Swimming Upstream

2

What was it like, the beginning, with Larsen? Magical, heady, scary. A chance to forget anything bad that had ever happened to me. And to discover that love really does conquer all. Well, for a time, at least.

Cambridge was beautiful but I didn’t belong. My first term at the College of Arts was like being part of a big, new, interesting jigsaw puzzle, only I was the piece that didn’t seem to fit. I was studying French, and trying to make friends was harder than I’d thought. I’d sit in the canteen and try to join in the chat with my classmates but somehow there was never a connection and that just made me feel insecure. Their background, their frame of reference, was so different from my own, their conversation, their experiences did not fit with my own thoughts, my own reality. Not only that, but everyone spoke better French than I did and although we’d all started the course at exactly the same time, it felt as though they had all been here, studied, and met and forged their friendships long before I came on the scene. I wandered by myself from tutorial group to lecture hall, feeling more and more isolated as the weeks went by. I discovered that being alone in a crowd is the worst kind of lonely.

Then, in early December, I got chatting in the launderette to a girl called Karen who told me they were advertising for bar staff at the club where she worked. Before long I was working there too, in the evenings and at weekends. It was just over the Romsey bridge, off Mill Road, but far enough from both the red brick of the Tech and the gothic splendour and tended lawns of the University to feel as if it could have been the street that I grew up in. Immediately my mood lifted and I began to feel as if I belonged in Cambridge. Everything made more sense at the club. Everyone seemed more real to me. And it wasn’t long before I spotted Larsen, up on the small stage with his band.

“Who’s that?” I asked Karen, the first time I saw him.

“Larsen Tyler,” she said. “He’s the local talent.”

Larsen was a natural performer. I watched him, constantly, every chance I got, every time he played. I watched him longingly, but quickly averted my gaze whenever he seemed to be looking my way. He seemed at home in his body in a way that I never had been with mine. He stood on stage, his legs splayed, his head bent over his guitar, his shoulder-length blond hair flopping forward and covering his face as he strummed. He would throw his head back and smile as he sang, his eyes working their way round the room and locking briefly with everyone in his field of vision. When the song ended he would whip his guitar strap off his shoulder and leap onto the piano seat, his fingers moving gently over the keys to a slower melody, while the rest of the band fell into time. After the set finished, he would disappear into the back room with the manager of the club and the rest of the band, where I knew they were drinking till late. Occasionally I would see him chatting to some girls at the back of the bar and would feel an irrational knot of jealousy tighten in my stomach. But he never looked my way.

Once or twice he came to the bar but Karen always served him and chatted away easily with him while I hovered nearby self-consciously, smiling and nodding in agreement as she complimented him on the set. Once or twice he smiled back at me but we never spoke.

Then, late one Sunday evening when the club was all but empty and we were near to closing, he appeared out of nowhere, standing at the bar. I pushed shut the till, turned and looked up to find him looking straight into my eyes. His were a deep blue-grey, with laughter lines in the corners. When he smiled you could see all his teeth. It looked as if he still had all his baby teeth, like Peter Pan.

“So, what are you drinking?” he asked, fishing in his jeans pocket for his wallet. I gazed back at him, and cleared my throat softly. “Me? Oh, well… a pint of Harp, please,” I said in a voice that didn't sound like mine.

“You don't wanna drink that gnat's piddle,” he replied, leaning over the bar towards me. His blond hair flopped forwards. I glanced down at his muscled forearms, which were resting on the sticky bar top. “How about a pint of Kronenbourg?”

“Okay then,” I agreed. Larsen watched me closely as I moved down the bar to the tap.

“So, what’s your name, then?” he asked.

“Lizzie. Lizzie Taylor.” I waited for him to give me the “Not the Elizabeth Taylor” line, like most people did, but he didn’t.

“Lizzie Taylor,” he repeated, as if it meant something really special.

I felt myself flushing. It felt really intimate, him saying my name like that. I thought it would sound false and stupid if I asked him his, but “I know who you are” would sound even worse, so I didn’t say anything, except “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Larsen, clinking glasses with me. “Nice to meet you at last. So, you’re a student, right?”

“Isn’t everybody?” I was still reeling from the “at last” comment. Did this mean that he had been watching me, after all, like I had been watching him?

“Nope. I’m not. I was. At the College of Arts.”

“That’s where I am!” A person to whom I didn’t have to explain, “It’s not the University”. “So, what happened?”

“I packed it in. Failed my first year exams. Never looked back.”

