The Memory Lane Business

Had I not been so consumed by the need to work all my life I might have built a sentimental framework for myself.  I was human, according to the Civil Registration Act, and could feel sentiments jogging about inside me when watching certain movies with the Berrills.  Jogged even more with the awareness that those two were often successful in hiding their own reactions to the sad parts or tear-wrenchingly jubilant ones.  During a sad film, at a particularly sad part – think the kid leaping into the little tramp’s arms or when the depressing fate of Ali McGraw is revealed – I’d feel my stomach heave and my face flush as if something huge and dramatic was about to happen, and some long held emotion I had never imagined seeing would emerge and be seen.  It was not that it was against my nature to give voice to my emotions.  I undoubtedly had the tools in place to emote but I’d become rather used to suppressing my feelings over time.  When a job has you in its grips, you’re less inclined to free up your soul.  You’re a cold one.  And that’s good.  That’s how you bear it.  Get to the end of the week without punching someone and there’s a few bob there to make up for all your suffering.  Used to be I’d go out and get locked with the accumulated dough- thank God those days were over.  Perhaps it was luck I was one without wistfulness.  The wistful were more likely to do themselves in, or spend every waking hour thinking about doing themselves in.

What primarily distinguished me from Oran and Phyllis, or Ernest Gilgan even, was ambition.  Mine was minor when considered alongside their largeness of vision.  Minor ambitions meant getting a small percentage pay-rise in the next two years and if I didn’t get it I’d probably sigh pithily and get on with things.  I wasn’t about to trek across Europe and get killed by traffic or anything.  Apart from financial compensation, I also derived impetus from my desire to do whatever job I did well.  In the present situation, that meant making the words right and more concise and upsetting the least amount of people possible – something I was failing to do these days.

You don’t plan on living in this old cinema now, do you? I asked Oran.

He was quiet as he looked around the dusty projection room as though he was actually considering that as an option.

The thought did cross my mind.  But I’m no squatter. 

The house is still there, said Phyllis.  They torched it good, but it remains standing.

Oran’s voice trembled:  Which means they might go back.

They wouldn’t be stupid enough to try something like that again, I said, encouragingly, for really I had no clue what those nutcases were capable of.  I bet the Gullivers responsible are this minute shaking in their boots because when the guards catch them, that’s it.  That’s them done. 

I wouldn’t put it past any of them, said Oran.  But you’re probably right.  I cannot say in truth what was going on in my head when I came here. 

Then he closed his eyes and clasped them tight awhile as if remembering a pain he’d temporarily forgotten. That house is all that’s left of them, he continued.  And that there rag.  He motioned to the old Martlet, which remained in his sister’s hands.

It’s not all gone, don’t be silly.  There was tenderness in Phyllis’s voice.  I rarely saw any tenderness between the siblings.  They bickered like a married couple.  For a moment, I thought she was going to go over and hug him and it looked like he might not resist the embrace but they both quickly fell away from their affectionate impulses.  They were too tough for that carry-on.

You still have your lives, I said.  Who cares about a load of books and videos?

In their eyes it was signposted that maybe they did believe their lives were no more or less than those books and videos and that the rest of us were naive in making our basic survival and continuance the priority.    

Phyllis tried to get off the topic of loss and went into her established mouse-catcher mode.

This place is probably crawling with every subterranean nuisance evolution cared to unleash. 

We left the projection room and returned to the balcony seats, Oran going straight back to the seat he’d been dozing in when we found him.  Phyllis also sat down two rows behind him.  She still had the newspaper and had taken to regaling us with headlines and adverts from within.

BEAT THE WEATHER.  GET TO BARGAIN BOOT STORES.

NARROW ESCAPE FOR EARLSHIP MAN.

SAIL TO AND FROM LIVERPOOL THREE TIMES A WEEK WITH THE ALBERTO ST. JOHN COMPANY’S EXCELLENT VESSELS.

BEATNIKS ON THE RISE.

Not much has changed in the paper or the town, I said.  We still have ads for bargain boots and boats, and there’s always someone narrowly escaping something.  Maybe the beatniks are a thing of the past.  Young Ernie Gilgan was the nearest thing we had. 

The letters were classier back then though, said Oran.

You knocking my contribution? said Phyllis, testily.

Of course not.  I meant the genuine letters.  Not your works of fiction.

Why did you go that far? I asked.  I mean, writing the letters.

The letters were to drum up more interest, said Phyllis.  I’m just your common-or-garden hype man.   

            I suppose the question I should be asking is:  why any of it?

            What else would we be doing with ourselves at this time in our lives in this day and age in and in this damned town?

            Travelling the world is an option.

            Too dangerous.  Why risk everything when there exists a perfectly safe place to hold you!

I was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the Pompadour and wanted to get out, even for a minute or two, but it looked like Oran was planning to stay longer.  And Phyllis had now become fascinated with the place; as damp and dark as it was, it had that old Martlet with her mother’s letter going for it which she was holding onto now and occasionally re-raising to eye level.  Memory lane was her latest business. 

I offered then to go get some food and both responded appreciatively.  It was still early in the day, not yet noon, so there would be no getting any of the sausages in batter at Noel’s that I had in mind, but there were plenty of delicatessens open.

There was a burn in the air like before.  Although its redolence hit me stronger knowing what had transpired on Isolde Terrace in the evening, the people coming out of the late morning masses didn’t seem too bothered, or had pressed paused on that particular sense.  I watched them gossiping on the corners.  You didn’t have to be an intellectual master to guess what all the chatter was about.

As luck would have it, Noel’s was open.  On a Sunday, that seemed to me a miracle.  But there it was.  I went in.  The smell of grease and chips and burgers was thin because they were just getting started for the day.  All the same, there were others in there already looking for a Sunday dinner of curry chips and cheese and chicken dippers and a spice burger.  That’s what one of them ahead of me had ordered anyway.  Sounded quite palatable to me.  But we were all about the sausage in batters, the Berrills and myself.  Just no onion rings.  Or Phyllis would throw a fit.