'Sex!' the lecturer screamed. 'It is the hardest
thing in the world, to have sex. To climb a
mountain requires three readily available commodities:
fitness, oxygen and insanity. But to pull a
chick at a bar or a disco, to have her willingly
agree to have sex with you: such a portentous
scheme requires something more... alarming!'
The alarm clock screamed. Howard groaned and slapped it.
His misfiring brain conjectured it was dawn. In reality it was lunchtime.
He threw on a bathrobe and trudged down thickly carpeted stairs.
'How are
you this morning Howard dear? Big day today!'
fussed his mother, upholding her tradition of addressing him as if he had
lived out only half of his span of years, which currently counted eighteen.
'It's
not a big day!'
'Of course it is! You know how much you've been looking
forward to going to university!'
'Yeah,
right!'
He had suffered the ignominy of under-achieving school exam
results: the triumph of his idle side over duty. Nevertheless he had been
fortunate to sign up for an under-subscribed, yet respectable course at a
half decent university. However, minor injuries sustained when he crashed
his father's Allegro had caused him to miss the first month of term. Now
that he was restored to adequate health he could find no pragmatic excuse
to procrastinate further.
'Don't be so silly!' castigated his mother. 'I've done you
some breakfast. Good for you! It will get you off to a good start!'
He took her efforts for granted and accepted his spectacular
fried breakfast with all the grace and joy of a prisoner's acknowledgement
of cold porridge slopped into a plastic tray.
He did not pack. He had no intention of going to university and that was that. He would go to Redater, look for accommodation, return that evening and tell his parents there was nowhere to live. He departed without bidding his mother goodbye and raced away from his cushy hometown in the bulky car his parents had bequeathed him, a rusting orange Maxi. His heart beat out a
rhythm of vague dread. He cursed as he hastened up wide, straight dual carriageways.
He cursed when trapped behind slow-motion trucks on winding roads over the
moors. Three hours into his journey, he descended into the sprawling city
of Redater. The misleading city centre one-way system mugged him of yet more
time. He cursed. His map had said nothing of one-way systems!
With a heave on the ribbed steering wheel he pulled into
Napoleon Terrace, a cobbled and upwardly sloping cul-de-sac. The wheels ground
out a crunching noise as the car lurched to a halt by the kerb. He turned
the ignition key towards him and the sudden absence of din from the aging
engine was Zen-like.
Drizzle accumulated on the windscreen. He opened the car
door. The cobbles glistened darkly; a field of bitter faces. He heaved out
of the car, stretched, stamped his feet and surveyed the house for a moment.
It was a characterful end terrace, all chipped brick and uneven windows.
The woodwork was painted sky blue. Howard's eye drifted to the neighbouring
house. Out of a bedroom window leaned a pallid girl in a light pink top. She
smoked surreptitiously, taking care to keep the cigarette - and her expelled
breath - exclusively to the outside world.
Hesitantly, he tapped a knuckle on the blue front door.
Silence. He knocked again, more assertively. There were no signs of life.
He hammered the door with his fist. Nothing. He cursed and turned.
There was a noise. The Yale lock slid and the door opened
with a snappy groan. A young, genial woman inspected him enquiringly.
She stood a little over five feet, with blonde, medium length hair and hazel
eyes that brimmed with promise. Mindlessly, his eyes rested for a shade too
long upon her sufficient chest.
'Ahhh, Hello?' she said in a sensitive, subtle, luscious
voice. Small dimples dented her cheeks when she spoke. Her nose and chin were
delicate without depriving her face of character, but rather lent an affable
charm to her countenance.
'Hi! Erm, my name's Howard. I was told you were looking
for someone to live with you. The Accommodation Centre mentioned it. Said
something about a spare room.'
She sighed deeply.
'Ohhhhh yes, sorry, do come in. Excuse the awful
mess.'
