The Snowing and Greening of Thomas Passmore (19 page)

Is the bottle always half-empty these days?

“Sod off,” I say, and turn on the table lamp to banish the bastard, then glance at the soggy envelopes. Without opening them, I guess what they are: a bank statement, an invitation to apply for a credit card, a letter from
Reader's Digest
advising me that I, Thomas Passmore of 67 Albenry Park, Whittington, London, have successfully completed the first two stages towards becoming a millionaire and might like to consider how I'd prefer receiving my prize. The fourth envelope is hand-addressed, in writing I vaguely remember; redirected by my mother.

Dear Tom,

Thanks for your cards and letters of some while ago, and apologies for not replying sooner, but I'm not an over-keen writer of letters these days, as you've probably guessed. In fact, my friends tell me I'm the world's worst correspondent.

Anyway, I'm shortly moving out of the house I've been living in for the last eighteen months (the landlord is selling), and we're having a house-cooling party in a couple of weeks.

I was thinking it would be nice to meet up again, as you suggested once, and thought this party would be a good opportunity, so please come along if you're able and feel free
to bring a friend or two.

The nearest tube is Ealing Broadway and the house is about ten minutes walk away. It's in the
A-Z
.
(Details are on the reverse.)

Perhaps I'll see you soon.

Best wishes,

Kate

I sit down, read the letter again, focus on the bars outside the window, but don't know what to do next. Eventually, I stand, take off my wet trench coat, sit down and read it again.

“Well, fuckety-fuck,” Lofty says.

How will she ever recognise me? I've become a ghost.

“She won't,” he tells me. “Forget it. Screw it up and dump it in the bin.” And he pokes a ‘V' of two bony fingers in the air and claws them up and down, up and down at her letter.

“You did exist,” an alter ego reminds me.

“A long time ago,” I say to the room.

The night isn't icy cold. The moisture in my exhaled breath doesn't produce small funnels of fog. There's no ice forming on damp pavements. Instead, it's mild and more like a spring night than winter. And yet my fingers are numb, my teeth chatter.

Crossing the road into Kate's street, I walk past the house once before pausing, turning back and heading down the small front path. There's nothing more to lose. Nothing at all.

“I'm looking for Kate,” I tell the three people who answer the door together. Behind them a houseful of strangers are milling about: chit-chat, chit-chat, chit-chat. It's the first time I've spoken to real people in months. Music is bouncing forward from the back of the house.

“Kate? Anyone know where Kate is?”

“Still packing.”

“Try her room. Upstairs, far end of the landing.” And they point to the staircase.

On the landing I take a deep breath and knock lightly, but the door's ajar and moves to my touch. Straightaway, the murmur of conversation within stops and the door's opened by a girl I don't recognise.

This is a mistake.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “Must have the wrong room.”

“Who are you looking for?”

Another figure stands and steps towards me.

“Tom.”

“Hello, Kate.”

She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. “You made it. Come in, have a seat. I'll move these clothes out the way. Sorry about the mess. I shouldn't have started packing until after the party.” She places a hand on her friend's arm. “Tom, this is Wendy; Wendy, this is Tom – an old friend. Did you bring anyone with you?”

I shake my head, open my mouth, shut it again and sit down. One corner of her room is cramped with boxes, strewn with skirts, coats, t-shirts; several precarious stacks of books rise from the floorboards, waiting for an excuse to topple; other books have already collapsed across half-empty shelves; framed prints lean lazily against a wall; a stereo system spills out of a large box advertising
Kellogg's Rice Crispies x 24
. They're the furnishings and accoutrements of a Kate I've never known, and so I look for something I might point to and say, “I remember this,” but there's nothing recognisable to cling to.

“No, I came by myself,” I say.

“You could've. Wendy's invited a thousand friends, haven't you?” And she seats herself on a trunk opposite me, but not so close that we could reach out and touch.

Wendy smiles and shakes her head. “Well, I'd better go and start being sociable, I guess. I'll give a shout when Mick arrives.”

“Okay. Ta.” The door clicks shut. “Mick's my boyfriend. I don't know what time he'll get here. He hasn't been over before.” She shifts her position on the trunk, tucks her hands behind her knees, looks at me and waits.

Her hair is the same lustrous brown, although a couple of inches shorter perhaps, and she's still undeniably Kate, even though her face is a tad thinner. But she's more guarded than I'd hoped. Maybe this is a test.

“It's not a difficult street to find,” I say. “He won't get lost. I didn't.”

