OUTSIDE

No. I don’t know where it happened, and I don’t want to know. Yes, the pub must have had a name. At least, it had a sign. I could hear it swinging to and fro and creaking as we went in, but the light was out. There was a duck-pond, too, right in the middle of the car park. I nearly drove into it. The water was dark, but flecked with glints and gleams, just enough for me to see it in time. Out in the country, where there are no streetlamps for miles and miles, and it ought to be absolutely pitch-black, there’s always more light than you think you have any right to expect.

My friends had taken me out. Dragged me out. They said I needed a change. A fresh scene. A country pub. I resisted. I told them that, like most things, country pubs were better in the imagination than in reality. Dark oak beams, ingle-nook fireplaces, glittering horse-brasses, crackling logs, real wooden barrels behind the bar with dully gleaming brass taps – all the stuff of fiction or a good pop-video director. Drive into the car park and the first thing that hits you is the noise of the extractor fan from the kitchen, filling the air with the stench of cooking oil that hasn’t been changed in three months.

This was the point when they said, “Come in your own car, so you can leave whenever you want, and not spoil our evening out.” Clearly they were making an effort to accommodate me, so I suppressed the next few minutes of my diatribe, which would have run: “Chicken in the basket, scampi in the basket, sausage in the basket – clearly the chef’s a basket-case!” and grunted acceptance with as little grace as I could muster.

I followed their tail-lights. I supposed they knew where they were going. I didn’t, and I don’t think I really cared. Just as well, since the first thing they said, after we’d pulled up in the car-park, was that this wasn’t the place they’d meant to come to, they must have taken a wrong turning somewhere, but they’d seen the shadow of the sign against the sky and decided to take a chance, because it was getting late.

I wondered whether I’d have done that, or just kept on driving round and round all night, looking for the place I’d meant to go to – not knowing it had closed the month before and they’d had the bailiffs in to repossess what little stock they could still find on the premises. Maybe I’d have done neither. Just sat in my car, while it grew colder and colder, looking at the few stars I could see. And if I’d found a pub, by chance, by serendipity, I’d probably just have sat outside, looking in at the people enjoying themselves in the noise and the smoke, and knowing that I wouldn’t enjoy myself in there.

I looked at the pub before I entered it. I always do tend to look at things before getting involved. My friends, of course, barged straight in, went up to the bar and ordered their usual drinks, without ever looking to see what the pub might have that was special or out of the ordinary. They probably thought I was trying to avoid paying for a round. That didn’t worry me.

I stood in the dark and looked. It was a pleasing building: Georgian, red-brick, big square windows, two storeys with an attic under a tiled roof. Behind it a long low dark shape projected into the car park. Skittle-alley, I judged. They’re common round here.

“Are you coming in or not?” called George from the front door.

The inside was almost as pleasing. No fake memorabilia. None of those christmas tree lights round the bar. Real candles shielded in glass cylinders. An imposing grandfather clock in a corner that no one had bothered to polish or prettify, though it seemed to be running fast. Either that, or it was later than I thought.

I sat with my friends and enjoyed my own thoughts for a while. They were talking about things that didn’t concern me: where to send their children to school, what kind of trainers to buy, the best package deal for digital television, where to get the cheapest emulsion. I knew they wanted my company, but I wasn’t sure they wanted me. Sometimes, if you’re outside anyway, it’s best to go there. A reason to do so is never hard to find.

The toilets were built against the back wall of the pub, outside in fact, but at one end of a chilly covered corridor that linked the main building and the skittle alley. I fulfilled the ostensible purpose of my visit, and then stood for a while in the unlit corridor, wondering how long I dared wait before going back.

Suddenly, I was aware of music coming from the skittle alley. A dance? I thought. Yet the car park had been almost empty. And there had been no noise of music when we arrived. Even if the dance had only just started, we’d have heard the awful wailings of the usual sound-test – except that this music was real – I mean, it was acoustic, played by real people on real instruments. Not only that, but it was old. The clarinettist was playing the intro to a Gershwin number that I half recognised. Then the vocalist started:

The way you wear your hat,

The way you sip your tea...

An impulse seized me to go in and join the dance. I liked the music. I had no reservations at all about it or the way it was being played. What made me hesitate was the thought of joining a group to whom I would be an absolute stranger. I would open the door and everyone would stop and look at me. The clarinettist would miss a beat. The vocalist would forget a line.

The way your smile just beams,

The way you sing off-key,

The way you haunt my dreams...

My indecision was ended when the door of the skittle-alley opened, and a young girl came out into the corridor. I was surprised. I had assumed the dance must be one of those nostalgia affairs, all blue rinse and British Legion badges.

If I’m not happy with the world as it is, it’s because I can imagine it better. Her I couldn’t. Her face was so natural and so expressive. It changed completely from one mood to the next, and yet it was always hers, always ready to respond, never fixed and set. Her eyes danced, and like all good dancers they knew how to be still. Her mouth spoke when it was silent. I could see the words between her parted lips.

