The Outside Of Everything

Chapter 49
The Portent

It was among the worst of times. Our beloved Soul Sister Number One had been involved in a hit and run accident. She was in a bad way. We were beside ourselves with worry. Mad at the world. But determined we would do everything we could to help her pull through. Our Redhead’s own sister, the one we called our Red Pepper, had arranged through comrades in Cambridge that she should go and stay in the peace and quiet of their quaint cottage once she was strong enough, and so she did. It was a fantastic idea. The couple who owned the cottage were former missionaries. Good people who just happened to be religious. They took our Soul Sister under their wings, and it did a world of good.

From our point of view it was great to see our leading light on the road to recovery. And it was an added bonus to be able to go up pay our respects from time to time. It’s a nice part of the world, albeit one wasted on its students and locals, but that’s just my view. As the old song goes spring can really hang you up the most, but it was a good time of year to see Cambridge and its environs. I have sweet memories of that spring, with our Soul Sister on the mend, coach trips up to the city, warm sunshine, and walks round the old colleges, and along by the river. Afternoon tea in the Copper Kettle, a mooch round the charity shops, and a browse through the records on that market stall. Good times.

And yet, I for one never felt entirely comfortable there. Oh it was amusing seeing the students cycling round on their old contraptions, perilously hanging on the piles of books, loafs of bread poking out of their panniers, scarves fluttering in the breeze. But something rankled. Old class prejudices I guess. But that was daft. Some of these sorts had worked their socks off to get the chance to study up there, their families had made sacrifices, and they were determined to make a go of it. Good for them. Lots of good people had done the very same thing, and had gone on to make the world a better place for it. And yet.

Our Soul Sister Number One was staying with her tender types in a small cottage out of the way, in an area which was neither town nor gown. Quite picturesque it was too. The cottage itself was infinitely charming, with roses round the doorframe and everything. A bit out heading towards the middle of nowhere and village green preservation status, but that was a good thing. One day we went out there for a visit, and we decided to make a day of it, casting caution to the wind, and making reservations to stay overnight in a particularly pleasant public house type place pretty near-by. It should have been a special day, and in many ways it was. The tender types were lovely people, and it was a joy to be in their company. Soul Sister Number One was beginning to bloom again. And we’d all been blissfully lazy, lolloping around, eating too many homemade cakes topped with homemade jam. In fact our Soul Sister was becoming a bit of a dab hand herself, dabbling with damsons and the like, in between burying herself in the works of Anthony Powell. There’s worse ways of regaining one’s health.

So we’d returned to our place of repose a merry little band of soldiers, thinking we’d have a leisurely little drink or two outside in the cool of the evening before turning in. But it was not to be. The place was packed. The noise was shocking. And the sounds of Bruce Springsteen filled the air, which is never a good thing. We drew lots and left our Redhead to it, heading back outside while he pushed his way to the bar to grab our lemon and limes, seeing as we were still on a bit of a teetotal tip in recognition of the great Wilko Johnson, a character we admired enormously. When our Redhead returned bearing a tray with considerable aplomb we waited to learn what on earth was happening. One of the college’s rowing clubs, he said jerking his head towards the dreadful racket. It’s one of their regular soirees, he added. Our host forgot to mention it would be going on, he positively growled.

Ah yes. The sporting life. The great outdoors. The noble sportsman. The upper classes at play. Stereotypes are stupid, and yet. Well, it was a spectacle to behold. Voices raised together. Pints swallowed in a throw. Tenpole Tudor’s Swords of A Thousand Men bellowed out. Glasses smashed. Bread baskets worn as helmets. Bread rolls chucked and local filles ... Well, so much for our peaceful repose. A local wandered past, taking his Airedale for an airing. He stood awhile while his companion sniffed away at a fencepost, an amused air about him. He looked over at us, and bid us a good evening. We must have grunted something in response, which in turn made the local laugh. Not amused eh lads, he asked? I take it you’re not with our future rulers, he added. Do we look as if we’re with that shower, we snarled? Indeed, no, said the local. But don’t take it too heavy, he added. It’s only a bit of harmless fun, and all breakages get handsomely paid for, he concluded, wandering off down the lane. And it’s all in a good cause, he said as an afterthought. For charity.

Harmless fun, we thought. Hmm, round our way, if a gang of kids were having a bit of harmless fun on this scale the riot squad would be called in and a few skulls smashed in the name of law and order. Ah the joy of seeing the privilegentia at play. There was a song we would play a lot at the time. A number by the Klaxon 5 which I suspect has long since been forgotten about never underestimating the ignorance of the rich. It was a song that night we sought to find solace in. These people really were ignorant. Oh sure they could cram and pass exams. But there were many things they truly were ignorant about. Would, for example, they ever know the joy of a secondhand purchase, bought out of necessity, an item salvaged, longed for, scrimped and saved for, rescued or restored? Simple pleasures that shape lives.

Speaking of which, that very evening, I had reason to visit the gents. Now in that particular establishment the gents were situated at the bottom of a darkened staircase, and as I was heading that a ways I came across one of the braying Hooray Henry types teetering on the staircase, waving a bottle of bubbly, which doubtless cost more than I had to get me through a week, and singing about being born to run. Oh dear. Then before you knew it, with a little bit of help, he’d taken a tumble and ended up at the bottom of the stairwell, crumpled in a forlorn heap, left to sleep it off. Nothing broken, alas, but the temptation, oh the temptation with him lying there like that and no one else around. Did I? Didn’t I? Don’t even go there. Funnily enough at that very moment mine host emerged seemingly from nowhere, observed the passed out oaf and shrugged, saying simply it would soon be the May Ball season and then they’d really see some fun. All in a good cause no doubt.

That evening stayed with me. I have never ever felt comfortable in the company of the self assured, sporting, public school sort. Oh it’s not their fault, I know. The arrogance is ingrained, and all that. But the ignorance? Is that the right word? There’s something more, about being impervious, insensitive. And yet more worrying was the amused tolerance, the sickening indulgence, the local with the Airedale walking on by, as if there were feudal rights to be enjoyed. And I still shudder when I hear Bruce Springsteen singing about dancing in the dark.