Sing Like You Know the Words (5 page)

He had to be equally reticent
about his social situation. His mother imagined that because he was
a good student he must have lots of friends. If he were to confess
that he often felt like a social outcast, she might think he was
lying about his grades. All he could tell them at home was the same
old news; that he was doing well in class, getting high marks, and
that there were some nice people on the course.

Tonight, once more he would
trudge from his room to the familiar red phone box that was always
missing a few panes of glass and always felt cold whatever the
season. He would try to ignore the smell of urine as he puzzled
over the incomprehensible letters and designs that were scratched
into every painted surface of the box, like the frenzied etchings
of some lost tribe. In winter it was freezing, but now that the
nights were lighter it was worse in some ways. He felt as if he was
on show; and it was worse when there was a queue for the phone.

When his turn came, he would
pause, jiggling the coins in his pocket, making sure there were
enough, and preparing himself to lift the dreaded receiver. It was
like not being able to start to pee when there was someone else in
the toilets.

Finally, he would make the call:
the same evasions and half truths every other night in response to
his mother’s innocent enquiries. Worse than what he told her, he
knew that he lied to himself about the crushing loneliness that he
sometimes felt; pretending that it was the same for all of them and
what everyone had to endure. He stayed smiling and friendly, even
when days went past without his exchanging more than a few mumbled
words with anyone. He could sustain the act because he had a plan
and this part of his life was just a stage of it. But sometimes
when he listened to the pathetic half truths that he told his
mother about his life, it made keeping up the pretence that much
harder.

He was shamed by the pathetic
gratitude that he felt for the company of the few people he did
know, ex-neighbours from his first year in the halls of residence,
when everybody really had been on their own, not just him. He hoped
that his current state was not too obvious and that the few who
still kept in touch were not doing so out of pity. His dread of
being pitied made it impossible for him to take the initiative. It
was only when one of them briefly remembered his existence that he
could respond and enjoy human contact for a while.

How could he explain any of this
to his family? He couldn’t say that he was shy. As far as they were
concerned, he was still the chubby little boy, always smiling and
ready to make his aunt’s customers burst out laughing with a cheeky
comment or gesture. His mother only worried that now he was too
thin. His father had no idea what to say on a telephone unless it
was business. He always asked the same brief questions before
passing the phone back to his mother. The girls only wanted to hear
about the exciting lives they could look forward to having when it
was their turn to be students. All their chatter was about parties
and the kind of boys they might hope to meet.

When it came to the time to make
the call, he’d turned these thoughts over in his mind for so long
that he was quite depressed. He’d have preferred to hurry back to
his room, but he knew there was no way to avoid what must be done.
Then he’d pick up the receiver as if it were a heavy weight and
slowly begin to dial the number.

Using the payphone was a
prolonged and mechanical business. Ali Abbas knew that there were
phones now where you only had to press one button for each number,
but in this box you dialled the number on an actual dial. You
pushed a finger into the hole in the dial that corresponded to the
numeral you wanted and then wound it back against the spring until
the number clicked. Then you had to release and wait for the spring
to return the dial to its starting position before you could select
the next digit. It was a process that could not be hurried,
building a tense sense of expectation that grew until you were
finally connected. And if the connection failed or the person you
were calling didn’t answer, there’d be a real sense of failure as a
result.

Ali Abbas dialled four digits
for a district code, then six digits for a local number. He
listened to the phone ringing. Someone answered in a moment. The
voice was instantly obliterated by a high pitched repeating tone
that caused him to panic and fumble his change, however well he
prepared for these few seconds that the exchange allowed him to
feed coins into the payphone slot.

-Abbas?

-Mamma, how is everyone?

-Your sister is going to a party
with some friends. She’s upstairs getting ready with Ana. They’re
very excited, giggling all the time, and the party is not till
Friday. They will drive me crazy. What did you have to eat today?
You’re hungry; I can hear it in your voice.

-Mamma, I’ve only said four
words. I’m fine. How is father?

-He’s here. Wait a minute, I’ll
put him on.

-Father?

-Abbas. Hello.

-Are you well?

-Yes.

-What’s happening at home
dad?

-Your mother is cooking all the
day. Making me eat more and more food because she worries that you
are too thin. Please put on some weight before you come home next
time or I will be burst. Are you studying hard?

-Yes dad. I’m always studying
hard.

-Are your grades good?

-Yes, I’m getting good
marks.

-That’s good. I’ll pass you back
to your mother then.

-Mamma?

-The girls are making new
friends, Abby. I worry about you, so far from home.

-I make lots of friends.
Everyone is away from their home, just like me, so it’s easy to
meet interesting people.

-Like who? It’s not good for you
spending too much time talking about philosophy and politics with
all these studious boys you speak to at the library. You need to
talk to some girls as well. Ana has been telling me how the English
girls have their own ideas and live their own lives. I’d love to
meet one.

-I talk to girls.

-When Abby?

-Well, today for example in the
morning lecture. I was talking to this girl about what the
professor said, and we arranged to meet and discuss it
afterwards.

-You be careful Abbas. Not so
fast. These English girls are dangerous. They have their own ideas
and they want to live their own lives. Oh, now I’m worried. Promise
me you won’t get too involved with this girl.

-She’s just a friend Mamma.

When the call was finished, he
collected the leftover change, feeling as if someone had been
watching and laughing to him throughout the conversation. He pulled
his plastic leather jacket tighter around his thin shoulders and
pushed against the heavy door to make his escape from the booth.
After these calls, he always took the long way back to his small
flat, walking as slowly as he could.

