#7: ULTRASOUND
"Best Wishes"
Single released: February 1998
He
walked a lot, and nothing would stop him walking until the thing which
eventually did stop him. He liked to walk all the way to and from work,
or at least the London bit of it, from Denmark Hill to Victoria Station.
Apart from one major bend around the Oval it was a fairly straight line
from Camberwell Green to the coach stop opposite the station from where
he would board the Oxford Tube.
He got used to the walk but couldn't say that he always enjoyed it. The
walk was if anything more out of emotional necessity than pleasure. If
the coach to Oxford got stuck in the Westway/Savoy Circus/Park Royal
rush-hour crawl then that too was advantageous, since it delayed him
further from going home.
There was no getting around it. He didn't really want to go back to Oxford and the reason why he didn't was because they basically weren't getting on. They weren't openly hostile towards each other but there was a certain, cold formality about their doings at home. There was an air of sullen resentment on her part that she couldn't have done better, and he didn't really blame her for that; so much of it was his doing.
And it wasn't even intentional; it was just the sad, smouldering realisation that, all these years down the line, they didn't have very much in common with each other. They were both wanting fundamentally different things from life.
There was no getting around it. He didn't really want to go back to Oxford and the reason why he didn't was because they basically weren't getting on. They weren't openly hostile towards each other but there was a certain, cold formality about their doings at home. There was an air of sullen resentment on her part that she couldn't have done better, and he didn't really blame her for that; so much of it was his doing.
And it wasn't even intentional; it was just the sad, smouldering realisation that, all these years down the line, they didn't have very much in common with each other. They were both wanting fundamentally different things from life.
Their
early promise had twice fizzled out like spent lighters. Now he dozed
on the living room sofa, while she occupied the whole of the double bed
next door because due to things to do with skin sensitivity and possibly
even breathing that was the way it had been agreed. He'd get up at 4:48
a.m. precisely to shave, wash, get dressed, prepare his own lunch and
leave as quietly as possible at 5:37 a.m. so as not to disturb her
sleep. Separated lives.
It was limited; it had to
be. He did his imbecilic best because even when you've had it all
gruffly taken from you it's nice to be nice. But his actual life seemed
far outside any scope that Oxford could offer him. He was a man of
London, of activity, of nowness, of all this new music and art that she
staunchly refused to understand, or so he thought because the way he was
he was fucking useless at recognising and interpreting the behaviour of
other human beings.
In
fact she had probably been a lot more open to things, if only he'd had
the capacity to open himself up more. If she had been the right person
he would have done that easily. At the time he considered her the right
person though knowing to his bones that it was wrong. You only recognise
these things in long-term retrospect.
He couldn't sell dreams or visions to her. Others could, though, most notably her boss at work, a generous, open-hearted, interested and funny man who made her compilation tapes and could talk her into liking anything from surf rock to speed garage. If her boss hadn't been gay and happily spoken for, he would have had it.
He didn't get it. He had all and arguably more of these capacities, but he couldn't or wouldn't use them. He'd almost fucking apologise to her for liking something, and she'd just glare at him wearily.
He couldn't sell dreams or visions to her. Others could, though, most notably her boss at work, a generous, open-hearted, interested and funny man who made her compilation tapes and could talk her into liking anything from surf rock to speed garage. If her boss hadn't been gay and happily spoken for, he would have had it.
He didn't get it. He had all and arguably more of these capacities, but he couldn't or wouldn't use them. He'd almost fucking apologise to her for liking something, and she'd just glare at him wearily.
They
didn't get each other, and things were tolerated and to a degree
enjoyed, especially when they were out of, and preferably a very long
way away from, the house, but that was it; until maybe two months before
it happened and then suddenly the spark came back, flashing brilliantly
before being brutally snuffed out forever by disease.
But that was looking three years ahead. As things were "now," he set about his life which, away from Oxford, wasn't a bad life, if not an especially great one. At work particularly, more colleagues did seem to get what he was trying to go on about. One of them, a female consultant about a decade older than himself, asked to borrow his copy of Stockhausen's Momente, and then Philip Glass' Low Symphony.
