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Extended Work
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| Drifting - chapter seventeen | |
| By Jamie | ||
| 10 August 2008 | ||
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This is the seventeenth chapter in a long form story. My plan is publish all the chapters on here as I go along. I will present them as I choose, a few days interspersing the entries. All feedback, negative or positive gratefully received. I am proud of certain aspects, and ruefully aware of other areas of shortcomings and inadequacy. Rather like myself in fact. So constructive criticism or showers of stars - both interestedly received. Blunt, bored, disinterested views will be received likewise. As most of us are, who seemingly ' can't ' write with brevity, I am equally indisposed to attempt a synopsis. But... Girl has self, girl meets boy, girl loses self, girl loses boy, girl tries to find self. Girl finds a different kind of self. This would be fair, but woefully inadequate. More it is an outpouring of thoughts and words, many words along a collection of themes that had been going round and around in my head for a long time. And ultimately a traumatic time in my own life brought these feelings and thoughts rudely, and unbiddenly to the surface. So I wrote them down - a catharsis of sorts, and an interested exploration of the routine, process and 'expected' or 'required' structure of writing in long-form. Thanks for reading and your interest. I repay your time spent with gratitude and humilty. Jamie.
chapter seventeen
The engine noise is getting louder; the buildings flowing by are becoming more and more blurred and the others nearby are settling back and downwards into their seats. The station at which I boarded this train is getting further and further away and slowly but surely left behind. For the first time since she had seated herself in the carriage, Lyndsey opened her eyes. Yes – she was here, now. And she was quite literally moving forward. Her ticket made her one of many. Many people crammed into the well-worn and used old carriage, all keen to make their travels before the rapidly approaching Easter holidays; but all were finding that many other shared their plans. But Lyndsey was fine and well, away down deep in her private little world. Curled up tight, knees up high, coke can unopened and ready in front of her. The abundance of others, the regular chattering voices around her – they made little impression on her and didn’t penetrate her thoughts or interest. She sat huddled close watching the familiar sights of her old haunts and environs through the window; she watched them approach then drift by, and she slowly felt herself leaving them behind. Into her pocket she reached and pulled out again her letter that she had received only a couple of days previously – the letter that was the real true ticket to the seat in which she was now sat. It had actually been her mother who had presented her with this – yet another letter from an unfamiliar distant address, bearing another strange almost exotic postmark. Fewer questions would her mother ask now as it was clear to her that her daughter was corresponding regularly with others and making her own private plans to move on. Only the ‘when’ and ‘where’ did she resignedly question now, and with few tears or recriminations. Her mother’s desperate interest was expressed more labouredly and in lacklustre fashion as she became more weary and fatigued of reaching out only to find her daughter recoil and recede even further. Many questions her mother had, so much she would like to find out and discover about and in Lyndsey’s world. So much that she would give so much to erase, re-do, re-live and make better. But although she did not darkly believe, as Lyndsey did, that it was too late for them to converse and communicate with each other, her mother was asking fewer questions these days. She sought less assurance and offered little advice, she knew she had to trust more that Lyndsey was confident and able in her own world. She could see from Lyndsey’s new purposefulness, her air of contented confidence and her regular letters from outside their immediate world that she was pushing and pointing herself in her own direction, and seemingly their daughter needed little help or involvement from her parents. Yet with another letter – this, the letter that she was now re-reading in her cramped train seat, Lyndsey opened up a little more to her parents. She told them where she was planning to go, what she was going to do, and in a logic that made sense to her – the ‘why’ of her desire to move on and what it was she wanted or hoped to find at her journey’s end. So whilst her mother largely thought she had lost a daughter, she had won a few concessions and had gained more from Lyndsey than she had before. The grey wall somehow preventing communication, that frosty, cold field where previously one-way dialogue and questions seeking answers and explanations had fallen – this barren ground had thawed a little. No – her parents still didn’t understand their daughter or even feel close to her, but at least there was now some semblance of communication between them – albeit dialogue ‘at’ rather than between people. But this was something new – a fresher start, and there was a hope of something better and more fulfilling beyond. While Lyndsey may not be down there with them anymore, there wasn’t the same void as before. There were more words and thoughts; a little of herself she had this time left behind with them. Lyndsey opened her letter from her pocket and re-read the contents again. An invitation to wok in the restaurant of the large hotel vaguely drawn on the embossed crest of the letterhead of the notepaper. To work long and often