get my head round any of that stuff. It seems to me every religion asks you to believe things that can’t be true.”
Nick nodded. “Without ever giving you any proof.”
“Yeah – that’s right. I mean, I wouldn’t knock other people’s belief because it comforts them. But to me, thinking there’s a God is like kids believing in Father Christmas. It would be nice if it was true. But it ain’t.” I thought I sounded rather cynical so I backtracked a bit. “Don’t get me wrong – I’m not knocking morality – just Church and that.”
Kate nodded enthusiastically again. It was amazing to meet someone who agreed with me so much. I liked her. I also liked the way both of them were listening to me. It gave me the confidence to carry on spouting, hoping I’d hit on something else that built me up in their eyes.
“And school assemblies – what an exercise in hypocrisy! All those people singing hymns and not one person believing in any of it. Even the Head. Especially the Head.”
Kate laughed.
“It was the same where I was,” Nick reflected.
I took the lid off my coffee as it had cooled down. “What do you do?” I asked him.
“Freelance web design, working from home.”
It was my turn to be impressed. Kate interrupted.
“But I was interested in what you were saying. That you think people need to believe in something.”
“Yeah, that’s right. For some people it’s God, for others a football team. Or hero worship.”
“Hero worship?”
I was mouthing off now, but I didn’t care. Kate and Nick were a good audience. I rabbited about Gemma and her bedroom full of pop stars, and how growing up was about smashing idols. How unbelief was maturity How the world was a tough place and exploited by people who want to sell you stuff. I admitted I wore Nike trainers and Gap jeans, but only in an ironic way. Kate laughed again. We discussed how difficult it was to know where products came from these days, how hard it was to be an ethical consumer. Crewe. Macclesfield. We talked about music and films. We complained about the latest Hollywood blockbuster. I remembered the joke Phil’s mate told, and Nick was nearly crying with laughter. Stockport. The journey was nearly at an end. I had this crazy idea of suggesting we go for a drink, but something stopped me. What if they didn’t want to?
We pulled into Piccadilly. It turned out they were taking the tram to Victoria, so I went with them. We stood by the doors, chatting, as the tram rattled through a Manchester temporarily closed for business. Market Street was dead.
“You ought to come up and see us,” Nick said, as the tram clattered into Victoria.
“Yeah!” Kate said. “We’re having a get-together next Saturday Can you get up to Todmorden?”
“Sure,” I said. “I reckon I can borrow the car.”
Kate’s face lit up. I wondered for a moment if she fancied me, and I was flattered. Nick busily wrote some details on a scrap of paper – the address, some rough directions, a phone number.
“It’ll be a good night,” he said. “Give yourself a break and get some country air.”
I smiled as I knew that was a joke. Todmorden was hardly the country They got out and waved goodbye, and as the tram moved out of the station I watched them walk in the direction of the trains.
I found myself a seat now and settled down, smiling. It had been a good journey after all. Nick and Kate were sound. They were interesting, good listeners, a bit more to them than a lot of people I met. We talked, rather than just messed around. I wondered why. Perhaps it was because neither of them was fresh out of school. They were more mature – and they seemed to like me. OK, so I was flattered. Who wouldn’t be?
I tried to imagine what their house would be like, and speculated who their other housemates might be. If I had too much to drink, would they let me kip on the floor? Did they do weed?
Then I thought, would I actually have the courage to go all the way to Todmorden? I would have, if I had my mates with me. Alone, it seemed more difficult. What if I was to turn up and they’d forgotten who I was? I’d have to think about it and decide what to do. Whatever, it was good to have the option. I looked at the piece of paper Nick had given me. I had somewhere to go next Saturday night. Things were looking up.
2. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Traveller
A Traveller is lost in a Wilderness. Despairing of ever finding his way out, he builds himself a shelter, a garden and a maze, in which he wanders endlessly. How can he be freed? By a journey towards the source of the Light.
It was a pretty average sort of week. Monday I slept in late, did a bit of cleaning otherwise Mum would hit the roof, emailed some friends, but said nothing about Kate and Nick to anyone, not even Phil. I read a bit, watched MTV. Last year I would have killed to be able to do nothing like this all day; now I feel like life is a head-to-head game with boredom.
Tuesday – much the same, except I went into Manchester and looked round the shops. I was getting low again. Sometimes Manchester strikes me as the best place to live – home of United, Oasis, Coronation Street – even when you meet people from other places and they take the rise out of you for your northern accent. At night, down Deansgate, the clubs in the village, girls walking down the middle of the road mad for it, you feel there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. But other times, when the sky is loaded with grey rain clouds and the smell of burger stalls hangs around and makes you sick, you wonder. All the shops are the same – HMV, Virgin, Our Price; Next, Top Shop, Burton; JD Sports, JJB Sports – you’re supposed to have all this choice but you can never find anything you want. I get to thinking that life never delivers. I have this feeling on some days that anything’s possible, that round the next corner it will happen – whatever it is – that there’s a prize waiting for me, and me alone. But I haven’t found it yet and I reckon that maybe I never will. That’s Manchester melancholy for you.
Wednesday was better because I had a shift at the Red King. It gave some focus to my day. Since I was working late, I had to sleep in, didn’t I? I began to think about whether to go to Todmorden at the weekend. I even got as far as asking my dad if I could have the car, and to my amazement he said yes. But by now I was feeling nervous. Sunday seemed a long time ago and maybe Nick was just being polite. A lot of people find it hard to say a plain goodbye and kid you with I’ll ring you, speak soon. Crap like that. I know, I’ve done it often enough. I reckoned, if something else came up, I’d give Todmorden a miss. Nick and Kate’s address was in the drawer by the computer. Lower Fold Farm, Lumbutts, near Todmorden.
There was fun and games that evening. Dad came home and opened the telephone bill.
“Bloody hell!” he shouted.
Mum, Gemma and I were in the lounge watching TV. I saw Gemma go dead still. Mum just raised her eyebrows. Dad came storming in, talking to us as if we were skiving employees.
“It’s over a hundred pounds this month. I just don’t credit it! What’s this? Eight pounds seventy-two to a mobile number? Which of you made that call?”
I saw Mum tapping her foot in irritation at Dad’s bad temper. Meanwhile Gemma’s eyes were glued to the local news. I felt it would be disloyal of me to say the call wasn’t mine (it wasn’t), so I just shrugged and grinned at my dad.
Well, as they say, the best form of defence is attack, and Gemma was no slouch as a military strategist. She suddenly bounced up from the sofa.
“Why are you all staring at me? You think it’s me, don’t you?” (It was.) “I get blamed for everything in this family! It’s so unfair! Other people use the phone, you know.”
“Fiona?”