David McGlone
Chapter One - 1995
-1-
1995
New Year’s Eve 1994 in the Pigeons, Stratford. The picture taken just into 1995. Myself and John, glassy eyed and grinning, hug for (perhaps) the first time. On either side, Ma (Martha) and Kate squeeze into the frame, laughing like drains at some forgotten joke. Vibrant and colourful, the picture captures the pure joy of the moment.
It’s funny to see how long my hair is, I’d genuinely forgotten, and how small we all look against the vast size of the Pigeons; the pub, like the world, seemed bigger then.
Maria
I remember this picture so well. I remember the pub, the people and, if I’m not mistaken, Love Cats by The Cure was playing loudly at the time. I’ve no idea who took the picture, or what with for that matter; I scanned it a few years back, after finding it among some old cassettes and empty Rizla packets, but I’ve no idea who might have been carrying a camera around with them in those days before cameras on phones, before mobile phones at all. So to that someone, whoever you are, it’s a good photo and I thank you.
John is slim and smiling, a proper smile and not that idiotic display of teeth he’s developed, whilst I’m happy and sickeningly young. We are in the Pigeons Pub, a huge behemoth of a place that must have looked quite spectacular in it’s prime; then the sweeping stairs up to the ballroom would still have been in place, the light fittings bright and shining, the gold paint around the ceiling vibrant against the white walls. The ballroom upstairs was now a venue for DJs, live or gay nights that thrilled the drunken enthusiasts, while the vast bar below remained a haven for thirsty indies, goths, rockers and other ne’re-do-wells. At its best it was a reliable source of good music and good company.
I’m getting away with a surprisingly short black skirt and low-cut white blouse combo that sets off the dark-eyed festive goth look with sexy intent. John carries off his t-shirt and jeans with a confident pose made easier when the said shirt isn’t fighting against his stomach. Kate and Ma are swathed in equally dark attire; the former a stylish little black number, the latter an angular mess of cloth tied at the waist with a thin belt that hung down to her fishnets and almost reached the inevitable doc martins. The picture exudes drunken bonhomie.
This was when New Year’s Eve was fun, not a forced race to drunksville via shots-on-sea, but really good fun. Admittedly the destination was often the same. However the journey seemed so much more scenic and memorable. At the time I was still able to welcome the New Year instead of bidding good riddance to the old, so 1994 was saluted with a cheery smile as I stepped forward confidently into 1995.
Ma and Kate were with me, Colin and Paul were physically with us as well but mentally the bar held their attention, as the countdown hit twelve and we hugged as the lifelong friends we would never be; I didn’t know that then, as we embraced each other with sincere affection, but how much could or would I have changed? John was standing across from me with Bob and Pete (how often will I be able to say the same thing over the years) in my eye line but unnoticed. That was until Ma pointed him out.
I should clear something up at the outset, Ma will always be Ma, both within and without of this story. Never Martha, or Mattie or Molly, but especially never, ever Martha. To be named after Martha Reeves (of Martha and the Vandellas) a Motown legend, was considered cool by some but Ma thought it a dreadfully staid name, a name for older, much older folk.
‘I’m not one of the Little Women.’ she once said.
‘Neither is Martha’ I replied.
‘But she could and should be. I’m Ma!’ She said defiantly.
‘Mattie?’ I asked mischievously
‘I’m Ma!’
‘Ok, Ma it is.’ I laughed.
Ma came into my life during my time at Queen Mary’s College in the late eighties, a Mancunian ball of energy with an opinion on anything and everything yet desperately private when it came to herself. She introduced herself to me at a fresher’s ball (a ball sounds grand yet it was little more than a Jack Daniels promotion paired with enough cheap lager to drown a small country) by explaining at length her utter contempt for Fields of the Nephilim (Moonchild was playing at the time), as ‘plastic, flour-covered, goth wannabees’.
We shared a love of ‘real’ goth and dark eyes, bonded over Sisters of Mercy and enjoyed the ‘Satanist hooker’ look that was as likely to shock as allure. We had a ‘you and me against the world’ attitude that served us well through college and beyond, despite the fact that I softened my approach and dress much more than Ma ever did. We were undoubtedly close confidantes about love, life and the pursuit of happiness yet there were areas of Ma’s life that were never shared or offered for discussion. To this day I know little or nothing about her family or her life in Manchester. Ma had a habit of making the past unimportant, a trait I know nothing about.
