The Loner Page 4
And, thought Sands, it had been a great surprise that Flitley had, that last year, finished his ‘O’ Level year with eight good passes, including one in Greek. However, now he was in the lower-sixth form, Flitley was struggling and still making the same disappointing term time progress which had always characterised his work. He seemed still quite unable to translate even easy passages, or to make any of the strenuous efforts which might have achieved for him any fluency in the Greek or Latin languages.
It was partly to revive his depressed spirits that Sands had decided to introduce his two students to Aristophanes, the Greek comedian. He had discovered an edition of a text which, although extensively abridged, preserved something of the liveliness of the original.
“Lamachus now enters on the stage,” said Sands. “You know who Lamachus was, don’t you?”
Flitley shook his head; Godwin remained silent.
“Lamachus,” continued the teacher, “was in fact, a brave and resourceful general, but Aristophanes portrays him as a naive, boastful, and effeminate man, who was very proud of his uniform – and particularly of the feathers on his helmet. While the war continued, generals were highly respected; Aristophanes thought they would lose their importance in time of peace. In this scene, Lamachus is held up to ridicule after an imaginary end to the war. It is well to remember that, when this play was first performed, the war was still in progress, and Lamachus was still alive. He probably saw the first performance – but leading political figures were fair game for Greek comedians.
“Now, Flitley, you can take the part of Lamachus; Godwin, you can be Citizen Right. I shall do the other characters. Well, let me hear you then, Flitley.”
Flitley began nervously as Lamachus: “W-where did I-I h-hear the sound of war? Where must I-I-I-I reinforce? W-where direct the d-din of b-battle? W-who has awoken the G-gorgon from his shield?”
Sands decided to test him. “But tell me, do you think Lamachus had heard the sound of war?” he asked.
Flitley looked blank. The teacher turned to Godwin. Godwin looked bored. He answered: “No. The war is supposed to be at an end. Lamachus is imagining the warlike noise.”
“That’s right. Go on then, Godwin.”
Godwin then translated Citizen Right’s line. He spoke in a monotone, which was intended to convey the depth of his interest in and approval of the ribald comedy “You there, Lamachus. What feathers and ambushes!”
“The Greek word for ‘ambushes’ has more than one meaning,” the teacher remarked. “I suggest you use the word ‘Lair’. You there, Lamachus. What feathers and lairs!”
“W-what’s a lair?” Flitley asked.
“Oh never mind,” said Sands sharply looking rather red. “In the next line, the chorus say ‘Isn’t this the man who has been abusing our whole city for a long time?’ Now, Flitley...”
“Y-you there, Citizen Right,” translated Flitley as Lamachus. “D-d-do you, b-beggar as you are, d-dare to – speak these things?”
“I would suggest a better translation might be: ‘Do you dare talk like that?’” said Sands.
Godwin responded on behalf of Citizen Right, “I don’t know at all. I feel feint through fear of your uniform. I entreat you, pass me your bugbear.” Godwin frowned at this point. Something seemed to be annoying him.
“T-there you are.” The pupil Lamachus looked perplexed. He asked the teacher timidly: “I-I-I don’t under-s-stand what is meant by ‘b-bugbear’. The e-editor’s notes don’t help either.”
“Citizen Right means Lamachus’ very best ceremonial helmet with its plume of expensive feathers. Lamachus would have been as proud of it as our soldiers are of their ceremonial bearskin helmets. Now, Godwin, please continue.”
“Put the bugbear down beside me – upside down.” The corners of the mouth of the student of Greek ecclesiastical history were turned down in stark disapproval.
“L-Lamachus says: ‘i--i-it lies’ ”
The teacher suppressed a groan. “I think a better way of putting it, so to speak, would be to say ‘there it is’”
“Give me the feathers from the top of the helmet,” continued the unhappy translator of Citizen Right.
“Where is the p-p-plume for you?”
