Upperkirkgate Chapter Four: The Houses That He Makes Last Till Doomsday, Part 2

“Yes… I’d like to be in a stadium rock band,” said Jules with a quiet relish. Claire laughed.

“Well, you’re more ambitious than when I used to know you.” The other two stared at her.

     “This,” said Jack, “is the most talented man to come out of Aberdeen. Ever. Believe it.”

     “I do,” she assured them, sipping more of the orange juice.

     “How’re studies?” said Jack.

     “Oh, the experiment’s going well,” said Jules, with another glance across the room at his fellow band members. “I’ll have to write up my notes later. The empirical data’s in my head for now.”

     Claire stared. “Oh. You mean-“

     “Ongoing research,” said Jules, “into the forms of human interdependency, and dependency, on certain forms. Some might say, the work never ends.” He finished the beer. “I must go and talk to the band. Nice seeing you.” He nodded to Jack and smiled at Claire. His smile seemed to linger in the air after he had gone.

     “Nice guy,” said Jack.

     “Very nice.”

     “Do I remind you of him?”

     “No… for one thing, you’re more driven.” Jack got up to go to the bar, then sat down again.

     “Do  you want another?”

     “Yes. Lemon and lime.” Jack returned with it shortly. “A good evening.”

     “Yes, very good,” he agreed, wishing he had something more interesting to say. The time slipped away, and they left after a further hour. “Back to revision,” he said, as they passed through the doors.

     “Not me. I’ve got church tomorrow.”

     “Oh.” They walked round to her flat in King Street. “See ya.” He kissed her on the doorstep, and started walking back towards Union Street, and his flat beyond.

                                                           ***

Jack drummed his pen on the edge of his table. His recent meeting with Dr Carmichael had not gone well. Neither in quality or in quantity was his work up to the standard expected for his stage of a final year. He had other things on his mind now. He rose and walked around the third floor of the QML, restless, trying not to disturb the other students. He did not find who he was looking for. Pulling on his jacket and leaving his books and papers, he ventured down the stairs and outside onto Meston Walk.

     Jack did not go far before finding Alison, sitting on a bench opposite the Fraser Noble Building. She was staring into space, arms folded, seeming immobile. Reluctantly, he sat down beside her. “Ali. Are you okay?” She did not seem to hear him. He reached over and touched her arm gently. She did not move. He shook her shoulder a little, and she blinked, seeming to come back from a long way away.

     “Jack. It’s good to see you.” She smiled, and brushed her hair back as she used to. “It’s cold here. Shall we walk?” He hesitated, and nodded. In more ways than one, he did not want to get too comfortable sitting next to her. Perhaps the cold was a benefit. Her chin was already pointing due north. “We could-“

     “I don’t want to be long, Alison,” he said cautiously. “I have a message from Claire.” She did not visibly harden or sneer as he had expected her to.

     “How are you both doing?” she said, with a brief glance at him as they crossed the road, heading to the High Street.

     “We- she wants you to be happy. She thinks we took something from you, and, well, things had to change. I don’t apologize for that…” He fell silent.

     Alison looked back at him, up at him. “It’s alright. I know you need reassurance.” She seemed to make sense as she rarely had before. He smiled involuntarily. They stopped on the High Street, their breath coming in puffs as they watched the number 20 bus pass. Alison sat herself down on the modern day reclining statue, near the Brewery. “He looks like a thing of summer,” she said, nodding over at the statue, his face covered in sparkling frost, open to the sky. Jack sat down beside her carefully.

     “Aye, he’s here to welcome the student, posing as one of them, then when they’re committed to staying, he’s still there, and they have to learn how to manage their grants…” He fell silent, checking his pockets and remembering how much Claire’s next birthday was likely to cost. “I can’t say I’ve ever liked him. Too smug for me.”

     She shrugged. “I can’t say he compares with the Bishop over there.”

     “Ali, Alison, it’s cold here. I just wanted to say, from Claire, she wishes you the best. So do I. Let the past be. How’re your studies?” He rose, and brushed at his jeans. She looked at him, bright-eyed as a blackbird.

     “Two houses, both alike in dignity… well, Pip’s failure to realise a few things in the line of communication, be it spoken language or body language, has certain implications… it makes things harder for the others. They say 90% of communication is non-verbal. I’m sure you are doing very well.”