Over the years I saw Ma with men, she liked the lean unwashed bass player with skinny legs look or the occasional washed out ‘heroin chic’ bleached blondes and I saw her with women, she sought out ultra-feminine pretty girls, especially those who were shocked by her raw anger and attitude. I saw the meetings, the discreet exits to find somewhere quieter, the occasional break-ups and the exchange of more than a few choice words, yet her relationships were off-limits as far as opinions went and they were very much played out behind closed doors.
I don’t think Ma ever shared her thoughts on a partner or lover, male or female, be they good or bad. She was effusive when talking about my boyfriends, whether asked or not, but she never asked what I thought of her choices or discussed how she felt. I know she liked sex, but that was an opinion she could, and would, share with you at any time or place, especially if tequila was involved. However, her thoughts were not specific in nature and never invited further discussion.
Kate was also a product of the QMC networking model that seemed to require at least a working knowledge of goth music (Kate wisely hid her secret liking for the Nephilim) and a defiant cynicism of everything else. She was never as close to Ma as I was but, though they treated each other with cautious suspicion, they were fiercely defensive of one another should someone else be critical.
Kate was, and is, an elegant dresser with a cut glass accent that gives no hint of her Surrey upbringing or subsequent years in London. She attended a fee-paying school that equipped her well for passing exams but, most importantly, furnished her with an almost unbreakable self-confidence. This led to her unfortunate tendency to speak well before her brain was engaged and to be somewhat dismissive of alternative opinions. I’m still not sure if Kate is the stupidest bright person I know or the brightest stupid person; in the end it’s irrelevant as she is as loyal and kind a friend as I could ask for.
A teacher now, and a very good one by all accounts, Kate has continued to live her life in a dizzy whirl of naivety and pragmatism; still driven to impress ‘mummy and daddy’ to a ludicrous degree she nevertheless has a heart of gold and a shining light that encompasses her personality.
Ma saw John as someone with potential, not for her ‘For God’s sake no!’, but perfectly possible for me. Shy enough to be cute without being wet, a pretty boy without being effeminate, he was my type I suppose and it helped no end that he liked me. I wasn’t setting my sights low, it’s just that I like people to like me, all people, but in the realms of romance it doesn’t half take the hard work out of things. The noble pursuit of love can be a thrilling chase but it takes so much time and effort. Better to know where you stand early on and then, maybe, keep him guessing a bit. Just for sport you understand, just for the devilment.
Kate, as usual, was not quite on the same page, and barely the same planet due to the copious amount of white wine she had downed, as she pieced together the situation.
‘Who?! Oh him!’she exclaimed as she pointed with a subtlety to match her volume. ‘He’s nice.’ She laughed and winked exaggeratedly at me before taking a step towards John and his friends. ‘She likes you!’
‘Thanks Kate.’ I said with the weariness of someone who’s been through this with Kate just too often. The heavy sarcasm was well delivered, or so I thought, the tone clear.
‘It’s okay, Maria.’ Kate said as she grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the embarrassed mess that was John. ‘Go on, talk to him.’ The world failed to open up and swallow me as we shared a silence that physically hurt. John smiled without making eye contact and then shrugged as his friends stepped back into a cloud of muffled laughter. I mirrored his shrug and sipped at my half-spilled drink before speaking.
‘Sorry about that. She’s a lovely woman trapped inside the body of a twelve-year-old girl. Hard to believe she’s a teacher.’
‘It’s okay, I’m glad you came over.’ John said in a mellow calm voice that came as a surprise.
‘I was dragged across actually but now I’m here it’s okay.’ I laughed.
‘I saw you looking over.’ John now caught my eyes as he smiled.
‘Well you were staring.’ I corrected.
‘Really? Staring? I thought I was…’ John’s explanation was already wrong so I put him right.
‘You were definitely staring. Any more and I could have filed for a restraining order.’
‘I didn’t mean to…’ Again I had to intervene.
‘It’s alright I’m only joking, but you were staring.’ I laughed and saw him relax a little, this was going pretty well.