“Now hold my head so that I can be sick. I’m allergic to feathers,” said Godwin sourly, looking pretty sick himself.
Flitley looked confused.“I-I can’t g-get the next line,” he said.
The teacher retained an impassive expression, nodded benignly, and explained. “I think you have to understand that Citizen Right has put the feathers into the upside down helmet, and is about to spit or vomit into it.”
Flitley paused for a moment, a blank expression on his face. Then, quite suddenly understanding seemed to dawn or him. “Oh I see,” he said. “L-lamachus says – w-what are you d-doing? Are you g-going to vomit over my little feathers? They are my little feathers.”
“Citizen Right says – Tell me what bird’s feathers they are? Don’t they belong to the Boasting Bird?”
Sands found it very difficult to progress the lesson any further. Flitley had started laughing hysterically, and once he had begun, he could not stop. He had bottled up his feelings after a bad morning’s teasing, and now his suppressed emotion exploded in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
Carol looked at the red glow from the dying sun as it set over the sea. “Brr! I’m feeling cold,” she said. “I think you’re going on a bit, Mark. Your allusions to classical literature are really fascinating, but who was that feller called Lycourgus – the man you think is behind public school education?”
“He was a politician in the state of Sparta. He thought the best way to ensure his social class kept control of the government was to get all their male children together at an early age away from home. They had to eat in common in military style messes, and spent their youth doing very little else except train for military service.”
“How awful! You know, you do go on about the Classics, but does it really matter to you now?”
“Well, yes it does. It’s very important. You’ll see why, as the story unfolds.”
“But, Mark, you’re painting a really poor image of yourself. Were you really so pathetic? I can’t believe it. Your’re nothing like that now.”
Mark peered at her in a puzzled way, as if unsure whether she resembled someone he used to know. “Yes I was,” he said slowly. “You see, I had to go to a psychiatrist.”
“You mean a shrink! Are you serious?” She saw that he was talking in earnest. She paused to take this in. “What was it like?” she asked at last.
“The first psychiatrist was a Welshman called Llewellyn. I can remember him with his Welsh language newspaper. I saw him every other week. He would ask me to tell him what I remembered of my childhood – particularly bad dreams and fears. He was particularly interested in a recurring dream.”
“He seemed to think all these things were very important, but never managed to explain why. He would listen to me, but never give any advice. He’d ask me questions, but would never comment on my answers.”
Carol asked: “Was that because he didn’t want to take any responsibility?”
“Possibly. Then if I became agitated, as I often did at these sessions, he would offer me drugs.”
Carol looked surprised. “Drugs? What kind of drugs?” she asked.
Mark told her the name of the drug.
“Oh no!” she exclaimed.
“Oh yes,” Mark observed. “All I can say is that I found all my psychiatrists pretty useless really, but it did help to have somebody to talk to, and they gave me some relaxation exercises, which were useful.
“He used to try and encourage me to take an interest in sport. He used to ask me what I wanted most in the world, and I would say it was a girlfriend.”
Carol listened to this part of the story and then said: “So you had your aim right from the start – but what was this great personal danger you were talking about before?”
 
; “Well isn’t it obvious? I was nervous and confused. I had no friends and was unable to relate to anybody. I had no self-confidence. And I was aware that I was due to leave school in one year, and possibly had three years at University. After that I’d have to face a highly competitive world, which I was just not fit for. I had just four years to make a complete personality change.”
“Did that worry you?”
“Not then it didn’t. I was confused and hardly rational. I just about realized I had serious problems, but I was seeing a psychiatrist. So I believed he would sort me out quickly, and all would be well. Just like any other doctor. I had no idea just how hopeless psychiatrists were at that time – and probably still are now.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s a long story. It’s getting late and cold. Let’s go back to the harbour. We can talk about it another day.”
CHAPTER 3
Ferry ‘Cross the Mersey
People around every corner. –
They seem to smile and say:
“We don’t mind what your name is
We’ll never turn you away.”