“Really?” I said, hope rising inside me. I wasn’t alone. Larsen had trodden this path before me, and survived. “I think I’m going to fail mine. It’s really hard. It seems like a big leap between sixth form and studying for a degree. For me, anyway. Everyone else seems to get it. It’s just me. I don’t seem to fit in.” I stopped abruptly. I had surprised myself with my confession. But Larsen was already nodding, as if he understood.

“Leave, then,” he said simply. “It’s an elitist institution anyway.”

I laughed. “Well, you could argue that the Tech is the institution of the underclass, since it’s not part of the University.”

“Right. So, how many poverty stricken students from working class backgrounds are there on your course?”

I smiled. “Point taken. So what are you doing now then? Apart from…” I waved my arm in the direction of the stage.

“Apart from wasting my time playing music?” Larsen smiled and raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t think that at all. I think you’re brilliant.”

Larsen looked at me for a moment, then in one swift movement placed his hands onto the bar, vaulted up, leaned over and kissed me on the lips. I was so stunned that I couldn’t speak. I glanced around the near-empty bar but no-one appeared to have noticed. Karen was busy playing on the Mad Planets machine.

“I work for the council,” Larsen continued, as if nothing had happened. “Ents. The Entertainments Department, that is. It’s a good job. And we have a laugh.”

“That’s Entertainment,” I said.

Larsen laughed. “You’re funny. You know what that song is about?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Listen to the lyrics,” said Larsen. “If you get it, you’re working class. It’s the true definition.”

“Well, I don’t know if I am working class,” I said. “I just don’t seem to be truly middle class either. Are there any classes any more?”

“It’s like saying, “How old are you?”” said Larsen. “Everyone says you’re as old as you feel. I think it’s the same with class.”

“How old do you feel?” I asked him.

“Ageless,” smiled Larsen.

I smiled back. “So why do you live here, surrounded by all the students, if you don’t like them?”

“I was born here,” said Larsen, simply. “It’s my home. I’m town, not gown. Hey, do you know about the Rock against Racism gig on Midsummer Common?”

“That’s next month isn’t it?”

“Yup. I’m organising it. It’s a great line-up. We’re playing. You should come. It’s going to be mega.”

“Sounds great.”

Karen appeared. It was time to close up.

“I need to change the barrels,” I told Larsen. “Ready for tomorrow.”

“Need a hand?”

“I can do it. It’s okay.” Idiot, I told myself and added, “I do need another crate of cokes though.”

Larsen followed me down the steps into the cellar. Unnerved, I tripped on the second step and Larsen caught me.

“Steady!” He put his arms round me. “You okay?” he asked, stepping back and surveying me, his hands still round my waist.

“I’m okay,” I smiled. “Now.”

He held me a little longer than necessary, looked at me for a moment then said,

“Tell you what, do you fancy coming back to my place? There are a few people coming back, a bit of a party? Karen’s coming,” he added, as if I needed persuading. “It’s only about five minutes from here.”

I nodded. “That would be great.”

“Good,” said Larsen. “You get and close up while I pack up my gear. Then we can grab a few beers and head back.”

I washed glasses and Karen dried them while Larsen turned off the stage lights, shut down the PA desk, boxed up microphones and wound up leads. All the while I felt my heart thumping in my chest with excitement, feeling somehow that this short time - which included all three of us, together inside the empty building, calling out and laughing as we worked - was a joyous prelude to something momentous that was about to happen in my life; an end to the isolation of my student world. Karen and I turned the plastic chairs upside down on the tables and pulled down the shutters. Once all the glasses had been stacked neatly on the shelves and the ashtrays emptied, I picked up my coat and Larsen set the alarm and locked the door while Karen and I stood outside shivering, our breath making foggy clouds in the cold night air.

“Poor Larsen,” whispered Karen. “He needs a bit of cheering up. He’s just split up with his girlfriend.”

“Really?” I asked, hope rising up inside me.

The party was in full swing when we arrived and I felt heady as the wall of heat and smoke rose to greet us in the hallway. Music was blaring from the living room. I followed Larsen and Karen into the kitchen. The floor was sticky and the soles of one of my shoes had picked up a fag end. I lifted my foot and pulled it off.

“Larsen, man, you made it,” said a huge dark-haired guy wearing a checked shirt and jeans. He took a beer out of Larsen's hand, stuck his fingers up at him, and took the top off with his teeth. He turned to look at me with friendly curiosity.

“Of course I made it, I live here, you fool,” said Larsen and put an arm round his shoulders.

