The Loner Read online

  Mark shook his head.

  “There are so many definitions,” Bob explained airily. “I suppose you might say that it’s the study of Society and of change in Society.”

  This made absolutely no sense to their new companion. “How c-can you s-study S-Society?” was his next question.

  Bob and Paul exchanged another glance, before Bob answered: “Well, it’s just like reading newspapers and keeping abreast of current events. Then there are the textbooks; but they’re all full of nonsense, really – a load of interesting theories, which no-one can prove, written in a language no-one can understand. It’s a pseudoscience brilliantly invented by Middle Classes to perpetuate Status Quo. But...” he raised his hand in a gesture of unconcern which completed the dismissal of the object of his study. “Who cares? When I’ve finished my exams, I’ll have a degree and a job to go to. Until then, I’ll be a professional student – I’ll eat, drink, and enjoy myself.”

  Mark looked so taken aback by this apparent display of irreverence that he was at a loss for words. So the conversation ended abruptly.

  The landlord came and removed their soup bowls, and served the main course. It was Hot Pot.

  “Horrible pea soup!” Paul remarked when the landlord was safely out of earshot.

  “Aye, dreadful,” Bob echoed.

  “I- I-I didn’t think it was too bad,” Mark murmured. “The food at s-school was much w-worse.”

  Bob pulled a face as he forced down the first spoonful. “School meals were like dining in Adelphi compared with this. School food wasn’t that bad.”

  Mark examined his hotpot and tasted it gingerly, while Paul spat out his gum into an ashtray.

  “So you went to Bob’s school – the one he liked so much,” Paul observed. “Tell me, Mark, what was it really like?”

  “I-I-I hated it,” Mark replied with considerable feeling

  There was another pause in the conversation. It came as a surprise to Paul to find one of the few privileged to receive the benefit of the much vaunted private education, presumably at tremendous expense and sacrifice on the part of his family, reject these advantages so completely. Paul asked him what it was that Mark had hated so much. “Closed institutions, aren’t they?” he suggested. “No birds!”

  “Birds?” asked Mark, thinking of feathered creatures in the open fields surrounding his old school. “I-I don’t understand. P-plenty of birds at s-school.”

  Paul sat bolt upright in amazement – his illusions of the failings of the English Public School system promptly shattered! “That’s not what you told me, Bob,” he said. Then turning back to Mark, he asked: “Well, what didn’t you like about your school?”

  “Er – well – ” Mark struggled in vain to think of a good reason which would satisfy his listeners. “Er – the food was horrible,” he replied at last. Then he suddenly became very animated. His stammer magically disappeared, and his expression took on an almost manic intensity. “There were five hundred boys all eating at the same time – all being served at the same time. If we had eggs and bacon for breakfast, they were usually cold. The potatoes were served all mashed up and were never cooked right. Always cabbage for vegetables, and steamed pudding for afters – always tasted awful. Any food was better than the food cooked for us!”

  This torrent of complaints stopped suddenly and dramatically, as Mark dug his fork hard and with considerable haste into his hot pot. The fork struck a solid object, but as he was not expecting it, and was more intent on his past experiences than his dinner, his fork slipped, his plate turned over, and a potato narrowly missed Paul’s ear.

  The solid object remained on the end of the fork. He stared at it in horror. Instead of a piece of meat, he was looking at a bone – a large sheep’s cervical vertebra!

  “Did they ever serve you with sheeps’ bones at school?” Paul asked wickedly. “You see what I mean; this food’s dreadful. I’d send it back if I was you.”

  “Should I really?” Mark asked, wondering how to send back food, when it was splattered all over the floor.

  Bob and Paul exchanged another glance, which clearly said: “We’ve got a right one here.”

  Bob said: “Why not?”

  Mark recoiled from the suggested confrontation. “N-no. I-it’s all right,” he said, reverting to his usual stammer.

  Bob began to feel sorry for their lone guest. He asked him if he had any plans for that evening, and on learning that Mark had none, he decided to offer him their company. “We’re going to the Brass Cat tonight. Would you like to join us?” he asked.