“Care to put money on that? He's got a terrible sense of direction.” She smiles then, and presses her teeth against her bottom lip and shrugs – a gesture I remember – and relaxes. “Well, how are you, Tom? It's been ages. Too long. I'm sorry about that.”

“Fine. Never better. You look well. I was worried…”

“That you wouldn't recognise me? I haven't changed that much, have I?”

“No, I meant that you wouldn't recognise me.”

She shakes her head and dismisses the idea. “I'm glad you came, and I
am
sorry it's taken so long to get in touch. I never imagined life would be so hectic. And as for this year, it's been crazy – good, but crazy. How's your course, Tom?”

“I've deferred. I've taken a year off,” I tell her, and hesitate. “It's a pity you have to move. This seems like a good place.”

“It is,” she says, “but I've found a room in a great flat just round the corner from uni.”

At that, a car horn sounds in the street and Kate moves to the window. She pulls the curtain back to peer out and then lets it fall shut again. “I thought that might be him.”

“And it isn't?” I ask, but am thinking about the bonsai sycamore perched on the windowsill. Here's something important from our past that I might mention. Should I mention it?

“No, not yet,” she says. “He's probably caught in traffic.”

I nod. “So what will you do when you finish your course?”

And we talk about Abetsby, her parents, about living in London, the over-development of Northampton, and hopscotch from one subject to another, wary of saying too much or too little, or so it seems. My sentences sound clumsy, with having shrunk from people for too long, and several times I almost let the words trail silently off towards a conclusion of their own, until I make myself steer them towards a full stop. Yet when her smile warms and she laughs at something I say, and when she gesticulates with her hands in a manner I recognise, or widens her eyes in exclamation in a way I've forgotten, I tell myself I'm doing well and can pass her test, whatever it is. I can do this even though I ache with sitting opposite and talking to her as if she's a relative or an old acquaintance met in passing – somebody other than Kate.

After about twenty minutes, there's a knock on the door and Wendy peers in. “Mick's here.”

It's too soon. Way too soon. All the same, I stand to leave.

“You'll stay and enjoy the party, won't you?” Kate says. “I'm sorry this is so brief.”

Picking up my jacket, I move to the door. “Okay. I will then. Thanks.”

“It'll be heaving with people later. We might not get a chance to speak again. Not tonight.”

“I know. That's okay. I'll look after myself, don't you worry. I'll have a couple of drinks and a few dances. It'll be too crowded later to chat.”

“I'll write to you once I've settled at the new place. In about four weeks. Okay? Promise. We'll have an afternoon to catch up with one another. Not like this. Okay?”

“Sounds good. I'd like that. Thanks.”

She kisses me on the cheek and I pull the door shut after me. On the landing, I take a deep breath and let her boyfriend come upstairs before heading down into the fog of small talk and pounding music.

The house is bulging and I'm a stranger among friends. Do I really want to stand in a corner nursing a drink, pretending I'm not alone?

Forget it, I tell myself. Turn round and get out.

“Have a drink,” a less familiar voice coaxes. “You promised. Let Kate see you talking and dancing, but don't become the party drunk – not at any cost.”

Edging towards the kitchen, towards the drinks, I reach the doorway, but no further. The kitchen's a sardine tin, packed with people, shoulder-to-shoulder, fin-to-fin.

A possessive voice dribbles in my ear: “Bugger this for a night of fun! You don't need this crap. Get the fuck out of here!”

“Stay,” another urges.

Old Lofty lifts my wallet and drops it in my hands. “Here, you weak bastard. Buy a ticket for the Dream Bus. Been a long while.”

There's pressure at my back and I inch towards a bench crammed with bottles of wine, beer, lemonade, cider, shoulder-to-shoulder, neck-to-neck. A small group squeezes out, clutching drinks, allowing a ripple of movement forward, and I slide into a gap. There's giggling behind.

“Is this it?” someone on my heels asks, and I half-turn.

“Sorry?”

“Is this as close to the booze as we're gonna get?”

“Yeah, for the moment,” I say.

“It's a bit crowded.”

A voice from behind, peering over the first one's shoulder says: “Should aim for an entry in
The Guinness Book of
Records
.”

“I reckon.”

“Five-hundred people packed in a shoebox-sized kitchen,” she says.

“Booze, booze everywhere and not a drop to drink.”

With that, comes another ripple of movement and another gap, which places me in reach of the bottles.

“What'll you have?” I say, reaching over other reaching arms and dragging at a bottle. Abench full of bottles and cans.

I pour drinks into plastic beakers, grab a can, but am stuck. “Cheers,” I say, trying to turn. “Is there a way back?”

