Andrea XIII – Parting

Our final session. It’s rather early and I’ve come along with an orange for breakfast. I just fancied it but now I don’t know what to do with it. It’s going to get messy and I don’t have a knife on me. I fiddle with it for a while and she looks at it irritably. I notice she has a glass of the freshly squeezed. Why didn’t I think of that?

Andrea is trying to avoid politics by injecting some levity into the proceedings. She’s trying to get me to tell her some more about my pathetic attempts at chatting women up. I don’t want to talk about politics but I don’t want to go over all this either. I’m telling her about a date I had. How to describe the scene?
‘I made a complete twat of myself’ I say.
‘What happened?’
‘It was just stupid. I see that now. I knew it was supposed to be just a one night stand...’
‘What did you do?’ she says, obviously preparing herself for something unspeakable.
I can hardly bring myself to say it. ‘I made breakfast’ I mumble.
‘What?’ she says, trying not to laugh. ‘You did what?’
‘I wanted it to be nice... not like those other... blokes she knew.’
‘So you made her breakfast?’
‘I know, I know... She was absolutely livid, like I’d asked her to marry me or something.’
Andrea shakes her head slowly at me. ‘How old was she?’ she says at length.
‘I don’t know. Early twenties?’
‘And you were what, thirty something?’ I nod. She sits in disbelief for a while, just looking at me, giggling slightly to herself. I suppose it is funny but I’m not in the mood. She sees my serious face and pulls herself together. ‘What’s wrong Gabriel?’ she says.
‘I’m sorry Andrea’ I say abruptly, ‘I know this stuff is maybe important but really... I’m going to be going back into the world soon.’
‘Ok.’
‘And I don’t want to be out on the streets again.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘I don’t want to be in and out of hospitals and helping the police with their enquiries or dossing down at my parent’s because nobody else will have me.’
‘Well, good.’
‘I’ve got to do better this time.’
‘And I’m sure you will Gabriel. I do understand.’
‘I’m not sure you do. Sorry babe but I think we’re missing the point. I’m still not entirely convinced I don’t need some help with the whole getting a job and making a living thing. Surely it’s what gives people their purpose in life and self-respect and dignity and so forth. All this stuff about chatting women up and having sex is fun but I don’t really know if it’s doing much good. I’m sorry Andrea. I know you’re trying to help.’
‘Do you believe that?’ she says, at length.
‘Well...’
‘You believe your sense of self worth would be best served by getting yourself a career? I’m not saying you shouldn’t have a career but... I just don’t think that’s where your heart is. I don’t think that’s what you missed most. Really...’
‘Well, I take your point about there being someone for everyone, but I’ve seen the kinds of ladies my fellow travellers consorted with and quite frankly I was not envious.’
‘Have you noticed how you go into this pedantic polysyllabic way of expressing yourself when you’re unhappy? It’s quite off-putting.’
That shuts me up. But I know what she means.
‘It makes you sound like a pompous old fart. It’s not attractive.’
‘Thanks’ I say quietly and sit and think for a while. Maybe I’m pushing myself away, trying to make leaving easier somehow. Or maybe I’m trying to string it out a bit. It reminds me of when Justine died. I was the last of our family. I watched them all go one by one, me shuffling inexorably to the head of the queue. Today I remember what it is to be an old man again. It’s a perfect place for the addled and arthritic, this. You don’t have to get up and eat if you don’t want to, and nobody fails to get to the loo in time because there’s no need to go to the loo at all if you don’t want to. Paul pointed out with some amusement that some still seem to visit the toilet regularly, even though their body no longer has the physiological need to excrete, but then I honour meal times even though my body has no physiological need for sustenance. I suppose some people saw their time on the bog as quality time. I didn’t. I saw it as a waste of time – a time of waste. I thought I had better things to do.
I didn’t know what to do when Justine was dying. The hospital was too far away to visit regularly, with the NHS ‘restructuring’ and so on – and I hated myself for not having learned to drive and not being able to afford the train as often as I’d have liked. Justine’s sons would have nothing to do with me so I was stuck. I wasn’t there when she died. No one was.

I can’t believe we’ve wasted all this time here, farting about, talking about girls when there’s this chasm of utter incompetence in the middle of my life. Oh there’s someone for everyone alright. I have a sudden memory of Ned’s girlfriend, running down Trafalgar Street with her legs together, the back of her pink leggings already translucent with piss. I got on ok with Ned – he fancied himself as a bit of a philosopher – used to get into some amazing discussions but he was a total alkie. They all were.
I look at Andrea. She looks at me.
‘I can’t go back, not the way I was’ I say. ‘I couldn’t stand it.’
‘Do you think that’s likely?’ she says, impassively.
‘I don’t see why not’ I say, reproachfully. She knows what I’m getting at. I dig my nails into the orange. Who cares if I get sticky hands?
‘What do you want me to say Gabriel?’ she says – another phrase I hate. It means she thinks she’s told me all I need to hear, and if I can’t handle it, well... But I don’t think she has. Now I have all these ideas that a lovely woman could really love me back and of having a life with her and a place of our own and holidays and all the stuff I never dared realistically hope for in my life and...
And suddenly I can see what she’s done. The cow has done it again.

