chapter thirteen: memory lane

It had been three months and we still hadn’t exchanged any form of communication, as per the anti social behaviour order. Three months. Ok, so I had reduced the obsessive compulsive stuff. Yeh, really. I was, however, still writing three or four page-long emails every day and saving them in a file to post on as soon as the order was rescinded; does that count as obsessional? Mildly eccentric then? Does that sound better, sound less clinical, less pathological perhaps? I was, for example, now much less likely to break down, no pun intended, whenever a certain song came on the car-radio or jumped out at me by chance on a compilation CD. But give a guy a break, three months is a long time.
And yet I managed to see her everyday. I concocted a neat way round the order. By the simple expedient of logging on to the Soulmates website as a guest I was able to look at her pictures and read her profile and generally keep tabs on her online behaviour. It was torture. I could look but I couldn't touch. And she’d only gone and used one of the photos I took of her on holiday for publicity purposes. Now that hurt. That really, truly hurt like hell. That nearly prompted a response but I resisted, counted to ten, then to ten thousand, slowly, and then I began to devise a plan.
I joined up as someone else. No photo obviously but under the pseudonym of Lee Lamont I advertised myself to the lonely hearts of the online community. I had to tell a few porkies but these were to disguise the geography of my desire rather than to mislead. This worked ok but my enquiry didn’t quite pan out the way I planned. She responded. Well, she would, wouldn’t she? But while she claimed she would be happy to meet up for a drink she cited pressure of dating activity as a barrier to arranging a meeting and politely asked for a photo as she didn’t do ‘blind dates’. I quit the site shortly after that.
The pressure was taking its toll. I really needed a break. I also badly wanted to see her again. The terms of the ASBO were fairly clear but maybe there was some room for interpretation. They wanted to have their pound of flesh, well, so be it. But as Portia so rightly observes, in seeking this they would in fact kill Bassanio. Ha! Let them wriggle out of that one in court, for court was what it would come to if I breached the ASBO.
So, while I wouldn’t actually call in because that would be in breach of the letter of the law, I would simply be passing through rather than attempting to meet. So that way I couldn’t be accused of attempting to arrange a meeting.
Best to arrive late at night then; very late. So late that it would be morning and just leave a little gift, a calling card. No harm in that, is there? Maybe a few CDs with the relevant lyrics written in lipstick on a sheet of scented note paper, nailed to the back door. Maybe I needed to get a list together. A fucking long list. But where to start? Well, the entire lyrics to ‘Blood on the Tracks’, for a start, excepting maybe ‘Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of fucking Hearts’. Yes, that would underscore the irony nicely because it was the Bobster’s lyrics that first attracted her to me. Her little byline in the website was 'Rainy Day Woman'. Yes, that would be a nice little reminder. And then just about half of everything Teenage Fanclub ever wrote. Also good because the pair of us went to see the Fanclub in a sweaty little gig down Portsmouth way. Good night that. So yes to the Fannnies. Maybe get ‘Start Again’, obviously, then ‘Ain’t that Enough’. Nick Hornby picked that one. Good call, Nick. Who else? Well, the first few days after we split every fucking song on the radio was about heartache and loss so it’s not only country music that deals with the desolate and the down and out. Yes, so some Slaid Cleaves would be eminently suitable. Ditto Costello.
Eventually I decided to dispense with the list and simply get the show on the road. I would just load the MLC with the requisite CDs, play them on the way down and leave them there when I arrived. She’d like that. The pair of us didn’t always see eye to eye on the sounds front. No, she tended to draw a very heavy line under Radiohead, for example. Ah well. So, she wasn’t perfect. Liked punk. Hated guitar solos. So punk made sense. But it’s good to have some healthy disagreement over music. That's why the police came round that night. Just because some neighbour took exception to me playing 'Creep' at maximum volume twenty nine times. Twenty nine. What kind a sad, pathetic loser has so little going on in their lives that they can be arsed to count how many times I played that particular track.
And when an email arrived straight out of a clear blue sky I took it as a sign.
darling,
I know I shouldn't write and I don't want a reply. I just wanted to tell you how sad I am that it's ended 'cause I think I was snivelling too much when we last spoke. That's pretty much what I've been doing since. I'm sorry that I couldn't be committed enough for you - I have carefully constructed my little comfort box over the last 5 years and I just couldn't step out of it for you, it would have been too big a move for me. Which is a shame 'cause it's something of a prison too and I'm in despair that I'll never be able to leave it. I have loved you I think from the first time, do love you and probably will carrying on loving you.... but that'll wear off in time no doubt, although it's exquisitely painful at the moment. It's best we finish 'cause I can't stand this happening again - this time it definitely hurts the most. And I really, really do hope you find someone soon who won't have a hideous load of old baggage (or children or dogs) to hold her back... I can't face the thought at all of trying to find someone new right now. I feel very unlovable, very sorry for myself and very, very vulnerable. Not a good time to get involved! Right, that really is it. Take care, my darling, darling boy. Love... Cx
Well, that was all the encouragement I needed. When the decision was taken things happened fast. She wanted a reconciliation. Well, d'uh! That much was obvious. She knew I wasn't allowed to correspond so she was sending a coded invitation. I didn't need to read between the lines to see that. And even though the vodka ration had been consumed, yeah, and some beer chasers too, I packed a bag of food and drink and toted the CDs.
It was gone midnight and the streets were quiet and dark. I managed to get out of town very easily and the Chesterfield bypass was just sublime as I threw the MLC into the wide sweeping curves and flashed the long straights. Scarcely slowing for the roundabout at Tesco and nodding briefly at the crooked spire that twists up into the night sky I was soon on the A61 link between Chesterfield and the M1. This was the first and one of the few properly dark stretches of road I'd negotiate and I blasted along on full beam while the odd pair of burning eyes peered out from the hedgerows and undergrowth.
