Fly Posting


The poem she was trying to write was no further forward. Over a contented Christmas dinner of Spam and spaghetti hoops in front of the gas fire in her new bedsit she tried again …
She cannot come home, she cannot come home
No matter how badly you’ve missed her
The damage is done and her mind is made up
And she’s going to look for her sister

Greta crossed out ‘going’ and put ‘trying’.

In the New Year she applied for a full time post that came up at her College, and got it. Full of elation she wrote to Clare: Dear Clare, I’ve packed in the casino and finally got a proper job – full time Liberal Studies lecturer at Central College of Further Education which is not far from The Trip to Jerusalem, if you remember. I like it. Some of my students are rough but I’m fond of them and now I’m full-time I get O-level and A-level students as well. And I’ve got nice fellow lecturers – all blokes… She stopped writing. Clare would smile maybe, or would she sigh? And why had she written that anyway? All blokes. What about other aspects of her new job, and the yoga; what about that? Greta had started doing a yoga evening class. Telling Clare she had become interested in physical movement was the last thing that occurred to her. Yet she loved yoga and was looking forward to a residential course she had booked, come the summer break. The nib placed itself on the paper. Maybe I wouldn’t have mentioned the blokes, but I fancy one of them. His name is Tim Duprès. He’s about my height, very thin with long blond hair. Unfortunately he’s got a girlfriend. I might join the Labour Party. (Tim is very left wing; he’s in The SWP.) David and I broke up. He got a lectureship at Berkeley so is in California now. I’m still in Nottingham. I have my own bedsit, in Carlton. I feel guilty because I haven’t been down to see you. I hope you and Ray are well. Have you seen Camilla lately? Biting her pen, unable to visualise Clare reading the letter, Greta wondered what else to say.

The sleeve of her sweater smelled of Players Number Six. Tim Duprès, the young lecturer with nicotine stained fingers who had shown her round on her first day at the college, smoked them constantly. If she inhaled, she could envisage him; conjure the look of his bony frame, the hang of his jacket, the quick lope of his walk.

By the time summer came she was certain he liked her too. In the echoing staff canteen one morning Greta looked up to find Tim gazing at her from an adjoining table. He lifted his cup of coffee, narrowing his eyes through the steam. “Going somewhere nice this summer?” he asked.

“No, just staying here as usual,” she said.

“What? I imagined you as a traveller. You’re not off to Greece?”

“No. Are you?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m going to Crete as soon as we break up.”

“With your girlfriend?”

“Nicki? No. She’s going somewhere with her parents,” he said. “Nicki’s not like me,” and then, “I can’t wait,” he added. It felt as if he was entrusting her with his profoundest heart’s desire.

And this grew even more intense in September, once the new academic year started. Sometimes in staff meetings Tim would sit opposite her. He would look at her and hold her gaze. From across the table his eyes were aquamarine. The black pupils gleamed. Was this how he looked at Nicki? As autumn progressed, the colours of the trees looked more beautiful than she could ever remember as she rode the bus to work, gazing out of the window. As the days shortened and the darkness fell earlier and earlier a tense happiness inside her grew and grew.

One overcast winter’s day, when the weak midday light was already draining into thick fog, Greta and Tim met; quite by chance; on Bridlesmith Gate and they strolled along together, talking. Like a married couple they went into the bank on Middle Pavement and she drew out some cash. Then they walked in the slushy snow towards college and he asked her if she’d do some team-teaching with him.

It seemed natural to plan projects with Tim Duprès. They started a college magazine, publishing student paeans to the Bay City Rollers; statistics about motorbikes, commentaries on Giant Haystacks and analysis of Nottingham Forest matches. Greta was purple to the wrists from the cyclo-styling machine. They produced and directed a student play which Tim encouraged her to write. The title was Penelope, and it was a swiftly created version of the Odysseus myth in which Penelope went on the voyage too and gave Odysseus all his best ideas. Their teenage Penelope had bright blue eye-shadow and auburn curls that glowed against the black tabs of the drama studio. Greta directed. “Smashing,” she called as Penelope vanquished Circe for the umpteenth time, “but if you don’t know those lines by Tuesday we’re in trouble.”