‘So what do you do?’ he asked.
‘So we’re onto jobs already, are we? I’m a civil servant if it matters.’ I said somewhat over-aggressively.
‘It’s not that it matters I was just curious. I’m a civil servant too, local government, so I don’t tend to judge other people’s career paths.’ He laughed nervously but brightened as I joined in.
I’ve always been quite defensive about my choice of work or, to be more accurate, the line of work I ended up in. Having completed my degree in English I stepped out of the exit doors of QMC with a bounce in my step that lasted until I’d almost reached the tube station, then it hit me, what do I do now? It was the big question that I’d been ignoring for quite a while, partly because I had no answer and partly because it scared me to death.
I considered studying for a Masters but my heart wasn’t in it and it was an obvious delaying tactic with the same question lying in wait at the end. I’d yet to find a job advertisement asking for a working knowledge of the life and times of Jane Austen or the symbolic importance of flowers in DH Lawrence, so increasing my expertise in these areas would not widen my opportunities in any case. I could have maybe tried harder to find a job where my talents were utilised better, or at all, but there was a pressing need for another substance: money.
I remember thinking it was a case of ‘just for now’ as I searched the job ads, a quick fix of money while I considered the long term plan and a good filler for my CV. So it was that I took my Trollope, Shakespeare and Dickens to the Department for the Environment where I had no need to look for symbolism amongst the invoices I was processing or the letters I drafted to angry members of the public; at least the grammar was good.
Over time I found my place, and a degree of comfort, in the corridors of public service, and then I found more challenging work as I rose the internal ladder into management, so much so that I stayed and, if I say so myself, thrived. Now, because I‘d been so dismissive of the job myself, I was extremely defensive with regards to the Civil Service and the people within it. I could slag off anything and everything within those walls but God forbid anyone else had a pop.
‘We’re unlikely to be the next Bonnie and Clyde but what the hell? Let’s have a drink, Kate knocked most of my last one on the floor. What do you…?’ This time he intervened.
‘Please, I’ll get these. Another wine?’
‘Why not? What have I got to lose?’ I said smiling. If only I’d known that the answer was my independence, my money and most of my sanity I’d have at least ordered a more expensive drink. As it was we hit it off like a house on fire and, like a fire doused with alcohol, we got hot and heavy quite quickly before ending as a smouldering wreck. Welcome to 1995.
John:
The Pigeons 1994 leading into 1995. A trip into the unknown or in this case, with Maria, the superunknown? Superunknown by Soundgarden allows me to play on words as I consider a song. I doubt it was played that night, although there was a lot of The Cure, Oasis and Blur, a good helping of Nirvana, and no lack of The Stone Roses and The Smiths. I have no argument with any of these but I can’t help thinking of Teenage Fanclub (the glorious Grand Prix was released this year) and Sparky’s Dream, it allows me to smile and immerse myself in the picture whilst listening to a distillation of pure joy. How can that not accord with my meeting with Maria?
New Year’s Eve in the Pigeons was a pretty good guarantee of an enjoyable night with too much beer and raucous good humour. Other than that my expectations for the night were not particularly high and they certainly did not include meeting a girl; why change the habits of a lifetime?
I’d met up with Pete and Bob in the King Edward VII earlier in the afternoon ‘to warm up’ as we liked to say; it was something of a tradition that we spent at least some of the day or evening in our local. We’d have spent longer there but they’d introduced some strange ticketing system to stop the place getting too busy and we were loath to pay to attend what was ‘our’ pub. So an early visit while it was free and then on to the ‘Pigs’ where we knew there would be a host of familiar faces and plenty of good music to see in the New year. I was in good company so how much could go wrong?
Pete and Bob, my good company, were ever-present in my life – it was hard to remember a time before I counted them as friends. In truth I had met the two ‘locals’ in the Eddy ten years earlier, I think it was during a pub quiz (which they won), after we struck up a conversation about The Smiths and whether the real genius was Johnny Marr (he is) or Morrissey (Pete and Bob are deluded). That led us onto any number of bands from The Beatles, Zeppelin, The Jam, and many others that we all loved, to our mutual hatred of The Thompson Twins and Level 42.
