THE DIARY I DIDN'T KEEP 19

Ron Butlin

Good morning, Everyone!

In the sixties we all lived under the threat of the four-minute atomic warning. Knowing our lives could be stubbed out well before the cigarette we'd lit only a moment earlier, we still smoked it with pleasure. Is Tommy a genuine innocent, or simply naive? Answers on a postcard, please.

Warm greetings from clammy-hot Edinburgh, Ron

Previously on The Diary I Didn't Keep:

We left our young hero outside a tube station, gazing after Sky, the hippie-chick he's just met and kissed for the first time. Earlier in the day, a music publisher enthused about his songs and promised him a decision in a few days. Tommy's on the highest high he's ever known. And his day is not over yet...

Now read on –

THE DIARY I DIDN’T KEEP 19

Did I take a bus back to Toolie Towers? The tube? Did I walk all the way? Fuck knows. Not a taxi, that’s for sure. No day could be that fucking wonderful!

I must've come back in through the ground floor window, crossed the hall and climbed the stairs on tiptoe to avoid Vera and Toolie. My room would’ve been as freezing as ever, the ice on the window as thick as ever. All I wanted was to be alone in front of a roaring fire. If only. Just me, warming myself with thoughts of Sky, thoughts of a record contract. Hugging them both close for as long as I could before sharing them.

When suddenly, out of nowhere –

Here it is. A real fire blazing away in my grate. Real fire, real flames, real heat. Roaring, crackling and furnace-warm (the front of me, at least). A mystery. A miracle. But no miracles these days. God has packed up his stuff and moved out, leaving us to deal with the consequences. But it's real wood that's burning. I can smell it. Where did that come from?

Quick glance round. Same old furniture, flickering shadows and darkness. But something feels different. The wardrobe. A small WW2 leftover. A piece of Utility furniture: shoddy, flimsy, falling apart. That small wardrobe is no longer here.

Fuck! I remember looking at it and thinking things through logically:

1. I need a fire.

2. I don't need a wardrobe.

Then I stopped thinking and…

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It seemed a good idea at the time.

I remember it all now. I walked all the way back here from Leicester Square on autopilot. Totally spaced out on Sky-thoughts and record-contract thoughts until I found myself outside the Star of Bengal. It was dark and the pub next-door was just opening. In I went. Their first customer of the night.

Ordered a pint, downed it in one. Ordered a double whisky and downed that in one.

‘Had a bad day?’ asks Mr. Misery behind the bar.

‘Best day of my life!’ says I.

He shakes his head. ‘Lucky you.’

‘Same again!’

Then back to my ice-box room.

Fuck! Fuck!

The chimney better not need swept. Wanting to think about Sky, not burn the house down. But all I can think is: shit wardrobe, burns well. Which makes me feel even worse.

So either I stay here and turn into Mr. Misery Jnr. or go and confess to Toolie and Vera, offering to pay. And do it now.

I empty out the safe (my old sock). How much is a wardrobe?

Downstairs I knock and call out, ‘It’s Tommy.’

Vera is on her chaise longue, reading; Toolie’s in front of his chess set, playing through a game. Their fire is blazing away and all the furniture where it should be.

Such friendly, welcoming, pleased-to-see-you looks. Looks that I'm about to crap over, then be shown the door. Fucksake, what do I say? How do I even –?

'It's stopped snowing.' I'm giving them a fucking weather report?

'Cosy indoors,' says Vera. ‘Don't sit freezing up there. Come and join us.’ Big smile. 'Fish fingers for tea, if you fancy. '

Feeling so choked up not a word gets out.

'Sit down, Tommy. Had a good day?'

'Really great, best ever and...!'

And so I took your wardrobe to pieces and burnt it.

'And –?' she prompts.

The choked feeling suddenly passes.

‘…And to celebrate my best-ever day I'd like to take you both out for dinner! My treat.' What the fuck am I saying? 'Fish fingers back in the fridge and we'll go to the Star of Bengal.' I give my life savings a farewell squeeze.

