Upperkirkgate Chapter 5: Vouch Him No More of His Purchases, Part 1

“So how would you go about telling her, then?”

  “Tell her what?”

     “Tell her… it’s long-term.” Jules sat back on his chair in the Pirrips bookshop, and looked at Jack carefully.

     “I wouldn’t have thought you were the marrying kind,” he said slowly, twisting a napkin into a cigarette shape and raising it instinctively to his lips.

     “What if I am,” persisted Jack, “at least, in relation to her?”

     “For Claire, or Alison?” Jack looked disturbed.

     “Claire, of course. I know I’ve not seen so much of her recently. I’ve been working. I just had the odd word with Alison, needed to pick her brains about my thesis.”

     Jules looked up past Jack at the science-fiction books. “When we were going out, there was never the prospect of that really… we were friends already, as I said, she just wanted something more for a while,  then she moved on…”

     Jack looked at him curiously. “Did you?” Jules twitched a smile.

     “If you get possessive, then you put a price on things. Some people might call that a form of slavery.” Jack looked startled, and glanced at the history books by way of a reprieve.

     “How’s the band?” said Jack abruptly.

     “Oh aye, the band. We’ve had a couple more concerts at the Lemon Tree. Things are busier for our singer, he’s in fourth year. I think he’s terrified at the prospect of the Real World. Trying to do well in his thesis. His name’s Will, you might know him.”

     Jack frowned. “I don’t think so.”

     “We ran into him briefly last month. He likes the sound of his own voice. Just as well, in his line of work.”

     Jack smiled. “Another coffee, Jules?”

     “Yes, why not? I’ll pay.”

     “No, it’s alright.” Jack wandered over to the counter, and got two lattes. He came back to their table and set them down carefully. “So how’s your research?” he asked.

     “Well, my subjects are a bit tied up at the moment… the empirical conditions are less than ideal, but they show promise.”

     “What will you do when one of them graduates?”

     “Conditions permitting, I should have enough data on one of them to start my thesis next year. The other subjects… remain under observation.”

     The afternoon weather was bright, sun shining through light rain, the trees full of furled buds yet to flower. The granite pavement outside was speckled with the rain.

     “Sometimes,” said Jack, “I feel locked in that Elsinore Castle… only let out for a time, like the late Hamlet’s ghost. “The horrors of my prison house”… studying at this level can be claustrophobic.”

     “Some think it a privilege.”

     “Of course it is, Alison said that once… even in terms of making it to this level. She had a friend who died, once.”

     “Her name was Helen. She… had a lot of problems. I met her in my first year. Beautiful and forgetful, but not forgettable. Sad.”

     “What happened to her?”

     “You’d better ask Alison.” Jules yawned and stretched. He wrote some musical notes on the back of his napkin.

     “Did you know her well?” Jack persisted.

     “No. I think the rain’s getting heavier.” Jack looked out the window, onto the street. The brightness had succumbed to a muddy grey, and the people traffic was moving more quickly. “This is really quite a twee place,” said Jules slowly.

     Jack shrugged. “I like it. Tweeness is arguably the definition of being a student anyway: learning middle-class values so as to prosper in certain spheres.”

     “Whose values? At what expense? Not everyone studies your subject, if at all.”

     “Perhaps they should. Then I might get some help with this project.”

     “’Neither a borrower nor lender be.’”

     “Very droll.” Coffee finished, they got up and started to drift around the books. Jack pointed to the psychology and self-help books, but Jules drifted on to the music section. He thumbed through some biographies, and some books of sheet music.

     “This is applied psychology,” he remarked. “Some might Bob Dylan’s being married four times as too high a price of fame.”

     “As so often, the lawyers win.”

     “What he keeps behind those perennial shades of his, I don’t know. Is he trying to cultivate his eyes, or turn into a sort of insect?”

     “’Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands… Sara, wait.’”

     “He never seems quite satisfied in his social life… perhaps that’s the source of all great songs.”

     “Maybe. Do you think he’d ever give up his insectoid appearance, and work in a bank?”

     “I hope not.” Jules replaced the biography, stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the more chart-oriented display. He wrinkled his nose. “This place reeks of commercialism.”