'What mess?' With an unsettled grin, Howard winked at the
girl and stumbled over a large plastic sack, sending beer cans ricocheting
around the hall. Once the metallic clatter had ebbed the cans were widely
scattered, with more than a nod to the laws of entropy. Some of them dripped
stale dregs into the worn fabric of the carpet. The fragrance of rotten beer
wafted through the room. The young woman and Howard retrieved the cans. She
sighed, but in a good-natured way. She seemed amused and, he hoped, even
impressed with his dramatic entrance. Those first few seconds of initial acquaintance
were absolutely crucial, he recalled from his casual knowledge of populist
psychology. He began to feel that he had misused - nay -
abused, them.
The young woman's calm face seemed to mask delicate eddies of agitation.
They shuffled into the living room. An outmoded television flickered in the
corner.
'You don't mind,' enquired the young woman, 'if I watch
Friendly Neighbours, do you not?'
'Yes, not.'
'You do?'
'No, of course not.'
'No, you
do mind?'
'Yes, I mean,
no! I mean, yes,
do watch!'
Howard inwardly berated himself. She must think him a bloody idiot! He stared
at the television. He did not welcome this competition for the attention of
his companion. She looked snug in a thick white jumper and faded black jeans.
Kicking off her comfortable shoes to reveal vivid red socks, she sat down
on the spongy sofa that faced the television. The sofa was shapeless, its
modesty veiled by a draped mauve bed sheet. He considered sitting on one of
the upholstered nylon armchairs, but finally opted for the sofa. She had taken
up two of the three spaces of its length by curling up and leaning her cheek
on her elbow. She held her head on her hand. He sat down such that his thigh
rested with tactile contact, to her dinky, crimson-socked feet. Neither made
an attempt to break this contact. Howard relished the sensation but suspected
his companion was unreceptive of it.
The BBC continuity announcer enthused, 'It's time to catch
up on the latest events in
Ramsby Street!'
The television set faithfully produced the picture of the
map with the "Friendly Neighbours" logo pasted diagonally across it in affable
calligraphy. This was followed by views of large, tidy houses and cheery
Australians frolicking about on the rims of sun-warmed swimming pools. Accompanying
this opening sequence was the synonymous theme tune belted out with unremitting
optimism.
The young woman was absorbed right from the opening credits.
He guessed that she must have watched those titles a thousand times, but the
allure was total. The inane tune concluded and the dismal drama was underway.
The cast communicated in over-tensed timbres and acted enthusiastically. The
young woman's face mirrored their expressions. A large actor burst onto the
set. Golden locks of hair dangled about his waist-like neck. His face formed
a large, gormless gape. In his arms he cradled a floppy-eared, dewy-eyed
labrador.
'Bouncie!' the actors exclaimed in unison in their upbeat
accents, 'where
did you find
Bouncie?'
Howard half expected the
dog to say, 'G'day! He was
necking another tinny by the pool!'
In response the young woman's face gleamed.
Friendly Neighbours was evidently manipulating
her mood as surely as strings animate a puppet.
He was filled with distaste; he might spontaneously
combust with a thunderous roar of flame and
she would not bat an eyelid.
Dejected, he cast his eyes around the room. The walls were
haphazardly papered with posters: rock, pop, punk, motorbikes and picturesque
women were everywhere, like paper sentinels watching over the room's occupants.
A hoover, still plugged into the wall socket, wearily stood to hunched attention
in a neglected corner. In another corner lay a large pile of tabloid newspapers
and women's magazines. In a third, to the rear of the television, a faint
shadow of damp skulked. The fourth hosted the door to the lounge, behind
which lurked screwed up balls of A4 paper, empty crisp packets, a house
For
Sale sign and a traffic cone. A half eaten slice of white toast lay hardening
on a plate on the coffee table, alongside a few mugs, last Saturday's Daily
tabloid and a token number of dented lager cans. Similar cans adorned the
white wooden windowsill and the dining table that leant against the wall opposite
the window. The table was pressed up against a padlocked door. Constipated
ashtrays lay on the floor and the arms of chairs. He smiled at the awfulness
of the gaudy yellow curtains. Impatience tightened its grip. He retrieved
an aging issue of a woman's magazine, Cosmopolite, from the hefty magazine
stack and browsed its extrovert gloss. Being a secret sucker for articles
in such women's magazines he got stuck into a feature about how screwed up
women can feel when their boyfriends dump
them in favour of their best
friend. The last bars of the poorly chosen notes of the
Friendly Neighbours
theme tune were heralding the termination of her soap fix.