It never felt realistic before, all that stuff. I still don’t know the details but it does actually feel like it could happen. I could make it happen. A smile spreads across my face. I can’t help it. She knows what it means too.
‘It will feel worse, at first’ she says gently ‘but it will get better. I promise.’
I separate the orange segments and share them with her. I can feel the sticky dried juice on my hands but the orange came apart easier than I expected. There’s a metaphor here. I can’t think what it is right now.
‘Will I see you again?’ I ask.
‘Here or in life?’ she says, smiling now. We’ve both relaxed. It’s over. It’s time to go now and it’ll be ok. I can do this.
‘Either’ I say. ‘I think Paul wants an End of Voyage party. You could come... I’ll buy you a martini.’
She smiles, a little sadly I think. ‘We’ll see’ she says.
‘And then there’s always the festies – I’ll come and find you in The Healing Space.’
‘I’d like that’ she says, and means it I think. ‘I’ll look out for you.’ and we stand and hug briefly and I kiss her cheek and leave the room. I don’t expect to see her again.

Joe XIV – Dad

‘You wanted me to talk about my dad’ I say.
It's nearly the end of our last session. I haven’t planned it. The words just pop out. I’ve been prattling on about my painting, the journey ahead, the food, anything to avoid talking about Lucy or Harry or anything here on the boat. I can tell Joe is getting frustrated. We don’t have much time.
‘Well...’ says Joe, looking troubled.
‘He was a gardener. Worked for the local parks and gardens department.’
There’s a challenge in my voice – I know it. I feel so angry.
‘That doesn’t sound very terrible. I was expecting something – I don’t know...’
‘Like a paedophile, or a terrorist?’
‘Maybe. Frankly I’m disappointed. Why didn’t you want to talk to me about him before?’
‘I just didn’t want to talk about him’ I say, defiantly. ‘Plus I like coming here – it’s just I’ve never been allowed to talk like this before – didn’t want to give you everything too soon.’ I smile apologetically. Now I feel guilty for wasting his time, and sad because we’ll be there soon and this will end. ‘Is that ok?’ I ask.
‘Of course’ he says quietly. We sit in silence for quite some time. ‘So let me rephrase the question. What did he do to make you not want to talk about him?’
I have to think about this.
‘I don’t think he was really interested in kids, and after my sisters were born and he had the snip they thought that would be it. Then I popped out and he had to stay home to look after me while mum went out to work.’
‘The snip?’
‘Vasectomy.’
‘Sounds like you think he made a big sacrifice for you though.’
‘I suppose, but somebody had to. I mean, he wasn’t just going to walk out on me. He did what he had to do. He did it for mum. He really loved her. Can’t think why...’
‘Why what?’
‘Why he loved her so much – she always talked to him like he was thick.’
‘Really?’
‘She never respected him, ever. He was just too soft – let himself be pushed around all the time.’
‘But you didn’t respect him much either by the sound of it...’
I consider this. All I know is that when I think about him it just makes me so angry and I don’t know why. ‘I just stayed out the way’ I say.
He looks at me. ‘And Justine looked after you quite a bit too you said.’
I nod ‘She got me up in the morning, made me breakfast, got me dressed for school.’
‘And your dad? Where was he?’
‘Around, doing stuff.’
‘In the shed?’
‘No, he was around the house in the morning – he took me to school when I was little – on the back of his bike.’
‘And in the evening?’
‘He made dinner, got me ready for bed, you know.’
‘Read you a story?’
‘Sometimes, maybe, when I was little.’
‘Can I ask what your mother was doing all this time?’
‘I don’t remember her being in the picture much – I think she worked late quite a lot... Sometimes she picked me up from school in the car – I remember that.’
Joe frowns at me. There’s something wrong. I feel so angry whenever I try to talk about them. I still don’t know why. I mean, I know a lot of kids have terrible parents – violence, neglect, abuse. I never had any of that. I suspect I’m just a whinger, making a fuss about nothing, but I press on anyway.
‘I think maybe things went wrong later really.’
‘When in particular?’
I sit and try to think. None of it seems very important.
‘I don’t bloody know’ I say exasperatedly. Now I’m just frustrated with myself. I can’t think straight.
‘Gabriel, did they ever really make the effort to talk to you would you say? I mean really get to know you, find out who you really were, what you wanted?’
I want to say something about it not being possible to talk to teenagers, but stop myself, because here we are after all, as Joe pointed out before. ‘I don’t remember’ I say, avoiding the subject.
‘What do you remember doing with your parents, either of them?’
I shake my head. ‘I told you, I stayed out the way mostly.’
‘Did you ever – I don’t know, help your dad in the garden?’
‘I used to watch him sometimes. Actually he tried to teach me some stuff –“pricking out” – hah! I always remember that. But he always seemed so – I don’t know – frustrated about it. It was like, I was always in the way somehow, or really clumsy. I think I was a bit of a div to be honest.’
‘A what?’
