Nostalgia - Chapter 1
Waiting for that Day
Nostalgia is my second novel, a magical-realism sci-fi drama about memories, family, addiction and the dangers of living in the past.
DEDICATION:
For my children, my parents, their parents and so on.
EPIGRAPH:
Those who are dead are not dead,
they’re just living in my head
Coldplay (from ‘42’)
We deserve forgiveness, don’t we?
Or we march on to a bleak horizon.
Remember the past
Or be doomed to an equal fate
As those who came before.
Words written by a long-deceased soldier, recited to faces so fresh and hopeful, gloriously oblivious to what waits for them on the other side of their education. The plight of a war-weary Tommy may have little relevance for university students: but if war is hell and other people are hell, maybe the sentiments of a doomed soldier are closer to home than they realise.
I believe in these words and their potential for the betterment of others, yet have never truly accepted them for myself.
The University where I work is constantly expanding, thanks to a generous billionaire benefactor who splashes out on new campus buildings. The central building, where I lecture, is named after him. His legacy will not be forgotten, unlike mine.
Today, I’m in one of the newly-built lecture rooms, which still smells as pine-fresh as the day it was completed. The lecture room is aglow, as the projector screen displays a succession of slides on the screen behind me. Images of the First World War Shell-shocked soldiers in the trenches, longing for it all to be over.
I am Paul Angest, although I can’t be sure who that is.
People expect others to be the same person all the time, but I suspect in my case this isn’t so. People see who they want to see, and as I address rows of young, expectant faces, I wonder who I am to them. Do they see a clammy man in his forties failing at life? A feeble man who spent the previous day re-enacting an unremarkable day for the third year running. Hanging around at the pier cafe until the winter’s greyness faded to black in the hope that she would walk through those weather-beaten doors, happy to see me. Trudging across the stony beach to catch a train to the mall so I can drown my sorrows at the riverboat pub.
Do they see a crumbling man who doesn’t feel any better for it, just somehow emptier? Or do they just see a lecturer speaking about other peoples’ lives as if they were his own?
I read from my notes, deja vu swarming in my brain.
‘Some of you are probably feeling pangs of homesickness right now. I wouldn’t simplify what you are feeling as an emotional reaction. Nostalgia was once considered to be a medical condition. Soldiers could become fatigued, depressed, or even suicidal from separation and longing. Knowing your life could end at any second and there’s no escape… The psychological impact on soldiers in the trenches would drive their minds to flee to safer times. Writing letters to loved ones was more than a way of saying “I’m still alive.” It was a way of staying alive, keeping love alive. That safe link to the past provided a necessary motivation for survival.’
I have no idea how long I’ve been staring into nothingness - it could be just a few seconds or far worse - but it’s enough for me to lose my train of thought. Mumbling to myself to distract my increasing panic, I scan my notes and try to find my place. It’s no use, I can’t find it. My desperation veers sharply into self-condemnation.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve lost your way. It’s happening more and more. You’re losing it.”
I check my watch to see if I can get away with bringing my talk to a close. I fleetingly look to the watching eyes and with a polite cough, I continue off-script.
‘For you, it’s all about the future. Where you’re going, what you’re going to do with your lives… But as you progress, there are some things you can’t forget. The past is for us to learn from… so we don’t make the same mistakes twice.’
I pack away my laptop, knowing a student is hovering on the edge of my peripheral vision. They’re not going away, but I am. I need to get home and close the curtains. As I step outside the lecture room into the student cafe, the lurker calls out my name. I hear them, but pretend the din from Christmas-jumpered baristas and fund-raising student carol singers draped in tinsel has drowned them out. Then something tugs at my elbow. I stop and turn to reveal my inevitable frustrated glare. A young, nervous-looking woman peers up at me like a wounded animal pleading for pity. I force a smile of acknowledgement.
‘You spoke about feeling homesick in your lecture…’
The poor girl can barely squeak out a fully-formed sentence. I nod encouragement, hoping she will get to whatever point she has to make.
