Geoff Dyer - The Colour of Memory

We walked quickly, both wearing the same dark grey overcoats that were several sizes too big and weighed so much that you slouched under them. Mine had no buttons left; I kept it together with a massive old belt my grandfather had used to strap my father. We had our collars turned up against the wind; our breath clouded and disappeared quickly. The pavement felt hard, cold and brittle beneath our feet. Our shoulders bumped together. Steranko sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Heavy with grit, the wind skated across the adventure playground and chiselled away at our faces.

‘I wish I had my gloves,’ I said. ‘I left them at home.’

‘At least you don’t have to worry about losing them,’ said Steranko.

We took a short-cut to Stockwell across the railway bridge which was covered in a caged hoop of wire netting, either to stop people throwing themselves under trains or to stop kids throwing bricks through the driver’s window: both probably. A small boy trundled past us on one of those bikes that all the kids have. A white guy walked past looking desperate behind thick glasses.

The wind swept down on us like a slide as we made our way towards the tundra wastes of Vauxhall. By now we were feeling warm from the walk. The wind blew back Steranko’s hair. His face looked hard and white, his lips pale. The sky was sooty with rain, full of all the misery of the city. It began to grow dark quickly. Bus windows became moving squares of light framing ghastly faces. Lights appeared in windows, brake lights left a ghost trail of red above the road.

At Vauxhall, where the streets widen and routes converge until there is nothing but roadway, the streetlights glowed red and then yellow. The wind, damp with spray from the river, stung our faces. I pulled the lapels of my coat together again, trying to seal in the warmth generated by the walk. My nose was running. I sniffed and my breath rippled and fanned out into the air like fog. The neon lights of a garage stood out brightly against the dark blue sky and the darker grey of the clouds. Cars hurtled past each other, across the river and down under the railway bridge.

Standing there, waiting for the lights to change, I felt a strong sense of converging definition. It was one of those moments which, even as experienced, is obscurely touched by the significance with which it will be invested by the future, by memory: this is how I was, this is how we were; this is how we spent our time, wasting whole afternoons and not caring because it was winter and there were so many afternoons still ahead.

Steranko touched my sleeve: ‘Let’s cross,’ he said and we stepped out into the road, weaving our way between the red and white lights and the steaming breath of cars.

‘Look,’ said Steranko suddenly as we walked down a narrow street. A toy parachute was tangled up in some phone lines overhead. Lit by the yellow glow of a street-lamp the tattered parachute flapped quietly; hanging from damp strings a grey plastic soldier swayed stiffly in the wind.

As we walked the last few hundred yards to Steranko’s house we passed the gas works. There were two gasometers, both full to the brim with gas and looking like huge, rusting drums.

By the time I walked home later that night, one of them had become a skeleton frame of metal spars that held only the empty sky. The tattered parachute still hung from the phone lines.

Carlton, Steranko and I called for Freddie on our way to play football. His room was full of books and bits of paper; a record was playing so loudly on his new stereo — bought with the money from his inflated insurance claim after the break-in — that we all had to shout. Steranko had his football boots tied around his neck; Freddie was on his hands and knees, looking for his.

‘Where are they? I think the animal they made these boots out of is still alive. They’re always scurrying off somewhere.’

‘What’s this record?’ Steranko asked.

‘What?’

‘What’s this record?’

‘The Art Ensemble of Chicago,’ Freddie said, looking under his bed. ‘It’s a soundtrack for a film that was never made.’

‘Ah the avant garde,’ said Steranko. ‘Those were the days.’

‘I wonder if there’s an avant garde now,’ I yelled.

‘We’d definitely have heard of it if there was,’ Freddie yelled back. ‘Where the fuck are they?’

‘You reckon?’

‘Yeah. We’d probably be it if there was one,’ Steranko said.

‘We’d be in the guard’s van more like,’ said Carlton.

‘There’s never been an avant garde in this country,’ Steranko said.

‘Is that true?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Bohemia is the last refuge of the avant garde,’ said Freddie. ‘Actually maybe I’ve got that the wrong way round.’

‘How’s the writing going then Freddie?’ said Carlton, kicking the football skilfully from one foot to the other without letting it bounce.

‘Terrific. If that ball lands on my new turntable, by the way, I’ll be very upset. I’ve got some work writing copy for police Wanted notices. Apparently the police have decided that they need them done in a more punchy kind of way, a bit livelier and not so off-putting. Steranko’s got some work there as well: he’s assistant Photo-fit arranger. It’s quite well paid.’

As Freddie finished speaking the ball bobbled awkwardly off Carlton’s foot, hit the stereo and bounced towards Steranko.

‘Must be the most creative thing you’ve done in about two years then Steranko,’ said Carlton, glancing at Freddie who was storming round the room like a junkie, looking for his football boots.

‘On the head, on the head,’ said Carlton, gesturing at Steranko to throw the ball. Steranko did so and Carlton headed the ball as hard as he could into the door.

‘Jairzinho!’ he shouted. The 1970 World Cup in Mexico had made a deep impression on us all.

The music came to an end just as Freddie found his boots.

Steranko and Carlton were trying unsuccessfully to head the ball back and forth to each other.

‘You nearly ready Freddie?’ I asked.

‘Fuck! Now I can’t find my shinpads,’ he said.

After the recent rain the grass was thick and green under the enamelled blue sky. Trees fanned the breeze. On the path beyond the touchline, old and young couples walked by or sat on benches.

I knew most of the rest of our team from around Brixton or parties or just from playing football. Some of us changed shirts with people in the other team until we were more or less in white shirts and they were in an assortment of colours. I played as a sort of left-winger and after ten minutes I was breathing hard and starting to feel good. On the other wing Carlton tried to dribble past two or three men with occasional success; Steranko charged around the middle of the field (no one was quite sure where he was supposed to be playing); Freddie, who was surprisingly skilful and tenacious, played up front. As we rushed forwards and backwards my heart thumped in time with the pounding of our feet on the grass. Bracing my neck for the shock I headed the ball from a high clearance, catching it full in the forehead and hardly feeling it except for the sudden smack of impact. We dribbled, passed and ran back to tackle. Both teams clapped when their goalkeeper made a spectacular flying save from a shot by Carlton.

At half-time we drank water and didn’t bother talking tactics. I lay on my back feeling the blood flowing through my limbs and the soft ground beneath my head, looking up at the still blue of the sky.

In the second half both teams tried long shots at goal and eventually we scored after a header of Freddie’s bounced off the crossbar. Now that we were one-nil up they attacked more desperately but our defence tackled and headed the ball clear of danger. Steranko seemed to be concentrating on work-rate, charging around in circles.