  “Brass Cat?” enquired the loner, with a puzzled look, as if this might mean a visit to a museum. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a pub we know just round the corner. You can join us for a drink, if you like.”

  “You have been to a pub before, haven’t you?” Paul asked, noting the other’s blank, anxious expression.

  “N – no. Actually, I-I haven’t,” Mark confessed.

  Bob dismissed the obvious reservations of his friend. “If you’d like to come along, you’d be very welcome,” he said.

  The loner accepted the invitation.

  The Golden Lion (or the “Brass Cat,” as Bob called it) was typical of many Merseyside public houses. The building was entered by all patrons through the same door. After the door there was the usual passage. Half way along, on the right hand side was a door labelled ‘Bar’,” and beyond that, and on the other side of the passage, another door labelled ‘Lounge.’ But as they were students, eking out every last penny of their meagre grant, and (with the exception of Mark) wearing jeans, Bob had no hesitation in ushering his friends into the bar. This was a long room, barely decorated with sturdy chairs and metal tables. There was a dartboard in one corner. Students in the mid-sixties without doubt belonged to the working classes.

  “Isn’t this great!” Bob exclaimed, admiring the rough upholstery and austere decoration. “Not as good as Yorkshire pubs, mind – but excellent for Merseyside.”

  “Go on!” Paul rejoined, in defence of his native city. “You only say that because in Yorkshire the pub’s near the caves. You’re a softee, Bob. You just like to play your guitar where there are plenty of potholers to sing along with you.”

  “Aye, and so what if I do?” responded the other proudly. “There in’t nobbut better than a pint of ale and a sing-song after a hard trip underground. Now,” he continued, eyeing the variety of pumps at the bar. “It’ll be my round to start with. There’s no point in standing here when there’s no shortage of seats. Why don’t you sit down while I buy drinks? I owe you one, Paul.”

  “C-caves?” asked Mark, before they could start looking for seats.

  “Aye – Yorkshire caves.”

  “W-what are c-caves like?”

  “Great! Fantastic! You should come down with us sometime. Would you like me to introduce you to the club? Be warned though – caving can be dangerous.”

  “Is it expensive?”

  “You have to travel to Yorkshire, but we share cost of transport – it’s usually ten bob each. Do you fancy seeing a cave then?”

  Mark shook his head sadly. “That’s too m-much,” he said. “I-I-I’d like to s-see the s-stalactites, but I-I-I c-can’t afford to do h-horse-riding as well.”

  “Do you still go riding, Mark?”

  “Have you your own horse?”

  Mark shook his head.

  “Then come caving with us,” Bob continued firmly. “Don’t make up your mind now. Think about it, and let me know. Caving’s much less expensive than riding – you don’t have to own a horse to get the best out of it. Now sit down, will you, while I buy you a drink – and the one I owe Paul.”

  Mark did not pursue the subject.

  They sat down at one of the tables. Bob asked Mark what he would like to drink. Mark hesitated. If the truth had been known, Mark had no idea what drinks are sold in pubs.

  Impatience got the better of Bob. “A pint of bitter?” he enquired politely.

  “Bitter? W-What’s that?”

  Bob sighed. “I’ll get you one,” he said. That settled, he ordered the first round.

  Mark sipped his beer, and his companions observed, with silent amusement, his evident dislike, which to be fair, he was trying hard to conceal.

  “There you are then,” said Bob. “Best Northern ale. Cheers!”

  Paul raised his glass and swallowed a large mouthful. Mark watched this ritual, and realising he was expected to follow it, he raised his glass and attempted to do the same. He spluttered and choked. It was an effort to retain what he had taken in.

  Bob grinned genially, and thumped him on the back. Mark coughed again and looked less than well.

  “Congratulations!” exclaimed Bob. “So how do you like the taste of your first glass of beer, lad?”

  “I-I’m not s-sure I-I like it,” Mark murmured truthfully.

  “Aye, and isn’t that true of best things in life? An unpleasant taste to begin with, but by God, they improve with experience. You’ll come to no harm, Mark, if you sup your ale like us and enjoy it.”