‘I need some advice, really,’ she shrugs, looking to the carpet-tiled floor.
‘Do you have a question about the talk?’ I ask, knowing all too well she doesn’t.
‘Not really. It’s just when you spoke about how homesickness made the soldiers…’ Her eyes look watery. If this carries on much longer I know she will cry.
‘You’re homesick,’ I state, filling in the blanks. She nods emphatically. ‘So what do you think you should do?’ I ask firmly. She awkwardly gazes around the floor as if she has dropped something.
‘Speak to student services. They have counsellors who can help.’
She nods slowly, uncertainly drifting away.
Another satisfied customer, and I’m on my way down the corridor at a pace, desperate to leave behind the overpowering aroma of bitter coffee from the cafe.
‘Blimey, Paul. That’s one way to get rid of them,’ teases a familiar voice. Professor Colin Clague swoops in too close to my ear as he scuttles alongside me with those permanently expectant eyebrows of his. What he’s hoping for, I’ve no idea.
‘You seem to forget. They’re young. Their parents usually make their decisions for them,’ says Colin.
‘Then they need more practice,’ I say, not wanting to get into a conversation with the man.
‘Right. You were born at the age of forty,’ jeers Colin.
I stand my ground, gesturing to the young animated faces wherever we look, all brimming with eager conversation and group phone selfies. ‘Look at them. The eyes see the news footage about bombed children in another country but all they can think about is footwear and over-priced coffee.’
I turn to see Colin’s mouth agape. His cartoon eyebrows are now questioning. What doesn’t he understand? I load my point and prepare to blow away any of his judgement.
‘I’m here to impart knowledge, Colin. I’m not here to save anybody.’
‘You’re also here to be a human being,’ speaketh the voice of reason, but I’m not willing to be lectured by a man with leather elbow patches.
‘Are you still feeling stuff about… y’know, you-know-who? She-who-shall-remain-nameless.’
Colin is referring to a student from my course who tried to sue the university because she didn’t receive a grade decent enough to secure a well-paying job in the city. The fact that this student never showed up for any of my talks didn’t seem to factor in the discussion. Naturally, bureaucracy dictated the correct solution was to issue all students with cards to swipe in and out of lectures to avoid such a situation again and issue me with a warning; the thought of which makes my teeth grind.
‘Actually, I’d completely forgotten about her until you mentioned it,’ I say.
‘So what’s your problem?’ asks Colin, before a dim bulb flicks on in his eyes. ‘You actually thought you’d make a difference,’ He states as if discovering the meaning of life, and now I dislike him even more. ‘Didn’t you know? People these days have no honour.’
Thankfully my mobile phone rings, giving me an excuse to put substantial distance between me and Mr Corduroy.
I check the caller ID on my phone: Brydie. My sister. I mute her.
Colin continues to talk at me. ‘Coming to the Christmas meal, Paul?’
My phone rings again as I tut at Colin’s suggestion. I answer the call with a passive-aggressive hello.
Brydie speaks with her usual lack of consideration.
‘Paul. I’ve got some news. Dad’s dead.’
‘Oh. Right.’
My tone is polite, almost cheery. No, I’ve no idea either. And there it is again, that fuzzy, unsettling sensation of deja vu; as if the ground is swaying under my feet. I feel like I’ve been here before. I don’t know if it’s an accumulation of daydreams over the years, the random-yet-frequent ruminating of the day my parents leave forever and wondering how I would respond to the fact… how I would cope. Would I?
Still, the deja vu is enough to make my head tilt with curious recall.
Dad.
In our later years, a weird distance grew between us, and I could never quite put my finger on it. All I know is that I didn’t ask for it, but I was constantly left wondering if I had; questioning our interactions and conversations, picking over them for any accidental-but-perceived slights. Was he proud of me? Did I annoy him? All I knew was I couldn’t do it anymore. It was draining, trying to solve this Sphinx-like mystery.
But no matter how many times I had simulated this moment in my mind, I hadn’t expected it to be like this. I don’t feel a thing, and I know I should.
