Between the lines
Jeremy Clarke
Affter the pub it's all back to Sharon's or a party. An odd juxtaposition of two prominent local constituencies in attendance: representatives from the newage-traveller, hop-head, pill-freak community, plus a cross-section of Sharon's straight-dressing. materialistic, sex-maniac crowd. Tonight, Sharon's team mainly consists of a phalanx of boyfriends past and present, plus a few of her younger brother James's rugby mates. That's the plus side of illegal drugs for you, I suppose: they bring together for elevated conversation groups of people who wouldn't otherwise mix, thus strengthening the bonds of civil society. Or in this rural neck of the woods, it passes for one.
The new-agers have brought with them a man from Ghana, resplendent in national costume, who's never heard of Jerry Rawlings. He's brought a large drum, though, which he slaps away at, now languidly, now urgently, as if dangerous, unseen forces were on the move. At first, his shamanistic drumming has to compete with the soundtrack from the film Saturday Night Fever, emanating from the widescreen television set beside him. So at one point we have the new-age-traveller contingent bobbing their heads and digging the drum, man, while we materialist straights disco-dance around the room, singing along to the classic hit `Stayin' Alive'.
Sharon's ex-boyfriend and local hard man Trevor is there, weeping histrionically. (Of all her ex-boyfriends, Trevor is the only one she has ever entertained second thoughts about.) He's blubbing because he's just heard that his nephew has been killed in a car accident. Trevor's extended family is so large, there must be a member of it dying every week, but the news had hit him hard apparently. 'I'm trying to be strong,' he sobs. 'My family want to see me being strong for them. But it's hard. It's so, so hard to be strong all the time. If any of my family saw me like this, not strong, they'd be shocked. Shocked.' Here, his voice cracks and he started grizzling again, but it doesn't stop him from taking the floor with the rest of us for `Stayin' Alive' — the only adult I've seen dance and cry at the same time.
Then we're all back round the table again, snorting lines of amphetamine (cut and chopped with my gym membership card), watching Trevor cry. bet you never thought you'd see a bloke like me in this state,' he says to me, suddenly composed. 'You see, Jer, it might not look it, but I'm quite a soft person underneath. It's just that .. . 'And here, with that unerring dramatic instinct of his for that point of a sentence where best to begin the emotional collapse, the lower lip starts quivering again. Instead of building houses for a living, Trevor really should have gone on the stage. We're always telling him that. He earns far more as a builder, granted. But is he happy? No. Between lines of speed, I sit back to enjoy Trevor's weeping tough guy performance. 'It's just that — squeak — how can I be strong — squeak — when underneath I'm feeling — sob — so weak.' Honestly, it's like being at The Last Pantomime at Little Griddling.
One of Sharon's current boyfriends, Micky, is also there at the table. Micicy's got a famous dad and talks about him too much. I forget his dad's name or what instrument he plays — banjo or something — but he's big on the folk scene. Tours the USA, does Nashville, the lot. I sometimes listen because Micky tells it not because he's boasting but because he's genuinely pleased for his dad, who for many years prior to his sudden fame and fortune was a double-glazing sales representative.
'Feel my biceps,' says Micky. I feel them. As builder's biceps go they are small, but well-defined and hard, even when he isn't flexing them. Then Micky tells me that he ate a fly agaric mushroom before he came out. (Fly agaric mushrooms are the red ones with white spots you see in Victorian children's books with fairies lounging on them.) They are supposed to be hallucinogenic, but the only alteration in his consciousness so far, Micky says, is that he is seeing everything — me, Trey, the table — upside-down. Then he starts telling me about his old man's latest tour of the USA. He's in Detroit at the moment. The fact I appear upside-down to him is just enough to keep me interested in what he has to say, and I listen to his account of his old man's exploits for longer than usual.
I don't remember falling asleep, but when I woke up it was daylight and some of the new-agers were still skinning up joints and the Ghanaian bloke was slapping his drum with undiminished vigour.
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