‘A div, a wally, a prat. You know, stupid. He used to tell me stuff and it just didn’t go in, so I either had to ask again or hope it didn’t matter. He got pretty frustrated with me. A lot of people did. I was always doing things the wrong way, except they made sense to me, or getting blamed for things that weren’t really my fault and at the time I’d be feeling really stupid or embarrassed but then later I’d think... There was one day I was doing some potting up for him on the bench in the shed. Some job he’d given me to do, potting on the tomatoes or something. Anyway, later on I’m in the kitchen and he says “You’ve done these a lot of good” and he’s holding up his glasses and he tells me I’ve filled his new glasses case with grit and he goes on about how much they’d cost to replace, just in this muttering, grumbling way he had and I just felt really stupid again. I said sorry, but then, later I thought “Why leave them on the potting bench?” It’s just a stupid place to put them but of course I didn’t say anything. I suppose I thought just because something makes sense to me it’s no reason to think it makes sense to anyone else. In the end it doesn’t matter if something’s actually a good idea or not does it? Not if people don’t want to know...’
‘Do you really believe that?’
I’m trying to act like I haven’t really thought about it. I think it’s called being disingenuous but it doesn’t really work. I say ‘No, not really, but it’s true in a way isn’t it. If they don’t think much of you generally, or if they feel like they want to show you who’s boss then it doesn’t matter if you’re right or wrong. People are more interested in being in charge than in having things done properly I think. They say they want you to use your initiative but really they just want you to do as you’re told without them having to tell you.’
‘Did that make you angry?’
‘Oh I was always getting angry about things. Didn’t do me any good.’
He leans back and has a stretch. ‘And I thought gardening was supposed to be a relaxing pass-time’ he says.
‘Yeah – like in “Being There” Did you see that? I love that film.’
‘Yes, like that.’
‘No, it wasn’t like that, well sometimes, but mostly I remember him being fed up because something had eaten his lettuces, or the cats had crapped in his parsley or something.’
‘Did he get angry a lot?’ Joe says this like he’s just realised something important. I’m sorry to disappoint him.
‘No. Just with the slugs and things. He never shouted or broke things. Mum was the one for that, not him. Mostly he was just erm...what’s the word? ...preoccupied – and sort of frustrated.’
‘With you?’
‘Sometimes. It was hard to tell with dad.’
‘He never said anything?’
‘Not to me, not until later anyhow.’
‘When was this?’
‘When I was fourteen maybe – O levels coming up – they were both getting fed up with me – couldn’t understand why I wasn’t applying myself, thinking about what I was going to do afterwards. I didn’t know what I wanted to do...’
‘Had you thought about becoming a professional artist?’
‘Hardly’ and I smile and shake my head as if he’s just suggested I become Prime Minister but then I realise he’s serious.
‘Why not?’ he says.
‘Well...’ And I stop. I really don’t know why not, except people just don’t – do they? Not people like me. It’s just a hobby, something you do when you’re a kid at junior school.
‘I never really thought...’ I say. ‘I thought, you know, technical drawing or, I don’t know, working in an art shop maybe...’
He looks at me as if I’m a moron.
‘No’ he says, ‘you could have gone to art school.’
I look at him like he’s completely insane.
‘Why not?’ he insists. I’m thinking money again. ‘You get a grant’ he says, as if he’s read my mind ‘maybe a weekend job... and off you go.’
I can’t believe it. Do people like me really do that? Nobody mentioned this to me.
‘I had a friend painted for a living’ he says. ‘He didn’t make much but he was ok. Had to do other jobs sometimes, but he was doing alright, last I heard. He had a house, holidays abroad...’
I can’t believe this has really never occurred to me before. People make a living as artists. I suppose they do, but I always thought they were completely different to me, to us. Nobody I knew did anything like that for a living – we were all working in factories or offices like mum, or lorry drivers. People who did interesting things like write books, or travelled were like a different species altogether. Maybe his friend was from a posh family?
‘Did he get much help from his parents?’ I ask.
‘I don’t think so – he was pretty independent. Wouldn’t your parents help you though – if you showed you were keen enough?’
I laugh a little. I can’t imagine even suggesting it to them. They’d go mad.
‘Maybe’ I say, but I don’t really think so. I’d have to do it alone, I know that, but I could. I don’t need a lot of money. I could manage. And suddenly I feel quite excited about it.
‘I suppose I ought to point out’ he says, ‘in the interest of balance, that you shouldn’t be too cross with your parents. The world’s different to when they were your age. Back then you went out to work, got married, had kids and were bloody grateful. They just wanted a normal happy child who would do more or less what they did, only slightly better, and avoiding some of the more obvious cock-ups. They probably couldn’t imagine your life – the choices open to you. I’m sure they didn’t understand.’
And I realise this is one of the reasons why I’m so angry with my dad. He didn’t even try to understand. It’s because he just did as he was told, accepted what they told him to do, for years, cutting grass, weeding, sweeping up, on the council estates, doing the verges, picking up the litter, even though he had qualifications he did as he was told, and he never complained. I think he even liked it. He knew his place. I’m furious with him because he liked it – his mediocre, ordinary, tedious life. I tell Joe all this and he nods as if he knew all along. But it’s not enough of an explanation for what became of me. I know that. He knows that. Maybe we’ll never know.
‘Anyway, lots to think about’ he says and, unexpectedly, gets up and comes and holds out his hand. I get up and shake it. So it’s over. Time to go.
‘Good luck with everything’ he says, trying to look optimistic.
I emerge from my surprise at the suddenness of it all and say ‘Thank you’, also trying to look hopeful, and I leave that room and never see him again.
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Journey XV – Down to the seaside