We were two different people. We cared about each other, even if we were barely in contact. I try to justify this by convincing myself that sometimes you don’t need an obvious reason for a relationship to drift away, but yet again it’s an unanswerable question. I don’t know why we were like we were. As pitiful as it sounds, it just was. Part of getting older. I’m in my early forties now and I go out less and less, I know fewer people. Everything’s getting progressively smaller and quieter. Or maybe it’s just me.
What I know for certain is my Dad deserves more than ‘Oh. Right’. The pause drags on as I remain puzzled at my response, finally broken by a somewhat exasperated breath from my sister.
‘Is that all you have to say?’
I blurt out ‘When?’ before Brydie can finish her sentence.
‘Last Monday.’
A week ago? A week? I exhale a knowing smile, running through a list of names of those who knew before me. I’d be lucky if my chart position scraped into the top thirty.
‘We haven’t told mum yet. I was hoping you could break the news to her,’ says Brydie.
‘You’ve got it all worked out, I see. I must have missed the board meeting memo,’ I sneer.
‘Now’s not the time, Paul,’ says Brydie, which makes my eyes squint and my lips scrunch tightly.
‘Why can’t you talk to Mum?’ I ask.
‘She’s no good on the phone. You know that,’ huffs Brydie.
‘I meant face to face.’
I live in Southend, on the coast of Essex. My sister lives just outside Brentwood, fifteen minutes from the care home where our Mum resides. Fifteen minutes.
Brydie launches into a list of her responsibilities - organising the funeral, the buffet, informing extended family and friends - which is all fair enough, but she lives for an obsessive-compulsive level of organisation. Mentally-deteriorating mothers in care homes, not so much.
I consider suggesting that either of our brothers should rise to the challenge, but I write it off before verbalising.
Our older brother Wayne “doesn’t do” hospitals of any kind, and our younger brother Elliot is the perpetual baby of the family, fragile and ill-equipped, even though he’s now in his early thirties.
This clanging bell of predictable disappointment only serves as a reminder as to why I keep my distance these days. Ignorance is bliss.
‘Paul?’ snaps Brydie, agitated at my silence. I respond with a tart ‘Alright’, as if I’m being unreasonable.
Christmas. The looming dread is on par with that of my birthday. A yearly reminder of everything you’ve failed to achieve, lost or regret. Not to mention the expectations of others, and whilst I repeatedly tell myself I don’t care about what anyone else wants, the nagging turmoil still clings to my clothes like an overwhelming fabric conditioner.
I pick up a basket at the supermarket entrance, passing blockades of chocolates, potatoes and sprouts, weaving through a pre-Christmas toy sale consisting of big boxes of cheap plastic and air, designed to look like something substantial.
I hover behind three rummaging women at the yellow-stickered reduced items. I swear they are working as a team to form a human blockade between me and the bargains.
The endless cheer of Shakin’ Stevens and Cliff Richard loops, occasionally interrupted by a manager call-out for till-trained staff. I lunge over the heads of the women, grabbing a pizza to check the price. They glare at me as if their human rights have somehow been breached. Disappointed, I put it back. The cost of everything gnaws at me.
As I wait for the women to get out of the way, a thought calls from the darkest recess of my mind: When did I last see Dad? The last time I had any contact with him was a request through the post, asking for a DNA sample, which was odd yet not surprising. He did things like that. Not a peep from him in months, then I’m sending him strands of my hair in a sample pot.
Dad was into joining the dots on our family tree, nigh-on obsessed with knowing which King he was related to. Not that it mattered - there was none of that royal blood coursing through our veins. Only a few generations back, our ancestors were in the poor house, which is quite apt as I wait my turn to rummage for bargain dinners. But there’s nothing there for me.
I leave the supermarket empty-handed, which is probably for the best considering my bank balance. Yet as I pass through the shopping centre, drifting by Christmas shoppers on the hunt for Black Friday tat and meaningless stocking fillers, I slow to a halt, transfixed by a kaleidoscopic mirage.