unsociable hours at the minimum wage. But it was a position that also promised accommodation and so the chance and promise of being able to actually live in a corner of the rain-splattered paradise that she had sighted once from her window during her coach journey to Portree, and she had glimpsed so many times since in her mind’s eye. True – this was a job she had never attempted before, and also it was only for the duration of the summer season. But six months or so felt just now, as she began her journey to begin, an eternity away. And surely come the end of the summer she would be a different girl, thinking and experiencing different thoughts and living in different circumstances and surroundings. Heaven knew, she was certainly a different girl to the one she only vaguely recognised now, the nervous, stumbling girl stood uncertainly on the Victoria Bridge in Manchester.If she could pull back the layers of bitter and grim wisdom and experience that she had accumulated over the last few months of living and growing-up, she would find underneath the soft, raw and awkward skin of a girl anxiously fighting and craving to grow and acquire those same layers. Instead of gracefully moving forwards, she had been merely falling and flailing, bloodying and blurring her progress forwards. Desperately she had careered through, trying to be at once both unseen but also a moving part of the living framework of the so real and everyday world all around her. Thinking herself very self-aware, she had believed herself to be unwanting of and a soul who would recoil distastefully from all the blatant excesses and acceptances of drudgery and monotony all around her. But the reality that she now recognised and accepted was that she was someone very vulnerable and unknowing – someone very self-unaware. Her previous perception of herself as someone who was different was one she could recognise as superficial, right now. The personality that she had striven to hold and celebrate had been one that she had thrown down and walked away from the moment that she believed she didn’t have to hide behind it anymore – not while she had someone else’s light and personality to drape around and conceal herself under. But there was definitely hope ahead, this increased and more developed self-awareness and knowledge could only lead to her confidence in her abilities – mental or otherwise, to grow and mature. She had fallen before, had spilt blood and tears, she had cried out, and rolled and flailed about. But now she had picked herself up and dusted herself down again. Bruised, dented, hurt inside, but she was aware this time – and more than ready to observe the trip points that she hadn’t seen or recognised last time, more ready to see the signs that she had ignored and blundered by before. Lyndsey dreamed and dozed her journey north. Her end destination at Duror in Argyll-shire was many miles further of the terminal point of her present train journey to Central Station, Glasgow. But a coach journey from Buchanan Street – a few blocks away, would take her all the way, almost, to the front door of her destination. And of course, the change-over at Glasgow and the inevitable walk through its streets again would be a high point of her journey. As sure as she was sure, she was over her past trauma and was pointing herself onwards and forwards. But of whom she may accidentally stumble into on her short journey across the city centre of Glasgow… The frisson, almost of excitement and anticipation she felt of suddenly surprising someone or some people again by her sudden re-appearance in a calmer, more confident and infinitely more attractive state. These thoughts and feelings rippled through Lyndsey and intensified, as the outside world became Ayrshire, then became Strathclyde, then unmistakably became Glasgow. But of course she planned and neither needed nor wanted to see again, just now, any of the old faces she had once lived with, spoke with and slept with. Even the one she wrote to and enjoyed the words and imagined affections of; she knew his involvement right now would be more of a disturbance rather than a contribution to the general lightness of the day. So her plan was on – on to Buchanan Street, and then on to Argyllshire. And this plan – this plan alone, was in her head as she began to fold away her unread magazine, pull on her jacket and prepare to disembark the train as she felt it slow and pull into the station. Lyndsey could not suppress the happy smile that broke over her face as the train threaded slowly through the out-sheds and shunting lines, making its un-rushed and steady way into the cavernous hangar of Central Station. It was impossible for her not to cast her mind back to that cold autumn night last year when she had previously ridden this way, rather foolishly expectant and more than a little cocky. Yet here she was sat again, apparently returning for more – but to be handled differently and more ably this time – this she was sure of and urging herself to believe. Her pack was again grimly heavy, but carryable. Tottering unstably, she steered her way out of Central Station onto Gordon Street. Instantly she was caught up and lost amongst the maelstrom and frenetic activity of the passing cars, the rattling taxis and the rushing pedestrians. It was late morning; a weak sun was smiling wanly through the heavy grey clouds, feebly it was attempting to dry out the damp surfaces and puddles on the roads and pavements. As Lyndsey zig-zagged and cut her route through up and across the neat grid-work of the city centre streets, she felt herself to be back again and a part once more of the rushing faceless throng – the purposeful and purposeless bodies, the lines of pedestrians squeezing themselves through the gaps in the procession of the irregularly