For a short time I felt slightly detached, observing myself while my mind raced off on its own, recording the various sensations, the emotions. Annie’s body welcomed me like a warm scented bath, and as I immersed myself, the foamy water stroked every inch of my skin.
Later we lay in a cushioned embrace whispering silly things to each other. Reluctantly I reached my hand under the cushions, looking for my watch. It was time to go if I was going to catch the last train back to London.
‘You can stay if you want,’ Annie said.
‘Better not,’ I said. I wanted to but I’d made the mistake before of too much too soon. When my mother warned me in my teens that to go too far with a girl too quickly would spoil the relationship in the long run I had never believed her. But experience had taught me she had been right. She usually was.
I got dressed and went to the bathroom. When I came out Annie was walking across the hallway towards me, her hair in her eyes and orange street lighting from the windows catching her hip and the side of her body. My mouth dried. I felt a rush of blood and had to be strong-willed as I enfolded her in my long arms that for once didn’t feel as awkward as the unfastened arms of a straightjacket. I kissed her on top of her head and she caught hold of a handful of my hair and gave it a little tug.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay?’ She pressed close to me.
‘Better not,’ said a part of me that believed in walking away from piles of presents wrapped in shiny paper with the name Carl written on each one. Another part of me was all for staying and never going anywhere ever again. But I knew we’d stand a better chance if I left now and came back again soon.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ I said, kissing her on the lips. ‘Thanks for everything. I’ve had… you know what kind of time I’ve had.’
As she opened the door for me Annie said softly, ‘Have you got your map?’ I patted the back pocket of my jeans and smiled. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘you don’t want to get lost.’ And she kissed me again lightly and locked the door after me.
I sat and waited on the platform at Piccadilly and smoked a cigarette. I walked along to the end of the platform and looked out at all the lines going off into the darkness. I felt a lot closer now after my weekend with Annie, particularly after the last couple of hours. I was beginning to find my way. As I stared into the darkness I saw at its very heart a light, at first just a pinprick, emerging and expanding. Excitement grew in me as the light got bigger and bigger. I waited for it.
Sitting in the first carriage as the train headed back down south through the night, I looked out of the window. No terror dogs tonight; only a row of terraced houses — beyond Stockport but not yet in Macclesfield — all in darkness except for one bright top-floor window washed yellow like a painting with a figure in the centre of the frame waving his arm at the train.
He knows, I thought. He knows.
The following week was one of the best. I had the memory of the weekend just gone and the promise of the next. Annie and I spoke on the phone during the day on Monday and arranged that I would go up again and this time I would take my car so that if we wanted we could drive out somewhere for the day.
I enjoyed working, talking to customers, dealing with enquiries. I embarked on a new filing system for the jazz section. The old system split everyone up into male singers, big bands, modern jazz, trad and so on. But that was no good for people like Mose Allison — sometimes he sang, sometimes he just played — or Courtney Pine, who switched musical styles like Imelda Marcos tried on shoes. So I changed it to a straight alphabetical thing and for someone like, say, John Lee Hooker I put a card in the pop/rock section saying SEE JAZZ.
Which reminded me. I hadn’t seen the old bastard for a while, so I gave him a ring and nipped around to Bethnal Green after work on Wednesday. I told him about Annie and he was very enthusiastic. I said nothing about the map. I still wasn’t sure how he’d react and, anyway, by now I liked the idea of it being mine and Annie’s secret.
The gasholders across the canal shone like two huge polished copper saucepans. An open window admitted smells of rotting fruit and engine oil rising from the scummy olive-green canal. Jaz offered me a beer but I said no and asked him if he had any mineral water instead. He looked at me like I’d asked for giraffe essence.
‘Course I haven’t got any fucking mineral water, you ponce,’ he said. ‘But I can lower a bucket into the canal if you like.’
He went off to the kitchen muttering about fucking mineral water and came back with two cold bottles of Budvar.
‘Christ,’ he said, ‘you only went to fucking Manchester. Not exactly Paris, is it?’
I laughed.
‘The pictures look good,’ I said. He’d framed several of his urban landscapes and hung them on the walls.
‘You haven’t fucking looked at them,’ he said from the depths of his armchair.
So I went slowly around the room like it was an art gallery. Jaz was talented. And obsessed. OK, the light was different in each photograph and even the location changed, but the subject was the same: England as Post-Industrial Wasteland.
‘Like I said,’ passing behind his chair, ‘the pictures look good.’ I grabbed hold of his shoulders from behind. He squirmed and I clapped him on the arm and let go.
‘You’re in a funny mood,’ he observed.
‘I’m looking forward to the weekend. Cigarette?’ I delved into my boot and chucked him a Camel. We smoked and I got two more beers from the fridge. The light disappeared from the sky and the gasholders hovered in shadow. ‘They’re bigger than last time I was here,’ I said.
‘They’re fuller. When the gas gets pumped in they rise.’
‘I know,’ I said, stubbing out my butt in the big black ashtray on the floor by Jaz’s chair. ‘I’d best be off if I’m going to make the Hong Kong Garden before it closes.’
‘Have a good weekend,’ Jaz said.
The remaining three days went quickly and on Saturday I locked up early, leaving a note on the door saying early closure was due to British Summer Time. That should have confused a few people. In August. I drove north on the M1. The good thing about not starting your weekend until Saturday evening is that the motorway is empty, because everyone else started theirs twenty-four hours earlier. Still, quality not quantity.
When I got to Manchester, around 9.30pm, we went out for a drink at the Princess. It was excellent to see Annie, but I was exhausted after the drive up and as soon as we got back to her flat I passed out and was no good for anything until morning when I was woken by sunlight slanting through the bedroom window. I watched Annie sleep for a while then slipped out of bed without waking her and went to fix some breakfast. I even popped out for a paper.
We had breakfast and read the paper in bed for an hour, then drove to Formby. It was a beautiful day and we parked a couple of miles from the dunes. The marram grass found its way up the legs of Annie’s 501s but I was wearing my boots outside my jeans so I was OK. I offered to carry her and she told me to fuck off so I pushed her down a dune. She rolled over a couple of times and shouted ‘You bastard!’ loud enough to confuse the ships heading for Liverpool docks. I gallumphed down the side of the dune, sand getting in over the top of my boots, and when I was level with her she grabbed hold of my ankle and pulled me over.
We spent the afternoon enjoying the privacy of a hollow between three high dunes. The sun caressed our bodies. I had to cover up after half an hour as I was starting to turn pink. My long hair is only dyed black from a rather disappointing mousey colour. Late in the afternoon with the gentle roll of the breakers in our ears and the wind whistling through the marram grass we made love. The sand was a problem but it made it more fun. The second time, Annie came quite quickly and I couldn’t. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, and for once I believed it.