The Loner Page 6

  But how did Mark feel when he returned to his lodgings that evening? Did he compare the College canteen with the great baronial dining hall at his school, from the walls of which had hung the portraits and photographs of severe former headmasters, gazing forwards intently, as if sternly watching over the boys? Did he compare that tiny common room with the spacious accommodation allocated to his house at school, where there was room for all, on furniture that was adequate, although invariably second-hand? Did he compare the rudimentary facilities of this modern building with the long traditions of his earlier education?

  Mark Flitley made no such comparisons. Instead, he heaved a huge sigh of relief. He walked through the streets smiling as never before. He was free. Here there were no arbitrary punishments, with prefects to enforce a rigid code of discipline. Here there were no dormitories, with prefects checking to see that everyone was in bed at the prescribed hour – or awake and out of the room, without fail, at another time. Here there was no compulsion to sit down daily and share one’s meals at the same table, at the same times, and with the same people – from whom there was no escape. The city of Liverpool was a vast and welcoming place where he might lose himself, if he chose; within reason, he could meet or avoid whoever he wished. He was free to wear whatever clothes he liked – to come and go as he pleased. He was free to rise or fall, to sink or swim. The nightmare of his schooldays seemed suddenly far away. Here at last, was a chance to make a fresh start.

  And so, as Mark made his way back to the Pier Head that evening, there was a happy smile on his face and a feeling of great relief in his heart. He was under the blissful illusion that all was well with the world, and his future prospects were good. He had little idea of the approaching storm.

  The doctor’s consulting room was a large place. In the centre, surrounded like an oasis amid a desolation of space, there was a small desk, and the diminutive figure who occupied this was wearing a white gown. Mark sat opposite him, eyeing the files and papers in the cabinets by the walls, and wondering if this doctor had any medical apparatus, like ordinary doctors.

  The doctor’s hair was grey with age, and from the depression which can be a natural ingredient of the psychiatrist’s work. The white overalls were intended to give an image of clinical confidence, which in reality was quite illusory.

  Doctor Fortune tried hard to concentrate on what his patient had to tell him. But this was a difficult and tedious task; if the patient had merely been naive, he could have at least followed his argument; if he had been able to express himself well, he would have been able to appreciate what he was talking about; if he had not had a bad stammer, the interview would have been shorter. But the combination of all these untoward failings did not make the psychiatrist’s task one of the most rewarding of professions.

  As he listened to Mark, one naive and irrational statement followed another; one non-sequitur, the next, all expressed in a simple but childlike language, which was so unsophisticated as to be totally inappropriate for the communication of the complex thoughts which were passing through Mark’s mind, and this, he thought, was clearly the reason for much of the patient’s confused logic and lack of self-confidence.

  The doctor had heard the story of Mark’s woes before, and was wishing that psychotherapy did not require him to listen to the same tedious details over and over again. But, as his system of psychotherapy did oblige him to do so, he had no choice but at least to appear to be interested.

  At length, the doctor could take no more. So he interrupted the unending monologue. “Do you read any books?” he enquired. He belonged to a school of thought which held that, in a case of Mark’s kind, education was as important a means of helping the patient as any other form of therapy.

  “Yes, I-I do,” Mark replied.

  “What authors do you read?”

  Mark paused.“I-I studied Latin and Greek books at school. I-I still read them now.”

  But Dr. Fortune was interested in the modern and not the ancient world. If he had felt free to give his own opinion, he would have advised his patient to forget the Classics – books, which, in his view, could not help the patient with his problems in a modern society, and could only create an unbridgeable abyss between Mark and the rest of the world. But one had to be tactful; an unguarded note of disapproval at this stage might have the opposite effect to the one intended, and spoil the relationship which he was beginning to cultivate. So he simply asked:

  “Do you read any English authors?”

  “Dickens sometimes.”

  “Do you ever read Kingsley Amis?”

  “S-sometimes.”

  “Do try reading as much as you can. Books can tell you a lot about people. If you want to know something about girls, there are some excellent female characters in Kingsley Amis.”

  Mark was puzzled and surprised. There was something weird, incongruous, and intrusive about a literary discussion in a therapist’s consulting room. “I-is reading important?” he asked.

  “It certainly is.”

  “W-why?”

  “Many people disagree, Mark, but I think there is a consensus of opinion which accepts that a man’s character is the product of his environment.”

  “I-I don’t understand, doctor. Enviro – w-what?”

  “The things around you, Mark. They include the things you touch, hear, and see. That means the books you read as well, and believe me, the influence of what you read is far greater than people generally realise.”

  “B-but I-I do do a lot of reading.”

  “Of Ancient literature?”

  Mark nodded.

  “Try reading more modern books, Mark. They could help you more than old books.”

  “B-but the old b-books have l-lasted c-centuries. Aren’t they useful too? W-why do p-people still read them if they’re no good?” The patient had become agitated again. Why wouldn’t he take the tablets he continued to offer! That would be so much better for him.

