Starter For Ten Part 21

'Go on, get changed. I promise I won't touch myself while you're doing it.'

And, in the racy, erotically charged atmosphere that this last remark creates, I turn my back on her and take my top off.

'So what are the weights for, big guy?'

'Oh, I just thought I'd try and get a little healthier . . .'

'Having muscles isn't the same as being healthy - my last boyfriend had the most amazing body, but could barely walk two hundred yards . . .'

'Was he the one with the ma.s.sive p.e.n.i.s?'

'Brian!! Who told you that?'

'You did?'

'Did I? Well, yes, that was him. Anyway, your body's fine.'

206.

'You think?' I ask, holding the jumper in front of me, like a bashful bride.

'Sort of lean and angular - it's the Egon-Schiele-look . . .'

I turn my back and pull the new jumper over my head, and decide it's time to change the subject.

'How was the rest of your Christmas break?'

'Oh, you know. Fine. Hey, thanks for coming to stay.'

'Thank you for having me. Did you get rid of the cold meat okay?'

'Absolutely. Mingus and Coltrane say thank you very much.'

'And is your nan okay?'

'What? Oh, yes. Yes, she's fine.'

She presses Dad's photo back onto the wall and, taking care not to look at me, says, 'It got a little bit ... weird, didn't it?'

'/ got a bit weird you mean. It was losing my drugs-virginity, I think.'

'It wasn't just that though, was it? You were . . . strange, like you thought you had something to prove.'

'Sorry. I get a bit nervous. Especially around posh peop . . .'

'Oh, please . . .' she snaps.

'What?'

'Please, don't start with that c.r.a.p, Brian. "Posh" - what a ridiculous word. What is "posh" anyway? That stuff's all in your head, it's completely meaningless. Christ, I hate this complete obsession with cla.s.s, especially at this place, you can hardly say "h.e.l.lo" to anyone before they're getting all prolier-than-thou, and telling you about how their dad's a one-eyed chimney-sweep with rickets, and how they've still got an outside loo, and have never been on a plane or whatever, all that dubious c.r.a.p, most of which is usually lies anyway, and I'm thinking why are you telling me all this? Am I meant to feel guilty? D'you think it's my fault or something, or are you just feeling pleased with yourself for escaping your predetermined 207.

social role or some such self-congratulatory bulls.h.i.t? I mean, what does it matter anyway? People are people, if you ask me, and they rise or fall by their own talents and merits, and their own labours, and blaming the fact that they've got a settee rather than a sofa, or eat tea rather than dinner, that's just an excuse, it's just whining self-pity and shoddy thinking . . .'

The Bach concerto's rising to a crescendo behind her as she speaks, so I say, 'And you join us live from this year's Tory Party Conference!'

'p.i.s.s off, Brian! That's not fair, that's not fair at all. I don't make judgements about other people because of their background, and I expect people to treat me with the same courtesy.' She's sat up on the futon now, stabbing the air with her finger. 'And anyway, it's not even my money, it's my parents' money, and it's not as if they got it from nicking people's dole, or running sweat-shops in Johannesburg or something, they worked f.u.c.king hard for what they've got, f.u.c.king hard . . .'

'They didn't work for it all though, did they?'

'What d'you mean?' she snaps.

'I just mean they inherited a lot, from their parents . . .'

'And . . . ?'

'Well, it's . . . privilege, isn't it?'

'So, what, you think people should have their money buried with them when they die, like in Ancient Egypt? Because I would have thought pa.s.sing money on, using it to help your family, to buy them security and freedom, was just about the only truly worthwhile thing you can do with it . . .'

'Of course it is, but I'm just saying, it's a privilege.'

'Absolutely it's a privilege, and they treat it as such, and they pay a f.u.c.k of a lot of tax, and they do their best to give something back. But if you ask me, there's no sn.o.b like an inverted sn.o.b, and if that doesn't conform to some conventional, student-approved system of socialist thought, then I'm sorry, that's how I feel. Because I'm just so f.u.c.king 2O8.

I.

bored of people trying to pa.s.s plain old envy off as some sort of virtuer And she judders to a stop, red-faced, and picks up her mug of coffee. I'm not talking about you necessarily, of course.'

'Of course not,' and I sip my coffee too, which tastes bitterly of toothpaste, and there's a pause as we listen to the Brandenburg Concertos.

'Isn't this the theme from Antiques Roadshow?'

'It is. Though that's not what it says on the alb.u.m cover.'

She smiles, and flops back down onto the futon. 'Sorry, just letting off steam.'

'No, that's fine. I sort of agree with you. In places,' I say, but all I can think of is Mingus and Coltrane eating bowls of pasta.

'I mean, we're friends, aren't we? Brian - look at me. We're friends, yes?'

'Yes, of course we're friends.'