“You’re good,” said Tim. He had a way of tilting his head and peering at her through his long blond hair. His eyes were perpetually narrowed against his chain-smoking. “Is it still snowing?”

Greta pressed her face to the window. “No.”

“Sir are you and Miss coming to The Trip with us?” came the imperious shout of Cameron Valentine; their slender Odysseus.

“Yes,” called Tim, winding a woollen scarf round his neck, “See you down there.”

“We’re not going there with them, are we?” said Greta, as they walked to the car park, “they’re underage.”

“Christ, Greta, it’s the seventies. I bet you went in pubs when you were a kid.”

“That’s different.” She held her long skirt clear of the slush as she waited for him to unlock the passenger door of his old blue van.

“Hypocrite,” he said.

“We’re in loco parentis,” she protested, getting in.

He laughed: tried the engine. “My Dad always bought me a drink if he met me round the pubs when I was out with my mates.”

Greta shut up. When it came to knowing how parents were supposed to behave she always shut up. The engine started at the third attempt.

Something about her expression must have changed Tim’s mind. “OK,” he conceded, “we’ll go to the Berni Inn. I fancy a steak. And there’s something I want to ask you. How about we take this lot up and do the show as a Fringe Production in Edinburgh next summer?”

Her heart leapt.

They drove the short distance to King Street, wiping frost off the inside of the windscreen, their hands bumping together as they did so, making them laugh for no real reason. Inside the pub the juke box was playing Tiger Feet full blast. Greta ordered the house speciality, a schooner of draught sherry, and sipped greedily. “Let’s dance,” she said.

“No!” He recoiled, aghast, “I don’t dance. Sorry.” While they waited for their steaks to arrive, Tim drank lager, dropping cigarette ash over the Fringe Programme registration forms he had brought to show her. “I got these last year but never did anything about it. But with you I could. The students could chip in for accommodation, they can sleep on the floor,” he said, “I bet the Principal would fund it – it would be good for the trendy image of the college.”

“I’ve been to Edinburgh,” said Greta, “I was a stagehand at University.”

“So you know all about it then. It’s settled.”

She loved Tim’s eagerness, the way he assumed she would go ahead with him; loved his ambitious dreams for their students. His hands were bony, the knuckles prominent, his wrists thin. She would do it. He only had to say. What would he say if she told him that she had fallen in love with him? She suspected that the reason they got on so well was precisely because she never said such things. And what about his girlfriend? Would she come to Edinburgh? However, when they asked, the Principal wouldn’t give them college funding for their Edinburgh plan after all.

Greta began writing another play. The weather was bitterly cold and she drew her red curtains and ate toasted crumpets in front of her gas fire, wrapped in her quilted dressing gown. She wrote and wrote – whenever she wasn’t working she was writing. It took her mind off Tim.

The months passed.

“Greta, Gordon asked, “are you coming to The Playhouse bar tomorrow night?” Then he added, “Tim isn’t,” and indicated the lounging Tim Duprès at his side. The refectory chairs were moulded plastic but Tim managed to make his look as comfortable as a sofa. “He’s spun a fucking pathetic excuse about going to a christening.” Frowning, Gordon wiped coffee froth from the thick hair of his moustache, using a downward motion of his closed fingers.

Tim addressed himself to her, leaning back in his chair, his hands in his pockets and saying in his drawling voice: “Oh dear. Comrades aren’t supposed to go to christenings.”

“What’s on at The Playhouse bar?” Greta changed the subject because she could tell that Gordon was angry. And she was on Tim’s side. Tim’s foot tapped against her ankle. One light tap and then another. He smiled complicitly.