But that was looking three years ahead. As things were "now," he set about his life which, away from Oxford, wasn't a bad life, if not an especially great one. At work particularly, more colleagues did seem to get what he was trying to go on about. One of them, a female consultant about a decade older than himself, asked to borrow his copy of Stockhausen's Momente, and then Philip Glass' Low Symphony.
They
got very friendly. Sometimes after work when he'd embark on his long
walk to halfway home, she'd run up beside him and they'd walk up
Camberwell New Road together. They spoke like happy fourteen-year-olds
who'd just grown out of chewing gum. They clearly had something for each
other; it would have taken only one mutually agreeable move for the
decisive break to be made.
But he hesitated, or so it seemed, and the moment moved on until it had vapourised over the horizon. In fact he had his doubts she was absolutely right. Three months of mad fun and bugger all to say thereafter. It wasn't what he wanted. They remained friendly enough and he'd sometimes stay overnight in her spare bedroom rather than head back to Oxford, which was okay but there was never anything more to it than that, and he thought she quite respected him as a result. Oh and she had a young son from a previous relationship whom he never saw. If anything had developed he would have had to take that into account, be the good stepfather et cetera and taking the memories of his own father to mind he was deeply uncertain about his own capabilities. It most likely would not have lasted anyway.
But he hesitated, or so it seemed, and the moment moved on until it had vapourised over the horizon. In fact he had his doubts she was absolutely right. Three months of mad fun and bugger all to say thereafter. It wasn't what he wanted. They remained friendly enough and he'd sometimes stay overnight in her spare bedroom rather than head back to Oxford, which was okay but there was never anything more to it than that, and he thought she quite respected him as a result. Oh and she had a young son from a previous relationship whom he never saw. If anything had developed he would have had to take that into account, be the good stepfather et cetera and taking the memories of his own father to mind he was deeply uncertain about his own capabilities. It most likely would not have lasted anyway.
There
were others at his work with whom he also got on very well indeed. One
in particular came to his mind. They got on like a house on fire and
would always visit each other's office to yap about music and life.
After an eventual while they realised that they were slowly falling in
love with each other. If only they both hadn't already and separately
been spoken for then who knows. But there was a line and he never
crossed it. As uncomfortable as things in Oxford were, he still loved
that woman, or was convinced that he did.
All
of it in essence contributed to the necessary mechanism of keeping him
away from his home as maximally as possible. Superficially she didn't
seem to object to that herself. She was already taking on the odd
evening and weekend shift at her work; maybe she was likewise seeking to
spend as much time away from home as she could.
So he walked most of the time. He'd have his radio walkman on as he prowled the streets of Vauxhall and Pimlico. Music radio, usually on the BBC local station then known as Greater London Radio, which seemed to agree with him most of the time - principally because it underlined the reality of his being in London, being a Londoner - and sometimes Tommy Boyd on Talk Radio, masterfully outarguing and out-theorising the nincompoops who generally telephoned him.
So he walked most of the time. He'd have his radio walkman on as he prowled the streets of Vauxhall and Pimlico. Music radio, usually on the BBC local station then known as Greater London Radio, which seemed to agree with him most of the time - principally because it underlined the reality of his being in London, being a Londoner - and sometimes Tommy Boyd on Talk Radio, masterfully outarguing and out-theorising the nincompoops who generally telephoned him.
He'd read, as well, in particular the book 253,
adapted from an interactive website designed and written by the
expatriate Torontonian Geoff Ryman, who worked in Lambeth and maybe
commuted to Oxford, which describes a moment in the Friday morning
rush-hour in a Tube train, every inhabitant of that train in exactly 253
words.
Not much happens in 253, except the one huge thing that happens at its end. But he'd read elements of that book, over and over, and got a thin but incisive premonition of something mortal looming ahead, patiently waiting to happen to him.
(Or perhaps not mortal at all; a wiser man than he would have immediately recognised and grasped the book's impending signifiers - Toronto, Lambeth - but a lot of the time you don't realise that something big is going to happen until it has actually happened.)
Not much happens in 253, except the one huge thing that happens at its end. But he'd read elements of that book, over and over, and got a thin but incisive premonition of something mortal looming ahead, patiently waiting to happen to him.
