, Joan, the whole blessed thing. If I'd tried to understand how you felt. If I hadn't booked this bloody cruise. That's stupid old bloody idiot Jim Banks. Take the easy way out. I should have sat you down and talked, talked, and talked again. We could have sorted it all out, Joan.

I feel a hand on mine. Marianne's. There's tears in my eyes, like I'm some damned funny fella.

— I've upset you, Jim. I'm really so sorry.

— No, not at all, I smile.

— I really understand, you know I do. Mother ... she was so difficult, she says. Now she's starting the waterworks. What a blessed pair we are. — I did all I could. I had my chances to make a different life for myself. I didn't really know what I wanted. A woman always has to choose, Jim, choose between marriage and children and a career. Always at some point. I don't know. Mother was always there, always needing. She won by default. The career girl became the old maid, you see.

She seemed so hurt and upset. My hand stiffened on hers. The way she looks at the floor and her head suddenly rises as her eyes meet mine: it reminds me of Joan.

— Don't sell yourself short, I tell her. — You're an exception ally brave lady and a very beautiful one.

She smiles, more composed now, — You're a real gent, Jim Banks, and you say the nicest things.

All I can do is smile back.

I was enjoying being with Marianne. It had been a long time since I'd been like this with a woman. Since I'd had that intimacy. We talked all night. No subjects were taboo and I was able to talk about Joan without seeming maudlin and bringing the company down, as would have happened had the Kennedys been present. People don't want to listen to all that on holiday. However, Marianne, with her bereavement, could relate to it.

I talked and I talked, nonsense mostly, but to me beautiful, painful memories. I'd never talked like this to anyone before. — I remember on the boat with Joanie. I got into a terrible situation. There were some Dutch folk, lovely people, at the table next to us. We shared a table with a rather stand-offish French chap and a lovely Italian girl. Real film-star looks. Strangely, the French chap wasn't interested. I think he may have been, well, that way, if you know what I mean. Anyway, this was a proper old League of Nations. The thing was that we had this elderly couple from Worcester who did not like Germans one bit, thinking back to the war years and all that stuff. Well, I feel that those things are best left in the past. So old Jim Banks here decided to play the peacemaker . . .

God, how I rabbitted on. My inhibitions seemed to dissolve with every sip of the wine, and we were soon on the second bottle, Marianne nodding conspiratorially at me as I ordered it. After the meal we proceeded to the bar where we had a few more drinks.

— I've really enjoyed myself tonight, Jim. I just wanted to tell you mat, she said, smiling.

— It's been one of the best nights I've had ... in years, I told her. I was almost going to say, since Joanie. It has though. This wonderful lady has made me feel blessed human again. She really is a fine person.

She held my hand as we sat looking into each other's eyes for a few seconds.

I cleared my throat with a sip of scotch. — One of the great things about getting older, Marianne, is that the impending presence of the grim reaper concentrates the mind somewhat. I'm very attracted to you Marianne, and please don't be offended by this, but I'd like to spend the night with you.

— I'm not offended, Jim. I think that would be marvellous, she glowed.

This made me a little coy. — Might be somewhat less than marvellous. I'm a little bit out of practice for this sort of thing.

— They say it's a little like swimming or riding a bike, she simpered, a little drunk.

Well, if that was the case, Old Jim Banks was about to get back in the saddle after a gap of ten years. We went to her room.

Despite the alcohol, I had no problem in getting an erection. Marianne pulled off her dress to expose a body that would have done justice to some women many decades, never mind years, younger. We embraced for a little while, before slipping under the duvet and making love, first slowly and tenderly, then with increasing passion. I was lost in it. Her nails scored the flesh on my back and I was screaming, — By God Joanie, by God ...

She froze like a stiff corpse underneath me, and punched the mattress in frustration as tears bubbled up from her eyes. I moved off her. — I'm sorry, I half moaned, half sobbed.