(G. Marsden – 1965 hit by Gerry and the Pacemakers)
It was one late September evening at New Brighton in the mid-sixties. A terrace of crumbling, Victorian hotels overlooked the beach. The tennis courts below the hotels were locked; below the tennis courts, the open-air swimming pool exhibited a sign which indicated the Summer Season had finally come to an end.
The wind blew gale force from beyond the swimming pool. The rain lashed fiercely the few people who happened to be on the sea front. The sea roared and echoed the howl of the harsh wind. Waves with foaming crests towering above the furrows, crashed against the promenade, and hurled spray far across the road behind it. All the elemental forces of Nature seemed to have combined in a display of anger as darkness approached.
Bob Smith looked out from his hotel window and studied the sea with a pair of binoculars. The Ocean storm was impressive. As he watched, he noticed, in the distance, a lone figure dangerously holding on to the railings above the promenade, and gazing out to sea as if mesmerised.
Bob Smith was curious. Had he not seen this strange youth before somewhere? What was he doing out in the storm so close to the sea? Didn’t he realise how a freak wave could sweep him away? Bob decided to investigate. He put a waterproof jacket over an extra pullover, and set out down to the sea front.
The moment he emerged from the hotel, he felt the full force of the wind, and it was a struggle to cover the short distance to the promenade. He had to grip the railings tight to reach the other youth. As he pressed on, the gale seemed determined to drive him back.
Bob introduced himself as a fellow student and yelled: “Don’t I know you?”
The other raised his voice against the rage of the storm and replied, in a disjointed manner: “I-er-d-don’t – think I do.”
“Yes, I recognise you,” Bob continued, studying him closely. “Aren’t you staying at the same hotel as me?”
“I-I-I am staying at a h-hotel, but-er-um – I can’t remember you.”
“Why are you down here?”
“I-I’m w-watching the s-storm. Isn’t it nice?”
Bob was perplexed. Obviously his companion knew very little about the sea. “Don’t you realise it’s dangerous to stay here?” he asked as a huge wave crashed below them and showered them with a mass of white foam. “Come on away from here. There’s better things to do than getting soaked admiring the weather.”
His companion seemed to take no notice, but to be intent on staring vacantly into the liquid void. This worried Bob. His companion clearly ought not to be left on his own, but why should he expose himself to danger unnecessarily for the sake of a stranger? He made a second attempt to draw the youth to safety. “Come on, it’s getting late,” he said. He raised his mouth to the other’s ear and bellowed: “It’s dinner time.”
The other blinked and looked at a watch. He reluctantly consented to follow Bob away from the angry waves. As the distance between themselves and the water increased, it became easier to talk. It turned out that they were both in digs at the same hotel, and students at the same college. But there was something else about this young man which somehow seemed familiar. He wondered where he had seen him before he had seen him at the hotel.
At one time the hotel, like most of the hotels and former hotels of New Brighton, had provided first class accommodation for a fashionable resort. Those had been the days when the Wallasey Tower had rivalled the Blackpool Tower, and the residents of Merseyside had thronged to the Wirral beaches for their Summer holidays. Since that time, the Wallasey Tower had burnt down; the enormous Mersey estuary had completed its metamorphosis into a gigantic chemical sewer; the motor car had become a means of mass mobility, and the motorways had spread their widening network as far as Blackpool and the Lake District. So the New Brighton hotels had had to resort to the second Class market – including board and lodging for students, as well as the provision of refuge for clandestine love affairs.
The Edwardian or mock-Edwardian splendour of the hotel fronts, which rose above the promenade, had acquired a drab, seedy and neglected appearance. The rooms and accommodation were comfortable enough, although the furniture was old-fashioned, and even the wallpaper looked as though it might have belonged to another era. The building smelt musty, and there was a hint of damp in the air. There were radiators and, although it was a cold autumn, the Landlord could not afford the luxury of turning the central heating on. Meals were served at certain definite times, and if the resident was late, he had to find his own food. Such was the concern of the proprietor for the welfare of his guests ( or perhaps such was his poverty) that he insisted on serving them personally.