(Or perhaps not mortal at all; a wiser man than he would have immediately recognised and grasped the book's impending signifiers - Toronto, Lambeth - but a lot of the time you don't realise that something big is going to happen until it has actually happened.)
Then
there was that song he'd hear on the afternoon show on Radio 1 - it was
their single of the week - and it sounded like the final section of an
even longer song, and it was all about saying goodbye, in many places
like a hymn with its church organ and polite choral harmonies, but then
it explodes like it's going to be the last song anyone ever sings,
before the driver fails to awaken, and that's all there was - of 253's
three survivors, only one seems to be a flesh-and-blood human being;
another is a literal walking ghost and the third is not human at all -
and as the back road of Westminster led him sharply towards Politico's
bookshop the song made him shudder, confirm that he was marked.
The next few months were uneasy for that reason. But he continued to contrive, with her agreement, to spend more time in London, especially Saturdays - what a lamentable countdown from the Saturday mornings of not that old when they'd walk down to Oxford station together, board the train to Paddington, get the newspaper (the Daily Mail - if only he'd seen the signs right there and then) and have a proper day out together - and that countdown steadily dwindled to the time when, on Saturday 25 October 1998, not long after he'd visited the dentist and paid forty pounds to get his fillings sorted out, and then went and purchased the second Placebo album, WITHOUT YOU I'M NOTHING, from the HMV on Cornmarket Street, because she was actually, and slightly surprisingly, a big fan of Placebo and they'd missed the last issue of Select magazine where there was a big interview with the group and if you're in town Saturday, can you stop off at the music bookshop on Denmark Hill and see if they still have copies?
The next few months were uneasy for that reason. But he continued to contrive, with her agreement, to spend more time in London, especially Saturdays - what a lamentable countdown from the Saturday mornings of not that old when they'd walk down to Oxford station together, board the train to Paddington, get the newspaper (the Daily Mail - if only he'd seen the signs right there and then) and have a proper day out together - and that countdown steadily dwindled to the time when, on Saturday 25 October 1998, not long after he'd visited the dentist and paid forty pounds to get his fillings sorted out, and then went and purchased the second Placebo album, WITHOUT YOU I'M NOTHING, from the HMV on Cornmarket Street, because she was actually, and slightly surprisingly, a big fan of Placebo and they'd missed the last issue of Select magazine where there was a big interview with the group and if you're in town Saturday, can you stop off at the music bookshop on Denmark Hill and see if they still have copies?
That
overcast Saturday morning he got on the Oxford-to-Paddington train
alone and then made his way to Knightsbridge, where he needed to get a
haircut. Either just before or just after visiting his hairdressers, he
stopped off at the Harrods branch of Waterstones to buy a copy of
Michael Holroyd's biography of Lytton Strachey - also at her request. He
walked back through various winding back streets of Knightsbridge in
order to reach the main road. The next stop was Denmark Street and for
that he needed to get on the number 10 bus currently loading up across
the road, just in front of Knightsbridge Barracks. He had his Discman on
by now and it was playing the first track of Root by Thurston
Moore. He wanted to get this done as quickly as possible so ran across
the street to get the number 10 bus, not seeing the number 52 bus which
had abruptly appeared from behind the parked truck on his side.
*
*
*
*
*
*
He could have taken six months off work on full pay. Under sceptical pressure from her, he was extremely reluctantly back at work in the New Year of 1999. He was pitifully unequipped and unready for that and it took him over sixteen professional years and countless dead ends and wrong turns to pick up from beneath where he'd left off. But still he couldn't, and didn't, blame her. This was his failing, and even after she caught the disease and died, when her entire family immediately disowned and detached him from their existence, it took him a few more years and experiences before he realised that, all along, it had never been his fucking fault.
*
*
*
*
*
He could have taken six months off work on full pay. Under sceptical pressure from her, he was extremely reluctantly back at work in the New Year of 1999. He was pitifully unequipped and unready for that and it took him over sixteen professional years and countless dead ends and wrong turns to pick up from beneath where he'd left off. But still he couldn't, and didn't, blame her. This was his failing, and even after she caught the disease and died, when her entire family immediately disowned and detached him from their existence, it took him a few more years and experiences before he realised that, all along, it had never been his fucking fault.
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