She sat up and shrugged, staring into space. She spoke in a dulled, metallic tone, but without bitterness, as if conducting a cool and dispassionate epitaph. — I find a man I care about and when he makes love to me he's imagining I'm somebody else.

— It wasn't like that, Marianne . . .

She started sobbing; I put my arm around her. Well, Jim Banks, I thought, you've got yourself into another right blessed muddle-up here, haven't you?

— I'm sorry, she said.

I started to pull my clothes on. — I'd better go, I said. I walked towards the door, then turned back. — You're a wonderful woman, Marianne. I hope you find someone who can give you what you deserve. Old Banksie here, I pointed sadly at myself, — I'm just kidding myself. I'm a one-woman man. I exited, leaving her with her tears. I now had my business to attend to. There was to be no reprieve after all. I knew it was for the best; I knew it now more than ever. The kids, Paul and Sally, were strong enough. They'd understand.

Back at my cabin I left Marianne a note. I'd left letters for the kids in the ship's mail with a videotaped recording, explaining what I intended to do. The note to Marianne didn't say much. I just told her that I was here for a specific purpose; I was sorry we'd got so involved. I had to fulfil my destiny, that was how I saw it.

According to the maps I consulted we were in the Adriatic now, no doubt about it. I tied the length of cord through the holes in the middle of the weights, and slung it over my shoulder. It was difficult to get the stretchy tracksuit bottoms over the weights and the rest of my clothes on. I fought into my waterproofs, barely able to walk by the time I left my cabin.

I slipped along the empty deck, struggling to remain erect. The sea was calm and the night balmy. A couple of lovers enjoying the moonlight looked suspiciously at me as I shuffled past them to my spot on the starboard side. Ten years, almost to the day, Joan, when you slipped out and away from me, away from the pain and hurt. I lift one leg, with an almighty effort, over the barrier. I'll just get my blessed breath back, take one last long look at the purple sky, then allow my weight to shift and I'll spill from this rail into the Adriatic.

A GOOD SON

He was a good son, and like all good sons, he really loved his mother. In fact, he completely worshipped the woman.

Yet he couldn't make love to her; not with his father sitting there, watching them.

He got out of bed and threw a dressing-gown around his self-conscious nakedness. As he passed his father on his way out of the room, he heard the old man say: Aye Oedipus, yir a complex fucker right enough.

THE CRUEL BASTARD AND THE SELFISH FUCKER GET IT ON

She was a cruel bastard; he was a selfish fucker. They literally bumped into each other one night in a Grassmarket pub. They were vaguely acquainted from somewhere neither could remember. Or at least that was what they told themselves and each other.

She was highly insulting, but he didn't mind as he was indifferent to everything except the eighty shilling he was tipping down his throat. They decided to go back to her place for a shag. He didn't have a place of his own; as his parents did everything for him, he saw little point in getting one.

Sitting up in bed, she watched him undressing. Her face hardened in a contemptuous scowl as he removed his purple boxer-shorts. — Who dae ye expect tae satisfy wi that? she asked.

— Masel, he said, getting into bed beside her.

After the event, she bitterly disparaged his performance with a vitriol which would have torn the fragile sexual ego of most men to shreds. He scarcely heard a word she said. His final thoughts as he drifted into a drunken sleep were concerned with breakfast. He hoped she had plenty of provisions in and that she made a good fry-up.

Within a few weeks they were living together. People say it seems to be working out.

LOTS OF LAUGHTER AND SEX

You said, when we embarked on this great adventure together, that lots of laughter was essential in a relationship.

I agreed.

You also made the point that a great deal of sex was of equal importance.

Again, I agreed. Wholeheartedly.

In fact I remember your exact words: laughter and sex are the barometers of a relationship. This was the statement you made, if I remember correctly.

Don't get me wrong. I couldn't agree more. But no at the same time, ya fuckin cow.

ROBERT K. LAIRD: A SEXUAL HISTORY

Rab's nivir hud a ride in ehs puff; perr wee cunt. Disnae seem too bothered, mind you.