“Turnabout and follow the leader, I guess,” says the one in the middle. “Come on, Jo, it's your turn now.”

And the slow shuffle begins all over, until the three of us are standing in the corner of a room adjoining the kitchen, where the wall vibrates to the music's bass rhythm. I try not to notice Kate dancing a few feet away with her Mick, but she catches my eye and smiles, and I hold my drink up in salute. It's alright though because her dance with him is different – less exotic, less poetic – to any dance we ever shared. And I refuse to laugh at Lofty, who jiggles an inch behind Mick, and who, with each exaggerated pelvic-thrust and each wiggle of hunched, bony shoulders, makes a travesty of his dance.

Smile politely, I tell myself, and don't flinch at the banalities of small talk.

“I'm Jo,” one of the girls says.

“I'm Elin,” says her friend.

Straightaway I forget which is which.

“I'm Tom.”

“Are you a friend of Peter?”

“No, I'm an old friend of Kate's. Tonight's the first time I've seen her in…” I shrug. “In ages. I don't know anyone else.”

“Didn't think I'd seen you at uni,” says one.

“Well at least you know us now,” says the other.

Small talk, rolling in from all sides. An evening of it. Dance, talk, laugh, I remind myself. Look relaxed and sociable, within sight of Kate – but don't search her out. Dance, dance, dance, but don't drift too far.

TWELVE

The steps to Whittington Underground stink of urine and shit. London's a toilet. Its streets are paved with dog turds, its walls streaked with night piss. There's blood smeared across the tiles of public toilets, and newspaper-coated bodies crouch or curl in dark corners; grey fingered, they cosset short-necked bottles in brown paper bags. And I'm slipping into it.

Hurtling station-to-station, the tube fills with Saturday evening revellers. Like moths drawn to the West End lights for a night of frantic fluttering against the glass, they'll dance and glow there, but in the narrow confines of the tube they're lonely people with emptiness in their eyes. And so much safer to stare at advertising strips and graffiti-smothered walls than risk connecting with anybody else's empty eyes. Anything to avoid acknowledging the existence of another anonymous moth.

Shaz, BOMBERS, alpo, wanker, Be alert – Britain needs Lerts, National Front kill wogs, Fuck U 2, BASTARD,
Steamin' Blue, PRICK, RS 4 NG 4 eva, CUNT.

Changing trains at Embankment for Wimbledon, I'm ready to turn back. I should've stayed huddled in my bedsit, away from such emptiness… until I see Kate.

She runs across the platform, dashing towards my carriage, and I stand to greet her, but then the doors hiss shut. There's a shout from the guard and the doors open briefly, presenting an empty platform, and then close again.

Two stations later, I spot her sitting in the adjoining carriage – can make her out through the dirty glass – but the partition door's locked and she's facing the opposite direction. This is good though. We'll walk together to the party. Maybe we'll link arms, hold hands. She's got rid of the boyfriend and has stage-managed the invitation from Elin and Jo. Really the invitation's from her.

At Sloane Square, I race out my carriage along the platform and into her carriage. Standing in front of her, I take a slow breath to get my wind back and begin saying: “Hello, Kate; thought it must be you,” when I see it isn't. All I say is, “Hello.”

Up close, she's thinner, younger and wearing a ton more makeup than Kate would ever wear, but the hair – that dark chestnut brown – and the shape of her face are sort of similar.

Beyond any initial bemusement or anxiety, she clutches her handbag tighter, sits upright and sneers: “Piss off, creep.”

This could never be Kate. She's never been ugly.

“It's alright,” I say, turning, looking for a seat further down the carriage. “Thought you were someone else.” As I move away, I'm aware of a hundred eyes avoiding me, preparing for the worst: a mugging, an assault. Always the worst.

Old Lofty dribbles his slime of words into my ear: “Hey, Creepy-creep, where's your flasher's mac then?”

The girl gets off at Putney Bridge. Trying not to look at her, her reflection slinks across every window and she's greeted by someone on the platform. They embrace, kiss, and then she points at me, and her partner turns, stares, places an arm around her shoulders and steers her towards the exit.

The front door to Elin and Jo's house is opened by a drunk. He grins, slaps me on the back and insists on shaking my hand before waving me through.

“I know you, don't I?” he slurs. “Seen you about the traps, ain't I? Never forget a face. Where do I know you from?” He holds up a bottle to silence me. “Don't tell me; I wanna guess.”

Pressing his face so close to mine he grows squint-eyed and has to blink. His breath is a cloud of beer and curry fumes.

“Don't think you do,” I say, taking a step to the side. “Do you live here?”