     “Oh yes, I’ve changed tack, focussing more on frustrated ideals, resulting in bloodshed in the finale… Freudian theory lends itself very well to that, disturbing as some of it is.”

     “Impotence and all that?”

     “You could say.” Jack was standing uncertainly by the bench. “Come on, you’ll catch a cold here.” She looked at him, smiled, secure, self-satisfied.

     “Like kissing someone with a cold, sometimes it’s worth it.” Jack looked at the hard, frosted lawns in front of New King’s, the blades of grass glinting like spears. “Can you see us in five months,” she said softly, “over there?” pointing at the cloister where friends of theirs had been photographed on graduation day.

     “I might hire a kilt.”

     “I’ll be a sort of black moth, flapping in my gown. A death’s-head, maybe.”

     “Any clearer on your job prospects?”

     “Teaching, perhaps… I don’t know. I never thought I was suited to it. Just don’t try being a librarian… my cousin’s friend would tell you. The job market’s hard enough, even with postgraduate qualifications. Sometimes especially.”

     “Well, I want a Masters.”

     “If I become a teacher, I’ll remember… all you said on Shakespeare. It should help.”

     Jack smiled, continuing to rub his hands briskly. “I know your pupils would do well under you. So would I, if I were at that stage.”

     “Thanks. I might apply to Jordanhill in Glasgow, or stay here. What about you?”

     “Oh, stay here. I know and like the campus, and the library. And the company. Claire’s got another year to go.”

     “What does she want to do?”

     “Help people. Perhaps she should have been a doctor, I don’t know. She finds good causes in history to talk about, and plenty in the present to act upon. She’s a kind person. Well, I should be going.” He made to head over to Crombie for a pre-arranged lunch with Claire.

     “Help me up. I seem to be rooted.”

     “I warned you.” He looked at her, a little wary. He reached out his hand, she took it diffidently, then rose up suddenly, seemed to trip and fall into his arms. He steadied her, and held her at arm’s length. “None of that, please.”

     She laughed. “Your face.” He started walking to Crombie. He found Alison beside him. He tried to keep his distance. They walked in silence to the hall, where Claire was waiting. She looked surprised as they approached. Alison walked past her, with a slight smile. Claire started to put out a hand to her, then stopped.

     Jack came up to Claire, and kissed her a little longer than necessary. They went and sat down at a table. Alison sat not far off, talking to her flatmate Ellie, watching them. “How did it go?” said Claire anxiously. He held up his index finger, then went over to order lunch. He came back with baked potatoes.

     “Oh, I gave her your words. I’m not sure if she took them quite as you intended.”

     “How so?”

     “Och, you know… she’s just determined to twist everything. I’ve seen coiled springs less convoluted than she is.”

     “She’s alright really… it’s all down to misunderstanding. I know she wouldn’t harm you.” Jack looked incredulous.

     “Please, get real,” he said quietly. “I’ve done as you asked, can we not just move on?” Claire looked sad.

     “I like to be friends with everyone… Perhaps we should ask her to join us.” Jack was tense. He started on his lunch, looking past Claire. “I just want to be sure everything’s okay,” said Claire. Before Jack could stop her, she had got up, her own food untouched, and went over to Alison’s table. Jack watched through his fingers. He saw Claire bend over the others, elegant, polite as an air stewardess. He saw Ellie look at her with some disdain. Alison was at first unreadable, then got up and followed Claire over to their table. Ellie stared contemptuously at Jack until he looked away. He pushed the remains of his meal away, and crossed his arms. The two women arrived at the table. Claire seemed happier. He could tell without verbal language that Alison was hungry. “Here, have mine,” he said, pushing his plate at her.

     “Alright,” she said blandly. Claire beamed.

     “I’ll just get us some coffees,” she said, and left, a blue blur as before.

     Alison ate slowly, a steady glint in her eyes. “How nice Claire is. Very… considerate.”

     “Don’t you hurt her,” said Jack quietly.

     “Oh, of course I wouldn’t,” she said, making progress with the potato. “You’re both friends… I think about you both a lot.” Claire returned before Jack could say any more.

     “Isn’t this great?” said Claire. “Meeting up just as we used to.” Jack was silent. Alison appeared to find something amusing in the tuna filling, and choked slightly. Claire banged her on the back.

