Tired of London

By Richard Ayres

It is the summer of 2007 and six former friends, five men and one woman are attending a reunion in London organised by one of their number who has a special reason for wishing to see them all again. Some of those present have not seen each other for 40 years. But as they wander from pub to pub in central London, they find they are discomforted and at times feel threatened by the modern metropolitan world.
Gradually their long-held memories of each other are undermined, firstly by the changes wrought by age, and then by the revelation of secrets, some of which extend back to their student days in Leeds in the 1960s. Surprising truths about the past begin to emerge, and friendships begin to fracture. Their reunion is brought to an abrupt end by incidents, some violent, which threaten to dash the hopes that they had of reconnecting with the past and with each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Apr 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781785384608

Book preview

2013-2015

Nigel

Stow-on-the Wold

The phone call was from Alan.

It had been in 1997, ten years ago, when I’d last spoken to him, at the reunion held in Leeds where we’d both been students in the 1960s. I’d only just got married to Melanie. She hadn’t joined me at the reunion, after all she didn’t know my old university friends, and would have felt ill at ease with them.

Alan’s call gave me the opportunity to tell him about Oscar. The news about my son was not the kind I’d felt able announce on the Christmas cards we exchanged. His reaction was one of sympathy, of course, and sympathy is far easier to receive when not face-to-face with the sympathiser. Alan and I were not of the generation for whom hugs come easily.

Our conversation stuttered to its conclusion. I replaced the phone on its stand.

Melanie entered the study. Her hair was lank, unwashed. She looked exhausted.

‘Who was that on the phone?’

‘Alan. You know, one of my old Leeds friends.’

‘What did he want?’

I knew what her reaction was going to be even before I told her.

‘He’s organising another reunion, and-’

‘You didn’t tell him you’d go, did you?’

‘Well, yes, I did, actually.’

She clasped her hands over her ears, her usual response when confronted with news she didn’t want to hear. I stood up, the better to deal with the inevitable storm. Time was, I would have tried to embrace her.

The storm broke.

‘How can you even think of doing that, Nigel? You know how I hate driving, let alone with Oscar in the car. How d’you think I’ll manage to get him to the day centre on my own? And I suppose you’ll be away for two nights. How can you be so selfish? I just don’t get you, sometimes.’

‘Mel, the reunion’s going to be in London. I’ll only be away one night.’

Her posture was rigid. Only her mouth moved: grimacing, twitching. If only she’d allow herself to cry sometimes. It would be easier to live with than constant dour stoicism.

‘I suppose I’m going to have to make the best of it, then.’

She turned and left the study, closing the door behind her, very carefully, until the latch clicked. She never allowed herself the satisfaction of slamming it.

I slumped back in my chair. The screen-saver was performing its dance on the computer. I’d been working on my memoir when Alan phoned. There was no way I could continue with it now. I logged off.

So, another reunion. I had ambivalent feelings about meeting old friends, but I welcomed having the excuse to escape, if only for a night, from my life as it now was.

Oscar was becoming ever more demanding. I took refuge in long walks alone, and in the evenings by shutting myself in my study. I’d long abandoned surfing the net for possible cures. I couldn’t bear to accompany him and Melanie on shopping visits to Stow, couldn’t handle the stares, even less the expressions of sympathy. But of course the prospect of escape from all that was laced with guilt.

And meeting old friends was also a doubtful prospect. The last reunion, ten years ago in Leeds, had not been a success. We went on a pub crawl along Headingley Lane, following the footsteps of our final evening together in 1967. But it had been a mistake to revisit the haunts of our youth. Places change, some for ever, not for better, as John Lennon had sung, and that applied to some people as well. What had spoiled it for me was the others carping about the fact that Eric and Vivienne hadn’t come. I knew why they hadn’t, but I didn’t tell them.

So when Alan told me about the forthcoming meet-up in London, my first question had been ‘Will Eric and Viv be coming?’ Alan’s response had been vague - apparently Eric had initially been enthusiastic, but his enthusiasm had seemed to wane with each successive email. Alan was still uncertain about their intentions.

And I was equally uncertain about whether I wanted to see them. I could be sure of one thing, though. It would be Viv who’d be the one reluctant to come.

To London

The train slowed to walking pace as it passed through Slough. Betjeman’s exhortation for friendly bombs to fall on it seemed entirely apt. The chances of me getting to Soho by eleven o’clock were remote. When Alan had phoned yesterday to confirm the arrangements he’d sounded a bit depressed - well, not so much depressed as weary, not the cheerful Alan I remembered.