Bob Smith and a friend entered the dining room at the appointed time. They sat down and waited for service. After a while, the stranger whom Bob had rescued from the promenade duly appeared and sat on another table. They were the only “guests” resident at the hotel. Bob noticed that the stranger was alone and beckoned to him. The stranger came over to their table and they invited him to join them. He came and sat down, examining them with interest, but with his eyes gazing mostly downwards, as if afraid to look at them.
Bob looked little different from the school prefect he had been, except that the line of a short neatly trimmed beard descended from his ears and joined a well trimmed mousetache. He wore a smart brand new leather jacket which fitted him so well that it might have been made by a bespoke tailor.
The stranger seemed to like the look of him at once.
Bob’s friend was short. The colour of his hair was brown, but both hair and beard were arranged in much the same way as Bob’s, perhaps aping him, except that the growth of his beard thickened towards the bottom of the face, failing to hide completely a receding chin. His nose was round and full, and so were his lips and brow. He was round shouldered and seemed to have some difficulty in sitting up straight. His respect for his friend was obvious in the way he exchanged a continuous good-humoured banter. He spoke clearly with a slight Scouse accent, and, while he waited for the main course, he was busily chewing some gum.
Bob’s friend wore battered blue jeans and misshapen grey jumpers. Bob was dressed equally informally, but his jeans were smart and his shirt and jumper looked new, stylish and nicely cut. The Stranger wore a suit. The fashion for long hair had not yet reached University campuses. So all three, in their separate ways, looked neat and respectable.
Bob didn’t talk to the stranger at once. Instead he finished some curious remarks about various types of caves the stranger evidently could not understand. At length, he turned to the stranger, and made the necessary introductions:
“Paul, this is the feller I was telling you about,” he said. “We met a few minutes ago on sea front. I think we all belong to the same college.”
Paul inspected their new companion with unconcealed interest. “Are you the feller Bob nearly had to fish out of the sea
?” he asked with a laugh, and continued chewing his gum.
The stranger looked down timidly and gave no answer.
“Never mind that,” said Bob. “I don’t think we know each other’s names. I’m Bob Smith, and this is my friend, Paul Johns.”
My name’s – um-er M-Mark Flitley,” the other replied with a distinct pause between words. “I-I’m starting at the College of Commerce tomorrow.’’
“Why, it’s Mark Flitley, my very old school mate,” Bob exclaimed pleasantly. “I thought I’d seen you before somewhere.”
Paul examined Mark carefully. “Can’t say you’ve ever mentioned a feller called Mark before,” he observed.
“That’s right, Mark,” Bob continued, rapidly putting behind him all his recollection of Mark’s many failings. “You were a year behind me, weren’t you? Well – small world – I never thought I’d see you here.”
Mark blinked nervously with a worried-looking frown, as if not quite sure how to take Bob’s very warm welcome. He did not smile.
Paul grinned as he continued chewing. He said: “This is our second year doing degrees – our first year at the college, of course. We should’ve known you’re a fresher. Only a fresher wears a suit! What are you going to study, by the way?’’
“Law,” replied Mark in one syllable. Paul’s continuous chewing was having a disconcerting effect. The pungent, smell of the gum was somehow repulsive.
“Law?” exclaimed Bob raising his eyebrows. “I didn’t know there was a Law course at College. Is it a degree course?”
“Yes, external L-London University.”
“We’re doing an external degree course too. Our subjects are Politics, Sociology, and Economics.”
Mark looked perplexed. “What’s Sociology?” he asked.
Bob and Paul exchanged glances. Neither volunteered a reply very quickly. “That’s a difficult question to answer,” Paul remarked after a while. “Haven’t you ever heard about Sociology before?”