jolly well take the hopeless little bugger—'
The Tea Centre was a sort of genteel workman's caff, done up in 'thirties, U.S. coffee-shop style; there were several circular tables surrounded by knee-high mushroom chairs and some booths at the back. With me in the rear we headed for the far corner. The girls got in first, followed by their beaux. The booth sat four. I looked round: the queer pixie's poofs were tacked to the ground; there were no movable chairs.
And there wasn't any room for me. Rachel and DeForest were talking scones, the other couple were writhing about still, now seemingly poised for a session of fully robed soixante-neuf. My head was like an electric blanket. I couldn't see Rachel because fucking DeForest's spiky insect head was between us. In a voice that didn't carry I said, 'Going out now, to make a call.'
No one reacted. They had the wide world spinning round within their heads. They hadn't heard.
Outside, I walked reflexively across the road to the line of telephone boxes opposite the tube entrance. I stopped to look in a shop window. Why hadn't I just flashed in, told them to move up? It was my hesitation that had done it. They had all wanted me to stay. No, there wasn't any room, nothing I could have done but get out. Get out. I started home.
'Charles. Hang on.'
I turned. Rachel had come to a halt on the island half-way across the road. She waited, still looking at me, while a stream of traffic passed between us.
How hackneyed of her, I thought emptily.
The lights changed. She paused; she walked towards me, hands in pockets, head tilted slightly. She reached the pavement and stopped a few feet away.
'Charles, come back.'
'I'm not coming back.'
She came forward two steps and stood with her feet together.
'I'm sorry. Are you all right?'
Tm fine.'
'I've got to go back.'
'Suppose so.'
'Are you cold?' she asked.
I was. I had been feeling far too vain to wear an overcoat. I was shivering.
'A little.'
She bit her lip. She came closer and held my hand for a few seconds.
'Will you ring me?'
'You bet.'
'Goodbye then.'
'Goodbye.'
At Campden Hill Square another tea-party was in progress. It consisted of Geoffrey, two strangely dressed girls - a small one, swathed in a floral curtain, and a big one, got up as a cowboy, complete with holsters - and Jenny. No Norm. A scene of almost pastoral spontaneity followed. I felt rather light-headed and, steamy though the kitchen was, I didn't appear to be getting any warmer. Furthermore, I was still vibrant from an intense Consciousness-of-Being attack, having had a highly soulful walk from the Gate.
When the tea was made I popped upstairs for a hawk. On the way back Geoffrey intercepted me; we stole into the sitting-room.
'Which one d'you fancy?' he breathed.
'I hardly know. Haven't taken them in yet.'
'Do you like Anastasia?'
'Anastasia?' This could not be. 'What's her real name?' I implored.
'Jean.'
'Oh. The short-arse? Yeah, she's all right. Boring dress.'
'Mm. Good body, though.'
'Have you fucked her?'
'Sort of. She's not as good as Sue.'
'Have you fucked Sue?'
'Sort of. She's got better tits.'
'What do you mean, "sort of'?'
'We had this vague Troy.'
'No. Christ how sexy. What was it like?'
'Yeah, they're dikes, too. It was okay, except I couldn't get a proper rise. Too Mandied.'
'Why doesn't that sort of thing ever happen to me?'
Geoffrey swayed on his pegs. 'Because you're a country bumpkin and I'm a city slicker.'
We talked drugs. Geoffrey had dropped two Mandrax; there was also some hash, but this was of only minor interest to the bronchitic narrator. I got a Mandrax off him to take later. My chest was telling me not to get any ideas about sleeping tonight.
That evening Mr and Mrs Entwistle laid on their very first row. It opened modestly enough. Geoffrey and I were back in the kitchen, helping to clear up. Door slams full force, missing-link footsteps, Norman's head bulges hugely into the room; seeing no one else, its
The Tea Centre was a sort of genteel workman's caff, done up in 'thirties, U.S. coffee-shop style; there were several circular tables surrounded by knee-high mushroom chairs and some booths at the back. With me in the rear we headed for the far corner. The girls got in first, followed by their beaux. The booth sat four. I looked round: the queer pixie's poofs were tacked to the ground; there were no movable chairs.
And there wasn't any room for me. Rachel and DeForest were talking scones, the other couple were writhing about still, now seemingly poised for a session of fully robed soixante-neuf. My head was like an electric blanket. I couldn't see Rachel because fucking DeForest's spiky insect head was between us. In a voice that didn't carry I said, 'Going out now, to make a call.'
No one reacted. They had the wide world spinning round within their heads. They hadn't heard.
Outside, I walked reflexively across the road to the line of telephone boxes opposite the tube entrance. I stopped to look in a shop window. Why hadn't I just flashed in, told them to move up? It was my hesitation that had done it. They had all wanted me to stay. No, there wasn't any room, nothing I could have done but get out. Get out. I started home.
'Charles. Hang on.'
I turned. Rachel had come to a halt on the island half-way across the road. She waited, still looking at me, while a stream of traffic passed between us.
How hackneyed of her, I thought emptily.
The lights changed. She paused; she walked towards me, hands in pockets, head tilted slightly. She reached the pavement and stopped a few feet away.
'Charles, come back.'
'I'm not coming back.'
She came forward two steps and stood with her feet together.
'I'm sorry. Are you all right?'
Tm fine.'
'I've got to go back.'
'Suppose so.'
'Are you cold?' she asked.
I was. I had been feeling far too vain to wear an overcoat. I was shivering.
'A little.'
She bit her lip. She came closer and held my hand for a few seconds.
'Will you ring me?'
'You bet.'
'Goodbye then.'
'Goodbye.'
At Campden Hill Square another tea-party was in progress. It consisted of Geoffrey, two strangely dressed girls - a small one, swathed in a floral curtain, and a big one, got up as a cowboy, complete with holsters - and Jenny. No Norm. A scene of almost pastoral spontaneity followed. I felt rather light-headed and, steamy though the kitchen was, I didn't appear to be getting any warmer. Furthermore, I was still vibrant from an intense Consciousness-of-Being attack, having had a highly soulful walk from the Gate.
When the tea was made I popped upstairs for a hawk. On the way back Geoffrey intercepted me; we stole into the sitting-room.
'Which one d'you fancy?' he breathed.
'I hardly know. Haven't taken them in yet.'
'Do you like Anastasia?'
'Anastasia?' This could not be. 'What's her real name?' I implored.
'Jean.'
'Oh. The short-arse? Yeah, she's all right. Boring dress.'
'Mm. Good body, though.'
'Have you fucked her?'
'Sort of. She's not as good as Sue.'
'Have you fucked Sue?'
'Sort of. She's got better tits.'
'What do you mean, "sort of'?'
'We had this vague Troy.'
'No. Christ how sexy. What was it like?'
'Yeah, they're dikes, too. It was okay, except I couldn't get a proper rise. Too Mandied.'
'Why doesn't that sort of thing ever happen to me?'
Geoffrey swayed on his pegs. 'Because you're a country bumpkin and I'm a city slicker.'
We talked drugs. Geoffrey had dropped two Mandrax; there was also some hash, but this was of only minor interest to the bronchitic narrator. I got a Mandrax off him to take later. My chest was telling me not to get any ideas about sleeping tonight.
That evening Mr and Mrs Entwistle laid on their very first row. It opened modestly enough. Geoffrey and I were back in the kitchen, helping to clear up. Door slams full force, missing-link footsteps, Norman's head bulges hugely into the room; seeing no one else, its
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