Shining Lights Page 6

  ‘My place isn’t suitable for visitors. It’s a friend’s place. I could drop by your place, now I know where you’re staying? Number 36, you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  With that, I hurry away to avoid further questions. By the time I turn and look back, Sandra has already crossed the tram track and, dog in arms, heads down the dark street.

  I feel a momentary pang. She looks small and fragile as she slips away into the darkness, like someone drowning in a dark and distant sea. I remember seeing her like that once before, after her parents died.

  I have to drive the feeling away. It’s one hell of a coincidence to meet Sandra like this. Isaac, Eric, Sandra… I mean, what the hell does it mean? I’m with Forrester. I’ve never liked coincidences. The anxieties I’ve struggled to control all week are running frantic laps around my stomach. It’s time to head to the safety of my temporary home.

  I turn towards Flat 4 and the guardianship of my protective, if ageing, ninja.

  Chapter 11

  I think I may have overstated the status of the Debating Society in Sefton Grammar School life. Let me re-balance that a little.

  The club ran mainly at lunchtimes or immediately after school, which prevented all but the hardiest from attending. The teachers occasionally pressured the English literature class and those studying religious education, for whom, I assume, they thought it would be useful or therapeutic, or both. The average turnout was about twenty and that, as often as not, included the four speakers. Staff attendance was one, sitting at the back, bored to death, marking books and drinking coffee. Compared to the three-line whip imposed on everyone in the fifth and sixth form when the rugby first fifteen went out to flex their collective muscles, we were small fry.

  There were two exceptions to this sorry state of affairs. The first was when Isaac spoke. This would double the attendance and would require us to transfer to the school hall if the subject was appropriately meaty. The second was when the school team was in open competition with another school. For home debates, the entire fifth and sixth had to attend, along with those teachers whose classes were cancelled, and a couple of local councillors on a good day. An away debate required a coachload of hapless English and RE students. I think they had a rota.

  Eric, Isaac, Sandra and Melanie Abbot formed the backbone of the team, with me as an occasional participant or reserve.

  On my occasional appearances, they would partner me with Eric or Melanie, while Sandra usually stapled herself to Isaac. Not always, though, because Isaac loved nothing more than to take a contrary position just for the fun of it, which Sandra would not do. Sandra took her beliefs seriously. She couldn’t understand why Isaac was so objectionable as to argue against something about which she felt passionately. I mean, fancy opposing her on feminist issues, the evils of communism or the existence of god. It was all too much for her, especially when, having conclusively lost the first two of these arguments he proved to the satisfaction of a cynical audience that god probably didn’t exist and, if He did, He had a hell of a lot of explaining to do. When he rounded off his magnificent oration with an assertion that the only explanation for pain and suffering was that god wasn’t good at all, the audience roared with laughter. When he proclaimed that only the presence of an evil god could explain such a catastrophic failure of creation, the roars broke into cheers. Accept that, he said, and everything fell into place. He left the choice of options to his audience, in typical Isaac style. Then he sat beside the podium and smiled across at Sandra. She didn’t smile back.

  Their relationship disintegrated on the spot. Not only was Sandra an ardent believer in everything she ardently believed in, she was a staunch Catholic and held her religious views to be unchallengeable and certainly not a subject for mockery. Besides—and Isaac should have realised this more than most—after what she had endured over the previous couple of years, since the death of her parents, Sandra needed the comfort and reassurance of her faith in order to hold her life together. He had a blind spot, I guess, about how other people worked. For him, there was no such thing as an unassailable point of view, at least until he had attempted to assail it from all directions. For Sandra there were some which were like Mount Olympus to the Ancient Greeks, and should never be assailed, because they were beyond the reach of reason.

  I guess it was around that time our collective friendship, which had struggled on for a while, finally fractured and fell apart.

  And now, here we are again, all in one place: Eric, Isaac, Sandra and me.

  Bizarre just doesn’t cover it.

  Chapter 12

  I can’t get Sandra’s image out of my head tonight, as I lie staring at the ceiling through sleepless eyes. My thoughts skim annoyingly back and forth across the years when our friendship flourished. Eventually, like birds in a field of corn, they settle on the most powerful of my memories: the day of her parents’ funeral.

  It was an ordinary dull day. When I awoke and opened the curtains, I took particular note of that, and found some strange comfort in it. Had the sun been shining—it was May, after all—it would have been a poignant reminder that these two people, Sandra’s parents, were no longer present to enjoy the lovely weather. Had a storm brewed overnight and exploded on the day, it would have felt like an echo of the life-shattering tragedy which had overwhelmed Sandra.

  As it was, the grey sky seemed just boringly indifferent. Life goes on. Another grey day about to wash over another grey day. Babies would be born, people would die. Grey, meaningless life.

  I was at that melancholy, self-indulgent age, and I felt grey myself, and guilty because, of all the places I wanted to be today, the church of St James in the town centre was the last on the list. I was heading towards fifteen. Death and grief I understood at a deep, personal level, and I wanted so badly to reach out and offer something—anything—to help Sandra. I spent most of the night imagining the pain I would feel in her situation, feeling it all for her, picturing her lying in bed, crying, anguished and alone. It was gut-wrenchingly awful. Yeah, I would have done anything to ease that pain. But going to a funeral on a miserable, grey day, walking with all those people I didn’t know into a church I only visited for the school’s annual carol service, with everyone wearing black and looking politely grim and serious… How was that going to help? I was just an unimportant face in a crowd of faces.