***

These days, Patricia was round
at the house all the time, but it wasn’t as bad as it sounded,
having a constant female presence around. It seemed to make life
calmer, although it was a bit of a pain having to pick soiled
clothing off the floor and not eat directly out of tins if you were
being watched. Tim’s energies were still directed to chasing the
next good time, but he was something close to polite around
Patricia: and in her company Matthew seemed not to be quite so
weighed down by the oppressiveness of the world and all that was in
it. David was positively happy. He looked at Patricia like she was
some precious thing he had found.

As for Patricia herself, well
she seemed to relax a little in the shelter of David’s easy
confidence and ready smile, even though she’d never be accused of
being easy going.

They’d found a balance of sorts:
it was only a little disturbed on the nights when David and
Patricia went to bed for an early night or spent hours in the bath
together. Matthew and Tim didn’t have girlfriends of their own. Tim
joked that one girl was never going to be enough for him, while
Matthew claimed that he was not ready for a relationship and did
not want to be tied down. He told the other two that one half of a
couple was one half of a person, though he took care not to say it
in Patricia’s hearing. In Matthew’s opinion, freedom was more
important than anything, even if sometimes he wondered if there
wasn’t something he should be doing with his freedom.

One night Matthew brought Carol
home. Everyone seemed to be out, which was a relief; one reason
being that he wasn’t yet sure whether or not Carol was pretty. He
made some tea. They went up to his room to drink it.

Carol was a music student he‘d
met at the college film club of which he was a semi-clandestine
member. They’d chatted for a while and she‘d been placidly
agreeable to seeing his place, but now that she was here, Matthew
was uncertain whether she had consented to anything more than a cup
of tea. They sat side by side on his bed, separated by five inches
of space and two mugs of Earl Grey tea that Matthew didn’t like
much but at least you didn’t need milk for it. Minutes seemed to
have passed already and he knew that he urgently needed to start a
conversation.

-Music then, second year. I
suppose you like it a lot?

-Yes, it’s nice.

-I like music a lot, only most
of what I like is what they call progressive, you know, King
Crimson, Genesis.

-I don’t know them.

-Well, everything’s punk rock
now isn’t it? It’s the fashion. That’s all Tim will listen to. He
doesn’t even want to know about David Bowie any more.

-Oh, I don’t know about any of
that.

-What music do you like to
listen to?

-At the moment, I’m really
passionate about Bartok. Do you know his work?

-Nothing comes to mind. But I
like that kind of music too. I’ve got a Bach record somewhere
downstairs. What else do you like besides music?

-Oh, you know, like I said, art
and literature. Your posters are interesting.

-Yes, I just have three now.
That one is called Sleep, it’s by Dali. I got it cheap from Athena,
but I should have had it framed. The wall isn’t too dry and the
bluetack has made the edges a little curled over.

-Well it’s sort of peaceful,
although a bit disturbing to actually sleep under.

-I suppose. Actually I’ve had it
for a while and now I think it’s rather vulgar and pretentious;
almost juvenile really. I much prefer this one by Stanley Spencer.
It’s called Swan Upping at Effingham and you can see they are
collecting the swans in baskets from the river. Do you know
Spencer?

-No

-You see how that the curve of
the birds’ necks is repeated in the shape of the men’s arms?

-Oh yes it’s clever. And
this?

-It’s called The Garden of
Earthly Delights. It’s a detail of a painting by Hieronymus
Bosch.

-I don’t like that one much.

Christ we’ve been here five
minutes, Matthew was thinking, and we’ve already killed off art and
music, what next?

-Books then.

-I beg your pardon, Carol
replied. Matthew could not remember that anyone had actually used
the words I beg your pardon to him before.

-You said you liked literature.
I wondered what books you’ve been reading lately.

-Oh, nothing really.

-Well what sort of books do you
like to read?

-Anything I suppose. As long as
it holds my interest. And I don’t like there to be politics in it.
Too dull don’t you think? Matthew nodded his agreement. Other than
that anything at all.

-And film of course.

-What?

-You like films. Meeting you at
the film club.

-Yes of course. Although that
one tonight was a bit pretentious.

-I suppose it was. Matthew had
thought that the whole point about film club films was that they
should be pretentious. Did you see the one last week, he
ventured?

-No, what was it about?

-I’m not sure really. It was in
black and white of course. A very significant work. Very
influential and very old. There were these French people on a barge
travelling down a river. I suppose it would have been the Seine.
Not much happened to be honest.

-Was it interesting?

-Not really, no it was dull. Do
you fancy going to the pub?

***

Two days after what Matthew
remembered as the Carol debacle, he came home and found David and
Patricia sitting on the couch with books open before them. He was
about to leave them and go quietly to his room, but David greeted
him warmly.

-There you are Matt,
perfect.

Patricia beamed at him.

-Thanks Matthew, it’s good of
you to offer to help.

David noticed Matthew’s blank
look and spoke to intercept any reply he might make.

-Like I said last night, Matt.
The drama group: Pygmalion: Pat is going to be Clara. She’s been
struggling a bit with it and I said we would help. You’re the
expert of course, but I mean, it’s not such a straightforward part
is it?

-It’s quite straightforward
actually. Clara only has a few lines.

David smiled, relieved.

-So you’ve read it? I mean, yes
good.

But now Patricia was
frowning.

-That’s partly the problem Matt.
I have so little to say. God knows it’s not that I want to make the
part bigger. I don’t suppose I could play Eliza if I practiced for
a hundred years. But I want to do my little part well. It’s a
matter of, how to get the character across with so few words. I
mean, when you read the lines, she just sounds like a silly,
snobbish girl who is desperate to be fashionable and catch a
husband. But then I read the epilogue, and Shaw tells us that later
on she becomes a progressive thinker. She meets H.G. Wells and
everything. So there must be something more in her character that I
should try to get across.