<< previous The Outside Of Everything next >>
 

Chapter 369
The Restart

There were four of us. Well, three of us, and Rosa the red setter. We were sitting in The Redhead’s room, drinking tea and listening to his da’s Frank Sinatra records. We were all feeling edgy, and nervous about we knew not what. Frank was singing for only the lonely when suddenly our Quiet One poked his head round the door. Blimey, he said, you look like you’re all waiting for the jury to return its verdict. Anyway campers, he continued in an infuriatingly and unusually cheerful vein, guess who I saw when I went for my Restart interview? Talk about the return of the prodigal, he added. Come on, he urged, have a guess!

At this point perhaps I should explain that the long term gainfully unemployed were every now and then encouraged rather fiercely to attend what was known as a Restart interview to discuss plans to get back into the world of work. These were a bit of a lottery as it all depended on the nature and inclinations of the pen pusher doing the interview. You could be lucky, and get a reasonable sort. Or you could be distinctly unlucky and get a spectacularly unsympathetic jobsworth who got out of the wrong side of someone’s bed that morning with a horrible headache and a grumbling stomach.

Oh well, I’ll tell you anyway, said our Quiet One, overwhelmed at our understated enthusiasm. Old Saint Nick himself, believe it or not, came strolling in while I was waiting my turn, he added. Now at that we did perk up. Old Saint Nick was a strange echo from our pasts. We’d all known him at one time or another. We’d all fallen under his spell at one time or another. He was, well, I suppose he was like the David Watts character Ray Davies sang about. But more than that. Because there was a dark side to him. Oh he was a fantastic footballer. A couple of us had been at primary school together, and we’d played against him. His school’s team thrashed us. Got more than thirty goals against us in the two matches. Old Saint Nick was the star of the show. But somehow he was never picked for the county side. Nor was he the one who went on to play for the local football team, and eventually professionally in the league proper, like at least one of his team mates.

That sort of set the tone. He was a bright lad too by all accounts, but he flunked his eleven plus, and rarely attended the local comprehensive unless he had to, whereas we went off to the local grammar for better or worse with the Captain Beefheart quoting Marxist history teacher who gave us the courage to be nothing. We’d hear about Old Saint Nick, and see him around from time to time. He had this ability to spend a bit of time with you and make you feel about ten miles high. Then you’d see him out with the best looking girl in town, and a little later you’d hear how she was absolutely devastated by him breaking things off. Still everybody knew him. Everybody liked him. He defied logic in many ways. Looking a little beat, like Adam Faith in Budgie, when everybody else was into this, that, or the other. Skinheads, soul boys, straights, rockabillys, mods and punks. He was none of these. He was just Old Saint Nick, with his disarming smile and the cheek of the devil. All the mums loved him, but the dads were as suspicious as hell. They probably had good reason, though nothing was ever proven. And then he disappeared. No one really knew where or why, but we often wondered. So when our Quiet One said he had seen Old Saint Nick we were all agog and wanted to know more.

Well, I can’t tell you much, said our Quiet One. I didn’t get the chance to say much to him, and you know what he’s like, never giving a straight answer. We slumped, collectively, frustrated, thwarted, cheated. Oh I forgot to mention, said our Quiet One. I said we’d meet Old Saint Nick in our favourite cafe at 11 tomorrow for a bit of a confab. Alright with you guys? He stood there smiling. We naturally called our Quiet One all the names under the sun. Needless to say though well ahead of time we were eagerly ensconced in the best seats in the cafe, scones untouched, on hot bricks. Will he? Won’t he? Come twenty past we were despairing. Come half past Old Saint Nick strolled in, and told his tale. Sort of. A literary critic might find it a little short on detail, but what the heck. We were mesmerised.

Seems Old Saint Nick was torn. This was when people were getting jobs in banks or on building sites, going off to college, or getting engaged, and he didn’t think he could cope with that. So he took some money, from oh somewhere or someone, disappeared off to Spain, bummed around, went across to Morocco and all that. Loved and lost, counted the cost, paid the price. Ended up back in London. Mixing with the wrong sort. Living in a King’s Cross squat. Eventually got desperate, and looked up the folks back home. The return of the prodigal, and all that. He smiled that smile. The smile was the same but the years had taken their toll on Old Saint Nick. But he wore it well. A little worn. A little lined. A little pinched. But what was he going to do now? He just shrugged and stared into his black coffee.

What was he going to do now? That’s what we kept asking ourselves over the next few days. We didn’t see much of him. His folks were naturally closing ranks, and making up for lost time. The return of the prodigal no less. A little later we were back round The Redhead’s. Drinking tea and listening to some primitive old rock ‘n’ roll and doo wop. Trying to read the tea leaves. Suddenly our Redhead, who had seemed a little preoccupied, said he’d been thinking. Ah, we said. Perhaps we can do something for Old Saint Nick, he said rather than asked. Ah, we said again. My da might find him something to do round the yard, he went on. Ah, we said, questioningly. My da’s always prepared to take a chance, he concluded. Ah, we said approvingly.

When we did finally catch up with Old Saint Nick, and our Redhead put the now approved proposition to him, he was keen to give it a go. I’m not up to doing too much manual work though, he said. Oh no, nothing like that, said our Redhead. Me da just needs someone around the yard, to keep an eye on deliveries, and supplies, and the like, he added. Old Saint Nick and our Redhead shook on it, and all went well. For a while. Our fallen angel was a good person to have around. He got on with everyone, and he was conscientious enough. For a while. He was beginning to glow. And then he began to get bored. Then he was gone. With one of the expensive pneumatic drills. Our Redhead was horrified. He felt let down. He thought his da would kill him. But the old man couldn’t stop laughing. He laughed until he cried. And then he cried for real. The sentimental old fool. Ah, the lad’s not right in the head, that’s for sure, he said at last. He’ll be wanting his head examined, that’s for sure, he added. Oh well, put that one down to experience he said, clipping our Redhead round the ear playfully. I never was for understanding the story of that prodigal son, he added.

That was that. No one heard of Old Saint Nick for years. Oh sure there were stories and speculation. But nothing concrete. Someone saw him with a pushchair and a couple of kids once. Someone else saw him dressed in an old lumber jacket selling the Big Issue. These weren’t images I wanted to play with. I just remember that look in his eyes that day in our favourite cafe when he was back among the living briefly but not really with us.

© 2008 John Carney
Illustration © 2008 Alistair Fitchett