And the trip down the M1 after such a long lay off took on an oddly nostalgic quality. The M1. Bit prosaic and functional, isn’t it? The Romans gave their highways proper names. These names live on; Watling Street, Fosse Way. Somewhere just beyond Tibshelf Services I decided that the M1 should be called ‘Memory Lane’ because at every staging post the recollections were so strong. All had associations. All had connotations. The four chimneys before Nottingham, the turn off for the space museum at Leicester, the nest of red aerials outside Rugby, the motorway service area at Northampton that was exactly halfway, the high rise apartments near Luton; each landmark threw memories my way. And with the driven desire pushing the MLC on the need to reclaim those memories was stronger by the minute, louder by the mile. At that rate I was going to have to release a drogue chute to slow down when I exited for the London Orbital.
Sooner than anticipated the M25 loomed and I glided onto the slip road, deliberately accelerating when the road markings advised a reduction in speed and hung into the curve at ninety. The motorway was as quiet as I'd ever seen it.
The M25 has its own beauty at 3 a.m. The big wind turbine at the Amersham turn off waved hello as I zipped by.
‘Hi!’, it seemed to say in its lazy semaphore, 'Long time no see.’
Surprised it saw me at all really, considering I'd been flat out for the last hundred odd miles, seduced by the relatively quiet road, the coloured lane markings and the cosy throb of the engine. And of course the tuneful chanting of Roddy Frame. Ah, Roddy! A man after my own heart. That ‘Surf’ album certainly dealt with the issues. And then it was Heathrow. For once there wasn't a plane in the sky.
Before I knew it the A3 turn off appeared. Ooooops! and I overshot by a few yards. By quite a few yards. By quite a fucking few yards. So many yards they got called something very different, something more Anglo Saxon in origin. A chain? Stopping distance, eh? I was very nearly in Hampshire by the time I had regained control and hauled it round. But luckily there was nobody else on the road as the MLC surrendered to gravity and physics and pirouetted over the gravel and plopped neatly onto the lane, after executing a neat 360. Wot larks, Pip!
I took advantage of the temporary halt to drop the top and the cool air certainly sparked the synapses. So it was hello and goodbye to Guildford where I impolitely ignored the speed restrictions and bombed up the rise towards the bridge and the darkness of the final stretch. And it was with increasing boldness, nay recklessness, that I blitzed past the BP service station and ran the red lights at the dual carriageway and arrived on her street at exactly 3.30a.m A record, folks. A full twenty five minutes off the previous best. I climbed out of the car and staggered to the kerb, dizzy with sleep, motion, and the rush of adrenalin the last few miles had pumped into my flagging circulation. Now to deliver the gifts. Ah, the gifts. It was the one piece of foresight I'd had in months. The bag was in the boot, all ready to roll. It contained the CDs, the best of the unsent emails all printed off and wrapped in ribbon (well, delete doesn’t mean forever, does it now?) along with a bottle of Warrington’s finest and £100 in cash.
Then a new idea took hold. Rather than leave the stuff outside where the local wildlife might get it I could play Father Xmas and actually leave it inside. Of course. Perfect. I knew where the spare key was kept. So I crept round the outside of the house and moved the decorative stone that doubled as a gate stop and picked up the key.
Anyway, the next problem would be the dog. The food treats were in the cupboard next to his basket so maybe I could keep him quiet with a pig’s ear. The door yielded and I crawled in. There was a low growl but I inched across the floor and whispered to him. We never really got on. The dog’s terrier and territorial instincts tended to lead to some friction. Like when me and her were snuggled on the settee that time, settling down to some seriously heavy petting and he jumped up and borrowed his way into the tiny gap between us. I kicked him off and she kicked me out. No kidding. I was stood at the door for fully five minutes banging at it and her stood on the other side telling me to be quiet. She only let me back in when I promised never to kick the dog again. Yeah, well……
‘Joey, hey, Joey. Here you go, Joey’.
Curiosity may have killed the cat but it shut the dog up. He gave me a good snuffling once-over and his doggy memory was apparently satisfied. The incident on the settee seemingly forgotten. My friendly status assured I patted him and settled him back into his basket. He'd be good for half an hour, easy. Now, where to put the CD collection? Well, if I were really going to play Father Xmas then I'd have to leave them in a stocking hanging off the end of the bed. Mmmmmm. Tricky. But not impossible. The stairs were fine but how to actually get into the bedroom without disturbing sleeping beauty. I crouched outside the door. The sound of light snoring signalled that all was well as I eased the door open. The cat streaked out. Well, that was a departure. In my day the cat was never allowed anywhere near the boudoir. But there you go, things change. Maybe she was just glad of some company.
The room looked just the same. The glow of the streetlight made everything black and orange. I remembered the first time. How could I forget? After sex she’d fallen asleep in my arms and we lay there for ages afterwards, me just looking at her face until the blood stopped circulating in my arm. How could I have fallen, no, strike fallen, try plummeted…..no, how about descended? Dived? Well, fallen will have to do…….. fallen until I reached terminal velocity and travelling at 32 feet per second per second you landed right there in that bed. So comfortable.
And just then I was indescribably tired. Just five minutes. Oh, that would be gorgeous. Just to lie down beside her for five minutes…no touching...just to lie there again...she'd understand. I couldn’t help myself; I had to take a look. Poor thing, she’d done that trick that we've all seen in the movies where they line some pillows up on one side of the bed, ie ‘my’ side, to give the illusion of a body in bed beside her. Ah, bless! I just had to pull the duvet back a fraction and touch her hair. The partially open window let the lightest breath of breeze shift the curtains just a fraction and the sodium orange of the streetlights briefly illuminated the black interior of the room.