Upperkirkgate Chapter 6: One That Was a Woman, Part 1

Jack stared at Alison. He had once dreamed of this moment in his life, during his time with Alison the previous year. Now here she was, with his ring. The slim circlet seemed to fit her finger, perhaps better than the one he had chosen it for. “Now,” said Alison, “I am not an expert on relationships, but I do think you and Claire might benefit from a bit of honesty here. I mean, what does this thing stand for, really?” Her lip curled slightly as she removed it from her finger, held it like an egg between finger and thumb, like an eggshell that could be crushed in a moment.

   “Women,” said Alison, “are free agents. We don’t need this tied-to-the-kitchen stuff. A bonny piece of jewellery to be sure, but it can be bought anytime, it doesn’t have to be that once-in-a-lifetime stuff.”

     “I know Claire,” said Jack firmly, starting to recover from the initial shock. “She’s a wonderful woman. She helps others in ways you wouldn’t understand. We enjoy being with each other. Look, what has this to do with you?”

     “Your best interests. Both of you. You need honesty, and you need guidance.”

     “From you?”

     “Apparently. How long have you really known her, anyway?”

     “Long enough to prefer her to you. Always.” There was a silence.

     “You think life gets easier with this?” said Alison quietly. “It’s a form of slow suicide, hems you in; no-one wants those kinds of restrictions anymore.”

     “My parents made it work.”

     “The beat generation. We have so much to thank them for.”

     “Whatever you say, it’s my property and I want it back.”

     “What if property is theft?”

     “I don’t think you’re the stuff communism is made of.” He tried to snatch it back, but she held it out of reach. She replaced it on the ring finger of her left hand, and got up slowly. Jack watched her warily. She got up, hands in pockets, and walked over to the counter. He got up and followed her. She smiled at the assistant, and held out her hand like a queen.

     “Would you believe,” she said calmly, “my boyfriend asked me to marry him?” The assistant raised his eyebrows.

     “Wow. Lucky man.” Jack was trying to appear inconspicuous behind the drama shelf, the nearest book being Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. She pointed.

     “There he is. The blushing bridegroom. I do like my wedding clichés.” She moved over to the science-fiction section. He sidled out from the drama section, and tried to catch her up. She went slowly up the steps, towards the poetry. He followed at a careful distance, as if he did not know her. She leaned over the balcony, surveying the people below. He went up to her.

     “Give me back that ring.”

     “I think it’s mine now.”

     “You said you didn’t believe in it, anyway.”

     “Time waits for no man. It’s really quite pretty. I will make it Exhibit A in my dissertation.”

     “Please, give it back. You’re no friend to Claire and me.”

     “Is that all?” She turned to face him, her eyes hard and sparkling.

     “You aren’t going to take it from me?”

     “No.”

     “Is this such a brave new world…”

     “Brave enough to cut you out of mine completely. Give it back.”

     “Or what?” She held up her left hand, and he was tempted to grab it. That would involve a violation. The thin band on her finger caught he early summer light. The promise it held of days and nights when he need never be lonely again. He turned away, still aware of her eyes on him. He watched the people below, silent to him, moving slowly like extras in a 1920s film.

     Was this an obsession, a kind of sad fidelity, the way she followed him? Should he have followed her up here? It seemed a long way down. He looked over the length of the shop, the gentle light outside. On days like today, the granite sparkled, came to life. Something was happening: the promise of good times ahead. But not with the girl beside him. He turned and looked at her. She seemed almost hopeful, belying her cynical words.

     “Alright. I don’t need the ring to get married, anyway. You keep it. It only cost you my friendship.” He walked away, head held high, looking at the wonderful light outside. There was something in the day, something that would last, overcome the cold and emptiness and disappointment of all the past months, an unbeatable triumph arising in him. Jack could do anything. He did not look back once.

     Alison came after him, but he did not acknowledge her. He ignored the past. He reached the door of the shop. There was such a light, sparkling off the granite stones cut from Rubislaw Quarry, an inheritance that would never spoil or fade. The choice was his: it would always be Claire. Perhaps losing the ring was a good thing, if it made him feel like this.

     Alison had moved part of the way after him, then sat in defeat on the steps leading to the poetry section, her head bowed. She got up slowly, resumed her previous position on the balcony, looking out on the people: picking, choosing, drinking, making up their minds.