moving cars and buses. And so the idiocy and the approaching hypocrisy of her current high spirits at being back here again, in amongst it all, hit her again for what seemed like the hundredth time. This was Glasgow – yeah. Just Glasgow. With its own characteristics, it’s quirks, its own unique and exclusive features and qualities. All of them on show and in view for anyone receptive to seeing and appreciating them. But also this was ‘Any-town’. There wasn’t anything very or wildly different in the make-up of the tooting cars, the moving mass of people, the three-storey stained and angular tenements. Even to delve deeper into the Glasgow quirks, its atmosphere and the characteristics it bred to its inhabitants – both the incomers and the natives, there was still no major differences or wide contrasts between this city and any other. All subtly different, but all essentially large, built-up, high-populated conurbations. As she made her way along the road, this street in Glasgow – where she was right now was making her smile. Its equivalent, and there were many in Manchester, didn’t exactly prompt her to frown, but there was certainly no inclination to feel happy. It merely left her indifferent. And why this was the case prickled her reasoning. She had no clear answer – no difference she could readily and clearly perceive in her head, and this lack of reasoning and motive behind her joy left her feeling a little false and troubled. But she didn’t feel negative to any great degree. Why, here was a place that maybe for some unfathomable or elusive reason, inspired and pleased her. A place and city that was very similar to home – but also very different. And she could feel a little more personally for these roads and avenues. There was history of herself etched into some of these streets – buildings she had danced by maniacally, pubs she had laughed and talked in joyfully, corners she had rounded both in terror and in ecstasy. This place, this city, these streets had been both a playground and a cesspit that had moved her. And nowhere else could claim that. Lyndsey crossed near the upper part of West Nile Street and sifted through the motionless queuing vehicles waiting impatiently to plot their weary routes through the city centre. She entered the eternally busy confines of the bus station at Buchanan Street, past the ever-present hopeful and smiling ‘Big Issue’ vendor and picked her way along the concourse to find information that could help her plot the final long leg of her journey north. One bus was leaving for the north quite soon – heading out from the bus station in about fifteen minutes from now. Perfect – time to freshen up, relax and prepare for the journey ahead. The next bus leaving for the same destination was leaving about three or so hours later. Ages of hanging around, also she would only get to her destination after dark. So – obvious choice really. No need to prolong the journey, Glasgow was here, it was good - but it would always be here. Time to go, get on with her business and make plans to maybe come back another day and spend time here when she had time to spend. She sat herself down onto a bench in the concourse and allowed her pack to fall nearby, allowing her back some much-needed relief. Looking through the condensation and spray soaked windows, she sought out and found her platform – the numbered ‘stance’ she needed to be at in time to embark her bus when it was time. Leaning back she closed her eyes; now all she had to do was to alight, pay her fare and then wait to arrive. But in her head, all was not settled and harmonious. Where her mind should be relaxed and merely concentrating on her journey and her forthcoming new job, she was furtive and more than a little anxious. The reason for her nerves and restlessness was a little clouded in her head. Apprehension and a sensible degree of fear in embarking upon a fresh step and meeting new people – these were to be expected. But she could sense that these reasons and feelings weren’t the true explanations for her agitated and unsettled thoughts. Her quickening pulse and feelings of tension told her she was restless for a different reason. And upon catching herself checking her watch again and willing its hands to slow down, she realised that for her – for her own private reasons, the bus that was soon to leave was leaving too soon. She was en-route, with no place and no plans to stay in Glasgow, but if she could remain here for just a little while longer, just a few more hours… Abstractly she sat and silently watched the coach pull into its designated space. The doors opened, and in and on poured its eager travellers and passengers. At length the doors closed again and away out of the bus station the coach departed to make its long journey into the lush greenery and wilds of Argyll-shire. Only then did Lyndsey rise from her seat. She took hold of her pack by its high loop and dragged it across the smooth tiled floor toward the left-luggage section. There she deposited it and liberated herself temporarily of its bulk and distraction. Away and around she turned gleefully – lighter of load, lighter of head. Suddenly and spontaneously she leaned forward and left the station with a swift, purposeful stride. Thinking in short bursts, moving quickly, she was walking where impulse and her own private, deep-rooted feelings were taking her. The day was high and flat now. The sun had won its battle and the clouds were in retreat leaving the early afternoon hour dully fine. The stillness and vapidity of the air was a little breathless, but a break from the rain was causing the shoppers and office-workers to prolong their lunch breaks. As Lyndsey cut across George Square, she steered through their still and slow moving forms munching at sandwiches and staring