Read Online London Triptych by Jonathan Kemp - Free Book Online Page B

period we were apart, once I had been conscripted and was working in Hampshire, the almost daily letters we exchanged were always signed off with “Yours,” or “Sincerely yours.” There was always this peculiar formality that kept our emotions in check. Or maybe it was just me, and she simply conformed to what she perceived to be my wishes.
    I know my coldness all too well. I can sense it with Gore. I can feel myself stiffen in his presence, policing my every word and every gesture lest I give myself away. The result is a standoffishness I cannot seem to shake off. It’s as if there’s a glass wall between us, constructed by myself. I noticed it this morning when he was over here. He was joking about my not having any friends, and never going out, and said he would take me out if I liked. I paused, unsure what to say, and I could tell from the expression on his face that he was slightly insulted. He snapped, “Don’t do me any favours!” and went into a bit of a sulk. I said that I’d love to go out with him but the damage was done: he had retreated, and my loneliness had scored another victory. After he left, I took a stroll down by the river, watching the boats going by, each one representing a world that was going on without me. I have always felt that life was something other people do. I noticed, for the first time, as I strolled along the towpath, solitary men loitering. Since meeting Gore, I see the world differently, see it full of sexual possibility. I considered trying to engage one of the men in conversation, to see where it would lead, but lacked the courage.
    As I turned to return home, a pea-souper was gathering and descending, as thick and grey and heavy as my heart. I never used to mind spending so much time alone, but now, since Gore, I dread the long, empty hours between his visits. Especially at night, I find myself feeling increasingly restless. I pour myself a gin and tonic and listen to the radio, or read a book, but I can’t shake off this feeling that time is running out and I haven’t done anything with my life. This rage and frustration mounts, and it doesn’t go away until I have drunk enough gin to send me to sleep. Often I nod off in my chair, waking in the early hours cramped and aching, making my way upstairs and falling onto the bed still fully dressed. This is my life now.

1998

    Edward Wayward was a kind of post-punk shaman, an Aleister Crowley for the club scene. His art, like his personality, was loud and colourful. The morning after I first met him, he dragged me out of bed screaming, “I didn’t show you the studio!” He used the second bedroom as a studio, and I stood at its centre blinking as he spun me around and pointed at his work, clutching a sky-blue satin kimono around his skinny frame. Huge, garish canvases clashed and smashed their way into my consciousness like broad daylight. I thought they were dreadful but hadn’t the heart to tell him, so I said they were brilliant.
    As I got to know him, I discovered that he’d contradict almost everything anyone ever said to him, not necessarily because he thought the opposite, but because he hated to be seen to be agreeing with someone. He lived to be contrary. He had to be the one with the different view, the different take on life. It was all a pose, of course, but then he wasn’t the only one posing. There were plenty of us doing that. He used to say, “If you aren’t going to cause a stir when you enter a room, don’t bother. Stay at home and bore the cat.”
    He told me that a few weeks before he was born his mother dreamt she gave birth to a rabbit. When he arrived a month later, covered in a pelt of thick black hair from head to toe, she screamed till he was removed from her sight. She refused to have anything to do with this vile freak she’d produced, even when her mother-in-law assured her that his father had been just the same, and that the hair would moult within a fortnight, which it did. For those