As I kept on walking I felt the climate gradually turn hot and heavy and the vegetation became richer and more exotic. The birds, insects and flowers got bigger and brighter and the noise and odour of the place became more and more overwhelming. I’d never been to the tropics in life but I had no doubt that this was exactly what it would be like.
Increasingly, I came across other travellers along the route too – some in groups with their guides, others alone. I saw myself among the loners and they – we, all had that same weary exultant expression on our faces – we’d made it. We’d arrived.
The traffic was increasing too – mostly mules and other animals pulling various sorts of rough carts but also some vans and bicycles – and I got a lift some of the way. Settlements became more common too – clay and wood walls and terracotta or thatch roofed cabins usually set around a well or a fireplace in a clearing among the trees. At night the locals welcomed us in and brought cushions and rugs and spicy food and we sat around the fires or crowded into rooms if it was raining and ate and drank and sang or played games until dawn when we slept for a while, got breakfast and moved on.
After one particularly entertaining night, ten of us collapsed into the back of a truck with our belongings, a small pig and a fruit tree in a pot and took the dusty track through the fields to the edge of the forest. At that point the land fell away steeply and the road was nothing but bends.
A little later we came round a curve and the sea was there far below us – electric blue and shimmering in the heat. We walked or rode the remainder without resting, jubilantly singing and laughing along the dusty track among the whitewashed houses, under the flowering trees and palms.
And so the realisation of what was going to happen next gradually became unignorable. I’d hardly thought about it since Joe told me about it all those years before. I wondered briefly what had become of him.

In quieter moments I take the opportunity to try to think back to my so-called life: England, Sussex – that job I had, and those people... It all seems an incredibly long way away and yet I know it’s just around the corner now and I am going back there somehow and I haven’t even thought to find out how that is supposed to happen. I try to recall the things Joe and I talked about, and what Miranda said, and Jim, and I wonder if he is still there, tending his goats for all eternity. Then I take a seat on a log and look across the treetops and wonder impatiently what I’m supposed to have been getting from all this.
I gather myself up and try to really think about it seriously. What has it all been for? Joe said people tend to get what they really want here, whether they like it or not, or words to that effect.
I’ve met a woman who wanted to have sex with me. That’s certainly something. Ok, she was only ten inches tall, but still... And I wonder where Lucy ended up. She just seems sort of ridiculous now by comparison – immature, selfish. I don’t know.

What else? Well I could probably grow all my own veggies if I needed to, and raise chickens and goats. Jim was a really nice guy, resigned and enthusiastic at the same time. I miss him most. I wish my dad had been more like him... And I find myself lost in sadness again and almost in tears. I check to see if anyone’s about but the road is quiet at the moment. It’s about midday I suppose. Most people will be indoors having their lunch or crashed out in the heat. I hear a man laugh somewhere across the way among the trees – a friendly, warm laugh, but I can’t see anyone. I sniff a bit and wipe my nose and eyes on my sleeve. It’s covered in grime. Nothing I have on is even slightly clean. The front of my shirt is stiff with fruit juice and sweat stains and the creases in my shorts are drawn in with soil and crushed vegetation. I can imagine Justine’s smiling face looking down at me and giving me her own bright female version of that laugh because I’ve got myself in a mess again. I was always in such a mess.
Shit, what am I going to do? I cast my mind back as fleetingly as possible over the last year or two of my life and then quickly around at the thick vegetation on the slope below and the sea beyond. There’s a boat out there with a triangular sail the same burnt sienna as the soil around here. When I think back about all those other people in the sixth form, Camille and Carly and Gareth and Tom and the rest, getting on with it, sorting out their careers and their university places, it seems like everybody else knew what to do. I lean back propped up on my elbows with my head hanging back and feel the sun roasting my face, evaporating my tears away, and I listen in to the insects and the birds going about their business around me.
I don’t want to think any more.
Joe, I know, had big ideas for me and my career but I really can’t imagine what I will be able to do to make any difference whatsoever. All I know is that I’m not going for a walk after that party. After that, who knows? I haul myself into the standing position and pull my pack onto my back.

Right on cue, a cart pulled by a cow with enormous curved horns rounds the corner. It is driven by a very dark skinned man and he seems to have a few passengers already, sitting up on top of a lot of sacks and crates. I stick my thumb out and he grins at me, his teeth so brilliant white, in such contrast to the rest of his face that I can hardly make out the rest of his features.
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Joe X – Dreams