“Doug, this is Lizzie. Lizzie, Doug.” Doug took my hand and kissed it.

A girl appeared in the doorway. She was tall, with light brown shoulder-length hair and green glassy eyes, oval-shaped and slanted in the corners like a cat's. I thought she looked sophisticated, even though she was casually dressed in a baggy black jumper and jeans. I looked at Larsen who was taking off his leather jacket and felt suddenly overdressed in my mini skirt and tight-fitting jumper.

“Tyler, You're here,” said the girl, accusingly, as if someone should have told her. She looked straight through me, bounced up to Larsen and flung her arms round his neck. He caught her with one arm as he swung round.

“Jude, meet Lizzie,” he said brightly.

I smiled. Jude responded with a vague nod and, tossing her hair, disappeared back into the crowd. Doug and Larsen exchanged a furtive glance.

“Come on,” said Larsen and we all trooped into the living room.

The guy beside me passed me a joint. His name was Jeff. He had something of a cross between a mohican and a footballer’s haircut going on; short at the front, long at the back and shaved at the sides over his ears. He talked interminably about music, reeling off the names of various obscure bands that I guessed I was supposed to have heard of, while I sat and nodded at him in silence. All I could think about was Larsen, who was leaning up against the wall next to Jude, deep in conversation.

“Don't get back together,” I pleaded at them inside my head, feeling hopeless. I wondered why I cared that much. After all, I barely knew him. I must be crazy. I wondered if I should go home, but knew I wouldn't, not yet.

I looked around the room. It was unmistakably a student pad - minimalist, quirky. A chipboard table and chairs were pushed into one corner and a stolen road sign “No U-turns” - took pride of place near the door. Underneath the window opposite me was a sagging green sofa with lots of people I didn’t know spilling off its edges. There were several interesting-looking pictures on the wall which I would have liked to get up and contemplate, but I was sitting on the floor in a bean bag and not at all sure that I could get up without drawing huge amounts of attention to myself. I was suddenly feeling very stoned.

“What about Jellybelly?” asked Jeff; at least that's what it sounded like.

“What?” I turned my head slowly. The rest of the room did a lightning dash to catch up with me.

“Jellybelly,” Jeff persisted, leaning against the bean bag and wedging me even more deeply into its contours. My forehead felt cold and prickly. “You must have heard of Jellybelly.”

He turned to Karen who had sat down in front of us with a bottle of vodka.

“She hasn't heard of Jellybelly,” he said.

“Stop it,” I stammered faintly.

“Stop what?” said Jeff, looking confused.

“Saying Jellybelly. Please.” With a concerted effort I lurched up out of the beanbag and stumbled into the hall, past Jude and Larsen and up the stairs. Larsen watched me go and looked as though he was about to say something but Jude was talking to him, her mouth pressed up against his ear.

I stood at the washbasin, squinting under the bright light at my reflection in the mirror. I looked a mess. There were dark rings of eyeliner under each eye. I licked my finger and wiped at them, but it only made it worse. Then my mascara started coming off as well. I turned the tap on and splashed cold water onto my cheeks.

Someone banged on the door. I opened it and a tiny girl with short blonde hair shot in, hoisted up her raincoat and pulled down her knickers.

“Sorry. I’m busting.” She stared at me from the loo. “Are you all right?”

“I think so.” I smiled, steadying myself against the sink.

“I like your hair,” she commented. “Red’s my favourite colour.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I prefer to call it auburn.”

She grinned at me. She had a tiny elfin face, with big blue eyes, a turned up nose and a pointy chin.

“You look like a pixie,” I observed. I was still feeling very stoned. I sat down on the edge of the bath. Her eyes twinkled, amusedly. She flushed the chain and squeezed past me to the sink. “Although I have to say you're not dressed like a pixie,” I continued, looking down at the black stockings and shoes under her navy raincoat. “I'd say you were ... a traffic warden?” I guessed.

“Not quite right,” she said, turning round and opening her coat with soapy hands, to reveal a light blue uniform. “A nurse.”

“This isn't fancy dress,” I pointed out.

“I know,” she said, and winked at me. “Got a kinky boyfriend, that's all.”

“You’re kidding? He makes you wear that to parties?”

The girl in the raincoat laughed. “It was a joke. I am actually a nurse. I work at Addenbrookes. I’ve just finished my shift.”

I put my head in my hands. “I’m so gullible. What an idiot.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” said the girl. “I am the queen of gullible. I used to think that the stars could talk.”

I lifted my head up. “The stars? As in the ones in the sky?”

