Marian Dillon - Looking For Alex

Crackling settles into a rhythmic hiss and it takes a second to realise that the sound of the stylus on plastic has become the shush of rain falling on tarmac, which in turn gives way to a soft crash of thunder. The music that follows — drum and bass stepping out together, then the cool, rippling descent of keyboard — churns something up inside me, a sense of ‘something’s about to happen and I don’t know what it is but I can’t stop it now’. Thunder rolls and the song slides into the room. It seems oddly exciting and calming at the same time.

Pete brings the tea up on a tray and sets it down on the floor. The tray is all nicely set out, with teapot, milk jug, sugar-bowl and a plastic strainer in a dish. There are four proper cups and saucers, which he begins pairing up, and an old biscuit tin next to them. It’s all quite unreal — a little fancy tea party in this half-derelict house.

‘Don’t mind me,’ Fitz says, watching Pete lay things out. The way he speaks, there’s an edge to it. I feel somehow responsible — that it’s because of me his room is being invaded. Pete ignores him, leaning forward to take the lid off the tin. I see little cakes inside.

‘It’s a bit early, isn’t it, Pete?’ Alex says. She sounds nervous again but I can’t see why.

‘In honour of Beth,’ he replies, beginning the business of pouring milk then tea into each cup. Wispy strands of hair hide his face; he loops it back behind his ears.

‘Not for Beth, not yet,’ she says, and it’s as if they’re talking in code.

‘Who are you to speak for Beth?’ he says and she frowns, as though he’s caught her out.

I glance over at Fitz. He’s standing by the window with his eyes closed and appears to be listening intently to the last bars of the song. Sunlight slants over his shoulder but the room is filled with the fading sound of rain and thunder. Anxiety catches in my throat.

Pete finishes pouring the tea and hands everyone a cup. Then he holds out the tin of cakes, offering me one first. They are fairy cakes in paper cases and as I lean over to look I breathe in a sweet, smoky aroma. Now I think I can place it.

‘Um, Beth—’ Alex begins, but then Fitz cuts her off.

‘I wouldn’t, Beth. They’re hash cakes.’

I look up. He stares right back. Pete tuts.

‘Hey, Fitz, don’t spoil the fun. Go on, Beth. I baked them myself.’

‘Pete, Beth’s never even smoked weed.’ Alex sounds defensive. ‘Don’t make her.’

I’m suddenly annoyed with Alex, that she’s let me walk into this with no warning. I’m torn between not wanting to seem boring or naïve, and the risk of feeling even more out of control.

‘That’s not true, Alex. I’ve had dope before.’

‘Where? You mean at Bestie’s party? Like two drags?’

‘Beth, if you want some I’ll roll a joint later.’ Fitz comes and sits on the floor with us and I see now that his eyes are green, cat’s eyes. ‘And then afterwards you can go to bed and sleep it off. The way Pete bakes cakes there’s no way of knowing how much is in each one. It’s unpredictable.’

‘But it’s much more fun,’ Pete drawls, unwrapping one of the cakes. He takes a large bite, then picks another out of the tin and tosses it over to Alex. She catches it and lets it lie in her lap.

‘I’ll have it later,’ she says, and her attempt at compromise makes Pete smile.

‘Well, you’ll have some catching up to do,’ he says, stuffing the last of the cake into his mouth.

Alex shrugs, peels the cake’s wrapper, and eats it.

The afternoon wears on into early evening. Its rambling conversation — from how to cook Bolognaise sauce to is there any such thing as ‘free love’ since someone always ends up paying — is punctuated only by more pots of tea and the flipping of LPs on the turntable. I take little part in it, still shy, but Fitz, who does not have one of the cakes, becomes quite animated and seems to forget his earlier irritation. At some point my need for the bathroom overcomes my caution. While I’m in there I hear footsteps going up the attic stairs; if it’s Celia she obviously doesn’t want to join the party. Pete eats another cake and as he grows more stoned he drops the faintly mocking superiority and becomes kinder to Alex. They lie side by side on Fitz’s bed, hands entwined, like a medieval stone knight and his lady.

Fitz and I seem unable to find anything to say to each other then and the growing silence between us unnerves me. We listen to the whole of Dark Side of the Moon without speaking at all. Fitz lies on the floor and I sit very quietly, not moving, knees drawn up to my chin and my hands clasped around them. I have no idea what’s going to happen next and feel further apart from Alex than ever.

At about seven Alex and Pete go off to their own room. ‘Back in a bit,’ says Alex, vaguely.

Fitz looks over at me then, his head on one side, considering. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he says.

‘I’m not,’ I lie as panic creeps icily through me. ‘It’s just all weird. I want to talk to Alex and I can’t get near her.’

‘She won’t go home, you know.’

I ignore that and brave the question that’s bothering me. ‘Why did Alex say I was sleeping in here?’

‘Because I’m going to sleep downstairs.’ There’s no way of telling whether he minds.

‘I could go downstairs,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to give up your room.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m used to sleeping in odd places. You might get spooked down there on your own.’

There’s some truth in that.

‘Are you hungry?’ Fitz asks, and I realise that breakfast at home is the last meal I had. My stomach growls in response and we both grin.

‘Starving.’

‘Come on, Beth. Let’s go eat.’

I follow him down to the kitchen, hugely cheered at the thought of food — and a room to which I can later escape.

*

25th July 1977

Somewhere outside music jangles: Greensleeves . Mr Whippy music. Is this Sunday? Turning onto my back, I stare up blearily, trying to make sense of the strange angles and shapes of the room, none of which add up to my bedroom. Then I see my bag in the corner, slung down next to a pile of LPs, and my eyes snap open. This isn’t home. I’m in London. I’m in a squat with a bunch of strangers.

The house is eerily silent. Sunshine filters weakly through the thin cotton sheet over the window, casting pale shadows, but it could be any time of the day to me, not knowing east from west in this house. I lift one arm to peer at my watch, which tells me two things: that it’s past midday, and that my head is going to hurt like hell when I raise it properly off the pillow. Well, not pillow — grubby, thread-pulled cushion. I try to swallow and find that my tongue is stuck like sandpaper to the roof of my mouth, which makes me long for ice-cold water; this nudges a vague memory of someone saying, ‘Here, you’ll be needing this.’ Fitz. I turn my head towards the side of the bed, see a pint glass of water and sit up to drink it down in one go. Tepid, not ice-cold, but bliss. I slump back in the sleeping bag and close my eyes, waiting for the banging in my skull to subside and letting all yesterday’s events filter through my mind.

Things come back to me in a jumble of images: Alex squealing excitedly at the bus station; Fitz peering up from his stack of albums; the fantastic garden glimpsed through a ramshackle wooden door; Pete, smiling lazily at me, his arm around Alex. And then the bizarre tea party in this room, where I’d felt like Alice in Wonderland, huge and misplaced. After that there’d been helping Fitz make some food before Alex and Pete came down.

I peeled and chopped vegetables for him to scoop into a big pan, to be made into curry. As he cooked so he talked, in his London-Irish lilt. And as he talked he seemed to warm to me, open up a bit. I found out he was the eldest of six children and that his proper name was John Fitzallen. He was born in Waterford but his family came to England when he was five. They live in a crowded flat in a tower block in Bethnal Green and on turning sixteen he was turned out.