Another day, another session, and he’s consulting some papers on his lap when I come in. He doesn’t look up but says ‘I got you a coffee. Two sugars, right?’
I sit down. ‘Thanks’ I say.
‘I want to pursue this question about your, er, putative career...’
I snort with derision. My “career” indeed. That’s a laugh.
‘Why do you find that funny?’
I shake my head and try to avoid saying ‘I don’t know’. I do know, it’s because it’s unimaginable, me, with a career. I have an image of all those people in suits or uniforms being terribly important and responsible and serious about life. I can’t imagine myself like that.
‘Ok’ he says, trying not to look exasperated, ‘what would you most like to have done, no, what would you most like to have changed about your life? Anything you like...’ He clicks his fingers ‘...different. What would it be?’
Again I sit and my mind goes all over the place. So many things, none of them very realistic...
‘Go on, a place of your own? A round the world air ticket?’
God, I think, yes, either of those. To get away, be myself somehow. I nod and he smiles, and I think he’s going to say ‘But you need to earn the money first’, which my mum would have said (she used to take great pleasure in “bringing me back to the real world” as she called it) but he doesn’t.
‘Alone or with someone else?’
I consider the people I know, go through them one by one. There’s nobody.
‘Maybe I could meet people when I’m out there’ I suggest.
‘Highly likely’ he says.
I have this image of a group of fairly cool but not too pretentious people, maybe about my own age, maybe more varied, male and female, hanging out in a bar, or just in someone’s room, and I feel completely relaxed with them, and we chat but I don’t feel I necessarily have to say anything. It’s just easy, and there’s a girl...
‘What are you thinking about?’ he says.
‘Oh, this fantasy I have, of a group of friends, a girlfriend...’
‘What are they like?’
‘I really don’t know. They’re just friendly, relaxed...’
‘Anyone you know?’
‘Not really.’
‘What about the girl? What’s she like?’
I feel a little inhibited at first, but then it occurs to me I wouldn’t mind him telling me about his boyfriend (maybe I should ask him some time) so I go on to talk about her, how she’s witty and funny and likes a lot of attention, and how we spend a lot of time in bed just cuddling and listening to music...’
‘And having sex?’
I smile sheepishly. ‘Lots of sex’ I say.
‘I should bloody well hope so’ he says, cheerfully.
I take a moment to enjoy the fantasy. He watches my face. He sees it turn from happy reverie to hopeless.
‘What happened there?’
‘It’s just... the money. I lived with my parents for fuck’s sake. What am I going to do?’
I see him think about how to put it. ‘I actually don’t know Gabriel...’ He sees me sag a bit ‘But hang on. That’s not the point. The point is there’s no point in thinking about work and savings and insurance and all that crap if you don’t know what you want it for. You’re putting the cart before the horse Gabriel. We don’t live to work Gabriel. Live in your dreams for a while. Work out what you want to do, feel it, see it as a possibility. Then you find your way...’
‘But that’s all I have done Joe. I’ve done nothing but dream, and it just doesn’t make it seem any more possible.’ I’m almost in tears again, lost.
‘But what you’ve said doesn’t seem very impossible – friends, a girlfriend, a place of your own, a trip abroad...’
‘But it does. I have to work.’
‘That’s the finding your way part. We can talk about all that another time. The take-home message for today is just that your hopes are not unrealistic. Really. Ok?’
‘Ok.’
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Joe IX – Some sort of future

Next time he looks hard at me and says ‘Give me one thing your parents could have done to help you out.’ I look at him, wondering what he’s getting at. I can’t think.
‘Take your time’ he says, ‘I’m going to get a coffee. Want one?’
‘Please. White, two sugars.’ He leaves.
What could they have done? I don’t know what he’s getting at. Dad was always trying to get me to go and play football with some of the lads he knew (he must have known I hated sports but he kept on trying), or help him do the house up – rubbing down or mixing cement or whatever. Mum was always getting on at me to come downstairs and ‘at least’ watch some telly with them. To be honest I think the best thing they could have done was bloody well leave me alone.
I don’t know. It sounds ungrateful, but I just wanted to get on with my painting or reading or whatever it was I was doing. I went to the library a lot, and I had this idea that if they built me a shed down at the bottom of the garden I could use it as a studio, maybe have a gas heater in it and a hammock and they’d never have to see me again. There was the Wendy house down there with all shrubs overgrown around it. Dad built it for the girls when they were little, and, say what you like about my dad – if he built something it stayed built. I spent a lot of time down there, especially after I screwed everything up, but before that too. I took my books and some paper and stuff and found a little cupboard and an old deck chair and some candles and made myself a little retreat. I spent a lot of time just sitting in there, peering out through the bushes at the garden. I had all the porn I’d collected hidden down there too, in a big Tupperware box underneath the floor. I used to go down there at night sometimes, or when they’d all gone out. Anyway...

‘A studio’ I say when he gets back with the drinks.
‘Sorry?’
‘Like a big shed at the bottom of the garden, so I could go down there and work without them all...er...’
‘Without them all what?’ He takes a mouthful of coffee, watching me over the rim of his mug.
‘I don’t know. It was just, in the house, you were always aware of them, downstairs, or in their bedroom, moving about.’
‘Why did that bother you?’
‘I don’t know. It was just like, they could come in at any time and see me there, and there’d be this, I don’t know, irritation, like I should always be doing something else. They just had this exasperation all the time. I was always doing the wrong thing. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Just as an aside Gabriel, are you aware of how often you start your sentences with “I don’t know” and then go on to give a perfectly good answer? I’m not saying you should stop necessarily, but I thought I’d point it out. You do know Gabriel, actually. And yes I do know what you mean, but wouldn’t they have come and disturbed you down the garden just the same?’
‘I suppose so. Actually it probably would have been worse. Mum was always going on about dad and what he found to do down there in his shed. They’d have thought I was a real weirdo, even more than they did already. “Oh here comes Rasputin the monk.” She thought she was very funny.’
‘Perhaps you could have got a place on your own somewhere, once you left school I mean.’