The dress? On the one hand, it was irrelevant. She was who she was, regardless. On the other, it expressed her – at least as she was at that moment: the square neck showed just enough of her pale, slightly freckled breasts, the darted waist and full skirt stressed her hips and her sexuality: present, and strong, but only ever displayed to someone who deserved it.

It occurred to me that the style was just right for the music – and that for a girl her age it was taking retro to extremes, to dress up in forties clothes. But no doubt she had her reasons. I had very little reason left by that stage. Otherwise, I would have reflected that with a couple of very early marriages I could have been her grandfather. But, as they said in a discussion on Radio 3 the other week, inside we all think we’re still eighteen. And I behaved accordingly. And so did she.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“People,” she replied.

“Any particular ones?” I asked.

“No,” she answered, looking down at the ground, “just all of them.” Then she lifted her eyes and looked at me and added, “Though there may be some exceptions. Would you mind holding my hand for a moment?”

I did so. Don’t ask me to tell you what it felt like, because I can’t. She stood there with her eyes closed, concentrating, for a second, then she said, “Would you think it an awfully strange request if I asked you to kiss me?”

“Not at all,” I replied, “in fact, I’d rather like to.”

“Full on the lips, please. With as much passion as you want.”

I complied with her request. I could feel her body in my arms, as every part of it savoured the sensation, the muscles making tiny movements under the skin, little twitches of pleasure and surprise. When she brushed my face with her hands, I withdrew my lips, but she hung there in my embrace, taut and throbbing, for a few seconds longer, with her eyes closed.

Then she opened her eyes and said, “Yes, it is completely different. I thought it would be.” She looked at the floor. “Do you believe in – ” she began.

“No,” I said, “but you don’t have to believe in it for it to happen to you.”

She lifted her eyes and looked full at me. “Shall we – ” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “absolutely – but I have some excuses to make, and so, no doubt, have you – I’ll see you outside in two minutes.”

“Yes,” she said, “outside.” And she darted back through the door. The Gershwin song was still going on:

We may never never meet again,

On the bumpy road to love...

But we will, I said to myself, we will. I went to the end of the corridor, opened the door to the car park and drew in great gulps of fresh air. It was pitch-black, I couldn’t even see the duck-pond any more, and not a single ray of light escaped from the skittle-alley, though I could hear the whooping saxophone of a Glenn Miller number.

“Headache, I’m afraid,” I told my friends, “overwork, stress, strain, VDU, whatever, sorry...” then I dashed back into the corridor, only to see her going out through the door at the far end into the car park. I ran after her, but just as I got to the door, there was a tremendous flash of light and I stopped, dazzled. I assumed a car must have driven into the car park, with its headlights on full beam – they’re a menace, these modern cars with four or six halogen lamps – cause more accidents than they prevent, if you ask me, blinding other drivers –

But when I got outside, she wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Nor was there any sign of the car whose headlamps had blinded me. I walked around for ten minutes, looking for her. I called a bit, but I felt a fool, because I didn’t even know her name. So finally I went back inside, and thought I’d take a peep at the dance – maybe she’d changed her mind after all – or maybe I’d be able to find out something about her –

The band had stopped playing – the break for sandwiches, I thought – but I opened the door, and found the room in darkness. I flicked the switch beside the door. Neon lights flickered and shed their cold illumination on a deserted skittle alley. Chairs and tables were stacked against the walls. It was cold and smelt musty.

For the moment, I didn’t want to stay outside. I went back in to my friends and made a different set of excuses, “Migraine, visual disturbance, wait till it passes off before I drive...” but they weren’t listening, because the landlord had made a late entry and was holding forth:

“Now a stopped clock,” he was saying, “has an advantage over one that runs fast or one that runs slow, because it’s right twice a day. This one over here has just had that pleasant experience. How long’s it been stopped for, Harry?” he called across to one of the locals by the fire.

“Since 1942,” came the answer out of the flickering darkness.

“I wasn’t here then myself, but I understand a German bomber, on its way to or from Bristol, just dumped its load over the village, and one of the bombs landed right outside here. Very lucky, weren’t we, Harry?”

“Ar,” said Harry, “’cos o’ the dance.”

“That’s right,” continued the landlord, “there was a dance out back, in what’s the skittle alley, and if the bomb had fallen on that – well! As it was, all that happened was that this clock stopped – and we acquired a duck-pond – well, we couldn’t be bothered to fill it in, so the village got a duck-pond courtesy of old Adolf!”

There was general laughter and a buzz of conversation among the people who had never heard this tale before. I was probably the only one who bothered to listen to what Harry was muttering under his breath as he sat by the fire and poked sparks out of the logs:

“She’d’ve been all right if she’d stayed inside with the rest of us – what’d she have to go outside for?”

Of course, I didn’t tell my friends anything. They’d only have asked the wrong questions. I gave it another ten minutes and then made another set of excuses and drove away slowly through the night, taking this road and that road until I came to a major one that restored my sense of direction and gave me the option of going home, which I did.

What I’ve written down is for me. I vaguely hoped I might learn something from it. Maybe there are two things:

If you can’t find a thing in the light, then you’ll have to look in the dark.

And if the dark refuses to give you what you want, you’ll have to make do with the light.

29-30.x.2001, finished at 13.18