“There’s a blues band on…” Gordon said, and then, as if jolted out of anger, “…cripes; look at those sexy boots.” A leggy girl walked by outside the window. Gordon leaned on the table, his bulky forearms either side of his coffee cup and levered himself upright. “I’ve got to go,” he sighed. He squeezed round Tim’s reclining figure, “I’ve got Mechs 3 and it’s over in X-block.”

Tim ignored Gordon’s receding back. Greta looked out of the window. Spring had come. The wind shook blossom off the trees and three girls laughed and raised their hands among the floating petals. “I suppose,” Tim recalled her attention, “there’s a good chance we won’t be all that late back from the christening. Gordon’s organised this Playhouse bar thing that’s why he’s being shitty. It’s a miners’ welfare benefit.”

“I’ll probably go to it,” said Greta.

 

In her long, tiered cotton print gypsy skirt and tight vest top; her platform espadrilles held on by sexy ankle ties, Greta paraded from friend to friend at The Playhouse bar. It reminded her of her wild nights at the De Montfort Hall, herself and Bridget Furedi. She stood near the band, joining in applause for a harmonica solo, knocking back vodka-and-lime. After a while, to her delight, Tim Duprès came in, stylish in a brown suit with flared trousers, matching shirt and wide striped tie. He went straight to the bar, disappearing through the crowd. Without hesitation she followed, leaving the band like a carousel behind her. The lights changed colour. Tim glanced round and saw her. Perfect timing. “What’s that you’re drinking?” he said.

“Vodka-and-lime.”

“The hard stuff. Yeah. Why not? I got pissed at the christening.” He lit a cigarette leaving it smouldering in his mouth as he waited for the barman to get his drink. She took in the sight of him as he lounged there, as he pocketed the change without checking, as he took the cigarette out of his mouth, squinting at her through coils of smoke. She was with Tim. They stood by the bar looking into each other’s eyes.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” She asked.

I’m gonna wait ‘til the midnight hour….“She went home.” He yanked at his tie, “fucking christening…” the tie came loose and he stuffed it in his pocket. Noise; wonderful brassy noise. Noise and drinking. Noise had always made Greta feel bold. Nothing awful happened in a noisy crowd. All the trouble happened when it was quiet. “Do you like this music?” He asked, undoing his shirt collar.

“Yes.”

“Me too.

The lights changed again, the band announced a break. “Gordon and some others are at a table over by the wall,” she told him, “Gordon’s with a dark-haired girl.”

“That’s Trish; his girlfriend. He lives with her,” said Tim and then he reversed his cigarette and held it to her lips. She took a tiny puff of it, made breathless by a flutter of excitement. Tim, leaning his elbow on the hammered copper of the bar, lazily scanned the room. She cradled her glass. “Greta…” he said, waiting until she met his gaze, “we’re going to do something about this.” He touched her hand and then peeled it away from her glass and stroked it. He stroked her forearm. Then; “we’ve been spotted,” he murmured, glancing beyond her then back into her eyes, “Gordon’s heading over.” Their hands parted unobtrusively.

 

Next day she went to see Rosalind on her cane stall in the Victoria Centre Market. This, in addition to her shifts at the casino, was Rosalind’s Saturday job. Rosalind’s mum, pushing Rosalind’s baby boy in a pushchair, was emerging from among the baskets, wicker chairs, cane mats and plant holders. “Say hello to Greta,” cooed Rosalind. All three gazed down at the child who arched back against his pushchair and smiled, tilting his head on one side. He was much bigger than when Greta had seen him last and even more like Rosalind with his silky hair and light blue eyes.

“Wave bye-bye to Mummy,” said his Grandma and he obediently raised his hand.

Over bacon sandwiches fetched from the adjacent café, Greta told Rosalind all about Tim and the Playhouse Bar. “And what about his girlfriend?” Rosalind narrowed her eyes and blew cigarette smoke upwards, a knowing look on her face, “what’s her name?”

“Nicki,” said Greta unwillingly.