I don’t know what to say to that. It doesn’t seem very likely. I know other people my age did that but they had rich parents or good jobs or something (or else they went to university of course). And I know there’s no excuse because I should have just ‘got off my arse’ as my dad used to say, and bloody well earned some money instead of faffing around in my room. I know that, I do, really, but then I used to look at the jobs in the paper or down the job centre and all I could see was weeks or months, maybe years of shelf stacking or sweeping up, always being checked up on, looked down on. The best dad could suggest (if I was ‘lucky’) was that I’d be a manager one day and then it’d be my turn to make someone else miserable, telling people who thought I was a jerk what to do. And that was all I could see – stretching on into the future, like endless shelving stacked with stuff I didn’t want – mortgages and insurance and MOTs and bills and pensions. And every day getting up and going to the same place, wasting all that time – time I could have spent doing something else, something better – painting or travelling or... something. I don’t know what. And then you’re old and sick and you think –  what the fuck was that all about?
But then actually I couldn’t imagine sticking at any of those jobs for very long. Sooner or later they’d find a reason to sack me, which would be a relief, for a while, but then what? Back to mum’s – that’s what, and signing on.
There’s nothing to say, no excuses. I’m submerged in shame and uselessness. I just shake my head.

He looks at me, like he can’t think of anything to say either. Eventually he leans forward and says ‘Was it just about the money?’
‘I suppose...’
‘What about the thought of you being out on your own, fending for yourself? Didn’t that scare you?’
‘That wouldn’t have bothered me.’
‘So it was just the money.’
Hah! “Just the money” he says, as if it’s no big deal.
I look about the room, not focussing on anything especially. Someone up on deck is laughing, a woman’s voice, light, feminine, sexy. I feel a surge in my chest, in my groin.
‘Can’t you imagine getting a good job – one you could enjoy?’ he says.
I pretend to think about that for a while but I know the answer.
‘Not really’ I say, and I’m not being melodramatic. I honestly can’t. Work’s not about enjoying. It’s about fucking well doing as you’re fucking well told and fucking well putting up with it. That’s what my parents taught me.
‘We need to work on that’ he says, and begins to gather his things to leave.
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Voyage VI – Careers advice

Last night was a bit depressing. I sat up with Ray and Solly and Brenda, not playing games for a change, which was a relief. Harry and Liz had gone to bed early so all in all I felt relatively relaxed. That was until Solly decided it was time to sort my life out for me – try and make it a bit more of a success next time around. Brenda thought that would be a very good idea and it was about time. She went and got us all a lot of drinks and some snacks. It was going to be a long night.
‘The thing is’ says Solly, in a matey sort of way that immediately puts me on my guard, ‘this art thing of yours just isn’t going to get you very far. You know that don’t you. It’s alright as a hobby but it’s not exactly a job is it. So the question is – what are you going to do? You’ve got a bit of time to think about it while you’re here. I think you should make the most of it.’
‘I do too’ says Brenda, reaching over and touching my hand, and looking into my eyes, with sympathy and concern. It’s a funny feeling. Part of me doesn’t want to trust her. Another just wants to sink into her arms. She still smells funny though so I’m not going to do that. Not yet anyway. Ray looks about with an expression that tells us it’s all vaguely amusing for him but he’ll help anyway, because he’s good like that.
‘Now what about advertising?’ says Solly. ‘There’s lots of very talented people work in PR these days. You could use your er... creativity.’
‘That’s a good idea’ says Brenda. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. That’s where all the artists are going nowadays – marketing. There’s a lot of money to be made there.’
I try to look optimistic, because they’re trying to help after all. I’m not used to people taking an interest. But I don’t really feel any enthusiasm. I’m not sure why. Anyway, they can see I need more convincing.
‘Bright lad like you’ she says. ‘You’d pick it up in no time.’
‘I don’t know...’ is all I can say. I want to say something about not being that bothered about the money but can’t for some reason. It feels like blasphemy or something.
‘Actually I’ve got a contact in the industry’ says Ray. ‘Handled a lot of our contracts – several thousand pounds worth for one campaign as I recall: TV, magazines, billboards. It’s a lot of pressure, but you could really make a career if you’ve got the gumption.’
‘There you go’ says Brenda, clearly very excited for me. They’re all talking as if they can set all this up for me when we get off the boat. I don’t like to remind them of our predicament.
‘That’ll make your mum and dad proud’ says Brenda.
Mum and dad... Oh shit...
‘What did your father do anyway?’ says Ray.
It takes me a moment to register the question. They’re all looking at me. I tell them he worked for the council, which is sort of true. They don’t pry further.
‘So how about it Gabes?’ says Brenda. She’s being motherly. It feels really disturbing but I can’t stop her.
‘I don’t know’ I say again, not making eye-contact. ‘I don’t think I’m really into that sort of thing.’
‘How do you mean?’ says Solly, and I really don’t know how I mean it. After I’ve floundered for a while he says, in a fatherly sort of way ‘Look here Gabriel. The thing is, it’s alright to be idealistic. I was once. No really Ray, you might scoff... It’s alright to have dreams, but sooner or later lad, you’re going to have to grow up, put away childish things as they say. Got to see life for what it really is. Learn to play the game.’ He pauses and studies my face. I look at Brenda. She has the same expression – no nonsense. This is serious. Why do I feel like they’re trying to corrupt me?
‘You don’t want to disappoint your parents all over again do you?’ She grips my hand again and I can’t stop the tears. She moves around the table to sit beside me and clasps me to her bosom. She even says ‘Aw come here love. Have a cuddle.’ I can’t stand it.
‘Gabriel’ says Solly when I’ve recovered a bit, bending forward, looking up into my face. ‘The world’s not going to change to suit you I’m afraid.’
‘Might as well get used to the fact’ says Ray, also appearing quite concerned, despite himself.