“Nah. Never set foot inside this fine abode before. Never set eyes on the place either. Professional gatecrasher; that's what I do. I know you, don't I? I know I fuckin' do.”

“Probably,” I say, prising free. “Maybe I saw you at the last party.”

“Yeah, that's it. I knew I fuckin' had. Never forget a face.”

The place is packed and I edge my way from room to room, but there's no one I recognise. No Kate, not yet. I'm less sure by the minute what Jo or Elin look like and, invitation or not, doubt they'll recognise me either – not after one night. And I'm buggered if I want to stand around watching strangers dance, hug and get pissed.

Then someone taps me on the shoulder.

“Tom. Been trying to catch your attention. We were hoping you'd get here.”

Jo. She's cropped her hair. It's so short I look for the safety pin hanging from her ear, and find it. She's exchanged her copper-coloured page-boy for closely-cut, glossy black spikes, which define the contours of her skull. I'd like to stroke a hand across to see if it's bristly or soft, but remember the creep on the tube and resist.

“Your hair – that's pretty radical. Tonight you're a punk.”

She runs a hand through her spikes; smiles. “Thought it was time for a change. Wanted to be someone else.”

“You're into punk?”

“Too right. Nothing but Johnny Rotten and the Sex Pistols tonight.” She screws up her nose and smiles. “Not seriously though, eh? I hate jumping up and down to music. It's okay for a couple of minutes, but not all night. Next month I might be a skinhead.”

What a great idea. Being a chameleon is far better than being a ghost. “You could be a bikie,” I offer. “Black leathers and a two-fifty cc parked out front.”

She considers, then grins. “Yeah. Definitely. Whoever I wanna be.” She runs a hand through her hair again. “Didn't you bring anyone with you? You could've.”

I shake my head; shrug.

“That's great. Elin'll be… Elin'll be back soon. She had to dash to the shops. Someone dropped a bottle of Martini and a bottle of wine across the bloody kitchen floor, and we forgot to get Bitter Lemon.” She sighs in mock exasperation. “Parties, eh?”

“Yeah, parties.” I look across the room. “Shall I get you a drink?”

“No, I'll get you one; I'm the hostess. I can see how the kitchen's handling the crush. Beer? Wine? I know, you can try some of our Punch. We spent the afternoon concocting it. You can join the row of victims.”

“Think I've already met one.”

Leaning against the edge of an old, battered sideboard, I catch my fingers on a loose strip of veneer; two of its four drawers are missing and there's a spatter of paint stains across the top. It's the sort of junk landlords dump in properties so they can advertise them as furnished, to raise the rent, to protect their eviction rights.

Jo hands me a drink, holds her plastic beaker against mine and screws up her nose in what's evidently a habitual smile. “Cheers.”

She's flirting with me, I tell myself, but wonder why; feeling more inclined to accept the view of the Putney Bridge couple. Maybe Kate'll walk in and see me like this – the new easy-going me – not stoned, not drunk, but sociable, gregarious and… and she'll ask me to dance again. “You've got a crowd and a half here,” I say.

“Yeah. Not everyone we asked, mind. We're competing with some major college event, but there's always something on. If we hadn't gone ahead this weekend we never would.”

“Is that right?”

And I wonder if Kate'll be here after all.

“Dance,” she says. It isn't a question or a request. She takes my beaker and puts it on the sideboard with hers, but then reads the panic on my face. “Don't worry, this is a slow one. Slow ones are the easiest. Unless it's punk, and then we can jump up and down. But you can't come to a party and not dance.”

“I suppose.”

“Definitely. No two ways about it. It's the law.”

The rhythm is strong enough to sweep me along. It draws me closer to the down on the nape of her neck, the softness of her cropped hair, the smell of her, and maybe that's all I need. Her femininity might be enough. Maybe that's all any guy needs to begin with. Besides, I might find Kate in dancing with Jo – that is, the Kate I once knew – and, if not Kate, then someone else instead. Anyone who, in time, might become Kate. More than anything, I need to be drawn away from the worst of myself, if only for a while. A person flounders in too much Self.

During our second dance, Jo pauses and reaches out to touch the shoulder of someone who's weaving between the dancers – a swathe of blonde hair, the colour of ripe corn.

“Elin's back,” I hear her say.

I turn and there's Elin holding a couple of bottles in the air.

When the dance finishes, Jo puts her hands on my waist and speaks. It's the first time I've been really touched in aeons, but, with the music cranking up, I've got to lean closer to hear her. I drink in the scent of her, am ready to swim with it, if only for a while, but then miss a stroke or two completely. Clearly I've misunderstood her.