'Even though I'm obviously the Queen of Sheba and you're a snotty-nosed chimney-sweep?'

'Absolutely.'

'So shall we just forget the whole thing? Just forget it and move on?'

'Forget what?'

'The thing we've just been ... oh I see. So it is forgotten?'

'It's forgotten.'

'Good.' She says. 'Good.'

'So - d'you want to come to the pictures later this afternoon or something?'

The can't - I've got this audition later . . .'

'Right - what for?'

'Henrik Ibsen's Hedda Gabler."

'Which part?'

'The eponymous Hedda.'

'You'd be a great Hedda.'

2O9.

Thank you. 1 hope so. Still 1 doubt if I'll get it. The third years have got it all st.i.tched up. I'll be lucky if I get cast as' - c.o.c.k-er-ney accent - 'Berte the bleedin' maid . . .'

'But you're coming to the team meeting tonight?'

'Is it tonight?

'First of the new term!'

'Oh G.o.d, do I have to?'

'Patrick's being very strict. He specifically asked me to make sure you came tonight, or you're off the team, he says.' He didn't say any of that of course, but still. 'Okay, I'll see you there, and we'll have a drink afterwards.' She crosses the room, puts her arms around me so that I can smell the perfume on her neck, and whispers in my ear. 'And friends again, yes?'

'Absolutely. Friends again.'

But I'm still brooding over the conversation with Alice when Professor Morrison says; 'Tell me, Brian, why are you here exactly?'

The question takes me by surprise. I stop looking out of the window, and turn to Professor Morrison, who's lying back in his chair, fingers laced across his little pot belly.

'Urn, personal tutorial? Two o'clock?'

'No, I mean here at university, reading English? Why are you here?'

To ... learn?'

'Because?'

'It's . . . valuable?'

'Financially?'

'No, you know . . .'

'Improving?'

'Yes, I suppose so. Improving. And I enjoy it, of course. I like education, learning, knowledge . . .'

'"Like it?"'

'Love it. I love books.'

210.

'I he contents of books, or just owning a whole load of books?'

'The contents, obviously . . .'

'So you're serious about your studies?'

'I like to think so.' He doesn't say anything, just leans right back in his chair, his arms stretched behind him with his fingers laced, and yawns. 'You don't think I am?'

'Not sure, Bri. I hope you are. But the reason I ask is because this last essay, "Notions of 'pride' and 'prejudice' in Oth.e.l.lo", is, well, it's really just awful. Everything about it, from the t.i.tle onwards, is just awful, awful, awful . . .'

'Yes, well I wrote it in a bit of a hurry actually . . .'

'Oh I know that, I can tell that. But it's such an awful, vapid, fatuous thing, that I wondered if you'd written it at all?'

'Right, so, what didn't you like?'

He sighs, slumps forward and runs his fingers through his hair, as if he's about to tell me that he wants a divorce.

'Okay, well for a start, you talk about Oth.e.l.lo as if he's this guy you know who you're a bit worried about.'

'Well that's good, isn't it? Treating him like a real individual. Isn't that a testament to Shakespeare's vivid imagination?'

'Or your lack of insight? Oth.e.l.lo's a fictional character, Brian, he's a construct, a creation. He's a particularly rich and complex creation in a remarkable work of art, but all you can say about him is it's a shame he has a hard time just because he's black. All I learnt from this is that you think bigotry is "a bad thing". Why are you telling me this? Did you think that maybe I thought bigotry was a good thing? What's your next essay, Brian? "Hamlet - Why the long face?" or perhaps, "Why can't you Montagues and Capulets just get along?" . . .'

'Well, no, because racism is an issue that I feel pa.s.sionately about.'

'I'm sure it is, but what am I supposed to do about it? Phone lago's mum, tell her to get him to back off? In fact, ironically, 211.

as a discourse on race, your portrayal of Oth.e.l.lo as a blameless, suggestible n.o.ble Savage might almost be viewed as racist in itself 'You think the essay's racist?'

'No, but I do think it's ignorant, and the two aren't unconnected.'

I start to say something, but can't work out what, so just sit there. I feel hot and red and embarra.s.sed, as if I'm six years old, and have just wet myself. I want it to be over as soon as possible, so I half stand, reach over to the table to pick up the essay; 'Okay, well maybe I should give it another go . . .' but he's not finished yet, and he pulls the pages back towards him.

'This to me isn't the work of someone who "loves knowledge", it's the work of someone who quite likes the idea of appearing as if he loves knowledge. There isn't a shred of insight or original thought or mental effort here, it's shallow, pious, ill-informed, it's intellectually immature, it's stuffed full of received ideas and gossip and cliches.' He leans forward, picks up my essay with his fingertips, like a dead seagull. 'Worst of all it's disappointing. I'm disappointed that you wrote it, and even more disappointed that you thought it worth my time and energy to read the thing.'