Upperkirkgate Chapter 6: One That Was a Woman, Part 2

   “With what you take with you.” She glanced through the Blake poetry, smirked at the “Laughing Song” and frowned at the one on chimneys, then put it down and turned to face him.

     “I think I’d like to go now.” He shrugged. She pulled on her jacket, looked around a bit regretfully, as on the bridge of a sinking ship, and followed him out, walking through the shop, out onto Upperkirkgate.

     They crossed the street, to the chipped iron gates of the Kirk of St Nicholas. Alison looked behind her, at the imposing building of the RGU student union on the opposite corner. “Jack says they’re going to sell it.”

     “Yes. A deal arranged by the Business School as a project thesis.” He fumbled with the gates, propping one open with his shoulder. She edged past him, keen to avoid direct contact. They walked slowly up the path. To the left was the bustle of the St Nicholas Shopping Centre. “In the midst of life, we are in death,” said Jules sombrely.

     “In the midst of death, we are in hubbub. Where else do you find commerce on the edge of a graveyard?”

     “I saw a documentary about Palermo, capital of Sicily. It was only recently they stopped families having picnics in graveyards. Sort of meet the ancestors.”

     “Maybe it’s the Mafia culture. Jack would know all about that.”

     “Still bitter?”

     “Who says I’m bitter? I’ve got perspective: he hasn’t. He just needs reminding.”

     “He is lost to you.”

     “Who made you a guru? You haven’t quite got the goatee.”

     “Ah, the projection stage. Always popular with those in denial.”

     “Smart-alec.”

     “How did you know my middle name?”

     The sombre granite building cast its shadow over them, the differences in style viewed from its rear a little incongruous, as if awkwardly welded together. “I came here with Jack, last September. They change the opening hours then.”

     “I know.”

     “Is there anything you don’t?”

     “The time of the next bus.”

     “I don’t believe you.”

     “Neither do I. Come on.” They walked to the right, following the path: there was no through route to the left past the church. The grander tombstones erected to former City Provosts loomed up on the right, built into the wall adjoining Back Wynd.

     “Everything has an end: even degrees, even friends, even life.” Alison was struck by the smaller graves, especially those overgrown and moss-covered.

     “Sometimes that’s good,” said Jules, walking ahead of her. “Nothing lasts… and so the chance for new things to be born, built, hoped for.”

     “Before I go in the ground,” said Alison, “I want to achieve something.” She stared at the graves, stopped to brush away a tear. Jules stopped, turned round.

     “Helen’s grave is not here,” he said quietly.

     “Oh, I know. She wasn’t posh enough, not enough ambition. Who remembers a student?”

     “We do.”

     “She had all that in front of her. Guys, good times, careers, life. And some of these things, she did have.”

     “That’s good. There’s only so much we can do, like I was saying. Each one of our days is numbered.”

     “Where? In the Domesday Book?”

     “The Argos catalogue of its day.”

     “Well, they didn’t know how to interpret their comets. Harbingers of doom, indeed. Medieval superstition. If a piece of rock has anything to do with telling the future, I’m Madam Nostradamus.”

     “A Renaissance woman.”

     “Oh, I’m way ahead of that. More like the Enlightenment.”

     “That makes sense.” They walked up to the gates, out onto Union Street. “Let’s go to the station,” said Jules. “I like the track, the patterns, one way to watch things in motion without getting up as head of steam.”

     “Yes, it’s a pity about diesel.”

     “Lorry drivers would disagree.” They went on towards the Trinity Shopping Centre, then Alison stopped.

     “Look.” A bus ground to a halt near them, with a squeal of brakes. “That must be the last double-decker in town, since the Council invented those new colour-co-ordinated routes. What’s particularly “red” about Deeside or Donside, anyway? Come on, let’s see where it goes.”

     Jules shrugged. He had a detached air, as of a doctor studying a patient. He fumbled in his pocket for the correct change. “My treat,” she said. Both sets of doors swept open, and some pensioners disembarked from the middle ones while Jules and Alison stepped up through the ones at the front. She put some money into the meter that said, “Exact change only.”

     “Where to?” said the driver.

