Read Online Noughties by Ben Masters - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ben Masters
Tags: General Fiction
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us. We love it. Just look at our little faces—we bloody
love
it. Take, for instance, the malignant antagonism propping up the bar with his opinion on everything. See how this Voluminous Maximus wrenches his way into any conversation going, jabbering in caps lock:
“YOU FINK THEY CAN WIN A CHAMPIONSHIP WIV A BACK LINE LIKE THAT? YOU’RE ’AVIN A LARFF, ENTCHYA?” he says to his left; “FACKIN STUDENTS, THEY’RE BLOODY EVERYWHERE, SPENDIN ALL MY TAXIS,” he says to his right; “OI OI BILLY, POUR US ANUVVER, MATE—I COULD CANE A BEER, TO BE FAIR,” he says to his front; “YOU ORDERIN A DIET COKE? YOU A GIRL OR SUMFINK?” he says down the bar to the right; “DON’T GET ME WRONG, BOSS, I AIN’T NO HOMOPHOBIC OR NUFFINK. I’M A LIBERAL KINDA FELLA AT THE END OF THE DAY” (snorts and nods self-approvingly, almost tearful) “BUT I FACKIN ’ATE THE GAYS. THEY CAN DO WHAT THEY WANT S’LONG AS THEY DON’T COME NEAR ME,” he says behind him; “TOMATO JUICE? FACKIN TOMATOJUICE? YOU A GIRL OR SUMFINK? HAHAHA, EH BILLY, D’YA ’EAR WHAT I JUST SAYS? I SAYS …” he repeats to the left and to the front. It’s like cider off an alky’s back to us. He’s part of the décor.
We drink with tireless rapidity. It’s a functional thing this early in the night: groundwork. Sipping and gurgling defers communication and thought, until a few rounds down the road when, fingers crossed, it’ll have the opposite effect. Oh, how the tables will turn. Despite the intention of bonding, we are all slightly closed to each other, won’t let each other in, won’t give anything away … for now.
“Ah mate.”
“Yeah, right.”
Have another sip, maybe swill it too.
Ella settles next to me. This makes me feel slightly on edge, the expectations being so high tonight. It’s as though we are sitting on different benches: I hump and slump, almost unfolding off the furniture and onto the floor, while Ella practically levitates, all poise and serenity. Earlier on in our friendship I would have put this down to our different backgrounds, but I’m not such a twat anymore. Ella seemed to arrive at Oxford fully formed—cultured and widely read, crystallized and polished. Her sophistication and grace were like foreign goods I couldn’t get my hands on. (If I could just nick some of what she had. The knowledge this girl is carrying on her … her brain is
well
fit.) I spent the first few weeks of our relationship trying to measure her degree of poshness: she must have gone to a cushty school, but where were the buckteeth and frizzy hair? Where the downward gaze and raised snotter? Was she defying my expectations? She didn’t appear to recoil when I said things like “mate” or “d’ya know what I mean?,” or if I allowed my clunky Wellingborough accent to ring through. She representedthe world that I wanted to move into: the refined world, the intellectual world, the world of high culture. She was everything that home didn’t represent: Wellingborough, my schoolmates, and possibly even Lucy.
In fact, she was so different from Lucy …
is
so different from Lucy. There’s all the common ground with Ella, which seems so uncommon with everybody else: the books we’ve read, the films and music we like. The daunting intensity that she brings to everything, her vitality, is contagious. Plus, there is potential … potential for the unknown and for enrichment. With Lucy, though, there is the past, which is hard to shift: the vast photo album of the mind which holds all our memories and first times. And her endless kindnesses, her undying optimism, her easygoing attitude. It’s just that we don’t have anything in common.
But we have each other in common.
“It’s coming to an end, Eliot,” Ella says with that melodious voice that you’d have to call well-spoken but not plummy. I notice that Jack is keeping a careful eye on us from across the table.
“I know. It sucks. Do you think we’ll all keep in touch?”
love
it. Take, for instance, the malignant antagonism propping up the bar with his opinion on everything. See how this Voluminous Maximus wrenches his way into any conversation going, jabbering in caps lock:
“YOU FINK THEY CAN WIN A CHAMPIONSHIP WIV A BACK LINE LIKE THAT? YOU’RE ’AVIN A LARFF, ENTCHYA?” he says to his left; “FACKIN STUDENTS, THEY’RE BLOODY EVERYWHERE, SPENDIN ALL MY TAXIS,” he says to his right; “OI OI BILLY, POUR US ANUVVER, MATE—I COULD CANE A BEER, TO BE FAIR,” he says to his front; “YOU ORDERIN A DIET COKE? YOU A GIRL OR SUMFINK?” he says down the bar to the right; “DON’T GET ME WRONG, BOSS, I AIN’T NO HOMOPHOBIC OR NUFFINK. I’M A LIBERAL KINDA FELLA AT THE END OF THE DAY” (snorts and nods self-approvingly, almost tearful) “BUT I FACKIN ’ATE THE GAYS. THEY CAN DO WHAT THEY WANT S’LONG AS THEY DON’T COME NEAR ME,” he says behind him; “TOMATO JUICE? FACKIN TOMATOJUICE? YOU A GIRL OR SUMFINK? HAHAHA, EH BILLY, D’YA ’EAR WHAT I JUST SAYS? I SAYS …” he repeats to the left and to the front. It’s like cider off an alky’s back to us. He’s part of the décor.
We drink with tireless rapidity. It’s a functional thing this early in the night: groundwork. Sipping and gurgling defers communication and thought, until a few rounds down the road when, fingers crossed, it’ll have the opposite effect. Oh, how the tables will turn. Despite the intention of bonding, we are all slightly closed to each other, won’t let each other in, won’t give anything away … for now.
“Ah mate.”
“Yeah, right.”
Have another sip, maybe swill it too.
Ella settles next to me. This makes me feel slightly on edge, the expectations being so high tonight. It’s as though we are sitting on different benches: I hump and slump, almost unfolding off the furniture and onto the floor, while Ella practically levitates, all poise and serenity. Earlier on in our friendship I would have put this down to our different backgrounds, but I’m not such a twat anymore. Ella seemed to arrive at Oxford fully formed—cultured and widely read, crystallized and polished. Her sophistication and grace were like foreign goods I couldn’t get my hands on. (If I could just nick some of what she had. The knowledge this girl is carrying on her … her brain is
well
fit.) I spent the first few weeks of our relationship trying to measure her degree of poshness: she must have gone to a cushty school, but where were the buckteeth and frizzy hair? Where the downward gaze and raised snotter? Was she defying my expectations? She didn’t appear to recoil when I said things like “mate” or “d’ya know what I mean?,” or if I allowed my clunky Wellingborough accent to ring through. She representedthe world that I wanted to move into: the refined world, the intellectual world, the world of high culture. She was everything that home didn’t represent: Wellingborough, my schoolmates, and possibly even Lucy.
In fact, she was so different from Lucy …
is
so different from Lucy. There’s all the common ground with Ella, which seems so uncommon with everybody else: the books we’ve read, the films and music we like. The daunting intensity that she brings to everything, her vitality, is contagious. Plus, there is potential … potential for the unknown and for enrichment. With Lucy, though, there is the past, which is hard to shift: the vast photo album of the mind which holds all our memories and first times. And her endless kindnesses, her undying optimism, her easygoing attitude. It’s just that we don’t have anything in common.
But we have each other in common.
“It’s coming to an end, Eliot,” Ella says with that melodious voice that you’d have to call well-spoken but not plummy. I notice that Jack is keeping a careful eye on us from across the table.
“I know. It sucks. Do you think we’ll all keep in touch?”
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