This is part of an autobiographical series that started in Australia. The complete list of instalments is in the sidebar to the right.
Some
time during the evening, I left the night club’s dance floor and sat down for a
rest at an empty table. I should have known better. John appeared, and leant
over me.
Why was it that I attracted nutters?
There’d been a poet in the village where I’d been brought up who always managed
to accost me when I was walking to the bus stop or the train station. He’d had
a mane of bushy black hair as well.
And I tried so hard to be normal.
‘What star sign are you?’ he asked.
That was unexpected. I wondered if he was
quite right in the head.
‘Taurus,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ he frowned. ‘The astrologer-lady said
I was going to meet a Libran woman.’
There was no answer to that, so I kept
quiet, hoping he’d go away.
But he didn’t.
Suddenly, I felt sorry for him. I reached
into my bag and found the batch of invitations I carried with me so that I
could pass them on to likely people as I went about my daily rounds. I took one
out and gave it to him.
‘This is to an end-of-term party at the
house where I live,’ I said. ‘Come if you like.’
John took the invitation and scrutinised
it, his hair falling over his face.
‘Thank you,’ he said, stuffing the piece of paper into a back pocket.
I didn’t exactly hope that he’d lose it, but I thought he probably would.
John
arrived at the house in a flurry and flung his cloak – black this time - over
the bottom of the banisters. I couldn’t help noticing his tight red trousers,
and the wide brown leather belt that held them up.
‘Drinks that way,’ I said, waving my arm in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Dancing that way.’
I pointed to the dining-room and sitting-room behind me which we’d turned into one by pulling back the sliding doors that separated them.
Then I left him and tried to disappear into the throng.
But whenever I turned round during the next couple of hours, as I danced, chatted and quaffed wine, he was standing in the shadows in his red trousers watching me like Banquo’s ghost.
Eventually I gave up and went over to talk to him.
We stood in the hall and he kept his eyes on me as I found myself pouring out details of my life. I’d probably had quite a bit of wine by then, which was part of the reason for my volubility, but there was something about his gaze that was so understanding, and he didn’t interrupt, and he looked as if he might actually be interested in what I was saying.
I just knew that he lived in the same world as me, and I’d never before come across anybody who’s world even approached mine. It wasn’t a world I visited often. It was dark and dangerous and filled with monsters. I kept it in a cupboard at the back of my mind.
In
the early hours of the morning, as we housemates wandered about in a desultory
way wondering if we ought to clear up now or whether we could simply go to bed,
I found him standing all by himself in the middle of the dance room, as if
waiting for something.
Without thinking, I reached up and kissed him on the cheek.
‘I’ll find you some blankets,’ I said.
By
next morning I’d forgotten all about him but when I went down to the kitchen
he was still there, standing against a wall in his red trousers, while the
others went about their breakfasts in silence, ignoring him.
I made him a cup of tea and hoped that would send him on his way, but as people started to perk up and talk about continuing the party at a pub, he showed no signs of leaving, so I gave in and asked him if he’d like to come too.
‘Would you like a lift?’ he asked me, whisking out of the front door and speeding down the road with his black cloak flapping behind him, looking like Count Dracula.
He stopped next to a Mini. I was impressed. No one I knew had a car. Perhaps he wasn’t such an idiot as he appeared.
There were more surprises in the car.
‘Could you reach my hairbrush,’ he asked, as he manoeuvred at speed through the roads of the city. ‘It’s in that pile of washing on the back seat.’
It was, and the washing was clean and folded.
At
the pub he didn’t stop talking – goodness knows what about. I cringed with
embarrassment for inflicting him on my housemates.
When
I got back to the house, alone at last, housemate Dave who hadn’t made it to
the pub said that someone had left a message for me and he’d put it in my room.
I found the message – a scrap of paper with some pencilling on it – on my pillow.
‘Thank you for the party. Thank you for the floor. And thank you for being you,’ it said.
‘Thank you,’ he said, stuffing the piece of paper into a back pocket.
I didn’t exactly hope that he’d lose it, but I thought he probably would.
‘Drinks that way,’ I said, waving my arm in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Dancing that way.’
I pointed to the dining-room and sitting-room behind me which we’d turned into one by pulling back the sliding doors that separated them.
Then I left him and tried to disappear into the throng.
But whenever I turned round during the next couple of hours, as I danced, chatted and quaffed wine, he was standing in the shadows in his red trousers watching me like Banquo’s ghost.
Eventually I gave up and went over to talk to him.
We stood in the hall and he kept his eyes on me as I found myself pouring out details of my life. I’d probably had quite a bit of wine by then, which was part of the reason for my volubility, but there was something about his gaze that was so understanding, and he didn’t interrupt, and he looked as if he might actually be interested in what I was saying.
I just knew that he lived in the same world as me, and I’d never before come across anybody who’s world even approached mine. It wasn’t a world I visited often. It was dark and dangerous and filled with monsters. I kept it in a cupboard at the back of my mind.
Without thinking, I reached up and kissed him on the cheek.
‘I’ll find you some blankets,’ I said.
I made him a cup of tea and hoped that would send him on his way, but as people started to perk up and talk about continuing the party at a pub, he showed no signs of leaving, so I gave in and asked him if he’d like to come too.
‘Would you like a lift?’ he asked me, whisking out of the front door and speeding down the road with his black cloak flapping behind him, looking like Count Dracula.
He stopped next to a Mini. I was impressed. No one I knew had a car. Perhaps he wasn’t such an idiot as he appeared.
There were more surprises in the car.
‘Could you reach my hairbrush,’ he asked, as he manoeuvred at speed through the roads of the city. ‘It’s in that pile of washing on the back seat.’
It was, and the washing was clean and folded.
I found the message – a scrap of paper with some pencilling on it – on my pillow.
‘Thank you for the party. Thank you for the floor. And thank you for being you,’ it said.
Oh
no, I thought. Oh no. What had I
started?
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