  The doctor rapidly retracted the words which had been on the tip of his tongue, and which had nearly spoilt their relationship before it had had a chance to develope. “Please don’t misunderstand me,” he said sympathetically. “Of course Classical literature has a value which is timeless. All I’m suggesting is that you spend more of your time reading good modern novels. Then you will have the benefit of the experience of both ancient and modern authors. You won’t escape from your problems by trying to live in the past, will you?”

  Mark shook his head. That that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  CHAPTER 4

  Fiona and Susan

  The two girls were waiting patiently for the customers to mount their horses. The first was short, with a bundle of long blonde hair hidden under her riding cap, exposing a cheerful smile on a rounded face. Her tweed riding jacket and creased jodhpurs gave a very professional impression. Her friend was taller. Her dark hair hung from a wide brow in a cascade of loose and dishevelled curls over her shoulders, almost hiding the pronounced features of a classical oval face. Her informal appearance was emphasized by the jeans and anorak she wore, as well as by the absence of a riding cap.

  Both girls had more important things to think about than the imminent riding lesson.

  “So now we’re through to our last year at school,” the blonde girl remarked. “Bags of career talks and all that jazz! Have you made up your mind what you want to do, Fiona?”

  “No, Sue. Why should I?”

  “Going to settle down with that boy friend of yours, I suppose.”

  The dark haired girl sighed with a hint of resignation tinged with sadness. “It’s too early for that, Sue. He’s going to University. So there are going to be long periods when we won’t be able to see each other.”

  “So what will you do? You can’t just sit at home and wait for something which may never happen.”

  “Oh, I know. I expect I’ll get my ‘A’ Levels. So, if he goes to University, I might as well do so myself. Study something that’s not too demanding, and which has a future at the end of it – something like Sociology, perhaps.”

  “What a good idea,” Susan said. “You’ll be able to really enjoy yourself – that’s what they say goes on at University. Education doesn’t stop with the books. Getting to know people is all part of it – particularly if they’re men! And you’re only young once.”

  Fiona was cross. She did not like her friend’s insinuations. “Don’t be silly.” she said. “Tommy and I are in love. There’ll never be anyone else.’’

  The blonde could not resist the chance to tease the other girl. “Ah, Fiona, you’re too starry eyed. That Tommy of yours is a nice, handsome young man. The University girls will think so too. How do you know he’s not a lady-killer, or won’t turn into one?”

  Fiona changed the subject abruptly: “What are you going to do, Sue?” she asked.

  Susan. laughed. “What am I going to do? I’m going to have a good time,” she said. “Lots of it. I’m not going to continue my studies. I’ll get a job and earn some money. Why bother spending years getting qualifications, and then find your career prospects are illusory because you’re a woman? A secretary’s job will do for me. I’ll live in a flat – if you’re a student in Liverpool, I’ll invite you to share it, Fiona. I’ll use my earnings to get some fine clothes. I’ll meet lots of men who’ll buy me things. And I’ll make sure I don’t get too involved with any of them.”

  By this time, the troop of learners had mounted and were ready. The two girls led them out of the riding school yard. It would be a mistake to say they were in single file – their formation was the complete opposite of a perfect line. There was little traffic. So the two instructors stayed in front, chattering about their boyfriends and other inconsequential matters, while occasionally glancing backwards to check that all was well behind them.

  “Oh! What a hopeless lot, Fiona,” Susan remarked. “Just look at them.”

  “It would be all right if they were all as good as Mr. Hicks. At least he knows what he’s supposed to be doing,” Fiona emphasised the word “supposed” in such a way as to drastically limit the scope of this compliment.

  “Well, I suppose he knows what he ought to be doing. He ought to after all the lessons he takes. D’you know – this is the third one this week! There must be money in being a chemist after all! His main trouble is – he always looks a bit worried when he goes into a canter.”

  Fiona laughed. “That’s the trouble with all these rides, Sue. I always hope for a good group. Then I can take them on a long canter crosscountry and enjoy myself. But I never do. There always has to be someone who might spoil it and fall off. So we’re careful. How boring!”

  “I think you’re going to be lucky today, Fiona.” Susan glanced quickly at a well-dressed lady who was clearly already in some difficulty. “If Mrs. Watts’ horse bolts as it usually does, there’ll be no holding the other horses.”

  Fiona waved her hand in a gesture of resignation. “I never could understand that woman,” she said. “She has half a dozen children, goes to work – and then she goes and buys a horse. She can afford to do so, I suppose! She really does love the beast; she just doesn’t understand anything about horses. That’s the problem. She ought to know by now that horses need a lot of exercise. It ought to come as no surprise for the animal to bolt, the moment it feels it has its head, if she hardly ever exercises it, and when she does, she is terrified of riding faster than at the trot!”

  Susan turned round and scanned the ride very slowly, as if taking great care to check that all was well. “That’s funny” she remarked.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “There’s something odd about Sally’s rider. I’ve seen that girl before, but her bottom looks rather large. Have a look.”

  Fiona sighed wearily. “I don’t need to, Sue. I know all about her. She gets a sore bottom. I expect she’s wearing a cushion under those jodhpurs of hers!”