 

On Sunday at four o’clock Tim Duprès arrived at her door almost as if it had been arranged that he should. Greta was dressed in jeans and an old velour tee shirt. Her feet were bare. “Oh. Hi.” She was astounded. “I was just going to have a bath.”

“Carry on.” He stepped in, hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket, shoulders hunched as if it were cold. “Can I crash out?” He lowered himself into a languid sprawl on her floor, dragging a cushion of her couch. “You can run me one after,” he said, “I’ve been playing five-a-side football.” He closed one eye and squinted up at her as if she was bright sunlight.

Greta went and had a bath and washed her hair and when she came out he was asleep. She ran a bath for him and put some bath foam in it. He slept on. The scent of roses filled the room and she was tempted to just sit and watch him. His blonde hair was long. His fingers were thin; the nails bitten. But watching made him childlike so she woke him and he staggered into the bathroom. He looked lost and sleepy and she wanted to take him in her arms but she just smiled instead and showed him where the shampoo was.

He didn’t bother closing the door. “Greta,” he called, after a few minutes, “come in.”

“We haven’t got any lessons to plan,” she said, leaning on the doorframe, inhaling the steam. His face was pink, his hair darkened by water.

“Nicki went to her parents for the weekend,” he said, holding out his hand to her, “come on.” She took his outstretched hand. “Join me,” he said.

He didn’t stay all night, and they didn’t talk about where they would go from there but: “I guess we should keep this quiet,” he said, as he left her, “or it’ll be all over college and I don’t want Nicki to find out until I work out what I’m going to do.”

“Miss…”

“Yes, Parminder?”

“Are you going out with Sir?” Parminder swigged from his can of Vimto and glanced round. The rest of them were draped over chairs or on the floor in attitudes of heat and fatigue. The double doors at the end of the drama studio were open wide and a scent of mown grass came in on the warm air.

“No, he has a steady girlfriend. They’ve been together for years.” Greta looked at her group and they all laughed because everyone had stopped talking to hear her answer.

“You two get on so well,” continued Parminder, “we kind of thought you ought to be together…” much giggling accompanied this. Some of the cast looked at her, a little alarmed while others indicated, with nods and knowing looks that they were in agreement.

“Don’t be cheeky,” Cameron Valentine, gave Parminder a push. “Miss has a private life you know,” he grinned at her. “Take no notice of us,” he said, “we just all think you make a good couple.” Again the wave of sympathetic laughing and Greta felt warmed by their acuteness rather than embarrassed.

“Come on – break over,” she said. “It’s your line Parminder: start from the beginning of that last speech.”

Although she hadn’t joined the Socialist Workers’ Party Greta started going to their meetings that Autumn to just be with Tim. Meetings were held in pubs in districts like Gedling, Sneinton or Basford and never the same pub two meetings in a row. Greta had no interest in politics; her knowledge and understanding of it hadn’t progressed beyond what they had been when she was twelve. Discussions at the meetings were intensely theoretical or involved different people reporting on union meetings they had attended. Greta tried to listen, blah blah social contract but lapsed into daydreams about herself and Tim, hoping her duplicity wouldn’t be exposed. Gordon, chairing the meetings, blah blah TUC boycott took pains to include her, checking to make sure she was following the discussion blah blah referendum. A nod would satisfy him and her lascivious thoughts of Tim were barely interrupted. After meetings the group split up and a few of them would go into town for a drink at The Bell. It was Greta’s favourite pub. The main bar at the end of the stone-flagged passageway reminded her of The Peasant Wedding by Breughel with its beams, wood-panelled walls and heavy oak tables and benches and it held happy memories of when she and Alma used to come to Jazz Night in an effort to bump into Two-Balls Mclean.

