How to Fly

Sixteen

Henry Square had the weary grandeur of a retired colonel. It stood defiant against the encroaching council flats. The streets leading from it quickly degenerated into dark alleys, places where no civilised man would dip his toe or, if he did, would need to be careful not to stab it on a discarded syringe. But in Henry Square, old ladies still stopped to pass the time, complaining about Lambeth Council. The square itself was lined with maples, vast statues in memory of the country, of Latchely. The three-storey house was tightly bound with yellowish brick and stucco architraves and quoins in dazzling white. On the outside things were impressive. The autumn too was holding up. It was colder now, but that morning the October sun peered over the pitched slate of the Victorian houses. The air tasted of new terms at new schools.

The packed Mercedes was not much of a car for moving, so Mike was behind me, bringing up some of the bigger boxes and the printer in the van. I would collect the rest if I moved out properly. For now, I was a journeyman, a wayfarer, coming to London to seek my fortune, with all I possessed crammed into my tiny car.

I parked on the corner of the square and waited. There was no activity in the house. A boy in a school blazer came out from next door and hauled his bag towards the bus stops on the main road. Mike pulled up and pointed at the quivering leaves of the maple closest to the house. ‘We should be at the coast, mate,’ he said. He bounded round to the back of the van and opened the tailgate. Pulling out a cardboard box, he said, ‘Come on, don’t stand there. Let’s take a look at this shag pad.’

I mounted the front steps and slotted the key into the great black door. I needed visitor’s parking permits, but when I called into the echoing house there was nobody else at home. We unloaded the boxes onto the black and white tiles of the hall and then found parking meters around the corner.
My new place was the basement flat. There was a communal kitchen on the ground floor, shared by the other four tenants, which I was welcome to use; but the flat was self contained. Mike had a quick snoop around the kitchen then we lugged bags of clothing down the steep carpeted steps from the main house. The bedroom had the faintly dank smell of a wet flannel. I hadn’t noted it on my first visit when I’d been shown round by Robert, the gangling half of the couple who lived in the top floor. He had said I was very decisive.

I dropped the bag onto the bed. It was a little dark even with the lights on. Mike flicked the flimsy brass handle on the chest of drawers repeatedly upwards. Each time it fell back into place with a clink. ‘Why’d you choose this place?’

I stepped in front of him and shoved the reluctant drawer back into the chest. All of the handles jingled. ‘London’s the only choice for a man in my position.’ I moved across to the window and tried to squeeze the curtains more tightly against the end of the plastic rail, to allow light into the room. The curtains were in some fake velvet material in the colour of storm clouds. They shrugged back to their original position as soon as I withdrew my hand.

‘No, I meant this basement, and in Vauxhall, for God’s sake.’ He followed me out into the sitting area of the flat. ‘I mean, it’s not exactly up to your normal standards,’ he continued.

‘Thanks. It was affordable.’

‘But you’re loaded.’

‘And still paying the mortgage. And school fees.’

I picked up a wash bag and carried it into the narrow bathroom and he squeezed in too, beside the aquamarine plastic tub. The toilet was so close to the foot of the bath that I could have sat there with my feet dangling over the gold chrome taps. There was a brownish sediment, so I pushed the flush handle. Fresher water flooded the bowl. Then a grinding sound made us both start. Mike pulled a face. Beside the toilet, an electronic macerator was labouring to pump the waste away. It was loud as a chainsaw in the confined space. I thought about the heated towel rails in Latchely.

‘This is a temporary arrangement,’ I said, as the noise died.

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s close to the A3 so I can shoot down to the office . . . and see the boys.’

‘Sure. How’s Phillip coping without you today?’

‘In fact, he’s not there. He’s had to go to Edinburgh to see his father,’ I said, laying out my shaving gear on the edge of the basin.

‘Leaving the business unattended?’

‘His father’s sick.’

Oh, right. Is he all alone in the family mansion?’

‘I don’t think so. I’ve never seen it.’

‘And he’s your business partner. Strange.’

‘Not really. Anyway, it’s just for today. I’ll be in the office tomorrow.’