     “Ask for me tomorrow, and you will find me a grave woman,” said Alison solemnly. The driver snorted.

     “She’s on medication,” said Jules. The driver rolled his eyes. Jules took the tickets printed off, and they ascended the spiralling stairs near the doors, to the upper deck.

     “Like a ship at sea,” said Alison, appearing to enjoy being flung to one side as the bus entered the traffic mainstream abruptly, almost making her fall into Jules’ arms.

     “Hey, watch it.”

     “Aren’t you seasick?” she said, her ring making brief contact with the metal handrail.

     “Not really. Not with a Fisherman’s Friend.”

     “Oh, those. They taste like recycled toilet paper.” He just smiled. The front seats on the upper deck were empty, and they sat on the ones to the left, nearer the pavement below. A couple of trees brushed against the roof, banging it for a moment, and they instinctively ducked, despite being in the bus. “I remember when the upstairs section was for smoking,” she said, “when I was a child.”

     “Just as well. You could be a voice in the fog just now.” The bus reached Holburn Junction, and waited to turn left.

     “I’ve been down this route before,” said Alison, with a glance at the former library to the right, now boarded up and in a perilous state. Jules watched her. Her face tightened, she closed her eyes for a moment. She put her hand up to grasp the rail, the stolen ring making a noise against the metal, as before.

     The bus rattled on down Holburn Street. There were few other passengers: the seats were torn, and graffiti and old chewing-gum abounded. “I think this bus is near the end of the line,” said Jules, observing the state of it.

     “Don’t say that. Double-deckers are fun.”

     “Yes… if you like being jolted and your insides scrambled.” He looked straight ahead, knowing they were passing Jack’s flat to the right. He felt her eyes on him, briefly, then she looked down to the left. People got on and off. “Where are we going?”

     “Take me to the bridge.”

     “Strange, Will said that to me last night.” The bus progressed further, towards the Bridge of Dee.

     “Time to go,” said Alison, standing up. Jules stayed where he was.

     “Why here?”

     “Because.”

She clambered over him, and nearly fell down the stairs as the bus jerked to a stop, throwing out her hand to save herself. For the third time, the ring chimed on metal. “Are you coming?” She did not wait for an answer as she hastened downstairs, out through the middle doors with all the energy of the end of a school term. He followed, stepping out behind her. She looked over in the direction of the Duthie Park. “Oh, do you want to go to the Winter Gardens?”

     “It isn’t winter.”

     “That’s pretty much the point… you can see them all year round.”

     “I like the cacti. But there are graver matters. This way.” He led the way to the right, near the King George VI Bridge, ambling in the sun. The traffic was busy. As they waited for the pedestrian crossing, he patted his pockets and lit up with a reciprocal red light.

     “You’re right enough,” said Alison. “Those things will kill you.”

     “So will getting old, but I don’t hear you complaining.” They walked nearer to the river. The large cemetery near the river towered over the street, the densely packed lines of grey stones a contrast to the bright day and the living, pulsing traffic.

     Jules went in first by a side gate. They passed a Council notice about opening times. “Can a leopard change his spots?” she muttered in passing, at the City Council’s emblem. This was of two leopards, either side of the city motto, “Bon Accord”, whether or not this was a temporary state between the big cats.

     This was not a small or a traditional graveyard, arranged around a church: it was a large purposely designed site, chosen by the Council. The stones were relatively close together. The rush of the vehicles continued, and the River Dee sparkled in the near distance. “It’s like a maze,” said Jules, puffing on his cigarette then throwing it down on the gravel path, grinding it out carefully. They walked in a silent confederacy, coming to the middle of the ground, still green, yet to be filled with the dead. Alison looked at the ground. “Come on,” said Jules mildly. “You’ll feel better.”

     “How do you know?”

     “I know burying some things doesn’t help, even after you bury someone.” Alison looked over at the shining river, tried not to look at the stones nearest her, some freshly carved, the granite catching the light. Jules sat down on a bench. He twisted round to read the inscription on it. “Donated by John Carpenter, in loving memory of his wife. Married forty years.”

     “Don’t rub it in.”

     “What?”

