As far as Paul was concerned there was only one path to follow in 1980 as he left his southern English, provincial university, clutching his degree in literature. 'Yes, that's right, journalism. How many years do you give the Thatcher government when I get to work?' he'd quipped to one of his sympathetic tutors, a closet socialist with a domineering and (very) conservative wife. 'Well, I wish you all the best of luck, and look forward to reading your articles in the "Guardian" one day.' They'd enjoyed their mildly subversive friendship that had started in the 'Victorian & Modern Option' seminars and carried on in "The Bald Eagle" public house, via the coffee lounge in the Students' Union. Jeff Dunnock had never actually invited Paul to his home ('Mrs Dunnock doesn't approve of me inviting students back.'), but they did have a certain understanding and Paul felt he could rely on Jeff for, at least, a decent reference, if needed. But at this time Paul had, if only temporarily, settled his own future by securing a job as a reporter with a local weekly paper, back home, and felt that it was only a matter of time before Fleet Street beckoned. Paul, though he didn't know it, represented that previously much vaunted social phenomenon; the working class, northern grammar school boy. Indeed, he had a quiet strength, which impressed, and still the slightest trace of a 'northern' accent which some southerners found attractive. Lucy, on the other hand, exuded anything but quiet strength and her butterfly personality perhaps concealed deep-seated and complex insecurities. She and Paul got on very well despite their obvious differences and the fact that Paul made fun of her genteel, Home Counties, background. 'So it's eight o'clock, tonight, Lady Lucinda?' 'Paul, do you have to be such a pain? Sorry. Yes.' 'And will the rest of the gang be there for our 'last supper'?' 'Yes, I hope so.' 'That's a pity. I was hopingä' 'Now, don't start.' This as they bumped into each other after their final visits to the English department to say goodbye to Jeff and Beryl, the kindly secretary, and a few others. Paul and Lucy each found the other attractive, there was not any doubt about that, but had never, in three years, somehow managed to 'get it together', as they used to say in those days. Peering across the divide which separated them, socially, it was hardly surprising but nonetheless a source of irritation and frustration to Paul at least. In an ideal worldä I should introduce the rest of the gang, the party guests, before the vegetable lasagne hits the table and the cheap plonk starts flowing. James really was from Lucy's background: minor public school, father something in higher education, garden parties and ballyhoo, but he stood little chance of gaining her affection, partly because he was without ambition in that direction but also because he was taciturn and his silence frightened or unnerved her in some way. Indeed, James seemed without ambition in any direction at that time being somewhat preoccupied with family matters. None of the others had much idea what he would do with himself after university. He had talked vaguely about doing a bit of teaching, perhaps at his old prep school in Sussex, and thus delaying any firm decision. Paul thought that the likes of James would ensure that the revolution, real social change, would never happen, almost inadvertently. But at the same time he liked James for his good-humoured character. Lucy's peripheral involvement with a feminist group on campus and her lead singing role in what had been a mildly punk band were completely incomprehensible to James but then so was much of life. It seemed to outsiders, and to James himself in rare moments of introspection, that he somehow existed in a timeless, almost Edwardian, sepia-tinted land of the Admen's making. Disturbing the surface of this particular pool could have led to drowning. Alison certainly wasn't as fragile. Having grown up in a Yorkshire cloth town, her grandfather a 'real' weaver, she had the brains and the commitment to really make things happen. While at the university she had been endlessly active in student politics of the left embracing causes from Chile to South Africa and had determined to get a theatre group going which would somehow enlighten, if not the masses, then their children. She wasn't quite as earnest as perhaps this brief description makes her sound and had a very good stock of snappy one liners at her disposal and a telling knowledge of smut generally. While she tolerated Lucy and James, believing them to be beyond hope of 'rescue', Alison secretly admired Paul, though she would never have said so, but conceded on occasion that he wasn't bad 'for a man', in spite of having been born the 'wrong' side of the Pennines. Joanne was also keen to help her fellow beings in the future. Perhaps 'fellow men' is the correct phrase since she had got off to a good start in that direction while living in a mixed hall of residence and did not appear to have looked back. But Joanne wanted to travel, 'to widen her horizons' as one coffee lounge wit had rather cruelly put it, and so Europe beckoned. Her passport was going to be a certificate to teach English as a Foreign Language, or so she hoped and yet at the moment she was involved with Steven who hoped that she might settle down and become the perfect businessman's (that is, 'his') wife, one day. Steven, himself, was the only really sporty member of our dinner party and had met Joanne and the rest of the gang when they had been grouped into the 'V&M' option under Jeff Dunnock. Joanne had subsequently decided that she ought to get a bit fitter and she and Steven had been 'very close' ever since a rugby club disco, the previous February. Steven, as perhaps I've intimated, was essentially a simple soul, fond of his pint and cricket in the summer, and keen to do well in business. He had seen the writing on the wall, in some respects, and although he feigned a certain idealism about society and people, did not worry too much about the cruder practices of the consumer age or the downright corruption which was extending its grip in political circles. Although Steven was not from the sort of background that had employed servants as such he would have agreed with Lady Hartwell who welcomed back the times when servants could be sacked. Margaret Thatcher's election victory, the previous year, had given heart to the real and aspiring middle classes who had seen their profits and social status decline for the past ten years, or so they thought. But let's not dwell on the coppers in the till, or the sordid attitudes behind them (yes, you've guessed, Steven's family was in the grocery business) when we have a good meal to go to and doubtless some juicy bits of gossip to hear. Now the way people conduct themselves at dinner parties is, in itself, worthy of a separate volume but I must restrict my comments to the dinner party to be thrown by Lucy that evening. It would be self indulgent to carry on about the dozens of dinner parties that our six characters did not attend together and who said what, and who was carrying on with whom etc, etc but that would be beside the point. And so let it suffice for us, first of all, to peruse the scene. Lucy had shared a kitchen with two other female students, their names are of little importance at the moment, in the student ghetto in Exeter, for that was the provincial university in question, for her final year. Like many Exonians she had spent her first year in hall and second out in the country. I should add that not all students spend their second years out in the sticks. Only those with a pair of green wellingtons and a car enjoy the rural delights but that is a point of obscure sociological interest. Lucy's kitchen looked out on to the backs of other Victorian houses that had been appropriated by clever landlords to let out to students. There were several streets of such houses and so the area had taken on something of an homogenous feel where it was always possible to hear, late at night, the deep rhythms of reggae or the latest angst of post-punk rock. Lucy, herself, disliked the dilapidated state of her kitchen, not to mention the rest of the house, but felt that it gave her a certain street credibility to live with the poorer off undergraduates and, here and there, the poorer off locals. But we must not dwell too long, fascinating though this background view is, for the food is nearly ready and Paul is downstairs, knocking on the door. 'Hi! Come in! Have you seen the others?' 'James was in the "Albert" when I left.' 'What was he doing there? He usually drinks in his room, doesn't he?' 'Yes, I don't know. He's been very down recently. Perhaps there's been 'trouble at mill', as we say back home.' 'Paul. Can't you be nice to me for a change? This will be our last chance to see each other for a while you know.' 'Aye, you're a fine looking wench, Lucy.' 'Paul!'
'Yer know something?' |