     “Really? And music shops aren’t after your money?”

     “I know a shop in Belmont Street, more for people who like music than those who treat it as a fashion… permanent low offers, very student-friendly.”

     “Tell me more.”

     “It’s full of the amps, the atmosphere of music, the smell of ripped jeans (probably because they’re still being worn), plectrums on the counter, old guitars for sale downstairs, ticket sales in the air. It’s a real place to me. This, this is all about money.”

     “The coffee’s not so bad. And writers have to make a living too.”

     “But are writers always right? Oh come on, I’ve had enough.” They wandered to the door, went out on the street, now much wetter. “Spring might be just around the corner,” said Jules calmly, “but it’s also perpendicular.”

     Jack stared up at the imposing Gothic bulk of Marischal College at the end of the street. “Not the most cheerful venue for graduations,” he said.

     “What did you expect? Mr Galliano’s Circus? Send in the clowns? That’s the definition of a lot of academic life, I’m afraid.”

     “If you say so.” The street was getting darker and wetter still.

     “Oh well, perhaps I should be getting back. I need to go the QML and observe some of my subjects in action. I call it field work, but it might be more straightforward to interview baboons… I sometimes think so when he’s singing.”

     “See you, Professor.” Jules smiled and wandered off, pausing briefly to zip up his jacket and start a gradual meander to the left, to the bus stop to King’s College.

                                                           ***

Jack might have been concerned to see Alison circling the Heavy Demand section of the QML. As the March afternoon waned, the line of students at the enquiry desk began to thin. She went over and sat down next to a blonde girl, still there. “Hallo, Claire.”

     Claire looked up at her cautiously. “Hallo, Alison.” She managed a little smile.

     “How’s the revision, any illumination on the lady with the lamp?”

     “About thirty watts, that’s how bright I am just now.”

     “That’ll probably do. Have you seen our mutual friend?”

     “Oh, Jack? Yes, he was in here earlier. I think he was going into town. I don’t see how he’s got the time, his work at the stage it should be…” Alison stared out the window at the cold wet day, the trees waiting to bud, for the colours to burst out and lighten the grey bark.

     “Well, I’m concerned about him too.”

     “How so?”

     “It’s to do with… before you knew him properly,” said Alison, getting up. “I’d better not bother you. Sorry, I had better be going.”

     “No. If you think Jack has a problem, I want to hear it. You’ve known him longer than I have,” said Claire.

     Alison hesitated, her fingers holding her bag. She sat down again slowly, still holding onto her books as if about to leave. She brushed her hair back and stared at Claire. “Perhaps you know him better than I do by now,” she said quietly.

     “Maybe,” said Claire calmly. “Go on.”

     “He used to tell me things. I mean, I couldn’t help finding out about his driving thing, it’s not like it’s very much, but these things add up…” She continued talking uninterrupted for another ten minutes. Claire’s naturally bright, open face grew longer. “So,” said Alison, as though summing up, “you must see that although it might appear fate has put you and him together, really, it’s a matter of free choice. You may think you’re somehow predetermined to do right in terms of what you believe, but the outcome is not certain. He continually chooses to be with me.”

     “Hardly.”

     “Oh, but he does. That poor moth is drawn to the flame- we have the same ideas, tastes, knowledge. We two are one.”

     Claire’s lip twitched. “I might almost find that funny. Specious reasoning, based on a faulty premise. The outcome may not be certain, but when you have underlying principles, you can be sure of some things.” Alison smirked. “Yes. And that is a relative predictor of certain outcomes. He would not go too far, he would not be unaccountable to me, he would try to make me happy. So that’s a model of accountable behaviour in a relationship. Not something random, improvised, neither here nor there. Your kind of freedom can end up being a tyranny.”

     Alison had been staring out the window again. Their conversation was conducted in loud whispers, to avoid the librarian bearing down on them. “I like my freedom,” said Alison breezily.

     “I know. You think you can do what you like. You don’t see yourself as accountable. Hardly the stuff of John Locke’s tabula rasa.”

     “The reason to the rasa is as treason to the casa. I do like someone who can think for himself. Like Jack.”