'That's very kind of you…' begins Toolie, 'but really –'

'Really lovely,’ cuts in Vera. ‘So kind of you, Tommy. Goldie and I haven't had a proper night out in years. Have we time to get dressed up?'

She’s already on her feet. ‘Shirt and tie, Goldie. How exciting!'

I suggest I'll call on them about eight. To save their evening wear from a basement soaking, we agree to leave via the window.

Back in my room the wardrobe’s still blazing. I imagine Sky was here with me; imagine her voice, her touch, the quick kiss we had outside the tube. Think about the fucking wardrobe, too. Proves it’s possible to feel really good and really bad at the very same time. The last embers give me enough heat to dress by, which doesn't take long. A no-collar dress shirt left over from Mr. Giles, with paper clips for cufflinks.

Vera and Toolie are ready and waiting, and looking their best.

Vera: green dress, silk shawl, brogues for the snow.

Toolie: white shirt, blue tie in a Windsor knot, black trousers, black boots.

Vera steps up to me and moves into sergeant-major mode:

‘Excellent, Tommy. Very… modern. Very far out, as you young folks say.’

Then she turns to Toolie. A critical look. Centres his tie. Takes a step back. Another critical look. 'Let's tidy you up down there.'

As Toolie stares into the far distance, Vera bends down to adjust the front of his trousers.

I avert my eyes. Maybe she's not doing what I think she is.

She straightens up again. ‘That’s you respectable now. We've got coats and the restaurant will be warm. Let's go.’

While the three of us put ourselves outside two chicken biryanis and a lamb madras, plus chapatis and a tray of chutneys, I tell them about my great day: the music publisher (hopeful version), meeting Sky (edited version). I don't mention the small wardrobe, but every mouthful tastes of guilt. I heap on the mango and onion chutney, hoping the guilt will go away. It doesn’t; it gets worse.

So I ask Vera about her childhood in India, and she talks about the kindness of her ayah. Meanwhile I’m like a shuttlecock getting battered to and fro between my guilt at what I’ve done and my guilt at not owning up. She describes being brought to England aged six and her mother taking her to a school to meet the headmistress in her office. Describes coming out into the corridor ten minutes later. Discovers her mother’s gone. Gone to catch the boat back to India, without her. Even when Vera breaks down in tears, the fucking game doesn't stop. Batter-batter, batter-batter…

Toolie saves me. He offers us a bottle of red to cheer us up. A glass later, and I’m making everyone laugh, telling them about the Yeti, and me dropping my trousers in the alley. Another bottle’s ordered, and I insist on paying for both.

Next morning me and my hangover review the finances. Only five singles and a handful of silver left in the sock. Means looking for a fucking job; means walking miles, means phoning and interviews; means getting a job; means getting up early to do the same fucking job over and over, day after day. And starting it all now.

But I want to keep writing poems, I want to keep seeing Sky. I want to live, for fuck’s sake. That music publisher better sign me and Reg up, and soon.

It's midwinter. Means an indoor job. Means new clothes – shirt, jacket, trousers – new to me, at least.

Coldwater wash, coldwater shave. Into the Giles shirt and paper clips, on with the bomber jacket, out the window and along to the main street to get fuelled up for trekking the snow-and-slush streets. An all-day breakfast I can’t afford. Jobs? They’re a fucking expense before they even start.

Into an Oxfam shop, top of the range. Superior threads, but pricey. Jackets starting at £2. A full set of clothes in here will come to a fiver plus. Then there’s travel on top. Can I afford a job? With what’s left in the sock I can dress myself, and that’s it – until I get my first week’s pay, forget tubes, forget buses, forget eating. Forget Oxfam.

Sue Ryder’s more like it. A jacket here costs £1.There’s a smell of mice, but that’ll wear off. I draw the line at secondhand underwear.