“You should ask Elin to dance. She loves dancing too. Better not keep you to myself. Ask her to dance, Tommo.” She winks, kisses me on the cheek and leads me to where Elin is talking among a small group.

What's happening here? What game are they playing?

“I'm glad you made it,” Elin says. “Did you bring a friend?”

I glance around the packed room, but there's still no Kate. “No. Not tonight,” I say. “It's a fine party you've made.”

“We've been planning it for months, haven't we, Jo?”

“Since we moved in at the beginning of the year,” Jo says. “That last party, where we met you, made us finally get our act together.” She's looking about; I'm no longer in front of her. “Anyway, I best mingle, check out the booze, make sure everything's hunky-dory.” And she smiles at that.

“Make sure everyone's behaving?” I suggest, wanting to hold her a while longer.

“Yeah, sort of, within reason. But not too well-behaved, eh?” She's still looking around. “Not much point in partying otherwise, is there?”

“I guess not.”

She ruffles Elin's hair and winks again. “Well, kiddo, dance till you drop; party till you pop,” she says, and bounces away.

“Didn't have any problems finding us then?”

“No. Easy.”

“That's good.” She sips her drink, looks down at her beaker, then up at me and away again.

Perhaps she too is waiting for someone else to arrive or had planned on talking to someone different until Jo dragged me across.

“Do you want to dance?” I say. “Or are you one of those people who need to be pissed –”

She nods and puts her drink down. “Love to.”

And so it begins. I try keeping in beat with the music for an hour without pausing, but keep a weather-eye open for Jo and who she's moving with, just as I keep an eye on the door to see if Kate'll arrive late.

When I wake fully-clothed the following morning, I'm lying next to Elin, on her bed. I double-check to see whether Elin is Jo, but she's not, and she hasn't turned into Kate either. Bruised by my own fickleness, I tell myself it serves Kate right. She should've been there. And it does serve her right, until she writes.

Dear Tom,

New address as promised. Won't be here for a week. Please give ring or drop line after then. Hope you're well. Was great to see you again. Sorry this is so abbr. but must dash to catch
coach.

Take care,

Kate

A night of unseasonably-late snow transforms the heartless old bitch that's London into something quiet, clean and beautiful. The trains stop and the buses crawl to the edge of the road, then stop. Morning traffic slews to a halt, and even the clocks are silenced. Any lingering dampness is snap-frozen into a sharp crispness, and it makes me stir, blink and try wiping the ice from inside my window.

I cook porridge for breakfast – hot, sweet and milky – and blow steam into the room as I eat. “This'll melt the icicles,” I mutter, intrigued by how good the air smells and even by the sound of my voice. Snow-light floods between the bars of the window and the room's brighter than it'd ever be under the strongest of bulbs, and I notice stains I've never spotted before.

Tying my boots and fastening my coat, I prepare to crunch my way to the shops, to breathe the air, to drink its freshness in. But the snow is blinding when I drag open the front door, and I catch at the railings to keep from slipping down the steps. I'm met by a needlepoint brightness that pokes at my eyes and transforms the world into an over-exposed photograph. All the same, once I've got used to it, even the derelict houses at the bottom of the hill are no longer an eyesore, and the snowdrifts have blanked out the newspaper hoardings outside the parade of shops.

There's something about high-stepping through snow, staying upright on patches of ice and finding the hidden kerb when crossing the road, that reminds me of childhood and ploughing to school through banks of snow shovelled to one side of the pavement. And of a memory I never knew I had: of helping Dad scrape snow out the driveway and off the path, and of building a snowman, and having snow-caked gloves and snow slipping over the tops of my gumboots, freezing my toes. And he picks me up and swings me round and one gumboot flies off my foot, smack into the hedge, shaking a flurry of snow down. The memory is an antidote to where I've placed myself and reminds me there might be something else I've lost or forgotten, if only I could remember what. Perhaps it's something I once intended to achieve or someone I wanted to become. And the idea that there's something I've left behind begins nagging at me, poking me, worrying me, until Lofty appears.

The afternoon post brings a new letter.

Dear Tom,

Hope you're well. As you can see from the address, I decided to head home for the holidays. Jo's staying with me
until Saturday.

I appreciate Cornwall and rural life far more since I left for
London than when I lived here. Human nature, eh?

I enjoyed the party and the time we had together, and wondered whether you'd like to meet after I return on the 22nd? Perhaps for dinner – something cheap and cheerful – or head to South Bank for that Aborigines, Convicts and Explorers exhibition I was telling you about.