  I felt angry.

  I knew, of course, that in some small way, my presence was necessary to show Sandra I cared. The trouble was, it was such an insignificant gesture and, being nearly fifteen and into grand gestures, especially the sort that would reflect well on me, I wanted something more than this paltry formality. I wanted to change the world for my friend, be the shoulder she wept on, be the arm that encircled her while I eased her path through this intolerable but necessary ceremony.

  ‘Shit.’

  I checked my watch. Eight o’clock. The service started at 10.30. At least that was good. It would be over before lunch. We weren’t going to the interment or back to the house. That was for family.

  I felt a surge of guilty relief.

  The phone rang. Not a voice, just a long groan. Isaac.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Me, too.’

  ‘There’s a group of us meeting outside the church. Safety in numbers. Me, you, Eric, a few girls she’s known for years. We thought just after ten. We’ll sit near the back so Sandra will see us when she comes in and she’ll know we’re there for her.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘You can come back to our place after. Just the three of us. You, me and Eric. Just chill out for a while. What do you say?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m in.’

  ‘I sent flowers,’ he added, ‘just to Sandra. Nice, colourful ones with a scent. I put our three names on the card. If you want to chip in a few pounds, that’s up to you.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘That’s a nice, sympathetic gesture. I’m glad you thought of it.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you la
ter.’

  Half an hour later, I checked the suitable clothing my mum had laid out on the bed while I was taking a shower. White shirt, a black tie my dad loaned me, dark trousers and a dark-coloured coat she bought especially. My mum appeared at the door.

  ‘You have to look respectful,’ she said, when she saw me frown. ‘Can’t let the side down.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a side with funerals.’

  She smiled. ‘You know what I mean. Are you sure you don’t want to go with me and your dad?’

  I shook my head. ‘We’re going as a group,’ I said. ‘Her friends from school. If we’re all together, she’ll know we’re there for her.’ I looked at the clothes. ‘Will everyone look like this?’

  ‘I hope so.. It’s like I said. Respectful.’

  Normally I would have argued about what constituted respectful, but I wasn’t in the mood so I let it go. Mum glanced at me, weighing up my frame of mind. I was that age. Ready to argue about anything.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I snapped.

  The phone rang, and I used the excuse to get some space to myself.

  It was Eric.

  ‘Isaac has sent Sandra some flowers,’ he said. ‘I wish he’d asked first. I know what she likes better than he does.’

  ‘I think it just entered his mind, and he acted on it. It was a whim. Just Isaac, you know.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Eric said. ‘Even so. Are you paying towards them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He grunted. ‘I guess I’d better cadge some cash off Mum. I still think he should have asked. We don’t all have spare money. What are you wearing?’

  ‘Black tie, white shirt, dark trousers.’

  ‘I haven’t got a black tie.’

  ‘It won’t matter. No-one will notice.’

  ‘School shirt and school trousers and a dark anorak, then,’ he said. ‘Are you going back to Isaac’s after?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so. You?’

  ‘I suppose I’d better. I don’t want to go home, that’s for sure.’ He sounded gloomy. ‘My mum’s going to the service.’

  ‘Mine, too.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’ve seen my mum?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ I laughed. ‘Besides, it’s a funeral. Who cares? The place will be crammed.’

  ‘Yeah, see you later then. His Lordship said just after ten, is that right?’

  ‘Yeah, so we can sit at the back where Sandra can see us.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The phone went dead. Jeez, how to add gloom to an already depressing day: talk to Eric.

  I got dressed quickly and went through to be double-checked by my mum. Dad stuck a pound in my hand for the collection, just in case there was one. A pound? They’re still living in the last century. A single coin - not even a handful of loose change to make it look more than it was.

  ‘You know what churches are like,’ my dad said. ‘Never miss an opportunity…’

  Not a religious man, my dad. Quite anti-establishment, too, considering he was a barrister and firmly ensconced at the heart of the status quo. He hated the ‘glorious middle classes’ as he called them, despite being a fully paid-up member of the club. A socialist, too, just to mark his different perspective and to stand out from the crowd.

  Time to go before he went off on one of his rants.

  Mum patted my cheeks like I was eight and told me I look a proper gentleman, at which my dad grunted social disapproval, and I fled the scene.

  Poor Sandra. Her mum and dad had been for a day out in Manchester, celebrating a wedding anniversary, I think. Shops, restaurant and a show, then a quick journey home along the motorway. The night was wet and windy and a mist had settled on the higher stretches. They entered a slip road, only to find the motorway they were joining blocked. An accident, apparently, further along before the next junction. A tailback. They pulled up and her dad switched on his emergency lights to warn the vehicles approaching from some distance behind them. Unfortunately, whether it was because of the mist or the spray, or because the driver was tired and inattentive, or tuning his radio, the lorry behind them didn’t notice the hold-up until it was too late. He caught a last-minute glimpse of the warning lights on their Volvo and slammed on the brakes so hard they screamed. But it was all in vain. The lorry ploughed into their car at about fifty miles an hour, shunted them forward into the line of stationary traffic, where they collided with the side of another lorry, cutting half the roof off their Volvo, which burst into flames.