     “I’m fine,” said Alison. “How’s your dissertation?” she said abruptly, turning to Jack.

     “Oh, he’s writing on symbolism in Hamlet,” said Claire warmly, head resting on her hand, watching him.

     “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead,” said Alison slowly. Claire looked puzzled. Jack spoke up.

     “They were minor characters in Hamlet, employed by Hamlet’s uncle the king, and they had orders to have him executed while en route to England by sea. He swapped the execution orders on board the ship they were travelling on so they got killed instead.”

     “So?” said Claire.

     “So, I don’t know,” said Jack, turning to Alison. “Does that mean you’re on a secret mission as well?” Alison continued to chew, then swallowed.

     “They have slain me, Horatio,” she said. “There are more things in heaven and earth,” began Jack.

     “Than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” finished Alison. “This pearl is thine-“ she picked the last piece of potato and threw it at Jack. It fell down his jacket, staining his shirt. “The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet!” she said, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin, and left. Jack picked up the remains of his lunch, and calmly replaced it on the plate. Claire looked puzzled.

     “Why did she do it?”

     “Because she can.”

     “No but, there must be a reason.”

     “She- doesn’t- need- one,” said Jack, in a manner so resigned he seemed almost flippant, “beyond splitting us up and trying to get me back."

     “Oh, surely not.”

     “Surely yes,” he said grimly, wiping his glasses, replacing them and standing up. “Come on. I need a change of scene.” They left Crombie, went out into the campus, back onto Meston Walk, to the QML. They stopped in the atrium, Jack looking vaguely over at Heavy Demand. “Where are we?” he wondered aloud. “Why did I ever go out with her?” Claire was unusually silent. They climbed the stairs, Jack stopping at the third floor, Claire carrying on above to the fourth. A wall of silence had come down. Normally he would have kissed her before even such a brief parting.

     Jack settled himself into a familiar dark corner. He knew Alison could be somewhere on that floor, yet he did not care if he met her just then. He tapped his pen on his commentary, The Wheel of Fire by G. Wilson Knight. How could he stabilize things with Claire? What gesture would fit with her values, her way of seeing people? Perhaps it was impossible for her to think badly of anyone. Perhaps he should not try.

     He tried to work on his thesis, his mind full of player kings, deceit, double dealing, madness and compromise and the final decisive action. Grinning dead jesters. He could not write anything like that. No-one else could. “All the world’s a stage…” The Globe Theatre. World without end. A symbol. A sign. A lifelong contract. He felt startled, as if someone else had suggested it. He thought of Claire, standing in a church, with him: this was their day. He thought of her shining somehow, her hair, the bright promise between them. Her ring. He must get her a ring. It seemed so obvious now. Ring-a-ring of roses.

                                                           ***

It was raining slightly. A thin rim of ice covered the metal lattice on top of the well outside the Exhibition Centre, near the King’s College Chapel. Jack stared morosely through the bars at the water below. At this point in his life, he did not feel overly fond of round objects. They reminded him of his purpose. A few days later, he had failed to stay in touch with Claire, not sure if she wanted him around. He looked at the pennies people seemed to throw in  for good luck, whatever they wished for. Perhaps it came true. He fished out a 5p coin, then thought better of it.

     At three in the afternoon, the light was waning. Jack watched a crowd of black-suited visitors slowly exit the Chapel. It was the funeral of a long-retired university lecturer. Jack left the well, its black lattice like burnt pastry, and wandered over to the Chapel. He smiled awkwardly at the aged dons he did not know, and edged past them inside, out of the persistent rain.The wind that entered with him extinguished one of the two large candles burning on stands near the entrance. The light decreased markedly.

     Jack looked around awkwardly, fished a spare cigarette lighter belonging to Jules out of his pocket, and re-lit it. He got some wax on his finger. The Chapel appeared to be empty. He looked around the vestibule, the door to the flight of stairs to the bell tower to one side, the arched door leading into the Chapel proper on the other. He went to the latter door, opened it and went in. He found himself face to face with his tutor, Dr Carmichael. They were both surprised.

     “Ah, hallo,” said his tutor. “Did you know Professor Sinclair?”

     “No,” said Jack. He was acutely aware of his own clothes being rather casual for a funeral. There was an awkward silence. “Wet, today,” he said. The silence grew longer; his remark inadequate. His tutor sighed.