  Susan was studying the ride again. She turned to Fiona and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Have you seen that dishy bloke at the back? Who is he?”

  Fiona showed hardly a flicker of interest. “I think he’s the student I booked in. If he is, his name is Mark Flitley. What do you think of him?”

  “He looks so bored!”

  The column of horses wound its way along the road, and at length, turned onto a bridle path. There had been very little traffic on the road, and now that that danger was past, the two leaders decided it was time to make the ride more interesting.

  “You fall behind,” Fiona told Sue. “I’ll lead at the trot.”

  So Susan fell back to the rear as Fiona rose to the trot. The horses picked up their hooves, and soon a steady beat was echoing down the lane between the trees and tall hedges. But, if the horses proceeded at a regular and steady pace, the same cannot have been said of the riders.

  As she reined her horse backwards, Susan observed the chemist rise to the trot in a perfect rhythm, with a concentration which was so serious and unrelaxed as to make her smile. Next came Mark, who had overtaken the rest, rising without difficulty and looking even more bored than before. Following him, the girl with the cushion was fairly leaping up into the air and coming down at all the wrong moments, her eyes screwed up in a way that did not suggest pleasure. Evidently the cushion was not the answer to her problem! Her horse shook his head and neighed resignedly – as if to say he felt about as uncomfortable as his rider, but – one day – she would learn! Behind the girl with the cushion, Mrs. Watts followed. She was the only rider to have her own highly under exercised mare. She maintained a continuous monologue, which went rather like this:

  “Now then, Shadow! That’s right, Shadow! At the trot, Shadow. NO! No! Shadow, that’s too fast. We must keep going at a steady trot. We don’t want to race or canter, do we? Steady, Shadow... Steady...”

  The horse stretched her nimble legs as far as they would go. Unfortunately, horses do not understand the English language.

  After a while, Sally, the horse with the rider with the cushion in her jodhpurs, started to tire of the discomfort of the bumping on her back. She slowed down. Sally was a professional riding school horse with an abundance of experience. She understood her rider was not pushing her on. She noticed a rather juicy tuft of long grass in the hedgerow, and could not see why she should not stop and have a snack. So, without first consulting her rider, she turned off the lane, threw her head down with a sudden and deliberate jerk, which loosened her reins, and began to eat,

  Mrs. Watts was now several horse lengths behind the rest. “Now then, Shadow,” she said, patting her mount appreciatively. “Now then, Shadow, we must catch up.”

  Shadow needed no second bidding. The reins, which until then had been held so tightly, eased for just a moment. That was all Shadow wanted – the chance for the thrill of a long run – she would have loved to run anywhere, but it had to be at the gallop!

  She took a single stride at the trot, and then she was off!

  As Mrs Watts was borne away at breakneck speed, streaking past the rest of the ride, she could be heard shrieking wildly: “Help me! Help me! She’s bolting! She’s bolting! What am I to do? Tell me what am I to do!”

  Fiona drew the ride to a halt, as Susan shot off over the grass track in hot pursuit. A quarter of a mile further down the road, Susan caught up with the unhappy pair, and taking the reins of the bolted horse, she led Shadow back, while Mrs. Watts, her spirits now fully restored, explained, “I am so glad you rescued me! Thank you very much. My horse is so very disobedient. I shall have to have her changed!”

  After another half an hour’s hacking, Fiona turned onto a narrow footpath. The horses, which had until then, if the exercise had not totally bored them, shown hardly any enthusiasm for their routine task, became alert and pricked up their ears. Their muscles quivered, and they would have crowded together in a herd, if the track had not been so narrow. They picked up their hoofs smartly. One could sense their excitement

  Mrs. Watts also sensed the excitement; there was an expression of alarm in her strained features. The chemist looked apprehensive. “You’d think horses would have plenty of room and opportunity to canter about in their fields,” he said. “So why do they find it so exciting to gallop about with someone on their back?”

  “It’s what they’ve been bred for,” Fiona replied. “Riding would be no fun if the horses didn’t enjoy it.”

  If the horses were demonstrating their appreciation for the canter they were anticipating, their riders’ thoughts were ranging through all the different degrees of emotion between courage and terror.

  The chemist, Mr. Hicks, set his face grimly to meet the coming ordeal, determined to overcome considerable imaginary odds. The girl on Sally adjusted her cushion in a surreptitious way, and prayed silently that this would minimise the soreness she was expecting. Mrs. Watts tightened every muscle, and her face became a picture of tension. “Steady, Shadow! Steady!” she kept saying. “It’s not time to go yet, dear.”

  Even Mark lost his dreamy demeanour and showed signs of excitement.

  Fiona knew she was backing a loser if she was expecting everyone to do everything right, but she turned round in her saddle patiently, and gave the necessary instructions: “After this corner, we come to a field. We canter across this field and across the next one. I want you all to keep behind me. There is a gate between the two fields. I repeat there is a gate between the two fields, which is not always open!”