Bob was, and is, the more vocal of the two and in many ways the one to be wary of (if you don’t know him). Born and bred in Manor Park, East London, where he still lives, he appears to be the epitome of the West Ham fan. Proudly wrapped in claret and blue he’s not shy of sharing his love of the team with you, sharing a beer with you and sharing a song or two when drunk. This happens more than you’d think as he drinks copious amounts as often as possible.
Behind the cliché is a sharp mind the equal of any I know and a caring, thoughtful man who is deeply passionate about rights and fairness across all spectrums. Keenly observant, he’ll give you enough rope before pouncing should your mouth exceed your intellect or your opinions be found offensive. As a friend he is as loyal as you could want and a person you’d never hesitate to turn to if in trouble. I’d stress what good company he is but the amount of time I spend with him makes that self-evident.
Pete is Bob’s mirror image and the yin to his yang (or maybe the claret to his blue). Having grown up together (matching school, area, circle of friends, West Ham obsession) they had developed a strange synergy. Pete is quiet, an introspective thinker but incisive and direct with a quick wit and a wicked sense of humour. He balances Bob’s effervescent drinking persona with a measured darkness that could be mistaken for depressive if you miss the gallows humour. The two men very rarely disagree on a matter but the arguments are epic when they do, neither man willing to back down, neither man able to conceive they could be wrong. They are (mostly) a joy to be with and I can’t imagine my life without the two of them in it.
‘She’s nice but if you stare any harder she’ll think you’re a psycho,’ Bob said with an exaggerated whisper.
‘Who?’ I asked weakly.
‘Who?! Who?! You’re kidding, aren’t you? The dark haired girl in the black dress, the one with your eye imprints on her cleavage, the one…’
‘Okay, Bob, I get it and yes, I’ve looked over there a few times, but nothing more than that. She’s nice that’s all,’ I said as I turned away with fake nonchalance. I placed my drink on the bar and surveyed the room as though suddenly interested in the rest of the crowd.
‘Oh well good for you Mr ‘she’s nice that’s all’. If that’s the case, then it won’t matter that she’s coming over.’ Bob couldn’t stem the laughter anymore and I felt my body run cold with panic as I turned with my best approximation of a confident smile.
I needn’t have worried as she quickly put me at ease with a combination of self-deprecating humour and genuine warmth. I hardly noticed Bob and Pete disappearing into the crowd as we talked and laughed through the wine, beer and shots that followed. I’m rarely so relaxed so quickly, seldom so comfortable with a woman - with anyone really. When the pub refused to allow us to stay any longer it was natural that I should invite Maria home and no surprise that she said yes. No ‘back for coffee’ subterfuge was necessary, no pretence of etchings in the attic – thank Christ for that, the world isn’t ready for my Lowry on acid just yet – it was all very adult. Very drunken adults as it turned out.
Sex was fun, real life, laugh out loud fun. From my warm up act as the reverse Houdini of the bra to a bring the house down ‘this way/that way/this way’ condom application (a routine I perfected back in Ilford circa 1989) we both laughed like lunatics and fucked like the drunken fools we were. The heavy sleep only wine can guarantee followed and we were an item from the off. 1995 was a year to anticipate and enjoy, Maria was a girl to savour and a woman to keep.
As I push the button to move on to the next picture my smile fades slightly and I go back to the photo. There is nothing wrong as I look into the frame closely, nothing that is new in my view and nothing that makes me play a different song. If anything the Deep Purple song brings a reminder of another day and another memory. The Classic Line-Up reformed (again) in 1993 and I went along with Pete, Bob and the one and only Jock. A quite remarkable concert it was only improved by the company and that is what I notice now about the photo: Jock isn’t there.
JOCK
Taking time to think about the man is only right and proper and it shames me that no matter how often he comes to mind it is not enough. Simply put, Jock was the nicest, most decent person I’ve ever met and I feel lucky to have shared time with him. A Scot who lived most of his life in Carlisle, he had an accent that was distinctly Cumbrian, but with that small Scottish lilt that made it easy to spot wherever you were. I met him at college and it was here that I first heard him described as gentle giant, a description that was so fitting and, over the years, so often used that it became an unavoidable cliché.