     She had become as still as a statue until the door opened and an anxious blonde girl entered, still with her ever-present blue scarf, and blue denim. A smile as sharp as a scimitar crossed Alison’s face. She waited until Claire bobbed nearer to her, driven by the tide of bibliophiles. Alison watched her from above, unblinking, brown eyes sharp and predatory. Claire chose a table almost underneath the Gothic recess, and deposited her bag, walking over to the counter.

     Alison descended. She seated herself at Claire’s table, awaiting her return. Claire returned shortly, and almost dropped her drink at the sight of her. “Make mine a double latte,” said Alison ominously. “You’re going to need it.”

     “Get it yourself.” Claire collected herself and sat down. She looked calmly at Alison. “I’m almost sorry for you. You lost control over us, ages ago.”

     “I’m not so sure.” Alison held up her left hand. A ray of light caught the diamond, made it sparkle. Claire put down her coffee.

     “Is someone desperate enough-“

     “Jack.” Time seemed to freeze. Nothing else inside the shop mattered.

     “Jack… is mine,” said Claire slowly.

     “He gave me this.”

     “He wouldn’t.”

     “He did. We will be together. Always.”

     “But you don’t believe in that,” said Claire quietly.

     “How do you know? Any relationship has areas no-one else knows.”

     “Which is why I say he would never ask you to marry him, knowing you don’t believe in marriage in the first place.”

     “It is a bonny ring. Maybe we just came to… an understanding.”

     Claire’s face clouded. “Maybe… he meant it for me.”

     “Oh, I doubt that. Too much commitment, expense; and you’re only students.”

     “Other people manage.”

     “Other people with no sense. All romance, and no eye on the bank balance.”

     “They do manage. I know-“

     “Not while they’re students. Maybe never. You just don’t hear about those failures. Every relationship reserves things to its own. Especially when it’s in a state of internal combustion. It’ll never work.”

     “You’re poison, Alison, I’m not staying here. Enjoy my coffee.” Claire bent her head to pick up her bag and leave. Alison thrust her left hand at her, in a magisterial gesture.

     “Look at it. I may not believe, but he does. He wants me, and I want him. We will graduate together shortly, and we will move in together.”

     “If he can do that,” said Claire, “I want nothing to do with either of you. Please just go away.” She got up then paused, hand resting on the back of her chair. “I will get an explanation for all this. I will find out.”

     Alison smiled. “I can give you that right now. Jack may say he likes you, but you

haven’t really got the same interests. You can’t support him.”

     “I question that.”

     “We’ve been friends a long time. I can answer any question about him, any thought in his head, any time he moves. You’re just a beginner.” Claire, still holding her coffee cup, was squeezing it hard. One of her fingernails broke on its side. “A hit, a very palpable hit,” said Alison quietly.

     “Why all this conflict? We used to be friends. It’s so childish.”

     “Some things are meant to be. They are undeniable. Jack and I were. We are. We will be. That is all there is.”

     “Is any of this going into your thesis, by any remote chance?”

     “Yes. Under ‘Relationships, Real, Successful’. Unlike yours.” Claire leaned over to replace the coffee cup on the table. It brushed near Alison’s hand. The latter was tense: now she struck, scratching Claire’s hand with the edge of the diamond. There was a thin sliver of blood, like a crescent moon. Claire stared at it. She backed away slowly, shaking her head. “What’s the matter?” sneered Alison. “One of your charity shops closing down?”

     Claire turned to go, then turned back briefly and said, “The greatest of these is charity.” She gathered up her bag, wound her blue scarf around her neck, and departed. Alison watched her leave. She remained fixed, looking at the shop door. Her hand with the ring cast a lonely shadow. She looked down at it, then looked away, disgusted.

     “If the cap fits…” She had not noticed a figure coming down the steps behind. He sat down next to her, quite calmly. All his actions seemed somehow premeditated. He

reminded her a little of Jack.

     “Should I know you?” she said, disoriented.

     “I’m Jack’s cousin, Jules.” He offered his hand, and she instinctively took it. “That’s an attractive ring. When are you getting married?”

     “Next month,” she said, without thinking.

