From the time the bus left the small seaside village, until it finally came to a halt by the shops not far from his home, Reuben sat, deep in thought. Then stepping purposefully onto the cracked paving slabs of the suburban street he fumbled in his coat pocket for a key and let himself in to the small brick built terraced house that he shared with two other students and Mrs Trimble, a plump, ruddy faced landlady who cackled cheerfully around her brood of welcome but undeserving intruders. Still lost in his thoughts he climbed the stairs towards his room on the first floor.
"I blame it all on the television myself." Mrs Trimble spoke to no one in particular. "The rubbish they show these days is just awful. The B.B.C. is just as bad as the rest. They used to have a motto you know. 'Make the worthwhile popular and the popular worthwhile!' they said. Now it's more a case of anything goes. Scandal sells newspapers. Headlines boost the ratings. There's no room for anything artistic."
A faultlessly pressed pillowcase was placed with precision on the top of a neat uniform stack of completed ironing as she reached for the next crumpled ball of domestic linen, placing it on the ironing board and expertly manoeuvring it into a position from which it could best be restored to its intended condition.
"'Course there's a lot they call artistic; a flash of petticoats and a bit of flesh here and there, or a smattering of blood and guts. That keeps the ratings people happy, but there's precious little that really gets you thinking. 'It happens in real life' they say. 'Real life!' What's that when it's at home? Do we all have to see it just because it happens? It's about time someone started setting an example. Instead of showing the bad we have, why not show the good we could have."
Her domestic industries completed Mrs Trimble packed the board away, leaving the iron end up in the fireplace to cool, and shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen. A body shifted nonchalantly in an armchair in another corner of the cosy living room. Flicking from one channel to the next in search of an excuse for leaving his half finished essay until tomorrow, Arthur found himself thinking about what she had said. With a sudden burst of resolve he pressed the small red button at the top of the remote control unit and made his way up the stairs to his room. Here, among the chaos of posters and paraphernalia he sat down at his cluttered desk, chewing the end of a pencil that looked as though it had collected all the necessary information to start a dental practice somewhere in the third world.
As the fourth ball of screwed up philosophy descended unerringly into the centre of the waste paper basket Arthur realised that something was missing. It was that time of the evening when the walls usually vibrated gently to the muffled strains of wailing guitars and hi-tech synthesised drums escaping from the over stretched C.D. player of the fourth occupant of that humble abode. Tonight there was not so much as a tinkling cymbal or sounding brass. The sound of the cheerful pottering of the lady of the house rose from the lower floor and echoed unopposed around the landing that separated the three guest rooms. Arthur wondered to what, or to whom perhaps, could be ascribed the reason for this unexpected ceasefire. Pencil clashed with paper for the fifth time and, seeming to settle into a more comfortable rhythm, Arthur's mind was drawn away from speculation and into the grip of Plato, Aristotle and Citizen Smith.
Arthur was not the only one to notice the comparative peace on that landing. Still a little dazed by the events of the day Reuben emerged from the shower, threw on a clean but well worn track suit and prepared to settle into the evening paper before getting an early night. The silence crept between the pages until on an impulse he opened the door to his well-ordered, tidy room and stepped across the passage to knock on the third door.
At first there was no response. Reuben waited for a few seconds before repeating the short percussive rhythm, which was as distinctive as a fingerprint. This time the sound of a chair scraping across wooden boards bore witness to the presence of a resident life form. The door opened to reveal a shock of red hair and a blue towelling bathrobe from the base of which emerged two large, bare and evidently recently bathed feet.
"Ugh?" said the blue bathrobe.
"Everything all right?" asked Reuben
"Sure!" came the reply. "The earth is slowly warming up, the nuclear arms race continues to escalate, the government is seriously considering trebling the VAT on fish and chips, and my sound system is on strike. Apart from that everything is hunky-dory!”
The soft Irish lilt defused the irritation of the retort and seemed to transform the tirade into a song. Phil had a gift for turning depression into a joyful art form, although any suggestion that he might be enjoying his student days would not be met with his undying approval. It was Phil's turn to engage in the pleasantries of the evenings greeting.
"How did the day trip go?"
Reuben was about to shrug off the events of the day with a non-committal "Fine thanks!" when he glanced up at Phil. There was an open warmth in his face that seemed to say "Go on, get it off your chest".
"Want a coffee?"
"O.K. I'll be five minutes." The blue bathrobe padded across the landing to the bathroom. Reuben returned to his neatly ordered habitation and plugged in the kettle.