I couldn’t blame the train for my lateness, because I was on the wrong one. Left to myself, I would never have missed the one I’d been booked on. I had been raised to believe that punctuality was the politeness of princes. No, the cause of my delay was Melanie - and Oscar, of course.

I was still being punished for going on what Melanie persisted in calling ‘your jaunt’. Ever since Alan’s first phone call she’d repeated ad nauseam the problems she would face in transporting Oscar to the day centre by herself.

‘It won’t do him any harm to miss a day’s attendance,’ I’d said. When that suggestion was finally and grudgingly accepted, it was followed by ‘I suppose you’ll want me to drive you to the station. Oscar will have to come with us, won’t he? Can’t leave him alone in the house, can I?’

What happened was entirely predictable. Oscar, upset by his change in routine, was more than usually demanding. Our departure from the house was delayed, and we arrived at Moreton-in-Marsh just as my train was leaving. ‘Well, if we didn’t live in a house miles from anywhere we wouldn’t have all these problems, would we?’ was shouted through the window of the Range Rover as I made my way to the station entrance.

This was a question she was posing ever more frequently. When I retired and we married, we moved from London to the Cotswolds, to a house in the country just a mile from Stow with its antique shops, bookshops and traditional pubs. I’d begun to make friends in the town, before social isolation was forced on me. It was then I realised that Melanie had from the start been uncomfortable in our surroundings and with our new acquaintances, and they with her. In rural Gloucestershire, class was still an issue, and Melanie was undeniably working class. And urban working class at that.

I should have anticipated her discomfort. When we became engaged I’d taken her to North Yorkshire to meet my father. ‘Blimey, Nigel, it’s a bloody mansion,’ she’d muttered as we turned into the drive. Good old dad: liberal to a fault, he’d welcomed her, even flirted with her, but she remained abashed throughout the visit, not helped by the attitude of my aunts and cousins who made all too evident their surprise at my choice of partner.

Then, when Oscar was born, my grief was followed by a terrible anger that had never really left me. Dad was devastated, and the distaste of some of my relatives was such that, on the one occasion we took Oscar to Yorkshire, they could not bring themselves to see the child. They obviously blamed Melanie for tainting the Templeton family tree with her faulty lower-class genes. Sometimes, in my less rational moments, I caught myself doing the same.

The train suddenly picked up speed. It had the effect of jerking me into more positive thoughts of the day ahead. I still couldn’t decide if I wanted Eric and Viv to be present, but it would be good to see Alan again. And Jim could be good company, though this would depend on his state of mind. But Tony - I’d have to be careful not to let him provoke me. I’d had reservations about him even when we were students, and when we’d met again ten years ago the brash attitudes and behaviour, tolerated in a 21 year-old, had hardened into coarse bigotry that I’d found objectionable. Or perhaps it was I who had changed?

I stared out of the window, watching the passing of London’s leafy commuter belt until it began to degenerate into the dreary acres of inter-war suburbia. I couldn’t concentrate on the novel I’d brought with me, so fished in my pocket to retrieve the photograph I’d taken from my album to show the others. It was of us all during our final year at Leeds. If I looked at it once again it might serve as an appetizer for the day to come.

The youthful faces stared at me across the chasm of forty years, my friends as they still often appeared in my mind’s eye. Alan, overweight, curly ginger hair, ill-fitting corduroy jacket, grinning cheerfully. Jim, scruffy, skinny, lank dark hair, eyes cast down. Tony, handsome, swarthy, Zapata moustache, jet black curls over his collar. Eric, boyish, wearing flared jeans, a flowered shirt and a headband, his arm around Vivienne with her long auburn hair, willowy figure, those amazing legs and the briefest of mini-skirts. And me, of course. There was nothing of the Summer of Love about me. I was wearing a sports jacket and flannel trousers, my haircut was a short-back-and-sides. I looked just as a former public schoolboy ought to, apparently untouched by the Swinging Sixties. What an eclectic bunch we had been.

‘We are now arriving into Paddington’ came the announcement over the loudspeaker. ‘Arriving at Paddington,’ I found myself muttering. When would the employees of First Great Western be taught to use correct English? Even as the thought crossed my mind, I could hear Melanie saying ‘You’re turning into a real grumpy old man.’

When I stepped onto the platform the heat hit me as though a blast furnace had been opened. I joined the hordes hurrying to the exit, to be confronted with queues in front of the ticket machines. I began to sweat. Outside the station, the heat was intensified by the glare of the sun. Fortunately there were numerous taxis waiting.

‘Tavistock Hotel, Tavistock Square, please.’ There was no reply from the driver; he set the meter and drove off.