  They died at the scene, long before anyone from the rescue services arrived. According to one witness who left his car and rushed over, they were already beyond anyone’s help before the flames got to them and consumed everything. A slight consolation.

  Sandra forgave the driver of the lorry. She said he blamed himself enough already. He gave up driving from that day, saying he couldn’t face it again. Sandra blamed the conditions, the earlier accident, the arbitrary nature of calamitous events. Typical Sandra. She reached into her religious core and found something to help her: forgiveness.

  I admired that.

  At the funeral, she dressed elegantly in black with a single red rose on her breast. Her pale face looked even paler by contrast with her dress, as she walked steadily forward, supported by her aunt. Her eyes, heavily shadowed, were firm and clear, her lips tense.

  We watched her as she walked to the pew at the front, just metres away from the flower-laden coffins. And there she sat, her head still, her back upright, until, to our surprise and admiration, she stood up to do the reading she’d selected.

  I could see her hands shaking and, as she read, I heard the break in her voice. She struggled to speak the words, and I could see how much it mattered that she completed the task she’d set for herself. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and it grew steadily and painfully clearer that she couldn’t continue. I wanted so much to spring to my feet and walk down to her side, but I didn’t. We were all pinned to our seats, unable to move. I saw her aunt shuffle, but even she could not move.

  Then Isaac, who was sitting beside me, stood up and walked down the aisle. He stood at her side, his arm round her shoulder, and he whispered something quietly in her ear. Slowly at first, and then with growing clarity, they read together and, as Sandra grew stronger and more confident, Isaac became quieter and then silent.

  At the end, he held her arm and walked her back to her seat beside her aunt, who hugged her close, and murmured a thank you to Isaac, who then returned to my side.

  It was one of the most powerful moments in my life. I’ve never forgotten it. I’ll even confess to a guilty feeling of envy at that moment. God knows how much I wished that could have been me helping her. But it wasn’t, and it couldn’t have been. Apart from being nearly fifteen and utterly incapable of such a gesture, my motivation would have been all wrong. I would have felt pride at my actions and then, being me, guilt at my pride.

  I may be wrong, but I don’t think Isaac felt any of those things. I think he saw a friend in need and realised he could help, and knew he could do it, and that was all.

  Like I said, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he felt much the same as I would have done, but I never saw the slightest sign of it. Not then, not ever. To my knowledge, he never mentioned it again.

  When we were all back at Isaac’s house, in his bedroom, he rooted under the bed and drew out a box with several bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale.

  ‘I thought we might need this,’ he said, flicking off the cap of one bottle and handing it to me, then opening another for Eric. He put on some music and we just flopped back on the bed, chair and giant beanbag.

  Eric remained uncharacteristically silent, moodily sipping his beer. Eventually, when Isaac left to put together a few things to eat, Eric turned to me.

  ‘That was truly fucking embarrassing.’

  ‘What was?’ I asked.

  ‘Him.’

  ‘What? Isaac?’

  ‘Yeah, all that walking to
the front of the church, like he was her brother or something. I can’t imagine what her family must’ve thought.’

  ‘They were probably grateful,’ I said, but Eric snorted contempt.

  ‘Embarrassing,’ he said. ‘Then doing the reading with her, like he even knew her parents that well.’

  I decided not to speak. No point in prolonging a conversation which might lead to an argument; not on a day like this. I walked over and started the music playing, and sat back on the bed. I picked up a magazine and flicked through it. Something to do with philosophy. I got through a paragraph and laid it back down.

  ‘She’ll be loaded when all this is over.’ Eric changed tack, but not his mood. ‘They were insured for half a million. I heard one of their ghastly relatives say so. Hell, what I could do with half a million. Then there’s the house. That must be worth about the same. There’ll be compensation and a load of other stuff, too. Shit, they’ve even got a house in France for holidays. She’ll be a fucking millionaire.’

  ‘It’s a hell of a price to pay,’ I said. I was getting impatient with this line of conversation, and I could feel my temper flaring. ‘I dare say she’d swap every penny to have her parents back.’

  That contemptuous snort again. It was seriously annoying me.

  ‘I’d sacrifice my old lady in a heartbeat for half a million quid.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t,’ I snapped. ‘She’s your mother, for god’s sake.’

  He laughed. ‘In a heartbeat.’

  We sat in silence for all of ten seconds before he started again.

  ‘I might ask her out when the dust settles.’ He grinned. ‘Let her spoil me with all her cash. What do you think?’

  Mercifully, I wasn’t called upon to tell him exactly what I thought, because Isaac bustled through the door at that moment with a tray full of small plates loaded with food.

  ‘My mum has laid out a buffet on the kitchen table. I just grabbed a few things. We can go down later and help ourselves. There’s enough to feed the street.’