     “Just don’t assume… you know me too well.”

     “But you’re still here. Why don’t you sit down?” Alison stood with her back to him, facing the river.

     “Because it’s your thing. My thing is to face it out.”

     “Is that really what you’re doing?”

     “Helen was a friend. Still is. I don’t know. I can’t bear the thought of her being a thing. Something part of the earth, left alone- down- there.”

     “That’s understandable.”

     “Is it? Is that all? ‘For no man… no woman… one that was a woman.’ So what is she now?”

     “I don’t know.”

     “At least you’re being honest now. All that stuff back in the shop, pretending to read my mind.”

     “I never said I could.” She turned round at last, and gave him a sharp look.

     “You claimed to know Helen,” she said cautiously. He shrugged.

     “I noticed her. Hard not to, someone like that.”

     “Was that before Claire?”

     “You could say that. Helen was an early part of my evolution.”

     “From woolly mammoth to homo sapiens and back again?”

     “Well, my first-year hallmates might disagree with that. Survival of the fittest.”

     “What?”

     “I didn’t mean… it’s not the case that the “fittest” people survive. Maybe in our cave days, once.”

     “Do you intend on working for the NHS?”

     “Maybe.”

     “I would have thought ‘survival of the fittest’ was anathema to Aneurin Bevan.”

     “You know I didn’t mean Helen wasn’t fit. She could have been better than either of us… at a lot of things.”

     “But we’ll never know.”

     Jules stretched and got up, coming over to stand beside Alison. He looked at the bright, sparkling river. “As streams of water in the south,” he said slowly.

     “Eh?”

     “It was one of Claire’s things… I always meant to ask her to explain it.”

     “It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

     “So, what does?”

     “Knowing you’re going somewhere, under your own steam. Knowing you earned the right to be where you are, and nothing short of an earthquake will shift you.”

     “I think the death of Helen shifted you.”

     “Of course… up to a point.”

     “We saw her potential in different ways. Perhaps you’re living her life for her.”

     “I warned you about being a smart-alec.”

     “And I told you it was my middle name. You’ve achieved all you have because you wanted to do it for Helen… she motivated you like no-one else could.”

     “Shut up!” She looked angry. “Leave me alone.” She turned on her heel, and strode off on the gravel path. Jules watched her go, waiting a while, then he started walking slowly after her indignant figure.

     She stopped by a bench under a tree, crossed her legs and folded her arms. She tapped her foot, waiting. He smiled slightly on approaching, hands in pockets. “The only reason I’m still here,” she said before he could speak, “is I want something of Jack. Something in you.” Her voice shook a little. “He’s not lost to me yet.”

     “Oh, but he is.” Jules patted his pocket for a match, then seemed to think better of it. He sat down on the same bench. She moved to the other end, her body still rigid and tense. “So, you’re being honest as well. I taught you that much already.”

     “Hardly.”

     “I used to go out with Claire, and Jack is my cousin.”

     “So that gives you the right to decide all our futures, tell them what to do, tell me what to do?”

“Projection. The art of the silver screen, sometimes serious, sometimes falling into slapstick.”

     “What?”

     “If ninety per cent of communication is non-verbal, then we do hark back to primitive times, more than we sometimes realise.”

     “As in the days before talking movies?”

     “In a way. People have been in relationships long before 1929.”

     “And long after, to judge by ourselves. Well, what do you know.” She leaned over and kissed him full on the lips, for several seconds. “Not so clever now, Mr Smart-Alec.”

     “I admit to being surprised.”

     “But evidently not speechless. Disappointing.”

     “I’m afraid your anaesthetic scent will not prevail.”

     “You’re not quite like Jack. And yet…”

     “Was that an experiment?”

     “Well, you’ve been treating me all afternoon, or seemed to think you were, so I thought I’d reciprocate.”

     “Very… refreshing.”

     “Even though I didn’t clean my teeth since lunch? That’s all right, then.”

     “You have a long way to go.”

     “So do you.”

     "Grief can elicit the strangest responses. Studying hard, working hard at relationships, too hard maybe, trying to pull the cousin of your ex on a whim… all that can be traced back to Helen."