After a few minutes I lean back, shrugging them all off as tactfully as I can, trying not to look ungrateful, trying to look brave. I swipe the tears away angrily, like I have flies feeding on my eyes, and I take a deep breath. I can’t believe it. Why am I crying again? I’m fucking eighteen for fuck’s sake.
‘What about being a draughtsman then, if you can’t see yourself in advertising?’ says Ray.
‘I could see you doing that’ says Brenda enthusiastically.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to do technical drawing either. I say ‘I think you need a lot of maths for that’ but I’m not sure you do. They seem to accept my excuse anyway.
‘There’s always hospitality. Catering and such like’ says Ray. ‘Nephew of mine left school at fifteen, making beds for nearly ten years. Now he’s got a chain of hotels. Doing very nicely for himself. Bought himself a Jag, last I saw. But then, he always was a grafter.’
Ten years? Oh my God no. And they’re all talking like this is all so exciting, getting a job, working your way up, saving your money. But I don’t get it. Maybe I should talk to Joe about it.
‘Gabriel’ says Brenda seriously. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t really want to work at all do you?’
‘No, that’s not true. I don’t mind working.’
‘What, hard work, really hard work? Long hours? Getting your hands dirty?’
‘I don’t mind hard work’ I say again, and it is true. I remember helping unload the lorries when they came in, getting everything off, taking it through to the stores and checking it off, then getting it out onto the shelves – working late, completely knackered afterwards. It was alright a couple of times. But after I’d done it a few times I knew where everything went and I was just thinking about the paintings I hadn’t finished at home and how beautiful it would be up on the Downs at that time of year, and I knew I’d be too tired to do anything when I got home. And then I had to work Saturdays too.
‘It’s just...’ I want to say something about being bored and miserable at work but I can’t. Everybody else gets on with it after all, don’t they? Eventually Solly says it for me.
‘You think it’s not good enough for you son?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘I didn’t mean it in a derogatory way Gabriel, believe me, but I think you’ve perhaps got unrealistically high expectations.’
‘I do want to do something useful, I really do. I don’t just want to skive off or go on the dole.’
‘I didn’t say you did. I just think perhaps your expectations are a little bit over ambitious.’
‘But ambition is a good thing’ says Brenda.
‘Of course it is, but you’ve got to be realistic. Do you consider yourself ambitious Gabriel?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Your last job, at the DIY shop, would you say you really put yourself into that, heart and soul?’
‘Well it was only a shop job.’
‘Doesn’t matter. You’ve got to put a hundred and ten percent into everything you do if you expect to get anywhere. Did you enjoy the work?’
I don’t know what to say. I can’t begin to imagine getting even slightly enthusiastic about a job like that, let alone “enjoying” it. None of this makes the slightest sense to me. But other people “enjoy” their jobs, supposedly, so they say. Why can’t I? What is wrong with me? I asked Richard about it once – he was the delivery driver. He said it got him out of the house. Unbelievable.
‘I just always thought...’ I begin apologetically, knowing already how they’re going to react to this, ‘I thought there should be more to life, to work. I don’t know.’
Ray looks very frustrated but then says ‘Look, what exactly do you expect to get out of life son? Can you tell us that?’
I look about vaguely. I don’t know what to tell them. Everything I want sounds either ridiculous or just totally unrealistic. I know what they’ll say – money.
‘How do you see yourself in ten years time – sorry – how do you see your self aged thirty?’ They all smile at the slip. I try to work out an answer.
‘I don’t know’ I begin. ‘I’d like to have travelled a bit, maybe find a place to live somewhere in the country. I’d like to have a girlfriend by then...’
‘A girlfriend?’ says Sol, grinning. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Well, yes.’ I shrug. It doesn’t seem that far fetched.
‘You owe me a pint’ says Brenda. Solly smiles ruefully. Ray thinks it’s funny too.
‘What?’ I say.
‘Never mind’ he says. ‘How’re you going to afford all this then?’ is his next question.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s pricey, travelling, owning a house...’
‘Impressing a girl...’ and they all grin to each other again. I still don’t know what they’re up to and anyway, Amelia was always bringing home dodgy blokes. Complete losers most of them, and Justine’s last boyfriend was unemployed.
‘I could hitch’ I suggest, ‘and rent a place. I don’t mind.’
Gareth, at college, was hitching around Europe last I heard. He said he was going fruit picking or something. Gareth was always doing things like that. I’d imagined living with some cool people, maybe students, having friends round and parties. I could get a double bed...