into the air around them. Pigeons alighting and flapping about eager for crumbs and morsels; but Lyndsey scythed her way straight through and amongst them; she had her direction decided and her thoughts, mind and heart were racing and concentrated well away from the activities of this vicinity. Underneath the high hanging gallows of the Gallowgate, past the growingly impoverished frontages and the down-market shops. Away past the faded bustle of the Barra’s street market and back – back again on the London Road. The dusty streets were still so, the grime, the relative poverty and the occasional steel shuttered window. All still here, just as if she had only been gone a few hours or days. She persevered still further along the road, then crossed over to the familiar cracked pavings of the pavement on the far side. Around the corner she went and passed the pub of many drinks, conversations, laughs and tears. The reasons and motives for her sudden impulse journey were still being thrown together in her head and if she had been but a little more perceptive she would have noticed that a colder wind seemed to be blowing along this street. But she didn’t notice – she was too busy walking and plotting her relentless march back to the squat. Just get along this pavement – get to the squat. Knock on the door, or maybe just quietly and cheekily enter – just like the old days. And then search out, find and see… Tom? Tom – why Tom? She had many words for Tom – for sure, but there were fewer and fewer daily thoughts and unbidden images. Increasingly she was sure, she could feel herself wash further and further out of his bay. She had made herself believe, and now she wanted him to believe that she was over, past and beyond him. As Lyndsey had thrown so much of her dignity away and had made herself seem so transparent and of little depth, suddenly for his benefit she wanted to project up an image of a new her. Someone newer, stronger, reformed and un-needy of his attentions or affections. Someone he would covet and wistfully wring his hands over. Halting her march, Lyndsey turned and cast her eyes back to the pub she had just passed. She narrowed and misted her eyes as she saw the doors suddenly throw open and spill out a staggering, tear-strewn, wailing, hysterical girl. Shouting, pleading and needing to be unwillingly helped, restrained and dragged away. The few passers-by stared and laughed pityingly and voyeuristically. And the object of the distraught, lost girl’s misery – the boy who sat unwillingly of her frenzied attentions and desperate anguish remained aloof and elusive away within. Away from her – above and beyond her. This would be her now; as Lyndsey re-gathered herself on the empty pavement she turned again towards the nearby squat. Tom would occupy those shoes of hers that day, and she with good and pure intentions, she would… Well what would she do? In a perfect exchange, in a dream scenario she would smile down at his bletherings and spluttered words. Affectionately but benignly, then she would move on, quietly away she would go, leaving him to stand where she had once stood. Not for him to suffer, but merely for him to understand. And maybe then he would appreciate the depths of the despair into which he had led her to sink, the limits of her self-loathing and the frustration of the unattainable reach for that desired and needed other. That other whom she was now feverishly walking back to reach out to… Then Lyndsey again abruptly halted her steps; she turned and began to re-trace her route. Her walk was now nervous instead of determined, and she began to quicken her pace, eager to be away from this street and district of memories and temptations.What was going on in her world? In the explosions of synapses in her head, she was frantically and impulsively inventing all kinds of dream scenarios, feelings and actions. And right here, right now she had been on the verge of running back to a past, lost world. Suddenly clutching hold again of reason, she could see that the imagined scenes she had been playing out and planning in her head were little more than that – imagination and fantasy. And her motives of the last few minutes that had almost seen her attempt to surely fatally play out these scenes, highlighted and brought into her head the sombre and suddenly terrifying idea that she was far from being over, past and beyond Tom. If this wasn’t the case then why on earth was she at such pains to point it out? Back past the pub, back on the London Road. Mind focused, strengthened and straightened back to her original objective – back to the bus station, the outgoing coach, her journey and pilgrimage to the Highlands. But the wickedness of feelings and her erratic mind moved on again as she attempted to concentrate on making her way back to Buchanan Street. Her vision shifted and focused on another thought, another visage. And nervous, quietly smiling, wise and affectionate Jon arrived there. Abruptly again she halted. Her palms were now moist with sweat, but the casually warm day was not to blame. She checked her watch, the length of time before the departure of the next coach was still abundant. Like a mouse caught in a maze she again turned and more slowly this time began to backtrack towards the squat. All the time she was furiously thinking, wrapped in her thoughts and her playing-out mental encounters and confrontations. But what if he was working? Not at home. With someone else…Why not try his workplace – see if I can find it – or leave a note for him if he is absent… She was approaching the squat slowly again. Walking past the pub, furiously thinking, questions rearing up, wild scenarios in her imagination. But the rime was creeping – racing forward; no time for these fits of indecision, these stops and starts. For