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Features -
Brighton
simon skinner
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The first thing you notice in Brighton is the light
M25 into M23 and then I looked at the instructions I scribbled down. Right at the petrol station (the last before Brighton) then left at the roundabout. John's studio was on Dyke Road which eventually weaves its way down to Brighton town centre. The house was large, built before the war and had stained glass in the stairwell. I arrived lunchtime and knowing John was at work, I fiddled with the combination on the mailbox padlock, had to recheck the number on the post-it note and eventually got the key. Originally a large house, like so many in Brighton, it had been broken up into studios, bedsits. I saw a young couple exit one and unlock mountain bikes by the door. She was pretty in a uniform Scandanavian kind of way, he looked unremarkable. This set the tone. Plastered on the walls were signs about keeping the door shut and how it was "in everyone's interest" and "requested, time and time again." I surveyed them with a sardonic grin. I've always hated notes.
Two of the groundfloor studios were empty and I remembered John mentioning something about damp. The one you could look at from the road had a bed suspended above the floor on a large wooden frame. The ceilings were high enough for this to be comfortable. John's studio had a medium sized front room with a fold-down settee he slept on. I saw the campbed I was to sleep on later propped against a side wall. Finishing my tea I decided to explore the town, and after checking with a neighbour how far (20 minutes, she reckoned) I headed to the sea. The first thing you notice in Brighton is the light. In London you don't really see the horizon and your general vista is the next street you turn into. In Brighton, the avenues were wide and the sunlight displayed itself on them.
I walked to the Seven Dials roundabout, looking for an Agatha Christie connection but seeing little other than an old bank converted into a Burger King. I noticed a barber shop where you could get a cut for £3,50 and a sandwich shop where I stopped for a roll stuffed with Ardennes pate and salad and was charged £1,20. There was an Italian Deli and two newsagents in the quadrant. One (Asian run) containing a good top shelf selection of porn magazines. I picked up the copy of Club International which promised Jordan naked, had a quick look at her silicone enhancements and then put it back on the shelf. Up and down a steep hill and the sea came into view. It is still an incredible thing to look out and see that blue expanse. The townhouses became more and more impressive, many had verandas and the swaying ivy cadenced my thoughts. Inside I imagined treasure troves of grand pianos, sunken baths and siameses. The Georgian whiteness of the buildings such a contrast to my London digs. John's studio was practical if not spectacular. It had a good sized bathroom but the kitchen was cramped and he moaned about it when cooking later.
"It's a start," He said, "I just wanted to get settled in Brighton. I'll move in six months."
I found the Lanes and the seafront and went on the pier. Barechested boys were standing on the pier lights and jumping down into the sea. A crowd had formed to watch and the fall was quite something. The two I followed both landed with a loud smack on the water. The boys were crewcut and wore long shorts and trainers. They dived in and swam to shore, the shoes presumably protecting their feet if they had to make a dash for it across the pebbles. There were signs telling them not to do it. On the polls, the Council had placed round stoppers halfway up with spikes sticking out presumably as a deterrent but somehow the boys had contrived to use these as supports. I saw two official looking men shaking their heads at the irony. The stoppers made it easier for the boys to balance and one by one they jumped; a whole gang of girls watching by the sea wall. I walked along the pier and passed the dart games and hooplas and candy floss and 99's for ninety nine pence although it was a pound twenty if you wanted a chocolate flake.
I thought that was a ninety nine? I asked the girl serving but she was East European and just assumed I was ordering. I didn't deter her and handed over the two coins.
I walked to where the funfair started and my mood lightened as I saw the Ghost Train and the Rollercoaster. I'd always liked those as a kid but felt too self conscious to go on them. I had a go on a football game because I usually won.
John had told me that because of the large gay population, the local women were slightly more open than their London counterparts and I noticed a girl looking my way by the change machines. It was little early in the day to go and chat to her but I was pleased the prophecy had materialised. John was gay but dismissed Brighton as "old queen" country. If he went out; it was driving to London. He was happy to come round the straight pubs with me later in the day.
John told me there was 365 pubs in Brighton. One for every day of the year. He'd had to stop drinking because it was a Jeckyl and Hyde thing for him. Once when he was living in Shepherds Bush he was so out of control on liquor he ended up fighting a road sweeper at four in the morning!
"What was he doing, sweeping too hard?" I queried.
John didn't answer. It wasn't funny. He'd gone into rehab the next day.
One pub we'd been in the landlord was so bored he chased all the junkies who used the toilets and asked them to contribute 20 pence for their trouble. "Strictly for customers only" said the sign. "If they just asked," He explained, "all they got to do is ask…" He had no conception that perhaps they didn't ask as a wind up. Suddenly he shouted and leapt over the bar, another junkie running down the street. John and I helped ourselves to a couple of Budweisers while he was out. Slowly it dawned on me that John had switched from Cokes to beers in the last few rounds. I waited for the madness…
Shanted we headed for the kebab house for a few cut offs on the way home. Some guy, a builder type, large frame but overweight with tattoos and a puce face overheard some of our boisterousness and misconstrued it as rude. An altercation took place outside while I was trying to even up the distribution of the chilli sauce on the meat. John and the builder guy were arguing about something and the tension increased as the builder tried to back his van out. John was kicking some cans around and generally goofing. The builder nearly drove into him. That sparked it and when John loses it, he really loses it… jumping up onto the bonnet of the van as it screeched to a halt. The builder getting out…
He walked towards us, with obvious intent. John then propelled himself into a karate kick and missed the builder's nose by inches. I was beered up myself and trying to work out whether to drop my kebab and join in or just see what happened after John got up. He usually didn't need back up and the builder looked out of shape. I was shocked by the Kung-Fu kick though. Didn't see that coming and neither did the builder, who kind of swayed slightly but did little in the way of ducking or dodging. John had missed and landed in a heap on the pavement. This would have made me laugh but for what happened next. The builder began to sway slightly and make gargling noises as if having convultions. He grabbed his chest and fell onto the bonnet of the van and then slid down, eventually slumping to the floor. In that position I watched him being sick. Small portions of kebab came along with some yellow looking saliva. He was trying to speak but it was only when I went over and crouched beside him that I realised he was pleading for mercy.
I'm an old man. I'm an old man. Leave me alone. Leave me alone.
John and I panicked then. Even though neither of us had touched the guy. We were definitely involved. The seizure had been brought on by something. John's kick was way out of left field and I was annoyed with him at the over-reaction. It wasn't out of character though and I'd be wasting my words if I protested. We said nothing. We ran.
I woke up the next morning with a hangover and a heavy heart.
Do you think he was all right?
Someone would have called an ambulance in the shop, I'm sure.
John had fixed scrambled egg and placed it in front of me. I ate to feel better and washed it down with real coffee. I picked up a copy of the Genet book I had been reading and we discussed the Frenchmen as well as the Bockris book on William Burroughs. John told me of a Faber anthology he was sending stuff to and I noted down the deadline. He went off to work and I left Brighton that day. We don't know what happened to the man. I figured it might be in the local paper if he died and maybe John would see it. He'd drop me a line. We were writers, you see |
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