     “Jack is not defined by either one of us.”

     “Isn’t he? I thought he was going grey recently.”

     “A trick of the light.”

     “Or maybe it was one of your hairs, in the wrong light.”

     “That’s personal.”

     “Hair is pretty personal, by definition.” Alison got up and wandered over to the window, looking out on the sports field. The rain was falling, which did not deter an increasingly muddy team of rugby practice. Her lip curled. “Talk about a needle in a haystack.” She rested her hands briefly on the radiator, winced as it was too hot, and pulled down the cuffs of her red jersey to cover them.

     Claire had gone back to work, poring over her history books, frowning at the commentary on Victorian preaching. She ran a hand through her hair, chewing the end of her pen. She scribbled a note in the margin, then got up to photocopy one of the more limited texts held in Heavy Demand, and had to pass Alison.

     “He really doesn’t like that.”

     “What?” said Claire, her pen still in her mouth as if she had forgotten it, arranging the book inside the machine and pressing the “Start” button. The machine hummed and whirred, illuminating both their faces for a moment.

     “Writing in books. Jack sees it as a blasphemy to the written word. Vandalism.”

     “Never judge a book by its cover.”

     “But then no-one would ever buy anything. Publishers design their covers to appeal to the prejudices of the public.”

     “Like you haven’t got any.”

     “Oh, but I have. At least I’m honest about it.”

     “How does that fit into your plans for freedom? The great open plains of the Wild West… the Americans thought they had a “manifest destiny” as well.”

     “You know where that led… civil war.” Claire retrieved her book from the photocopier, and returned to the desk to make more notes. Alison stared at her, calculating. She had not done any noticeable work as yet. She returned to the desk where she had left her bag, opposite Claire. She folded her arms and stared, going a full two minutes without blinking. Claire grew unsettled.

     “Do you mind?”

     “No.”

     “I’m trying to work.”

     “Good for you. Each good boy deserves favour.”

     “Very droll. You’ll be needing Elizabeth Fry, Florence Nightingale and Dr Barnardo in a moment.”

     “What about William Booth?”

     “What about him?”

     “Did he ever fit in a kiosk?”

     “Please.” Claire grew a little flustered. She pointed at the door. “Out. Now.”

     “You’re not a teacher yet. I never did obey those hand signals they go in for. Never did much for me. As Jack would tell you.”

     Claire grew red. She banged her books shut, then stood abruptly, with a sense of dignity. “As you seem unlikely to go away,” she said mildly, “I will. I don’t know why you’re trying to split us up. Maybe it’s jealousy. Get your own boyfriend, or see a counsellor.” Claire gathered together her belongings, returned the book she had borrowed to its proper place and left the Heavy Demand, looking very troubled.

     “But,” said Alison to her retreating back, “I just thought you should know. Honesty’s always the best policy. Oh Jack, Jack,” she said softly, “where are we going to?” She drummed her fingers on the table for a moment, looked after the departing Claire, then smiled and got out her own books.

                                                           ***

Claire was biting her nails as she waited in the Pirrips bookshop. She looked straight ahead at the biography section, without seeing it. She was pale and withdrawn. The shop door opened, showing a brighter spring day outside, and Jack came in. He looked briefly at the shelves before coming over to her. He smiled, and leaned over to kiss her. She did not respond. “What’s wrong?”

     “I had words with Alison. Or, she had words with me.” Jack frowned.

     “Oh, that-“ he stopped. “Why do you believe her? It’s not like she means well for either for us.”

     “Do you really not think so?”

     “She made it impossible to go on being friends. After these years it’s a pity, but it can’t be helped. Look at what she’s done to you.”

     “What?”

     “She knows you’re a caring person, so she goes and hits you where you’re vulnerable. She’s so manipulative.”

     “Jack!”

     “You have to lose faith in her, or you will in me. Now can we please forget her?”

     “It’s because I care about you, I want to know.”

     “What about?”

     “What was your relationship with her like?”

     “Okay at first. Then her grip got tighter. Even literally. I felt I could hardly breathe, I had to get out. Then I met you. Again.” He smiled, relaxing. “I’ll get you a coffee.”