     “Before graduating?”

     “After. A black gown, then a white dress. Hey, what am I saying?”

     “What I want to hear?”

     “Eh? I hate people who answer questions with questions.”

     “Like this?”

     “So you’re a paid-up smart-alec.”

     “Some people might say that’s the definition of a good analyst.”

     “Are you practising, or still a student?”

     “Practising what?”

     “It seems odd Jack never mentioned you. You do remind me of him.”

     “In a good way?”

     “Maybe.”

     “There’s blood upon your face. I mean, your sleeve. Did you hurt yourself?”

     “All the perfumes of Arabia-“ She stopped. Perhaps he knew: if he had been upstairs for a while, he would have seen her and Claire. “Yes,” she said suddenly. “I was hurt some time ago. My flatmate Helen died three years ago.” She stopped herself again. The man beside her seemed unrushed, quiet, without an obvious agenda. Time seemed to stand still around him. She had preparations still, final exams to think of…

She thought of them, then let them go. Now was all that mattered.

     “Was Helen going to get married?” he asked.

     “I… think so, I know so. She was older than me. Like a sister. It was wrong for her to go at that time, she had so much to live for… I’ve been trying to live it for her, ever since.”

     “So you have.”

     “I really tried, you know. My studies and my social life come together here. Work, work, work to get to this level. I’d let nothing stop me.”

     “I know.”

     “It’s the same thing with Jack… knowing him so long, just knowing he was the one.”

     “How did you know?”

     “I knew him for years. I saw him at school, spoke to him at university. I had to have him.” Her fingers clenched.

     “And did you?”

     “Not so as you’d notice. I really tried, I took him everywhere.”

     “It sounds like you took a dog for a walk.”

     “At least a dog would be grateful.”

     “Do you want a fresh coffee?”

     “Why not? Yes.” He seemed to be back at the table in no time.”

     “I remember Helen too.”

     “Really? How well?”

     “Not that well. She was beautiful, though.”

     “Of course. That’s what men always go for.”

     “Not always. I’m guessing a lot went out of your life with Helen.”

     “What’s that to you, anyway?”

     “I know Jack.”

     “And so you think you know me?”

     “No.”

     “Do you want to?”

     “That depends.”

     “Helen would not have chosen you,” she said slowly.

     “I knew she had someone else. Before she died. She was going to marry him.”

     “Maybe.”

     “She told me so.”

     “I don’t believe you,” said Alison. Her eyes were unfocussed, staring up at the Gothic recess of the poetry section.

     “Oh, but she did,” said Jules very quietly, ignoring his rapidly cooling coffee. “She had a lot of hopes and dreams, like we all do in first year. Put the world to rights before we’re twenty-one, then join in the chattering classes when we graduate.”

     “Helen never graduated.”

     “Of course not. She left us three years ago today.”

     “You do remember!” Alison stood abruptly, dislodging her coffee. It trickled off the table, staining the carpet. She did not notice. She began to walk up the stairs to the poetry section. Jules was her shadow.

     “Jack sometimes wrote my lyrics,” he said as they ascended. “He’s read more

poetry than I have… I was always more interested in studying people’s reactions, and making notes… that makes its own kind of poetry.”

     “You must be an improviser… I like to prepare things.”

     “So that was part of what drew you to Jack.”

     “You are well-informed.” They reached the top, and she began to drift, picking up John Milton’s Paradise Lost without looking at it, laid it down, picked up William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience. Jules was still, watching her from the head of the stairs.

     “Did you know this place was closing down?”

     “No!”

     “It should have been run more commercially before now… should have got rid of this artificially exalted poetry section long ago. Setting things on a pedestal doesn’t always sell them.”

     “Matthew Arnold referred to poetry as the crown of literature… And I haven’t seen any signs it was closing down.”

     “I know someone who knows the manager.”

     “I’ve relied on this place for so long… maybe I won’t need it much longer, anyway.”

     “Maybe you won’t.”

     “I would have liked to think, when I went into work, it would still be here, after hours, weekends… student memories, you know.”

     “Of making many books, there is no end.”

     “Well, you’d think so from all the publishers… Shame when a place like this

closes. So near uni, too.”

     “Yes. You’ll always be near uni.”

     “Always? How so?”