The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 23

Sunday was my favourite day of the week. No school. No work. Emancipated from the rigours and routine of life, free to savour the fresh air, a chance to declutter the crap-packed rooms of my brain. Armed with my trusty Walkman—which had been dropped more times than an out of form footballer, and still played—I liked to take long solitary walks. With no destination in mind, I went wherever my legs brought me.

Sometimes I walked by the motorway, watching the steady stream of traffic whizzing by. The various colours, shapes and sizes of vehicles, on the one road. Different destinations, different journeys to be made. Around the roundabouts and through the intersections and traffic lights. Past suburban enclaves, and industrial estates. Life going round.

Other times I took the scenic route, along the old canal. On a muddy path flanked on either side by briar patches, separating the green fields with grazing livestock from the overgrown reeds poking out of the marshy bank. On occasion, glimpsing a silvery fish surfacing before disappearing and leaving behind rippling evidence of its presence.

Sometimes, I limited my wanderings to the confines of my neighbourhood. I needed to see people. People I knew by sight. Maybe, encounter Roley and his friends drinking flagons of cider by the bollards in a back lane, whenever they got bored with band practice and ventured out of their dank garage lair. Stop for a quick chat and bitch about life. And feel some semblance of linkage with my peers. Funny, even though he lived less than a quarter-of-a-mile away, I can't remember seeing him around the area. Since we became pals at school, bumping into him had become a regular occurrence. Almost as if some cosmic energy drew us together once we had made that initial connection.

And the girls. A present on the lonely eye.

Not that I had been giving much thought to girls as of late. Still, I was not immune to the charms of a coquettish smile or an adorable giggle. Nor had I completely forgotten that the quest to find the perfect girlfriend had once been paramount in my daily thoughts, a staple of my existence.

A group of girls sat in a semi-circle on the grass like an ancient tribe by the empty football pitch. I spotted Louise from work among their number.

Louise raised her head and waved enthusiastically. I responded in turn, gratified by her interest. As I debated whether to stop and say hi, a blond girl said, "That the fella you've been creaming yer knickers for?"

Louise's complexion turned a darker shade of crimson. "Shut up. I'm only mortified."

Her companion laughed. "He can't hear us—he's got the headphones in." True, but the tape was finished playing, and I hadn't switched it over.

"I don't know whatcha see in him. All skinny and twitchy," a girl in an acrylic tracksuit said, prompting an outpouring of opinions.

"He's an awful looking yoke."

"He dresses nice, though."

"I think he's gorgeous."

"Lovely little arse on him."

"Shame about the rest of him."

"I probably would, after a few vodkas."

"You'd do the elephant-man after a few vodkas."

The throaty laughter came from behind the wall as I turned onto the street. I'd always considered girls the fairer sex. But this talk sounded not too dissimilar to boys' schoolyard conversations.

I ejected the tape as a voice said, "His mate's a fine thing."

"Yer man off the telly?"

"Oh, now he's only gorgeous."