The cab stop-started its way through the mayhem along Marylebone Road. White vans, black limos, red bendy-buses, suicidal cyclists, and the pedestrians - all ages, races, statures, and all hurrying. And the noise! Horns, sirens, thumping car sound-systems. The most exciting city in the world, it was said, and I used to relish it, but now I could do without excitement. I hadn’t visited London since selling my flat more than ten years ago, and the frenzy seemed to have stepped up several gears since then. Were we really going to undertake a pub-crawl in all this, and in this heat?

But inside the hotel lobby it was blessedly cool. I completed the formalities at the reception desk, entered the lift and ascended to the fourth floor, glancing at my reflection in the mirrors that lined the walls. Pretty good for my age, I allowed myself to think, still slim and with a full head of blond hair, which, according to Melanie, some people suspected of having been dyed. Despite my height I hadn’t developed a stoop. My linen jacket was creased, but still it hung on me rather well.

Once in my room I flung my suitcase on the bed. There was no time to retrieve my wash bag and rinse my face. I had to get going, it was quite a walk to Russell Square tube station. No, wait - phone Alan, let him know I’d be there soon. But his number was engaged. Damn.

No point in waiting for the lift. I charged down the stairs, entered the lobby, made for the doors, and bumped into a man who had just entered.

‘Watch where you’re bloody going, can’t you?’ he said, then stopped and eyed me. I eyed him back.

‘My God! Jim!’

‘Bugger me, it’s Nige.’

We shook hands.

‘Good to see you again, old boy.’ Immediately, I regretted the ‘old boy’.

‘You an’ all.’ He gave one of his rare smiles, raising his hand to his mouth as he did.

‘We’re both late Jim. We’d better be on our way. Book in and leave your case at reception. What delayed you?’

‘Don’t blame me, blame Virgin Rail. Bloody train was 20 minutes late getting into Stoke and half an hour late into Euston. Bloody rail privatisation. I think-’

It seemed he was about to begin one of his rants. I reminded him that Alan would be waiting in the Pillars and again suggested he leave his case at reception.

I watched him as he spoke with the receptionist. I’d been taken aback by the first sight of him, expecting that he, of all of us, would have shown the most evident signs of ageing. Ten years ago his thinness had verged on emaciation, his face scoured with deep lines, his complexion muddy under a two-day growth of beard, the thin grey hair lank and covering his ears. Now, the face was still lined but less haggard, the hair was fashionably cropped, and he’d put on some weight. In fact he looked younger than he had then. The only thing that hadn’t changed was his Potteries accent.

He re-joined me, minus his suitcase.

‘Right. How do we get there? Suppose we’ve gotter use the bloody underground. Hate it, me.’

‘Well, Jim, when you’re in London, you do what the Londoners do.’

He humphed.

We set off towards Russell Square tube station. Jim wasn’t a fast walker: he kept peering around suspiciously as though he were in enemy territory. I abandoned the attempt to chivvy him along and fell in beside him.

‘Well, Jim. How’s life treating you? Are you okay?’

‘What d’you mean, am I okay? Why shouldn’t I be?’

I immediately regretted asking the question about his welfare. It had always had the effect of making him clam up.

Throughout our time at university Jim had always been something of a man apart. We were all members of the Union Entertainments Committee, but Jim had been scathing when we invited rock bands to play at the union hops. There’d been the occasion when he’d arrived one evening at the flat I shared with Eric to find the rest of us listening reverentially to Sergeant Pepper which Eric had purchased only that morning. He’d marched over to the record player, hoiked off the stylus and made to hurl the disc across the room, and only Vivienne’s soothing intervention stopped the act of sacrilege. Jim had poured scorn on Eric’s long hair and flared jeans, saying he was a dupe of the consumerist capitalist conspiracy designed to keep youth compliant.

Back in those laid back times we tolerated such non-conformity, so long as the non-conformist was under thirty, of course. Jim’s distaste for ephemera and his class-consciousness we all accepted as eccentricities. But what we couldn’t handle had been those times when he withdrew to a place of his own, silent, dull-eyed, unreachable. ‘Jim’s really, really down again,’ we used to say, but as he was unable or unwilling to say why he was so sad we could think of no way to help him, and only Vivienne had the patience to try. Of course, none of us had understood depression. It was something middle-aged housewives suffered from, wasn’t it? These days it seemed to be a common complaint - even schoolkids were being diagnosed with it, I’d heard.

We continued along Woburn Place, in silence. I decided to try another tack.

‘How’s work, Jim?’

Jim was a social worker, the only member of our group yet to retire.

‘Work’s shite. No resources, deprivation getting worse, it is in Stoke anyway. Got to carry on till I’m 65, and even then I won’t have enough service for a full pension. You don’t know how lucky