It’s the last day at college, and I wander round looking for
my colleagues to go for an end of term drink with them. Strangely, they’ve all disappeared,
but there’s a guy there who I’ve seen around before, passing through. He lives
in the next block. I think he’s called Richard; he’s tall and friendly, with
freckles and ginger hair. We head into town together. It gets busier and
busier, and the street bifurcates. It’s so narrow and busy that we can’t walk
side by side, and Richard leads the way. The thoroughfare divides again and the
crowd grows denser. I try to follow Richard, but eventually I lose sight of
him. He must be somewhere up ahead. On the right is a bar with some empty
tables inside, cream painted wooden tables and chairs. I’m sure this is the
place we were supposed to go. No sign of Richard but I’m sure he’ll find me.
I sit down and wait. A barman comes along to take my order
and I explain that I’m waiting for my friend. I wait for a few minutes and then
go outside to look for him. No sign. Back to my table and there are four students
wanting to sit down. The whole place has become impossibly crowded, with people
wedged into every available space. I reclaim my seat. The guy nearest to me
seems annoyed with me, and has a foreign accent, vaguely central European. I
gesture to him that there’s enough space for me as well as for him and his
friends. He appears placated, loses his
accent, and starts to look a lot like Hugh Grant.
A smiling middle aged barmaid in a pretty country-music
dress arrives to take the orders. I explain I’m not with the others, who all
want Diet Cokes; someone says something about Durham University, and that they
come here because the drinks are so cheap. I’ve been studying the menu, which
consists mostly of very potent Belgian beers. I’m unsure about strengths and
sizes. I ask for a large one of the principal brand on offer, shown as an
illegible green logo at the top of the page. It’s the most expensive item available,
and the barmaid gives me a congratulatory knowing look along the lines of “good
for you; you do realise it will blow your head off, don’t you”. Well, I hope it
will. I’m suddenly very thirsty.
I turn to my companion. “So you’re all from Durham
University, are you? I used to have a friend there”.
Immediately it occurs to me that I’m 50 years older than
him, and he’s never heard of my friend, notorious though he was, involved later
in life in a very public scandal.
“He lived in a kind of castle”, I say. I visualise huge
black walls. “Student accommodation”.
“Ah, yes, I know. Was he in charge of the fire regulations
?”
At this point Richard reappears, very concerned and
apologetic that he had lost me, blaming himself. He’s somehow pushed past me
and is squashed into a triangular corner where the walls are covered with
images of theatre bills. He offers to buy me a drink by way of apology. “I’ve
already ordered”, I tell him.
I turn to my new acquaintance. “Can I introduce you to
Richard?”, I say, realising that I don’t know the Durham guy’s name. “Richard” doesn’t
say anything but gives me a look which I’m very certain means “my name isn’t
Richard”. Which I’ve kind of suspected.
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