“Yes. I was told that by the matron at the….the home. I was brought up in a children’s home. Out in the countryside, near Saffron Walden. In the middle of nowhere, it was. And at night I couldn’t sleep for all the…well, the noise. There was always this noise going on outside the windows, crickets, I think, and I don’t know what else. I told matron and she said it was just the stars chattering.”

“That’s kind of cute.” I smiled.

“Not when you’re sixteen it isn’t.”

“What?”

“I was sixteen before anyone told me that the stars can’t talk. I was kissing my boyfriend under the moonlight and I said, “Aren’t the stars quiet tonight?” He looked at me like I was crazy. Then he dumped me.”

“That’s harsh,” I said.

The girl in the raincoat nodded. “So, who are you? I’ve not seen you before. Are you a friend of Jude’s?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think we’ve established that.”

“Oh, right. Don’t take it personally. If you’re not a friend of Jude’s then you’re not a friend of Jude’s. The Girlfriends’ Club, well, they’re all a bit cliquey. Anyway, I’m Zara,” she said, and held out her tiny hand. I took it.

“I’m Lizzie,” I told her before I lost my balance and slipped backwards into the bath, still clinging onto her hand. Zara tried to pull me back but she was taken by surprise and she flew forwards and landed up on top of me. We both cracked up laughing so hard that neither of us could stop.

“Zara?” called a voice from outside the door.

“In here!” Zara called.

The door opened and Doug’s head appeared. He smiled affectionately at the pair of us, laying sprawled in the empty bath, then helped us out one by one. Zara followed him out to the landing. He smiled and put his hand on her arm, then turned and looked at me warily, as I came out behind her. Standing next to him she looked even tinier. She could barely have been five feet tall. She swung from side to side on her black stockinged heel and they both watched as Larsen came running up the stairs.

“There you are,” he said to me. “Hello Zara.”

“Hi,” said Zara, who seemed to be moving backwards, with Doug behind her.

“Are you okay?” asked Larsen, looking deeply into my eyes, his face racked with concern. A door slammed behind us and we were alone.

“I have to go.”

“Why? Don't go,” he pleaded. “Aren't you feeling well?”

“Not really.”

“Come on, you need to lie down,” said Larsen, and before I could protest he took my arm and manoeuvred me into one of the bedrooms.

The room was dark. Larsen eased me down onto a mattress on the floor, took off my shoes and sat beside me. I could feel the vibrations of the music thumping underneath me. Moonlight streamed through the bare window, which had no curtains, and my eyes adjusted slowly. Up on the ceiling above me, a number of glow-in-the-dark stars twinkled down, reminding me of my conversation with Zara. To my left, beside my head, a stack of vinyl albums stretched the width of the room. An acoustic guitar was propped in the corner next to a raggedy-edged poster of Jimmi Hendrix. The room smelled vaguely of old cigarette butts.

“Is this your room?” I asked.

Larsen nodded.

I sat up uncomfortably. “What's your girlfriend going to say if she comes up and finds me in here?”

“My girlfriend? What are you talking about?” Larsen frowned and my heart leaped. “Ah, you mean Jude?” He laughed. “You didn't think..? Jude's not my girlfriend. She lives here, that's all. She shares the room downstairs with Bri.”

“Bri,” I echoed, and lay back down again.

“Brian. Her boyfriend. They're both artists - those are their paintings downstairs, his and hers. Only he's not here; he's at a lock-in in the Jugglers Arms, which is why she's pissed off. She's okay, though. She's gone round Marion's.”

“Marion?” I added the name to my mental register.

“Doug's girlfriend. Her and Jude are best buddies.”

I was confused. “But -”

“Marion doesn't like parties,” said Larsen. He shifted on the mattress beside me. “Now enough about Jude and Marion. Let's talk about something more interesting, like - you and me.”

I looked up into his eyes and he looked back into mine. He was so beautiful. He was the most handsome man I had ever laid eyes on. But more than that, there was something familiar about him. It was as if I knew him, already.

Larsen lit two cigarettes and passed me one.

“So why did you drop out of College?” I asked him.

“Failed my exams. Like I said.”

“You didn’t think of re-sits?”

“Nah.” Larsen shrugged. “What’s the point? That’s just going backwards. I believe in going forwards.”

“No U-turns,” I smiled.

“Precisely.” Larsen smiled back and kissed me on the cheek. I felt a shiver of excitement running up my back. He took a puff of his cigarette. “Besides, that was the old man’s dream for me, not mine. Get a degree. Become a teacher.”