'Ohhhh! I remember now,' said the young woman. 'You must
be Howard. The Accommodation Office lady said a Howard might be interested
in living here. Oh, I don't think I've introduced myself! I'm Gallie. The
room's upstairs.'
Gallie beckoned him into the hall and inclined her head
towards a door.
'That's Marlon's room.'
'Marlon?'
'Yes, he's weird,' she with a laugh, 'he never talks to
anybody. He likes to talk to his darling computers instead. He says computers
are his
real friends. He
understands them and they understand
him. And they're
faithful to him. His idea of a really good party
is to chat up one of his computers. Even snooker players have more of a life
than dear Marlon! That's what Greg says, anyway.'
Gallie pointed to a heavy padlock wrapped around a hefty
latch mechanism.
'Marly likes to lock his door. He says it's because burglars
might steal his precious machines, but he lets no one in his room. I shouldn't
say this, but Greg really hates him!' She expired another sigh.
Howard followed her up the stairs. 'That's my room. That's
Karen's. Greg's is the attic room. He's got the best room in the house.
This is
your room. It's a bit on the small side but the rent's really
good, seventeen pounds a week, that's
really good.'
'Is Greg your boyfriend?'
Gallie laughed heartily 'Ooooh nooooo! Gosh! Oh my! Greg
really
isn't one for steady girlfriends.'
'He's a...
homo?'
She giggled again. 'I really wouldn't like to be around
if you said that to his face! No, I mean, you know, he sleeps around a lot.
He's really not the relationships type.'
Howard's prospective room was achingly undersized. A narrow
bed leaned against a wall; the bare mattress darkened towards the centre.
A wardrobe with a full-length mirror screwed to the door stood proudly on
the opposite wall, next to a small desk and a flimsy chair. A yellow/brown
carpet patterned with a dark brown gridiron covered what little floor there
was. A single paned window lacked curtains. Screws left rust stains on the
sill. The walls were dressed with patterned wallpaper riddled with blue-tack
smudges and drawing pin holes: fossils remains of vanished posters. But the
emptiness of the room exaggerated its proportions to the point where Howard,
in his impatience and desire to get to know Gallie better, thought it capacious
enough for his wants.
'It
is close to the university,' he said. 'A few
posters and stuff won't harm. Yeah. This'll do I suppose, I'm not fussy.'
'Wow! Gosh! You're the first one not to be scared away by
its
littleness. Well, super! That's
that settled then. Lets
have coffee!'
They tramped back down the stairs.
'The kitchen is a
sight, I'm afraid,' sighted Gallie.
The sink was crammed full of plates, cups and
cutlery. On the surfaces were a cacophony of
grimy plates, cups and unspeakably greasy frying
pans and saucepans. Cupboard doors hung open
at random angles, the surfaces were strewn with
crumbs, food and crockery. A liberal salting
of empty beer cans finished off the effect.
Howard was not conscientious about cleanliness
and as far as he was concerned he could live
with a messy kitchen, he did not cook much anyway.
But Gallie apologized and assured him that when
Karen returned the next day she would see to
it that the place was tidied up. Greg, she
informed him, was behind the mess: he was the
untidiest human being in the British Empire.
Gallie rinsed out two cups and, using boiled water from
a saucepan, made coffee so stout it was viscous. The kettle had been unused
since Greg had regurgitated into it one night having consuming vast volumes
of lager. The kettle belonged to Karen and Greg's defacing of the appliance
had riled her.
'Greg really can be such a mucky so and so when he wants
to be,' Gallie observed with a sigh.
From the kitchen they heard the startling bang of the front
door flying open and slamming against the bag of cans. The loud clattering
of the scattering cans endured for a remarkably long time.
'Bollocks!' came a gruff curse. 'What silly bastard left
them there?'
'That's
Greg,' sighed Gallie.
Heavy steps approached. The creator of the commotion put
his head round the kitchen door. This turned out to be a large head with short,
dark, receding hair, brown eyes, a hefty nose and formidable, yet good-natured
grin. Greg stepped inside the kitchen. Howard edged away. A sizeable torso
supported Greg's sizeable head: yet two awkward, stick-like legs held
this mighty frame aloft. A worn, blue leather jacket and trousers covered
his frame. Visible under his open jacket was a red-and-white, vertically striped
casual shirt.