Sandwiched between the hairy sleeve of Gordon’s jacket and the denim-clad warmth of Tim, Greta drank beer. Gordon would sometimes take a book out of his pocket and present it to her. Culture and Society had been one. His finger pushed his spectacles higher up on his chubby nose as he earnestly explained the merits of each writer he recommended. Gordon was her age and it amused her to see him taking on roles like chairman and mentor. Sociology was his main subject but in his good-humoured manner he constantly took on the task of widening everyone’s political awareness at Central College. “Here Greta,” he said, angling his body forwards to get something out of his jacket pocket in the squeeze of the seating. “I nearly forgot.” The book he laid on the table was Marx and Engels; Basic Writings on Politics and Philosophy. “Got to go,” he said, “Trish is expecting me. Cor blimey – look at her.” A girl in a tight sweater went by.

“That’s subtle, Gordon,” said Tim. “Greta’s impressed.” They laughed.

Greta volunteered to go fly posting with Tim. When the pubs closed they waited, locked together in the back of Tim’s van while the roads emptied. Their bower was a duffel coat, a tarpaulin, his fishing cagoule, sweaters. “See what I do for you,” he murmured. Greta watched the shape his hand made as he straightened her skirt. He smoothed the fabric tenderly, as if she were a doll and he was dressing her. Torch-light shone rose and gold on the trapezium of skin between his thumb and cantilevered finger bones. His fingers moved from the hem of her skirt to her thigh, stroking. Greta heard herself breathing; pressed herself against the corrugations of the metal floor to arch nearer to him. His long hair dipped against her face, hiding the torch light. Coldness and heat mixed themselves up, as instead of dressing, they began making love again. His stomach, chilled by a few minutes of withdrawal, slid against her warm one. Her legs were cold; his were warm through his jeans, which he didn’t remove.

The back of the van had a volatile scent, part mineral and part creature, the odour of their bodies, engine oil from the jack and wrench; nicotine from the endless cigarettes. “I look after you,” he said, pouring her coffee from his thermos as she dragged overalls on ready for fly posting. His look was quizzical. His looks were signs that she loved to see. He looked at her hopefully. He looked at her enquiringly. He looked at her sardonically.

Fly posting was exciting. “We’re breaking the law so be quick. The police hate us,” Tim warned. The wind was freezing but she found gloves a nuisance. Tim drew up by a road sign and she got out with the paste and slapped some on. The gel blew back into her face in gummy strings and her hair, escaping from under her black woolly hat, became clumped and sticky. Tim would pass her a poster to unroll against the pasted sign. Rock Against Racism! Even in a high wind she could do it. Riskier but more satisfying was getting a couple of A1 sized posters up onto the big motorway signs. The National Front is a Nazi Front! Tim kept the engine running and as soon as she had slung the stepladder in and dived in after it he pulled away, while she slammed the door, laughing. It was like being Bonnie and Clyde.

Greta got a letter from her mother. Dear Greta. Dad not well at the moment. It might be lumbago. He has a pain in his back. Why don’t you come and see us? Greta stared angrily at the sheet of paper. Why don’t you tell me where Deborah went? But she sent her Dad a get-well card. Tim had gone south to visit his parents. Nicki had gone with him. Greta tried to carry on writing her new play but it was a struggle. It was based on Pantagruel and Gargantua by Rabelais and was about the daughter she imagined Pantagruel having. The daughter’s name was Pantagruelle and Pantagruelle had a daughter called Gargantina. Another verse of her poem appeared in the margin…
You told me my sister had gone round the world
or was dead and you said hold your tongue
But why did she go, tell me that, are you blind?
Don’t you know? Can’t you guess what he’s done?

The students said they didn’t like Greta’s new play so she gave up writing it and they did The Threepenny Opera. Of more concern to Greta was the fact that Tim Duprès did not seem to realise he had outgrown his relationship with Nicki. In an effort to dress more enticingly (then he’ll leave her,) Greta took to reading Vogue again and studying the fashions. But Tim made no effort to break out of his deception of Nicki. Far from feeling free to discuss it with him Greta suspected that if she began to question him he would blame her for the impasse. In Vogue the following Spring, there was a lustral ivory tulip of a wedding dress. Its veil shone like a sunlit cloud. Greta cut it out.

By July she had others.