“A teacher?”

“Yeah. They’re both teachers. Academics. They both lecture at the University.”

“And that wasn’t for you?”

“No. My dream was always to play music.”

“Let me guess. They don’t approve?”

“My dad thinks I’m wasting my time.”

“And your mum?”

“She doesn’t even acknowledge that this is what I do. Her eyes glaze over if I mention music. Unless it’s Mahler. Or Mozart. Or Mendelssohn. She’s German,” he added. “She’s fluent in five languages. But she pretends not to understand if you say anything she doesn’t want to hear.”

“Do all her composers have to begin with “M”? I smiled.

Larsen grinned. “Something like that.”

“So you’re a closet academic. And middle class to boot,” I teased.

“Like I said, it’s how you feel, not the family you were born to.” Larsen sounded defensive, and I regretted what I’d said.

“It’s a shame about your degree, though,” I said. “A degree can get you a long way.”

“I thought you were packing it in?” Larsen challenged me.

“Well, I didn’t say that. I mean, it’s early days. I don’t think it’s come to that yet.”

“Your call,” said Larsen, and shrugged. I sensed he wanted to hear me say that I was leaving college, and I wondered why he cared. I was strangely and secretly glad that he did.

I looked up at him. “Karen said you had just broken up with someone.”

“Karen told you that?”

I nodded.

“Yeah. I have. It’s been dead in the water for a long time now though.”

“How long were you with her?”

“A few years. Five, maybe.”

“That’s a long time.” I paused, and then asked, “Is there any chance of you getting back together?”

Larsen looked at me as if I were mad. “I told you. I never go back, to anything,” he said. “Once it's over, it's over.”

There was an awkward silence.

“It doesn't matter,” I said, uncertainly. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“Time for another drink,” he said, and he jumped up and headed out of the room.

I could hear people milling around on the landing, and someone called out “Hey, Tyler” as he passed them on the stairs. I lay and watched the shadows cast on the ceiling by the passing traffic, while the music throbbed below. After ten minutes had passed, it started to dawn on me that maybe he wasn't going to come back. Of course he would, eventually, since this was his bedroom but I couldn't just stay there, not for much longer, not if he didn't want me there. I wondered if Jude had come back from Marion's and was once again crying on his shoulder over the elusive Brian.

I turned over and buried my face in the pillow. It smelled sweet and musky, an indefinable aroma of sleep and shampoo and sweat, of Larsen. I inhaled deeply, breathing him in. Five more minutes, I kept telling myself. Five more minutes, then I'll go. But every five minutes was followed by another. Eventually, I sat up and felt around on the floor for my shoes. I was about to get up when the door opened and Larsen stepped into the room, holding the remains of a bottle of vodka and two paper cups.

“Why, oh why, oh why,” he said, “do people bring brown ale to parties?”

“Because it's cheap and no-one likes it,” I said, almost laughing with relief. “And they’ll still have something to drink when they’ve drunk what everyone else has brought.”

“Spot on. Bloody scroungers.” He looked at me. “And where do you think you're going?”

“Nowhere,” I smiled and lay down on the bed again.

“Look, I got this. Took me a while to find it.” Larsen kneeled down on the floor beside me and poured two generous measures of vodka into the paper cups, and handed one to me. “So,” he said. “Where were we?”

Several hours later I became aware that the music had stopped and that the house had fallen silent.

Larsen leaned over, pushed my hair away from my forehead and kissed me gently on the lips. His breath was sweet and warm.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“I dunno, three or four.”

“Do you think everyone’s gone?”

“Yep. Or crashed out.”

I propped myself up on one elbow and peered around the room, blinking and trying to focus in the dark. The moon had shifted. All I could see were darkened shapes and Larsen's silhouette above me.

“Do you think I should go home?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I think you should stay here, with me.”

There had been many times in my life when I had been indecisive, many times I'd felt ambivalent about things and unsure of what I really wanted (especially when I got it). But I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I wanted Larsen, more than I'd ever wanted anything or anyone in my life.

Larsen sat up with his back to me while he unlaced his trainers. I could just about see his shoulder muscles moving up and down inside his t-shirt. With a deep-seated sense of foreboding I wondered if I was going to have to pay for this at some point in the future, if the Gods would get jealous, as the saying went; but I didn't care.

“How're you doing, are you okay?” Larsen was leaning over me again.

“I'm okay,” I said. “I have to admit, horizontal is good.”

“It's good for me too,” he confided, as he slid under the covers and covered my body with his own.