was to put a buffer between my crises and our front door. I did that by taking long walks whenever I caught a bad situation. We lived five miles from the office, south of the river in Latchmere. The walks would loosen me up a little and give me clarity, even shift my perspective on things.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t walk that evening, because I had to bring Janet her talismanic pen. So I took the train. To cap it all, today was St Patrick’s Day, which meant exactly this: happy hour every hour till last orders, Guinness and Jameson half price, plenty of shamrocks on display and those stupid oversized bright-green top hats everywhere. Small crowds were spilling out of Victoria Station’s four pubs, getting trolleyed before the stumble off home.
St Patrick’s Day always makes me think of my parents. They’re Irish. Dad’s from Cork, mum’s a Dubliner. They’re both drinkers too, Dad especially. That’s where I got it from, my old problem.
I was last to get on the train. The carriage was crammed, every seat taken, people standing in the aisles, holding on to the luggage rack, more commuters stuffed in the doorway, scowls abounding, condensation turning to rivulets on the windows.
As I stood in the cramped compartment, I clearly remembered the day I first saw Vernon James.
October 1978, a midweek afternoon. Me and my brothers were playing football in Wexford Grove in Stevenage, where I grew up. A cab stopped a few feet away from us. Vernon and his sister Gwen got out with their mother. The three of them stood on the pavement, shivering. It was cold and windy, and there were drops of rain in the air. Vernon’s teeth were chattering. His dad was arguing with the driver. Vernon spotted us all looking at them. He scrutinised us, one by one. We were staring at him because we weren’t used to seeing too many black people – and certainly not in our neighbourhood. Then he singled me out, the smallest, the one most like him, and he smiled and waved. Not at all shy, already confident. I didn’t do anything. I just carried on staring. Then he helped his parents carry a suitcase that was almost as big as him into the basement flat two doors down from our house.
The last time I saw him was also in Stevenage, on the High Street in September 1993. That was a year and a bit after we’d fallen out. I had a lot of unanswered questions about all that, like why, and was he sure I’d done what he’d accused me of.
I’d literally turned the corner and bumped into him. We were both surprised, both immediately uncomfortable. I told him we needed to talk and he said yeah sure. So we arranged to meet in the King’s Arms the next day. That had been our hangout as teenagers, because it was the only pub in town where the owner didn’t care too much about serving underage drinkers, as long as they didn’t look it. Vernon and I were already tall enough at fifteen to pass for legal.
He didn’t show. I don’t know if he deliberately stood me up, or if he was just too scared to confront me. Whatever the reason, I never saw him again.
I took Janet’s pen out of my bag. A brushed stainless-steel Parker, shaped a little like a cigar tube. Her initials were engraved on the side in scrolled capitals. ‘J.H.H.’ She’d been using it since her O levels, for every exam and every test, literal and metaphorical. We all had our baubles, our lucky heather, to ward off the fear of failure. Mine were the shamrock cufflinks my kids had bought me for my birthday a couple of years ago. I always wore them when I thought something bad was going to happen. I didn’t have them on tonight.
The train came to the first stop. People got out and the congestion eased.
I opened up the
Evening Standard
I’d picked up at the station. An unidentified Premier League footballer had been arrested for a ‘savage attack’ on a nightclub bouncer. I flicked through the pages. Riots in Athens, the looming Royal Wedding, the Chicago River dyed green. And
Unfortunately, I couldn’t walk that evening, because I had to bring Janet her talismanic pen. So I took the train. To cap it all, today was St Patrick’s Day, which meant exactly this: happy hour every hour till last orders, Guinness and Jameson half price, plenty of shamrocks on display and those stupid oversized bright-green top hats everywhere. Small crowds were spilling out of Victoria Station’s four pubs, getting trolleyed before the stumble off home.
St Patrick’s Day always makes me think of my parents. They’re Irish. Dad’s from Cork, mum’s a Dubliner. They’re both drinkers too, Dad especially. That’s where I got it from, my old problem.
I was last to get on the train. The carriage was crammed, every seat taken, people standing in the aisles, holding on to the luggage rack, more commuters stuffed in the doorway, scowls abounding, condensation turning to rivulets on the windows.
As I stood in the cramped compartment, I clearly remembered the day I first saw Vernon James.
October 1978, a midweek afternoon. Me and my brothers were playing football in Wexford Grove in Stevenage, where I grew up. A cab stopped a few feet away from us. Vernon and his sister Gwen got out with their mother. The three of them stood on the pavement, shivering. It was cold and windy, and there were drops of rain in the air. Vernon’s teeth were chattering. His dad was arguing with the driver. Vernon spotted us all looking at them. He scrutinised us, one by one. We were staring at him because we weren’t used to seeing too many black people – and certainly not in our neighbourhood. Then he singled me out, the smallest, the one most like him, and he smiled and waved. Not at all shy, already confident. I didn’t do anything. I just carried on staring. Then he helped his parents carry a suitcase that was almost as big as him into the basement flat two doors down from our house.
The last time I saw him was also in Stevenage, on the High Street in September 1993. That was a year and a bit after we’d fallen out. I had a lot of unanswered questions about all that, like why, and was he sure I’d done what he’d accused me of.
I’d literally turned the corner and bumped into him. We were both surprised, both immediately uncomfortable. I told him we needed to talk and he said yeah sure. So we arranged to meet in the King’s Arms the next day. That had been our hangout as teenagers, because it was the only pub in town where the owner didn’t care too much about serving underage drinkers, as long as they didn’t look it. Vernon and I were already tall enough at fifteen to pass for legal.
He didn’t show. I don’t know if he deliberately stood me up, or if he was just too scared to confront me. Whatever the reason, I never saw him again.
I took Janet’s pen out of my bag. A brushed stainless-steel Parker, shaped a little like a cigar tube. Her initials were engraved on the side in scrolled capitals. ‘J.H.H.’ She’d been using it since her O levels, for every exam and every test, literal and metaphorical. We all had our baubles, our lucky heather, to ward off the fear of failure. Mine were the shamrock cufflinks my kids had bought me for my birthday a couple of years ago. I always wore them when I thought something bad was going to happen. I didn’t have them on tonight.
The train came to the first stop. People got out and the congestion eased.
I opened up the
Evening Standard
I’d picked up at the station. An unidentified Premier League footballer had been arrested for a ‘savage attack’ on a nightclub bouncer. I flicked through the pages. Riots in Athens, the looming Royal Wedding, the Chicago River dyed green. And
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