The Outside Of Everything

Chapter 26
The Mansion On The Hill

Van Morrison did have a point. About maybe going crazy before that mansion on the hill. I should have listened to the man. I knew we should never have gone there. To that mansion on the hill. It was never going to be our thing. But we’d been talked into it. So we couldn’t back out of it. Yes, of course you’ll hate it, said Soul Sister Number One. And yet, she added, you won’t know just how much you’ll hate it until you’ve actually been there. She was right. You never could win an argument with her. Why try?

So off I went with The Fair One and his sibling to, yes, a mansion on the hill. A private party. Down a private road. No trouble from the neighbours then. Handy in the circumstances. Spectacular views across the heath and on down into the park. It seemed wrong somehow. How do these things end up being the preserve of those that patently don’t deserve them?

An entrepreneur. That’s what our host was. A man of his time. Been around the block a few times. A few blocks. A bit of this and that. Nothing specific. Finger in several pies. Just don’t ask too many questions. Good man to know. Not someone you’d want to cross. Good business for the banks. Why should they be choosy? Business is business. Which is where Soul Sister Number One came in. Her connections in the City. Contacts. The way things work.

We weren’t party people. We weren’t even sociable. We didn’t like the new sociability. But we still went along. We had to. We had to know what went on behind closed doors, we told ourselves. How the other half live. And at the very least we could find a few souvenirs to make our troubles worthwhile. We gritted our teeth and entered the door late one summer’s afternoon. It was late in the decade. It felt like the end of the century. The end of the world.

A doorman. More like a bouncer. Greetings. Drinks to the left. Cloakrooms to the right. Barbeque out the back. House music blaring out all over the house. The sun shining down. Things livening up. Some people we vaguely recognised. Music biz people. Soap stars. Hey isn’t that oh whatsername, you know, got shot in the ...? The one having her eyed chewed off. And over there? Those guys. There was a bit in the music papers about them last week. Poets of the street, they’re meant to be. Mean streets these. And, hey, didn’t that guy used to present that old kiddie TV show? There was some scandal. Something about dressing up. Or was it his choice of tobacco?

A tap on the shoulder. Soul Sister Number One to say she’s off. The shameless deserter. But remember, she said, our pact. You guys have got to stick this out. At least until the day is done. Or you’ll never know for sure if your hate is for real. You’ll never have an opportunity like this again. She waved. Well, what could we say? We shrugged and headed for the garden. Neatly tended rows of roses. Lovely lavender bushes, begonias, sunflowers, that sort of thing. Someone was doing a good job there. Nice work for someone no doubt. Wasn’t that what it was all meant to be about? Entrepeneurs. Putting something back into the economy. Success breeds success. Money goes around.

There was a swimming pool, of course. More minor celebrities lolled on lilos. Jack flashes splashed each other. A model wrapped in curtains went for a burton. This is hurting, said The Fair One, let’s go eat. Obscene the meat on offer. By the barbeque Barbie dolls, all skin and bones. Our fleshy host presided over a huge punch bowl, looking as pleased as Punch. His Judy was busy upending bottles of spirits into the bowl. Our spirits sank. The catering firm would be making a fortune from all this. Good news for some. Let’s go inside, I said. There were so many rooms, you could lose yourself. We found a library, and took the weight off our feet, refusing nibbles offered by a young maid with a loaded tray. That’s given me an idea, I said. There’s a late night chemists in the village. I need to get some supplies. I will be right back. The Fair One snorted in disdain. There’s enough pharmaceuticals around here I would have thought, he countered.

I once had a Saturday job in Boots. Behind the chemist counter. White coat and all. Very educational. Amazing what you learn. A lot about life and medicine. The guy in the village late night chemist looked like he knew a lot about both too. Knew enough not to ask too many question. If some guy wanted that much California Syrup of Figs and Ex Lax chocolate that’s his business. Business is business, after all. It doesn’t pay to think too deeply. So I paid my money, and ran back to that mansion on the hill.

When I got there the party was still very much in swing. House music still blaring out all round the place. The Fair One was where I’d left him, in the library. He’d found a hifi system, and a record of the angry young Them. Waving a Father Brown book at me, he said to look at all these books around the room. All first editions and folio editions. And none of them read, he said. The host has been in to see me, he added. Make yourself at home, he said. Think he wanted to take the weight off his gold chains. Told me the price of everything in the room. Ah, once we thought the face of decadence and debauchery would be David Niven or Laurence Harvey, and now we get Bob Hoskins. The times we’re living through. The Fair One sat shaking his head. The strange thing was, he said, the host asking me what my top five Thin Lizzy songs were as he left the room. What’s that all about?

Things had really been swinging. Outside it looked like a bomb had hit it. It looked like a war zone not a party. Someone has got to clear this up, I said to The Fair One, sounding suspiciously like a bit part player in a Lester Bangs feature on The Clash which we knew off by heart. And yet, I added, the strange thing is I don’t now feel the horror I thought I would or should or could. I shrugged, and said I ought to be standing here with a machine gun, wreaking revenge, but I just feel empty. I’m looking at these people so desperately trying to enjoy themselves, and it just seems painful. There’s more money here than I’m ever likely to see again, but I feel sadness, a hollow sadness. I ploughed on. We’ve chosen to live in a certain way, I said. We scrimp and scrape and get by, but we’ve more than this lot will ever have. I remember reading that no matter how much money you’ve got, you’re never any better off. Do you know what I mean? It’s like when they build new motorways, the new lanes always fill up, and no one benefits. The traffic’s soon congested again. What’s the point of all this, I said waving my arms expansively?

The Fair One put down the Father Brown book. Blimey, you’re quite the philosopher tonight, he said, giving me his best quizzical gaze. What did you get at the chemists anyway? Let’s have a look and see. Hmm, now you wouldn’t by any chance have been thinking of placing the chocolate on one of those trays which are circulating, or adding the syrup to the punch bowl? He laughed and stretched like a lazy cat. Well, it’s hardly Montezuma’s Revenge, he said, but I would suggest it’s got to be done. It’s a suitably childish way of carrying on, which seems somehow appropriate. Come on, let’s go for it.

And so our evening out ended. We did what we had to do. Then we left them to it. The house music was still going strong. The night air was invigorating. It was a lovely clear night. The stars were out. We were glad to be on the outside. The mansion on the hill and all its craziness was behind us. The heath was ahead of us. Tell me, said The Fair One, grabbing my arm. What are your five favourite Thin Lizzy songs?