It was also on our first meeting, at a fresher’s ball that was predictably not ours, that I heard him referred to as ‘the sponge’, a term I found somewhat bizarre until, after a few nights out with the man, I became aware of his unbelievable capacity for alcohol; he could seemingly dispatch gallons of the stuff without getting drunk. As the years went on I realised, that this was not entirely true, it was just that he stayed in a way better condition than the rest of us, thus appearing sober.
I shared the first of my student digs with Jock and he was as easy a man to share space with as you could imagine, his only problem being not able to find a bed to house his ample frame; he often complained, in the nicest way possible, that sleeping with his legs hanging over the end of the bed was the cause of his back pain. It probably had more to do with his years playing rugby as a forward with a ‘hard but fair’ ethos, but the bed didn’t help.
In the eight years I knew Jock I went along to rugby games, gigs and many, many pubs and yet I can’t remember ever exchanging a cross word with the man, although I did, not so lightly, mock him for his eclectic music tastes that ranged from Deep Purple and AC/DC to Kylie Minogue and Tiffany; he never argued but would respond with a blush and a cheeky grin. He could snap most trees in two yet he rarely broke his temper.
Jock set the bar for behaviour and was in many ways the archetypal gentleman in most situations, yet his one failing was with women; he found them fascinating yet completely unfathomable. It wasn’t that he acted differently, if anything he was charm personified, a man of manners and a paragon of virtue; it’s simply that he had no idea that this could elicit a positive reaction. To recognise a reaction from the opposite sex he required a flare and fireworks combination while someone shouted ‘she likes you’ in his ear.
Seeing as we, his friends, were not prepared to enter into the world of pyrotechnics, Jock remained oblivious to his effect on women.
‘A tall, dark haired, handsome man, so I’m told, with excellent manners and a bucket load of charm. You treat women with absolute respect bordering on adoration. What part of this package makes you doubt that Clare like you?’ I said laughing but also with a dash of exasperation. Clare was simply another in a long line of girls who thought he was wonderful while he refused to believe it.
‘She’s not interested John; she was just chatting,’ Jock said with a shake of the head.
‘She was chatting to you Jock. The fluttering eyelashes, the hair flicks and her insistence on touching you more than most people do in a contact sport should be some sort of indicator. She really likes you,’ I explained slowly as though talking to a five-year-old.
‘Maybe she likes you?’ Jock argued feebly.
‘I’m not sure she was aware I was there. Judging by the fact she ignored every comment I made and refused to lose eye contact with you, not that you seemed to notice. I think your indifference actually makes her like you more. Why don’t you buy her a drink and talk to her again?’ I argued.
‘You really think she liked me then.’ Jock finally seemed to get it and it was then that shyness kicked in, the painful shyness with women that began with a bright blush, a clearing of the throat and then finally the mumbled. ‘Okay, well maybe later. Another drink, John?’
I lived that particular scenario a hundred times, always with the same non-result, and it was one of the few things that could get you angry about Jock; he desperately wanted a girlfriend, or even a girl on more temporary basis, and yet, despite the myriad of women prepared to take on either role, he remained paralysed by shyness and infinitely alone. I understand that shyness cannot be thrown aside as and when you want, yet I still see Jock’s shyness as a tragedy.
In 1993 I got a call from Jock’s brother to say that he’d been taken into hospital while visiting his family in Carlisle. He asked me to tell his work that he’d be off for at least a week yet he remained vague about the reason. I was shocked by the concept of Jock being ill at all, never mind something that would require hospital, and more than concerned by the blankness in his brother’s voice that told you there was so much more to say that he wasn’t. It was the start of the change.
We shared the early loss of our fathers, and both of them to heart attacks, but Jock carried physical reminder along with the psychological; the genetic weakness that had stopped his father’s heart was present in his. Jock treated this as a minor inconvenience, so much so that he never told anyone, not even me, and I wish he had now. It’s not that I could have changed his life, I just might have been able to alter it just enough to make a difference. I don’t know, but I didn’t have any idea and so I couldn’t even try.