Stirring a third teaspoon of sugar into his visitor’s mug, Reuben passed it across the table. He was unaccustomed to entertaining and, even though he only lived across the landing, Phil's presence in his room made him feel awkward and uneasy.
"Did you catch anything?" Phil broke the silence, "I mean besides the bus and a cold!"
"I believe there were a few mackerel brought ashore, but not from my rod." Reuben replied. "It was a great trip though. The sea wasn't too rough and we were able to get very close to some of the islands. There were puffins and cormorants flying around us and diving into the sea."
Briefly a light of enthusiasm had flickered in his eyes. Then, suddenly sentient that his audience might not share his feelings he glanced down into the mug of coffee around which he had wrapped both hands. He need not have worried.
"I love the way they stand on the rocks holding their wings to the sun." Phil observed. "The cormorants, I mean. It's like some bizarre ritual, as if they are saying 'Thanks for the fish' or asking for a blessing on their next dive. I could watch them for hours."
"Do you live near the sea?" asked Reuben.
"I used to," came the reply, "but it's a long time since I've been back. We would often take a boat out on calm days and let her drift. The land looks so different from out there, sort of insignificant. You could leave it all behind for a while. Put life on hold."
Reuben tried to picture Phil in a boat out at sea. He had not somehow expected this tangle of red hair and rock music to be so sensitive to the natural world. His mind conjured up an image of a small wooden dinghy loaded down with amplifiers and speakers, Phil in the middle picking away at an electric guitar. He smiled.
“It felt like being in another world." he agreed. "For a moment out there the real world seemed to have stopped and we watched. In spite of all the changes on land, towns, traffic and televisions, time stood still. The birds flew, the boat rocked gently and the sun threw up its sparkling reflections on the rocks of the island, like a golden net keeping it from floating away."
"Quite the poet, aren't you!” Phil realised he had said the wrong thing as the words left his mouth. "No, really, don't be embarrassed." he quickly added. "Have you ever considered writing song lyrics?"
Reuben didn't know where to look or what to think. After an awkward silence in which he grappled with his confusion he decided to take the comment at face value.
"N-no." he said self-consciously. "I used to write poems at school. Even had some put in the school magazine, but that was a while ago now."
"Well you should try it!"
The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. The reluctant philosopher, a triumphant grin etched seemingly indelibly upon his boyish features, entered and began his speech to the world in general.
"She's a miracle, that woman! Yet again, floundering at the eleventh hour with less inspiration than your average second hand teabag the oracle speaks and everything falls splendidly into place! Hey presto! Bob's your Uncle! One finished essay! Impressed?"
Two upturned faces did their best to assume an impressed attitude.
"A major achievement I'm sure, but in point of fact he isn't." It was Phil who spoke.
"Uh? Who isn't? What are you talking about?" Arthur's puzzled expression was comical and it was hard to keep a straight face.
"Bob! He isn't my Uncle. In fact I am fairly sure I have no relative of that name." Phil went on. Arthur gave a wry smile and sat down at the table.
"O.K. Where's mine then?"
"Kettle's hot."
Ignoring Phil's last remark Reuben dutifully rose to provide his new guest with a mug of tea, at the same time he topped up the other two and pushed the sugar bowl across the table. "Are you pleased with the essay?" he asked politely.
"Not bad. I don't think it will change the face of twentieth century philosophy but there are a few things that made me stop and think." He changed the subject. "No music tonight then?"
"Sore point!" said Phil with a grimace. "How long 'till the next assignment's due?"
"A few weeks. Should be good fun really, if I could only think of an idea."
"What's it to be this time? Another essay?" Reuben tried to sound interested.
"Multi-media studies. We've got to take a subject, any subject, and represent it in as many media as we want. Different perspectives and viewpoints, that sort of thing."
"How about our dear landlady?" Phil smiled. "I'm sure she'd love to have her portrait painted. "
"I thought of that but she's far too busy to sit for one portrait, let alone several different studies. Besides I don't think she would appreciate some of my viewpoints or perspectives." Arthur grinned. "No. I want to use this as an excuse to get out in the great outdoors."
"Landscape?" Reuben inquired. Somehow he couldn't see Arthur out on a hillside with oils and easel.
"Oh! I expect I'll think of something." Arthur took a sip from his tea and looked across towards Phil.
"Do you know how to handle a boat?" Phil asked.
"Yes. Why?"
"No reason. Just thinking, that's all." But there was a strange far away look in his eyes which indicated that an idea was beginning to crystallise somewhere deep inside those russet locks. Reuben was not at all sure where it was leading.