Greg, a tall man who looked nearer thirty than twenty, raised
his heavy eyebrows.
'Hey, Gallie, what a blast that bash was last night! This
chick was doing things to me that the Dark Lord himself would consider going
too far.
Sodom and Gomorrah! Gallie, what's
that?' Greg nodded
at Howard as if he was a questionable chunk of furniture.
Gallie sighed.
'Ohhh! This is Howard. He's moving in.'
'What? Y'mean moving in that tiny bleeding broom cupboard
upstairs? A shit-eating rat would turn up his twitchy nose at
that
grotty little hole.'
Gallie rolled her eyes. 'Ahhhh, ignore the great oaf, Howard.
This is just his way of being really friendly!'
Howard nodded nervously.
Greg looked at him askance. 'So you're the new boy eh? Well,
welcome to our
friendly household Howard,' he said in his deep, sarcastic
voice, 'we're all one big, happy fucking family here!'
'Family? I don't mind telling you I'm running away from
families,' said Howard. He felt foolish.
'Well, run all you like, but whatever yer do, beware of
Gallie here, she's a bleeding witch!'
'She's
sweet for a witch.'
'Awwwwww! Thanks!' said Gallie.
Greg straddled a sponge floor mop. '
Bubble, bubble,
toil and trouble, ah ha-ha-ha-ha-haaa!' he cackled, rendering a startlingly
plausible crone-like voice. He threw the mop to the floor, strode out of the
kitchen and stomped thumpingly up the stairs, his voice fading as he did so.
'Eye of toad, toe of newt,' he chanted, 'cock of bat, tit
of tart...'
Gallie sighed, and then giggled.
'Why don't you cast a spell on him and turn him into a big,
fat toad?' Howard ventured.
'Ahhh, I wish I could. I've no influence over him. I'd
really love it if I could turn him into a frog and watch him hop!'
'But then you'd have to kiss him to make him human again.'
'Ohhhh I don't know he's human. And there's no
way
I'd kiss him! I mean, really, I'm no
princess! Don't you have to be
a
princess to kiss frogs?'
'
I think you're a princess,' mumbled Howard awkwardly.
'Ohhh Howard, you
are nice.' Gallie laughed.
'And I assure you I'm hardly
nice, not nice at all!'
'
I think you're sweet. You
are nice! Really
nice!'
'I'm
not nice! Damn it! What an
insult!'
he protested.
His despair was just, for he knew that being nice is like
being dead: you only get screwed by weirdoes.
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| From: |
MadPole | Subject: | 2001-04-03 18:55:53 |
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| From: |
isolani | Subject: | 2001-04-04 18:31:22 |
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| From: |
dlh | Subject: | 2001-04-28 08:29:11 |
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| From: |
kgbisme | Subject: | 2001-05-23 15:27:56 |
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| From: |
JGR | Subject: | 2001-08-10 18:34:14 |
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| From: |
Hsingi | Subject: | 2001-09-08 10:04:15 |
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| From: |
Zakarius | Subject: | 2001-09-22 05:58:23 |
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| From: |
Charlotte | Subject: | 2001-10-09 18:00:22 |
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| From: |
Fat Andy | Subject: | 2002-01-28 07:08:06 |
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| From: |
spikypunker | Subject: | 2004-05-03 03:16:25 |
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| From: |
sophia | Subject: | 2007-09-15 17:04:09 |
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| From: |
Dante | Subject: | 2007-11-05 14:05:10 |
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help: how to add your comment Page hits: 5571Do you or did you ever live in a student house?
Add your comment
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On the talkback comments
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I
fixed the spelling. (For example, fourth
was spelled forth, a typo that the spelling
checker missed: after all, forth is
a word!) Unfortunately, this means now
KGB's comment won't make so much sense
:-)) Thanks for alerting me!
A stunning analysis is presented by Isolani.
The novel is finished, and the chapters
are going online fast, so before too long,
all will be revealed... |
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