The reason for his hospitalisation, which turned out to be for the best part of two weeks, was diabetes; I don’t know the cause but I can’t help feeling his many nights as ‘the sponge’ can’t have helped. It hit Jock hard, initially because of the daily injections and blood sugar tests, and then because his diet had to change, and his drinking. I bought into the new food regimen as a fitness kick but mainly as support, though I can’t deny indulging in the sweeter things in life when I was away, and we both got quite used to it. What he couldn’t get right was his drinking.
Alcohol was the only vice he bought into and, though he adapted to low sugar lager in bottles, he couldn’t adapt to the change in volume required. On this point he was adamant: it was his life, his choice, and so when we went out drinking he followed and matched us round for round. Now though, a new experience for him, he was getting drunk first and, if going too far, lapsing into incoherence due to his sugar levels; too many nights were ending in a cab ride home, trying to feed him his ‘emergency’ mars bar as he ranted gibberish and spasmed alarmingly.
I spoke to him often and his day after remorse was heart-breaking. He would be a paragon of virtue, eating well, drinking plenty of fluids and taking it easy, but only ‘til the next time. They became less often. He was not completely reckless, but it was clear he wasn’t going to curtail his social life by abstaining. And, behind this strain, was a heart not fit for purpose and struggling against this new series of body shocks. His brother later, far too late, told me that Jock, once he knew about his heart, took a fatalistic view of his life. He thought it unlikely he’d live long so he was going to enjoy it. I look back now at his sky dives, bungee jumps, Formula One style of driving and his no-holds-barred sport participation and I wince. It was enough to trouble the strongest of hearts.
So to June 1994 and a cricket match. I bowed out due to my loathing of the game. Jock attended with some friends from work. He was in his own flat now, a nice place in Ilford that he shared with an old rugby pal, and he set off from there with a cool box full of lager and some sun cream as protection against the hot day’s rays. By all accounts the cricket passed almost unnoticed as the guys drank and laughed through the day; Jock didn’t seem too affected, other than getting drunk more quickly than anyone expected, and he made his way home without incident. His flatmate Chris thought he looked ‘tired and emotional’ on his return and was unsurprised he headed to bed, he wasn’t to know that when Jock closed his eyes that night he would not open them again.
I hope he slept through it. I’m told he probably did. That is the only comfort I can draw from that horrible, horrible weekend. The phone call from Chris still sends chills down my spine when I think about it and, to be honest, I try not to think about Jock’s last days too much because I find it just too upsetting. If ever there was a true sentiment of ‘rather me then him’ it is in the case of Jock. The world had no business, no right, taking him so young and if there is some God responsible it is no God of mine.
That June day marked a change in my view of life, and death, that has scarred me ever since. The bar he set, as a man, a person, a human being, is still the ultimate in my eyes, but seeing the reward he was granted altered my outlook. I think I became more cynical, more selfish, more aware of getting something today because tomorrow may be too late. I like to see the best in people yet any gentle generosity has been poisoned and I really don’t know what’s left.
There will not be many days in my life where I think I will have lived it better than Jock would have and that pains me. If my own father’s death gave me pause for thought Jock’s took my consideration to a new level. Dull, brain numbing, work is not worthy of my time, not beyond the bare minimum, not because I’m too good for that work, or any other, but because I only have this one life and it is so, so short. How can I justify having these days that should have been owned by someone else if I waste them all?
Jock doesn’t appear in any of the photos. It’s impossible for him to have played an active part in these twenty-one years, yet his shadow hangs over any photo in which I appear. I’m wondering whether, for that very reason, I should suggest including something with the two of us; there are plenty after all. But no, today is not the day, not the time.
To remember the man, his legacy, his friendship is to bring my anger out into the open, an anger with the world in general and a profound sadness that is dangerous on a night with wine and song ahead. As I pause before clicking onto the next picture, I find the cover for AC/DC Back in Black. Jock adored this album, he thought it was about the closest thing to the perfect rock album you could find, and I play ‘You shook me all night long’.
Now for three minutes or so there is nothing but a smile on my face as I allow the remembrance. I remember the video, a predictable piece of sexist nonsense so popular in the eighties, and remember how much Jock fancied the main woman in the video. I can see him watching it with feigned disinterest and a wry smile. I smile again as know I she’d have liked him and he’d have known nothing of it. A man of substance, he is dreadfully missed.