Douglas, philanthropist, explorer and former mayor of this city, sat two punk people with bright-coloured hair, dressed in leather far more bizarre than his own and eating fish and chips from paper bags.
John went round the square, leaving by the third exit of the roundabout which was Nevin Street. Neon digits on top of the CitWest insurance tower told him it was nine-0-two and the temperature nine degrees. The whole left-hand side of this street was dominated by the buildings of the polytechnic. The swing doors on the main entrance opened and John saw Peter Moran come out and start to walk down the steps. He had only seen him twice before but he would have known him anywhere. We no more forget the faces of our enemies than of those we love.
This was the man his wife was living with. John told himself this in so many words as he slowed and turned his head and looked at Peter Moran. Fair-haired, nothing special to look at, a lantern jaw and glasses so thick that he must be very short-sighted. Of course John couldnât see the thickness of his glasses at this moment but he had noticed them before on the single occasion they had met, an occasion he remembered with pain but could no more forget than he could forget Peterâs face. Peter, of course, didnât see him. A man on a motorbike is the most anonymous, the most invisible, of people. He is scarcely a man, more an adjunct of the bike, furnished in black and chrome and upholstered in leather like itself.
John revved the bike and swung off up into Ruxeter Road.
Two days before her intended wedding day, she had told him on that evening of confidences, that man had said to her he couldnât marry her after all, he couldnât go through with it.
âHe didnât really give a reason, just said he couldnât gothrough with it. I didnât believe what I was hearing. I thought it was some sort of joke. We were at my place â well, my motherâs. My aunt was staying with us, sheâd come from Ireland for the wedding.â
âYou knew it wasnât a joke though,â John had said.
âAfter a while I did. I said was it all the fuss, I mean a white wedding and all those people coming, I said was it that which was upsetting him. I said it didnât matter, we could get married in a registry office, we didnât have to do what Mother wanted. He said no, it wasnât that. It was just the idea of being married, of marriage itself he couldnât face, he wasnât the kind of person who could ever be married. And suddenly there wasnât any more to say. Can you understand that, John? There was nothing to say. We just stared at each other and then he said, well, goodbye then, and he walked out of the house and closed the front door behind him. My mother came in and said Peter hadnât gone, had he, without being introduced to Auntie Katie. I said heâd gone and there wouldnât be any wedding and she started laughing and crying and screaming. Those repressed people, theyâre the worst when they break out. I didnât cry, not then. I was stunned, I wasnât even angry.â
âI canât imagine you angry,â he had said to her.
John parked the bike down a side street called Collingbourne Road. A pub called the Gander was advertising something called a âNeez-up Niteâ for the coming Saturday but for all that it had a gloomy look, its lights dim. Between it and the road where he had parked stood a terrace of Victorian houses, tall, bleak, the rough grey plaster with which they were faced cracked or broken away, their lower windows, rectangular and of uniform size, sealed with boards. Sheets of corrugated metal covered where the front doors should have been. Number 53 was the middle house of this row of five. It was the only one with a gable and in the centre of this gable, on a circular plaque of smoother stone, were engraved the name Pentecost Villas and the date, 1885.
For a moment or
John went round the square, leaving by the third exit of the roundabout which was Nevin Street. Neon digits on top of the CitWest insurance tower told him it was nine-0-two and the temperature nine degrees. The whole left-hand side of this street was dominated by the buildings of the polytechnic. The swing doors on the main entrance opened and John saw Peter Moran come out and start to walk down the steps. He had only seen him twice before but he would have known him anywhere. We no more forget the faces of our enemies than of those we love.
This was the man his wife was living with. John told himself this in so many words as he slowed and turned his head and looked at Peter Moran. Fair-haired, nothing special to look at, a lantern jaw and glasses so thick that he must be very short-sighted. Of course John couldnât see the thickness of his glasses at this moment but he had noticed them before on the single occasion they had met, an occasion he remembered with pain but could no more forget than he could forget Peterâs face. Peter, of course, didnât see him. A man on a motorbike is the most anonymous, the most invisible, of people. He is scarcely a man, more an adjunct of the bike, furnished in black and chrome and upholstered in leather like itself.
John revved the bike and swung off up into Ruxeter Road.
Two days before her intended wedding day, she had told him on that evening of confidences, that man had said to her he couldnât marry her after all, he couldnât go through with it.
âHe didnât really give a reason, just said he couldnât gothrough with it. I didnât believe what I was hearing. I thought it was some sort of joke. We were at my place â well, my motherâs. My aunt was staying with us, sheâd come from Ireland for the wedding.â
âYou knew it wasnât a joke though,â John had said.
âAfter a while I did. I said was it all the fuss, I mean a white wedding and all those people coming, I said was it that which was upsetting him. I said it didnât matter, we could get married in a registry office, we didnât have to do what Mother wanted. He said no, it wasnât that. It was just the idea of being married, of marriage itself he couldnât face, he wasnât the kind of person who could ever be married. And suddenly there wasnât any more to say. Can you understand that, John? There was nothing to say. We just stared at each other and then he said, well, goodbye then, and he walked out of the house and closed the front door behind him. My mother came in and said Peter hadnât gone, had he, without being introduced to Auntie Katie. I said heâd gone and there wouldnât be any wedding and she started laughing and crying and screaming. Those repressed people, theyâre the worst when they break out. I didnât cry, not then. I was stunned, I wasnât even angry.â
âI canât imagine you angry,â he had said to her.
John parked the bike down a side street called Collingbourne Road. A pub called the Gander was advertising something called a âNeez-up Niteâ for the coming Saturday but for all that it had a gloomy look, its lights dim. Between it and the road where he had parked stood a terrace of Victorian houses, tall, bleak, the rough grey plaster with which they were faced cracked or broken away, their lower windows, rectangular and of uniform size, sealed with boards. Sheets of corrugated metal covered where the front doors should have been. Number 53 was the middle house of this row of five. It was the only one with a gable and in the centre of this gable, on a circular plaque of smoother stone, were engraved the name Pentecost Villas and the date, 1885.
For a moment or
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