Pigeons

[….]

‘I think you may be right,’ I said. ‘But I don't really feel any connection with what I'm doing any more, there's none of that intensity of experience I was expecting from university. I used to think literature really mattered, was really important. But who really cares about T.S. Eliot, D.H. Lawrence and all the others, apart from a handful of specialists? I don't think knowing about them is going to help me much. I just feel as though I'm going through the motions.’ I looked across the table at Julia and smiled. ‘I don't know what I want to know, what is worth knowing, any more. Does that make sense?’ I took a sip of wine.

Julia shook her head and looked away.

‘Ron was explaining devaluation to me the other day,’ I said. ‘I think that's what I've got. My knowledge seems almost worthless these days. Nobody cares about literature now, anyway.’

‘I just think you are pissing it away, not only the course you are doing, but the whole thing. The whole experience is just passing you by while you sit in that room. I think one day you are going to regret it, both of you,’ Julia said with an angry concern that surprised me and turned heads at nearby tables. Julia glared back and shamed eyes dropped back towards their plates.

I watched Julia as she was eating. Her intensity of belief frightened me sometimes. I, who found believing in anything almost impossible, found strong belief in others made me embarrassed and nervous: embarrassed at my own lack of any form of commitment, and nervous of the power of other people's beliefs. People would kill or die for a belief, but I sneered at the obvious simple-mindedness necessary for the continuation of all beliefs, from the religious and political onward and downward. Even belief in my own existence was sometimes too difficult for me.

I glanced out of the window. On the roof of the building opposite a line of pigeons prepared to roost for the night in the gathering grey gloom. Their feathers were puffed around them like greatcoats, like the old Soviet Politburo on May Day with the same solidity and certainty of their own perpetual existence.

The pigeons' eyes snapped to their left and there was a ruffle down the rank. I looked to see what the pigeons had noticed. A polystyrene hamburger container spiralled and somersaulted between the two buildings on the opposite side of the road. That container was more like me, blown about, never coming home to rest. Having nowhere to call home, and nothing solid to build on in my past, I drifted on eddies floating between the past and the future.

I knew Julia was right, but I felt as though I no longer had the energy or the will to change myself. I lacked the spark that would ignite me once again. Lines I had quoted from Prufrock and The Hollow Men in my first essay ran through my mind. If only I dared, then I would be able to act. I had no desire to do so, though. Life with Alison had acquired its own comfortable inertia. Neither of us had to try any more, not out in the world, not out in the rooms and lecture theatres, not out in the bars, parties and discos.

All that mattered to me lay in that small room with the door shut and the curtains pulled tight. A yellow pool spilt by the angle-poise for Alison and me to wallow in. I turned back to find Julia studying my face. I smiled uncertainly, and Julia nodded.

‘You do think I'm right, don't you?’

‘Yes, I know you are right. But I don't seem to be able to summon up the energy to change myself,’ I said. ‘I don't think Alison would want it... me... us... to be any different, either. We seem to have drifted so far away from everything, I don't know if we have the power to stop, turn and push ourselves back.’

‘Well... maybe. Perhaps this thing between you and Alison isn't what you think it is. Maybe it isn't such a good thing.’ Julia looked down at the remains of her pizza, crumbs and untouched olives.

I rolled and lit a cigarette, washing smoke down with mouthfuls of wine. I had felt a momentary burst of anger at Julia for talking about Alison. Whether it was anger at an outsider peering into my life or anger at having the truth pushed into my face, I wasn't sure.

‘Anyway,’ Julia said brightly as she looked back up at me. ‘There's a disco at the union tonight and you are going to come with me. What is more, you are going to dance with me. Don't look at me like that; I'm going to insist you dance with me. Maybe we'll even go to one of those student parties, you say you loathe so much, afterwards as well.’

‘Julia, don't try to make me into another of your worthy causes,’ I said. ‘I don't think you can put me to rights like the rest of the world.’

‘I'm just concerned about a good friend, two good friends, that's all.’ Julia picked up the bill and her purse. She stood up. ‘I do care about you, perhaps more than I ought to.’ She walked off to the till. Standing at the back of the short queue, she turned and looked over at me for a moment before turning back to sort through her purse.

*

Twilight had turned to darkness outside. The Christmas decorations threw pools of coloured light into the street where litter danced in the wind. Julia shivered and cursed as the wind threw the icy drizzle into our faces. I saw a taxi turn the corner in front of us and stop at the traffic lights. Grabbing Julia by the arm, I ran. We pulled open the door and tumbled into the seat as the taxi pulled away from the lights.

Julia, thrown off balance by the sudden acceleration of the taxi, slipped partially off the seat and fell so she lay half across me as the taxi illegally u-turned sharply back up the dual carriageway. The driver grunted and swore as he tried to push his way into the stream of cars leaving the town. I reached into my pocket for my tin. Julia nudged me and pointed around the taxi. On every available flat surface, a No Smoking sticker glared back at me.

As the traffic rolled from traffic light to traffic light, I automatically inserted noises of assent into the taxi-driver’s obligatory monologue. I shook my head and put my finger to my lips when I saw Julia was about to dispute some points with him.

‘What's the point?’ I whispered into her ear. She stared at me for a moment or two, but eventually nodded even though she did not look happy about it.

Julia shivered and snuggled closer to me. I could smell the icy rain in her hair. As the street lights lit up her face, I could see the animation in her eyes as she looked out of the taxi window at the now familiar sights of the town. She stared out as though seeing somewhere far more exotic and novel than this tired town battered by a relentless wind and too much indifferent history.

The taxi drew up at the house, and Julia reluctantly got out as I searched through my pockets for the fare. By the time I had paid - and politely listened to the last of the taxi-driver's speech - Julia had opened the door. She stood in the hallway silhouetted by the light behind her.

I stepped into the house and shut the door. We stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs. Julia looked at the door to the kitchen, then at the door to her room. I looked up at Alison's room at the top of the stairs. Up there James Joyce was waiting, locked in a darkened room. I thought I had better go up there and turn the light on.

‘I'll see you in a little while, after I've had a shower and so on,’ Julia said. ‘Remember, I want you to dance.’

‘You may live to regret that,’ I replied.

‘No. I don't think so,’ Julia said, smiling secretively as she turned away to her room.

[….]

[An extract from Hanging around Until]