‘Nah’ says Solly, leaning back. I look at him expecting him to elaborate but no, I’m simply wrong apparently – end of story. It’s a bit like trying to talk to my uncle Len, or my mum, or any of my family for that matter. They always insisted one day I’d want the all things they had – a wife, children, a mortgage, a big car but then I looked around and there was very little about their lives I envied. I hated being a child but I never wanted to be an adult. They were always complaining about their lot. They didn’t seem to like each other very much – their wives and husbands. They certainly didn’t seem to want to spend any time with their children.
I think they all just saw me as a bit simple in some way. Uncle Len was always pointedly telling me that he didn’t suffer fools gladly, as if the rest of us really treasure the experience.
‘No, you’ve got to get your own place’ says Solly conclusively.
‘I don’t think I’d mind renting’ I say. ‘It’d be ok.’
‘But it wouldn’t really would it’ says Brenda, suddenly very seriously. ‘It’s like your idea of hitchhiking around Europe. The things you hear people get up to. It’s a good way to get yourself killed – end up in a ditch somewhere...’
‘Loads of people hitch, all the time’ I say.
‘Not really Gabriel. Drop-outs and junkies maybe. Students.’
‘I wouldn’t give any of them a lift’ says Ray.
‘Well...’
‘But it’s not fair on the drivers anyway, expecting them to stop all the time.’
‘Well...’
‘Well what? ‘
‘Well it can’t hurt to ask’ I suggest. I hear my voice squeaky and uncertain.
‘It’s a complete liberty’ she continues. ‘How do you think we motorists feel, after we’ve paid all that for a car? Why would we want to share it with you?’
‘Well you wouldn’t have to. Nobody’s forcing you.’
She looks at me, a tight, appraising smile on her lips, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. ‘When you’ve got a car of your own’ she says tersely, ‘If you ever get a car of your own, we’ll see how you feel about it then.’
‘You’ll feel differently I promise you’ says Ray.
‘I’d still want to give people lifts’ I say feebly.
‘No. I don’t think so. You wait and see. You’ll find out. When you’ve paid for it, years on the HP...’
I don’t want to argue any more. I feel extremely weary. I want to go back to my cabin. ‘I just think...’ I begin, but I don’t know where to begin. Later on, back in my bunk I realise I wanted to say something about generosity and assuming the best of people but there would have been no point.
Now Ray is saying something about some rented houses he’s seen, what utter tips a lot of them were. He goes on to tell a story about a launderette in the same neighbourhood, and the ‘magnificent specimens of humanity’ he ‘chanced to glimpse therein.’
‘Got to get your own place, your own car, everything. You can’t rely on everybody else.’
‘And that all takes money’ says Brenda, triumphantly.
‘Then you can get yourself this girlfriend...’ says Solly.
‘I don’t know...’
‘Oh you will’ says Brenda, suddenly motherly once again, grasping my hand again. ‘Of course you will Gabriel. You’ll meet a nice girl. But she’ll want to be taken out to the pictures mind, take her out for a meal once in a while. You’ve got to take all that into consideration.’
‘Not all girls are like that’ I say feebly.
‘Don’t kid yourself’ says Ray, and I see Brenda wink at him. ‘No decent bird’s going to want you without the wherewithal to pay your way. I don’t care what the feminists say. It’s a fact of life son.’
‘You might be able to live on nothing but you can’t expect her to.’
‘Wouldn’t be fair.’
‘He’s right. And then there’s children to think about. And your mortgage ...’
‘I just think...’ I begin. It's so hard to explain. ‘I just think, it’s like my parents, they worked full time, weekends too, to get all this money, and then they just didn’t have any time for anything else.’
‘You make time’ says Solly. ‘Weekends, holidays... Gabriel that’s life. You’ve just got to think of the money. That’s how it is.’
‘You’d get bored with too much holiday anyway’ says Brenda. ‘I was always glad to get back to work. It’s like my two. Didn’t know what to do with themselves by the beginning of August. Every year. I don’t know why they have such long school holidays.’
‘Teachers’ says Ray contemptuously. They all nod together.
‘But then there you are down the pub’ says Solly, grinning broadly, grabbing me around the shoulders and shaking me about in what I suppose is meant to be a display of male solidarity. ‘Friday night, meet up with your mates, have a laugh, take the boy to the football on Saturday, a bit of gardening, a bit of DIY. It’s not so bad.’
‘Sounds fab...’ I say, not quite managing to hide my contempt.
‘Now now’ says Brenda. ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit you know. We’re only trying to help.’
I look around the room, trying to think. I know they’re trying to help but why does this all feel like being buried alive? And anyway, who says sarcasm is the lowest form of wit? My uncle Len used to belch limericks to get a laugh. Come to think of it, spouting clichés has got to be quite near the bottom.
Ray gets up and collects our glasses, ready to go to the bar. ‘Well I don’t know son’ he says, leaning over. ‘I think you need to think about all this a bit more, because between you and me, that’s how it’s going to be so you’d better get used to it. Same again everybody?’
I nod and look away. I don’t know if I want to ever go back.

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