We piled my clothes onto the bed and dumped the boxed stuff in the living area. I rummaged around and found a kettle and some tea bags. Mike pulled open the fridge and found nothing but an open carton of long-life orange juice, so he trotted off to the corner shop. While he was gone I examined an ancient music system. Someone had left it rigged up in the lounge. The turntable was protected by a smoked glass cover. The coating of dust was furry to my finger as I traced a line. I wiped it away with my sleeve, then blew and shook the dust from my jumper and sneezed. The stereo had buttons for choosing cassettes, tuner or vinyl. When I pushed one in another popped out. I found a radio station. Welcome to London.

Mike came wobbling down the stairs with a tree in a pot. A crinkly plastic bag was hanging from his wrist.

‘What the fuck’s that?’ I said.

‘Amy sent it for you. It’s a Japanese acer.’

‘For God’s sake! I’m free from gardening now.’ The spindly leaves were reaching out, as if Amy were trying to touch me.

‘You never did any gardening. Anyway, you said that place was your spiritual home, so here’s a reminder . . . something to keep you company.’

Mike apparently didn’t know whether to envy my new status or to feel sorry for me. I shared that uncertainty. He shifted the weight of the earthenware pot onto his other arm and smiled an awkward smile.

‘Er, thanks,’ I said. I unhooked the shopping bag with the carton of milk from his hand while he balanced the tree against his hip and leaned back as far as his spine would allow, to counterbalance it. I scanned the room. It was already occupied by a sofa bed, the antique stereo, two mismatched armchairs and the unpacked boxes. Now Mike was innocently trying to carry his wife in too. He stood awkwardly with the tree sprouting over his head. Its mass of fine foliage looked like he was wearing an auburn wig.

‘I told Amy you said there’s a balcony,’ he said.

‘It’s a basement.’ I went over to the glass panelled door in the kitchenette and struggled with the three iron bolts. Then I led Mike out onto the small bay. It was like a moat, separating the house from the road and letting a glimpse of light into the basement. It was about three feet wide and fifteen feet long, with white paint peeling from the walls on the house side and bare brickwork opposite. Heavy bolted iron downpipes ran to a gully on the concrete floor. About fifteen feet above us sharp black railings speared the air, protecting the house from the street.

Mike eased the pot through his arms to plant the tree with a thud in the middle of the space. ‘Even better, you’ve got a courtyard.’ He rubbed his legs. ‘That’s a heavy bastard.’ Then he looked around. ‘You could keep a few boards and sails out here.’

I went and collected my jacket and the two teacups and we stood drinking in that functionless space. Part of me wished he hadn’t bothered to come up that day. I inspected the acer. Its fire-red leaves caught the light in diffused colours. They were like frivolous painted fingers, stroking the air in an invitation to secret places. It was a message from Amy, but the tree itself was innocent of that knowledge. It was a tiny maple gazing up from its hole at the giant ones in the square. Perhaps I’d let it stay. ‘Say thanks to Amy for me.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ said Mike.

I pulled a cigarette packet and lighter from my jacket. ‘I’m going to play.’

‘You’ve started smoking again?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘Your lungs won’t thank you when you get out on the water.’

‘Well there’s something to worry about. I don’t care any more about preserving the quality of coffee.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

He grunted. The gaps in the mortar were pointed with many cork coloured stubs, another relic of the previous tenants. Mike pulled one out, then after a quick glance around the ground stuffed it back into the wall. ‘Another use for your courtyard,’ he said.

‘I can smoke inside if I want.’

Mike said it was time for him to go and I saw how dark the flat had become. I fought an urge to stop him, to apologise for my mood, to suggest that we try out the local pub. But the time had come for him to return home to his wife and children.
I watched him clamber into the Renault. Mike heaved the door to with a thud. He started to pull away, then stopped the van with a jolt. He turned to face me. The electric window slid down. ‘Shit, look!’ he said. I walked round to where he was pointing. There was an extra giant yellow hubcap bolted to the wheel of the Mercedes. I had been clamped.