  Mark changed the subject. “Have you been s-staying in New B-Brighton s-since you came here?” he asked.

  “You must be joking! Last year we were in a flat in Liverpool. The only reason we’re here is to organise another flat. If you take my advice, you’ll do the same. The fare from New Brighton to College is extortionate, and you’d be better off keeping the brass and enjoying yourself. Besides, all the action is in Liverpool, and nothing much goes on here.”

  So Mark asked what had become of the flat which they had had the previous year. Bob paused, as if for once lost for words.

  Paul made a face and declared boldly: “We fell out with the Landlord!”

  “Ay
e – Over the rent,” Bob added, unashamed.

  Mark was speechless. In the well-ordered world Mark had been taught to believe in, you just didn’t argue with authority – even if authority existed in the form of a slum landlord.

  “It was his fault entirely,” Bob continued.

  “Absolutely his fault,” Paul echoed.

  “You see,” said Bob, in a tone of self-righteous indignation, “Landlords belong to the capitalist classes and will squeeze the last ounce of brass out of their tenants – if they get the chance!”

  Mark looked astonished. “Y-you’ve ch-changed, Bob. You were a p-prefect!”

  Bob ignored this remark and continued: “Well, Mark, you see the flat needed repairs – it was in a pretty poor state when we got it. We asked landlord to put everything right. But he wouldn’t. So we withheld the rent. We came back, one night, and found locks changed and all our belongings thrown outside.”

  “We’re not sorry we left,” Paul added, as if their departure had been entirely voluntary. “We had some dreadful neighbours. You see, we used to have parties in the flat. The parties weren’t noisy at all. But the neighbours didn’t like it. They once called the police in the middle of the night. So we’re glad to get away from that miserable lot .”

  “I-I-I thought you went to u-university,” Mark enquired, changing the subject.

  “Aye, that I did, Mark – but you see it didn’t suit me.”

  “You mean, they threw you out because you were a professional student!” said Paul.

  “Oh, it was all such a bad mistake! I was having such a good time with the girls and the booze – I thought it would never end. I was studying to be a doctor, but it was no fun. Then I failed my first year exams. So much for following in dad’s footsteps!”

  “And that’s when the landlord complained,” Paul added.

  “Oh aye! So I had to go. That won’t stop me having fun, mind – but, next time, I’ll make sure I pass the exam!”

  Now they had exhausted this account of their adventures, Bob observed that Mark had told them nothing about himself. So he began to probe into his background.

  “You’re an odd case, Mark,” he said. “You were studying Classics, weren’t you?”

  Mark looked perplexed. He seemed to have no idea what to say. “ Y-yes. I w-was doing C-classics – Latin and Greek,” he began, his cheeks glowing red with embarrassment.

  “What! Classics!” exclaimed Paul. His face was a picture of total disbelief, dismay, and horror. “Classics! Why, that’s the most traditional and useless of all traditional subjects taught in the academic redoubts of Capitalist Public schools – the very hallmark of a privileged and moneyed elite!”

  Their unwelcome reaction made Mark feel he had to justify himelf somehow. So he continued, unable to hide his unease: “Yes – er – Classics. They w-wanted two ‘B’s and a ‘C’” ( from this the other two inferred he was referring to A Level grades), “but I-I di-didn’t do that w-well. No University would let me in – not in Classics anyway. I s-should’ve tried for Law – but I left it too late – looking for places in Classics. Then I applied for Law, but all the p-places were taken at Universities. So I-I had to go to the College.”

  The two sociologists exchanged knowing glances. It was a good story, but he was a failed Public School boy after all!

  Their discrete looks did not go unnoticed. Mark’s voice became a whine as he tried to continue his self-justification: “I-I-I-I did have a ch-chance to go to Oxford. My father had some influence. A p-place was offered – but I-I-I refused. I w-wanted to rely on myself – r-rather than on influence.”

  The Sociologists exchanged another glance. A likely story! No-one with any sense would throw away a chance like that.

  They stayed at the Golden Lion for an hour or more before returning to the hotel.