a moment Lyndsey even looked beyond the tenements towards the nearby unseen quiet expanses of the familiar Glasgow Green. Why not slow down, think, immerse and collect herself back in her old haunt and sanctuary, back on the Green? Motionless she stood like a rabbit caught in the headlights; halted, prevaricating and furiously thinking alone on the grimy pavement of the duty side street. "Lyndsey, hey – LYNDSEY!" The sudden shout of her name from behind her jolted her and made her jump violently as the loud tones cut through the relative quiet around her. She mentally dropped around her heels all the thoughts that were frantically circling her head like comic thought bubbles. Quickly she turned, heart pounding to face her hailer. Lyndsey turned around fully on herself and stood motionless with eyes wide in the centre of the sidewalk. Black boots, tight blue jeans, black leather jacket pulled tight over a pullover making her feel a little too warm after her recent exertions. And with a baseball cap on her head pulled low, she believed she had granted herself a small amount of disguise, a small degree of insurance of anonymity. But somehow she had been spotted and identified. Maybe it had been her frightened, frantic gait attracting attention; or maybe her blushing, glowering cheeks glowing as she had pre-occupiedly blundered along. Whatever it was that had given her away, from her table in the pub in the corner, Helen’s eye and attention had been caught by the sight of this once-familiar form hurrying past the window again and again in opposite directions. Something was definitely amiss, so Helen had quickly propelled herself outside to check out the situation. They both walked back into the pub after quickly greeting each other. Helen bought Lyndsey a drink and pulled her over to sit down next to her drinking companion. Ian was sat quietly with a mischievous smile playing over his pouting lips as he remembered the scenes he had before witnessed, caused by the intense girl now sat blinking and nervous beside him around the table. "So how are you doing, darling?" Helen spoke first as they sat down to open up a conversation she was unsure of. Lyndsey opened her mouth to speak, but Ian cut in. "Och, I'm fine thanks dear – and looking better - but how are you?" He was smiling with self-satisfaction at his waspishness and he directed his question towards Lyndsey. Helen clicked her tongue with impatience, but she remained silent waiting for Lyndsey to speak. "Oh I'm good. A little restless and a little short of breath right now, but I'm okay." She drank from her glass, but feeling their eyes on her she spoke again to explain herself a little more. "I'm just stopping off here – I'm on my way north to start a new job. I've got just a few hours before the next bus leaves, so I'm, err… killing a little time." She was halting and hesitant, she was unsure of her words as she was hardly sure of what she was doing or thinking, never mind attempting to articulate her activities. "So how did you get to be down here from Buchanan Street whilst "killing time"?" Ian was smiling with more than a little malice as he continued his teasing. Helen pushed her shoe against his leg, annoyed at his bluntness and also apprehensive of what he may say next. Lyndsey was silent for the moment as she blinked in the headlights of Ian’s faint mockery. "Guess I just walked on and on and found myself here. I don’t really know who or what I'm… or…" She was stumbling and babbling over her words as she tried to settle and calm herself after her recent mental exertions. But as she left one situation, she found another around this table, as she could feel herself blushing as she for some reason became the subject of Ian’s slightly sick amusement. If she had sought to lock away her feelings and thoughts inside her, clearly at least one person was perceptive or sly enough to be able to see the anxiety and uncertainty in her actions. Ian cut into the end of her halting sentence. "You didn’t get to be down here just looking for someone did you?" Hearing a silence following his question, he wickedly continued with his private mirth. "You’re not looking for someone to make up with are you?" "Ian!" Helen rocked the table with her loud exclamation and her fist slamming down as she lost her calm. "Just leave us alone – I'll see you later." Lyndsey suddenly regained her nerve and voice at the sound of Helen’s voice, and her indignation of being the butt of Ian’s mirth. "No need, I'm out of here. I won’t stay to be laughed at." She clutched at her cigarettes and made ready to leave the table and small company. If she had regained some of her calm and reasoning, and certainly more personal understanding of herself whilst she had been away from Glasgow she had definitely not lost her capacity and ability to hot-headedly jump into scenes and rows. Once again the truth of her new feelings and personal assurances were shown again to be lacking; when once more she was put to the test she quickly crumbled. But as Lyndsey found her feet and prepared to dramatically make her exit, she found herself being pushed roughly back into her chair. Helen, bigger than she and quicker, had also risen. "Ian – go on, fuck off – leave us alone! I need to speak to Lyndsey."Ian shook his head theatrically, then stood and drained the last of his liquid from his glass. Then he turned and departed the table. "Bye dear, have yourself a nice life…" He left, smiling cattishly. Helen closer now, standing above Lyndsey could see her slightly shaking hands. This, in addition to her obvious restless, pre-occupation and her darting eyes. She sat down again and pushed Lyndsey’s drink towards her through the small pools of spilt liquid on the table-top.
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