Neil Gilles had been a full-faced man with a shock of red hair. He had been heavy built, but had a way of carrying himself
that made him look quite slender, almost athletic. He had been my closest friend, though he had been much more than that - he had
been my way of life. I had met him in a cafe in the suburbs of Kensington. It was raining outside and the heat and sweaty
smokiness within was great company when you were alone. It was about 10pm and I was sitting at a corner table with a cup of
steaming coffee in front of me, where it would stand all night as
I can't stand the stuff, but everyone else was drinking it, so it
looked right. It was quite full for a Wednesday night as the
local "leather jackets" had decided to come on a cafe
crawl. Suddenly the juke box fizzled into action, blaring out
some self-pitying ballad. Someone pulled out the chair from the
other side of my table and sat down. I didn't look up for a
moment, but then my curiosity got the better of me. It was a
studious face, intense eyes, slender nose and the mouth had a
twist to it that showed strain and bitterness.
"Hello" I gushed, too civilly. I try to make a point of
never starting conversations if I can help it but something urged
me on. "Would you like a f.... er, cigarette?" I
fumbled with the packet.
"No thanks, I don't smoke." A response! I wasn't going
to tell him that I only carried them with me to hand out as I had
never been able to stand the vile weeds.
"Are you new around here?" I tried once more.
"No, I'm just unacquainted with the local
bistros." He had an unusual voice for one from these parts.
It was a peaceful, serene voice. For the first time he turned to
face me and grinned, so losing his composed air.
"The name's Gilles, Neil Gilles." He started in a
lighter, friendlier mood.
"Mine's Steve, Steve Bowman."
"Do you come here often?" Oh no, an intellectual!
"No, only when I put the sloth out for the night."
He chuckled silently and offered to buy me a fresh coffee. The
night passed quickly as we talked, talked about anything and
everything. He was a writer who had had a couple of books printed
and he was looking for material. I was a struggling student, an
impoverished academic in his third year. We kept on meeting and
became good friends and eventually I moved in with him due to a
misunderstanding between my landlord and me about the rent. He
was very knowledgeable and when we'd had a few drinks he would
philosophise a great deal. He believed in freedom and
self-regulation. He despised moralists, authoritarians,
politicians and the Black and White Minstrels Show. He had been
scarred deeply as a child by over-caring parents who had
restricted and broken him. I flatter myself with being a fairly
deep thinker and now I realised he was talking a great deal of
sense. I was influenced greatly by his theories and became
inwardly rebellious against the state. One day I was sitting in
the University Library when I heard shouting and tumultuous cries
outside Hurrying to the window I saw a procession of people about
my own age carrying banners and singing. I watched for a few
minutes as they marched and chanted in the cause of their
movement. There were at least 3000 present. I started to question
myself. Were all these people wrong? Which of us is blind to the
facts? Facts. Facts. Facts. I turned to the shelf of books and
gazed at the gaudy ornamental and shining covers, covers covering
facts. Neil and I loved the theatre, as well as drinking and we
indulged in both. (at half-time, women!) He believed (now saying
'he' believed is saying 'we' believed for our opinions were now
identical) that life should be lived to the full and that
"Death shall have no Dominion".
He wrote, I read. We were happy, contented and free. I left
University with a degree. This gained by regurgitating facts to
some unknown professor who lived in some unknown professor's
abode. We took every day as it came and when his books sold we
laughed and drank. This was our psychological union, a bond which
remained unbroken for 20 years. I was working in a research lab.,
gazing at dismembered rats and rabbits. Neil had got a job
writing TV scripts and was doing very well. At night we would sit
and listen to music or silence. We both loved Greig and emotions
ran very high during 'Peer Gynt' .
His job started to unnerve him. He was pushed by producers
into copying their style and then one Tuesday night, such as
this, he was returning home after telling the BBC what they could
do with their job, he was knocked down and killed by an
'easy-living ' motor-cyclist. I didn't mourn him and after his
funeral I still felt whole as if he were still there, in his
books, his music, his bottles. I lived as before until the one
day that we never saw coming for we would never look. The one
thing we had shut our minds against. The day the military took
over. We were filed, ordered, closeted and deprived, laden with
false responsibility. I was sent to the North to work in a
curfewed barracks with dyed-in-the-wool colonels shouting orders
and letching behind the mess. At night I cry with the Piano
Concerto and now I am dead also, drowned in perfectionist ideals
- "the Relic Remains of a Dead Man's Dream" can live no
longer.
by Barbara Wanless
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