  Once alone, Mark took a slim volume from his unpacked case. It was an Ancient Greek text. He could hardly understand it, as he had never properly mastered the art of making accurate translations from the ancient language. But he had a dictionary, and it seemed such a pity to abandon completely the study of a subject on which he had spent so much time at school – perhaps too little time. He would continue his Classical studies as a hobby. At the same time, he could not fail to perceive a degree of prejudice on the part of his new friends. It occurred to him that the same prejudice would probably affect a large number of his contemporaries. So he decided the wisest course would be to make a secret of his hobby.

  The following morning, Mark took the ferry from Wallasey to Liverpool. A ramp led down to the landing stage, where a ferry boat was moored ready for the next crossing. The boat had passenger decks and lounges. Above the stairs leading down to the lower lounge, there was a notice on a metal plate with letters in bold relief, proudly announcing that this was one of the small vessels which had rescued the British army from Dunkirk.

  The sailors cast off, the engine roared into life, and the crossing of the great river estuary began. The night’s storm had abated, and the motion of the waves was hardly noticeable. In the distance, at the other side of a vast expanse of water, there hung a pall of smoke, and beneath this clearly visible dark veil, the city and the city’s docks spread along the water’s edge.

  The city sloped down to the water from some low hills. At the centre of the conurbation and projecting prominently on the waterfront, there were four enormous buildings, which stood together on the waterside, forward of and apart from the neighbouring docks. The ferry boat was sailing towards these interesting landmarks. Mark recognized them, from pictures he had seen, as the ventilation shaft for the Mersey Tunnel and those grand Victorian palaces of commerce, the “Three Graces,” as they are called: the Harbour Board headquarters, the Cunard building, and the Liver Building, crowned with its two legendary birds, all with majestic imposing facades facing the river estuary and the sea.

  The ferry docked at the Pier Head, a floating wooden platform moored below the Liver Building. Mark disembarked and, after following Tythebarn Street for what seemed an interminable distance, he at last arrived at the College of Commerce.

  A less impressive institution of learning could not have been imagined. Part of a terrace of older buildings, it stood on the corner of busy cross-roads in the city centre. The noise of passing traffic was clearly audible from within this modern structure, which had been built in an unspectacular utilitarian style, out of concrete and glass.

  Mark entered the lecture room allocated for his degree course, and met the fifty or so other students who were also starting the Law degree course. The lecture room was no different from what he imagined a secondary modern school classroom was like. It was small. There was a blackboard and large glass windows.

  They registered, and the registration complete, the first lecture commenced. It was all about the nature of Law, where it is to be found written down; how the Law had evolved from Statute and judicial precedent, and how, as one famous professor had put it, the Laws of England had been forged on the anvil of experience.

  Mark closed his eyes as he listened to this lofty theme, and soon it was time for lunch. Mark was still reeling from this onslaught of learning, when he asked where he could eat. He was informed that there was a canteen downstairs. So downstairs he went, along a corridor, and through a door at the end of the corridor. Suddenly he was in the open air, and the rain came pouring down. Someone dashed past, a notebook shielding his hair from the deluge. This figure had emerged from a tin hut immediately in front of Mark. So this was the canteen.

  The canteen was one of those temporary structures which, after a while, become permanent fixtures. A self-service counter served a variety of snacks and refreshments, from hot chips to ice-cream. The single room was spacious enough, but it was crowded with students. There were some tables, which were strangely empty in the middle of the crowded room. Mark bought a plate of sausage and chips, and sat down at one of these. He soon found out why it was empty. The canteen had a roof of corrugated iron which leaked in places, and drips of water came splashing down onto his dinner, obliging him to move elsewhere.

  After eating, Mark asked if there was a common room for students, and was directed back into the college building. Below a stairwell, there was a short passageway packed with students. Leading off this passageway there were two doors: the one leading to a table tennis room, and the other, to the Common Room. This had about forty comfortable new chairs set tightly together, both lining the walls, and in the centre of the room. Those students who were lucky enough to have found seats sat down and relaxed. The majority, who were not so fortunate, stood and chatted in between the rows of chairs. The atmosphere was hot with breath, sweat, and smoke. If the room had been designed for forty, the College had several thousand students.