Tin Man(39)

I go for a run every afternoon, avoiding the busy hours of lunch or the end of the day when the city is on the move and obstructing the pavements. Along the river is my preferred route, a loop from Southwark Bridge to Hungerford, along to St Paul’s, a struggle up Ludgate Hill, cutting through to Old Bailey and through to Barts. I stop at Barts. Sit on a bench outside and think about G. Taxi drivers sometimes join me and drink a takeaway coffee from the café opposite. They ask me where I’ve run from and I tell them. They say, I used to be fit, but I’ve let myself go. I say, You’re never too old to start. Some tell me about a relative who died in Barts. If they look kind I tell them about G.

I speak to G’s parents, the first time ever. I wanted to make sure they’d received the crate of things I sent to them. They are civil. They thank me but I’m not after thanks. I’m tying up loose ends, that’s all. They say they may sell his canvases and easels, I say they should do what’s best for them. They say they want to remember him as he was. I say that’s a good thing. They ask me how I am. I say, OK. It’s a short phone call, but one of truce.

At 3 a.m., I awake suddenly. And I’m a child standing at the door to Mabel’s bedroom. I remember it as the first night I arrived in Oxford and in the darkness my composure had given way to fear.

What should I call you? I said to her.

What’s that?

What should I call—

– Is that what’s bothering you, Michael?

I don’t really know you, you see— – Mabel. You know my name is Mabel. You don’t have to call me anything else but that, if you don’t want to.

She said, We’re like a couple of dogs, you and me. And we’ll have to sniff around each other until we’re sure of each other. But I love you. And that’s a good start. And I’m very glad you’re here.

I walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. Looked out over the churchyard.

Can you see anything? she asked.

No, not really, I said. It’s dark. Just trees and snow.

No ghosts tonight? she said.

Are there usually any? I said.

Would that be a comfort?

I think it might, I said. And I was about to turn away when she said, You can get in here, with me, if you want. If you’re cold. If the suggestion isn’t too silly for a twelve-year-old boy.

And she pulled back the covers, said, You can stay that side and I’ll stay over here. And we won’t touch. We’ll just be company for one another, and company at any age is good.



Oxford


I’ve taken a room a short stroll down from Folly Bridge. It’s a fairly large room and I’ve got my own bathroom. It’s more luxurious than I expected, and my landlady, Mrs Green, isn’t nosy or eager to get rid of me during the day. She likes crosswords and reads out clues to me, she likes me being around.

Some days, I see little of the outside world. I sit looking out of the window, peaceful, at ease, this familiar city walking by. I’ve a cold I can’t shift, but I’m not worried. When I’ve felt weak I’ve rested.

I’ve not seen Annie or Ellis yet. Fate hasn’t intervened but I suspect Fate is waiting for me. I feel ashamed by my years of silence, but I can’t imagine this next chapter and I don’t know how to start it. I’ll wait a little longer. I need to be strong to face them.

Today, the rains have made the river fat and the towpath muddy. On the opposite bank, a rowing crew is walking back to their boathouse. The wind is keen and is blowing cold, and cloud shadows whip across the Thames. I’m not prepared for this weather. My lack of self-care shocks me at times.

Long Bridges bathing place is up ahead and I’m drawn to it instinctively by the skip of my heart. Been years since I was here and its bleak desertion makes it hard for me to visualise the place as it was, because its gilded memory is one of sunshine and laughter and summer ease. The concrete sides of the swimming areas are still visible, the steps too, disappearing now into the churning brown river water. They’ve taken away the diving boards, but the changing rooms are still there, boarded up against trespassers. I can almost see myself as a boy.

There was another place I used to go to swim in my twenties where men could sunbathe nude. It was on the River Cherwell and I preferred to go there alone.

Throughout the long winter months, I remained celibate. Focusing on work and working late, and finding my release in grubby magazines I’d get in the post. But from spring onwards, I was on perpetual lookout for the first warm days when the river bank would come alive with bodies, young and old.

I’d undress by my towel – slowly, of course – surrounded by students and grizzly dons, and I’d tease them all. I’d swim out to the middle of the river and turn on my back and float, till I knew all eyes were on me. Only then would I come back in, clamber out and dry off in the sun.

I used to be a mystery there. Four summers later, though, had any of those men got together and talked, there would’ve been little mystery left. I’d been handed around and scrutinised like a well-polished piece of agate. If I felt someone’s gaze on me, I’d stare back at them, my confidence crude and shameless. I played with them. A dare was what it was. Your move now, I seemed to be saying. And if they got dressed whilst looking at me, I’d give them a few minutes before I’d follow. I’ve walked across the quads of Lincoln, Christ’s, Brasenose, pretending to borrow books, pretending to study. I looked young then, and my young was audacious. I lay back in those tiny dusty rooms and let the summer dusk unbutton me.