Refracted light twists and blurs under tiny spotlights, shining upon slowly rotating window displays. Pillboxes. Perfume bottles. Photo frames. Crystal Angels and Fairies, slowly turn as they dance with porcelain polar bears. The enchanted eyes of children are naturally drawn to the glow of this place, gazing with dream-like awe at the display’s twinkling beauty. Adults too, with muted wonder.
The shop has been there for as long as I can remember, but I’ve never been inside. My parents vetoed it, in case I broke anything, and that forbidden feeling has stuck with me for thirty-five years or so. All year round the shimmering shop window is enough to induce hypnosis, but this Christmas the management has decorated the display with fairy dust from Tinkerbell herself. The shopping centre is extravagantly decorated for Christmas, but this particular shop is the jewel in its crown.
Today I cross the threshold. It feels wrong, both entering the shop and making a purchase. Still, I’m standing at the till praying that my debit card will be accepted. My heart knows it’s a fruitless quest, my head clings to chance. But a compulsion overrides all good sense. The salesperson removes an ornate butterfly locket from the display, carefully packaging it into a dainty trinket bag.
Meredith will love it. She told me herself, not so long ago. The look in her eyes as she watched it rotate on the window display. If this simple act can restore that look in her eyes… I’m not expecting everything to be fixed. I just want to let her know—
‘That’s a hundred and seventy pounds, please’.
I blink a blank stare at the shopkeeper, hopping off the train of thought. I pay with a debit card and a forced smile.
Heels click on the tarmac of a bland business park as the winter evening draws in early. The clicking slows to a stop. Meredith’s tired expression fades to reluctant recognition. An expression I have come to know all too well.
I didn’t cry when we split up. It was only a matter of time, I knew that much. But it must have affected me in some ways, as people would often ask how I was doing - no, really, how WAS I doing, honestly? - as well as commenting on my weight loss and generally enquiring if I was terminally ill. But I’ve always considered myself to be an aloof, withdrawn misanthrope so how they could spot the difference was beyond me.
So why have I been standing outside in a freezing car park in the middle of winter, waiting for this person who left three years ago, for this person for whom I care so little that I’ve just bought her an expensive Christmas present? Right now, my brain laughs at my heart’s betrayal. I have foolishly walked willingly into its trap. I knew it was wrong, me being there. Poisonous emotions flood my system. I stop sucking on my sore bottom lip and crack my softest, feeblest smile.
If only she hadn’t seen me already, I could have fled into the shadows and spent the rest of the year berating my stupidity. Instead, I hold the small trinket bag aloft for Meredith to take. Like an out-of-body experience, I can see myself. None of this is winning any new fans. I just stand there reeking of desperation.
‘Saw this. Thought of you. A little something for Christmas.’
Meredith peers into the bag, removing the gift. I tilt my head slightly, overwhelmed by the mist of deja vu. A curious recall fixes upon my face, as if I have been here before, and I’m lost in the dizzying sensation.
‘What’s this for? Paul?’
Meredith’s uneasy tone of questioning snaps me out of my familiar daydream.
‘Huh? Do… do you ever get deja vu? Like, this moment has happened before?’
‘It has.’
I become aware of the longing in my eyes which causes Meredith’s shoulders to sink. She hands back the butterfly to me and walks away without a word. I catch up with her at her car as she opens the door to get in.
‘I was thinking of handing in my notice. Take a year out, see something real. You always said I should.’
‘Don’t do anything on my account,’ says Meredith, before getting into her car.
Amazed at how this moment hasn’t gone as I had hoped, my words stutter with disbelief through a stifled smile.
‘My Dad died,’ I say, even though she can’t hear me. Meredith winds down the window a fraction.
‘You can’t do this anymore. Don’t look like that.’
I know what she means. That desperate grin of agitated surprise on my face. I don’t know why on earth I’m half-smiling at any of this. It’s like my mind and body are shrugging at each other about how to respond to my failed plan. If, indeed, there was a plan.
Back in my own body with a cold slap, all I see is an empty parking space before me.
I’ve no idea how long I’ve been standing here without realising time has moved on without me.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2023