Something is Always Missing, by Steven Gilligan
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Something is Always Missing, by Steven Gilligan
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The
Yorkshire moors are my birthplace. I have a vague impression of something else,
an impression of walking through heather-filled hills and valleys, and always
walking alone. Something is always missing. * * * Here’s
where it all started. Here’s where dreams begin and legends are realised. This
is the place for you to pretend to be yourself and to forget everything outside.
The truth, however, is never so likely. Welcome
to The White Lion, my local pub, the place where I took my first drink and the
place from which fond memories of adolescence stem from. It smells of tobacco
smoke from cigarettes and the odd pipe or two. Smells of whiskey and beer and
the roasting of Sunday lunches in the back kitchen are scents I have come to
associate with comfort and security. The roaring orange fire, the horse brass
ornaments that catch the dim light, the red velveteen seat covers and the dark
oak of the tables and ceiling beams all contributed greatly to my perfect idea
of a beautiful Utopia. But this romantic ideal was, like most ideals of mine,
just another flighty wish. I knew
full well that the landlord did not like me drinking there, but I’ll never know
why. I was also fully aware that the rest of the locals who frequented the
place, farmers and the like, resented me and my two friends invading their
little castle. So, to be accepted was just a useless Quixotic fantasy, and
although it did bother me a little, because I’d been going to The White Lion for
as long as I can remember, I suppose I couldn’t really care less. I asked
for a pint of Guinness and tried to appear nonchalant and innocuous as the
frowning barman took my money and smiled with his mouth only. I said “Thanks,”
and went over to my friends. “You
could very easily get sucked under in here. It’s like a great whirlpool of
insipid blandness designed to turn even the most daring people into men of
beige,” said Dean as I sat down. Michael smirked. “This is
my local, I like it here,” I said, trying to sound patriotic, but God knows why.
Dean was drinking a pint of Best Bitter and Michael had a half of lager, he’d
never really been one for heavy drinking sessions, preferring instead to stay
home and watch MTV. Whenever he did join me and Dean, if we went to nightclub or
something, he’d always get very drunk, very quickly and then spend the following
day rolling around in bed with his clothes on, believing his hangover to some
sort of demonic possession. I lit
myself a cigarette and offered one to Dean, which he gladly took and then smiled
glumly at me. “What’s the matter?” he asked. There
was a pause and then I said, “Something’s wrong, Dean.” * * * Being
but teenagers, we spent most of our long days walking in the trees. Often we
were frightened by what growing and learning experience we would encounter,
under rocks, among fallen leaves, but such is Yorkshire in the autumn. If we’d
been small children we might have climbed and wriggled between the branches,
breaking a few twigs, catching a few conkers. And after our calculated ascent we
would stick our heads out above the leaves and gape in wonder at the rolling
clouds all across the darkening skies. From the flaming sun of the day to the
glittering stars of the night; children pondering the heavens. But being only
teenagers we spent our days walking in the trees. At home I would be sat reading
or listening to music, and I think that was the first time I realised that if I
could change just a small part of my life, or at least change the fact that I
spent so much of my time alone, then I wouldn’t have to depend so much on
others. Needing other people to be around me was something which I saw as a
weakness. I used to get so lonely, but even in that state I always needed time
on my own to allow things to catch up. Yes, I’m used to feeling pretty down.
Stupid girls, they’re off in the Town Centre somewhere and I’m always just left
sitting there on my own, getting more and more bored. That was the thing of it,
it’s not as if I was ever promised anything and then had it taken away, it was
more like nobody could share my so-called dreams, which really meant none of it
was actually happening. It’s like suddenly remembering that I’m just nineteen
and how serious can anything be anyway? Not very. * * * I opened
my eyes and looked at Dean and Michael. “Where
have you been?” said Dean. “Huh?” “You
looked as if you were floating off somewhere.” “No,” I
said to Dean, bluntly. “Come
on,” said Dean, still looking intense. “Come on
what?” “You
never told us what it is that’s bothering you.” “There’s
nothing,” I said and looked away. Michael something and Dean laughed quietly.
“Please,” I said, “let it drop.” Despite
Dean and Michael’s somewhat hackneyed concern, my problem had not gone away. It
wasn’t even really a problem, more a way of thinking. I was sick and tired of
pretence, sick and tired of trying to be someone. Instead, I just wanted to be
normal and live an everyday, down-to-earth life. Most people hate being like
that, they get bogged down with mundane nine-to-five jobs, every day turning out
to be just the same as the last, but for me it’s different. Michael, Dean and
myself had always stood out from the crowd, we were intelligent, we read great
works of literature, we wrote poetry and each of us was almost certainly headed
for University, something which was far from usual for the average inhabitant of
our town. This was all turning out to be a bit too much for me, not what I had
expected at all. I was seriously bored and disillusioned with thought, challenge
and mental stimulation; I wanted something else, something simple. Discussing
philosophical matters in the pub with Dean and Michael was rapidly becoming all
nonsense to me, I felt complacent and despondent. I didn’t want to go to
University, I didn’t want to expand myself, and I never wanted to be someone
special. I was tired of it all. Now I wanted nothing more than to run off and
live by sea in a small fishing village, find a job on the boats, get to know the
locals, maybe even get married one day and start a family, nothing more. A
humdrum life in a humdrum town, nothing more. No books, no philosophy, no
high-powered career, no theology, no more wrestling with the meaning of life. No
more. I placed
my empty pint glass on the table and stood up. “I’ve got to go,” I said. Michael
looked concerned, I knew he wanted to help me but I also knew he never could,
nobody ever really could. “Where
to?” he said. “Just
home. I’ve got some things on my mind, that’s all. You know.” “No, I
don’t know.” For all his faults Michael had a sincere face and the kind of smile
most girls would to love. “Look,
I’ll see you later, OK?” I said. “I’ll
call by your house tomorrow, you won’t be busy will you?” he said. His eyes
looked sad and I prayed they weren’t sad for me. “What
day is it tomorrow?”
“Monday.” “No. No,
not at all.” I tried to sound enthused. “Yes, come round if you want.” I felt
slightly embarrassed for no reason at all. “Two o’clock OK?” “Fine,”
said Michael. Dean
stared at his feet and shuffled them uneasily. Michael smiled at me as if to
say, don’t mind him he’s harmless, or something. I left without saying
goodbye. * * * All I
ever really worried about was being noticed, or rather not being noticed if you
know what I mean. I mean I never wanted to be spotted or found out, but I did
secretly want someone to turn around one day.
“Hello,” always polite,
“where have you been all my lonely life?”
Situations, however, are never as predictable.
“I’m sorry. I’m sure someday you’ll make
someone very happy, but I’m afraid you’re just not the sort of person I could
ever fall in love with.” Relaxing in a hot bath or taking a walk on the
moors I’m always trying to make my life sound simple again, turning it over and
over in my mind as if it was the most perfect and easy answer to a complex
theological enigma. I am told that for every puzzle in life you solve, two new
puzzles immediately take its place. Sitting
on the floor of my bedroom I thought about this problem of mine. Michael
sprawled on the surface of my bed, humming along to some tune or other he’d had
going around his head all day, while he absently flicked through a Spiderman
comic. “I don’t
know why I bother,” I said, looking at him. It didn’t seem to register. “Hmmm?”
he said slowly, without looking up. “It’s
just some things. I mean sometimes I just can’t get a grip. I don’t know what it
is, I can’t explain, it’s just… I don’t know. You know?” I wasn’t making any
sense and Michael wasn’t listening anyway. “Mike?” “Yes?” “Are you
taking any of this in?” “What?
Oh, yes.” He exhaled slowly and noisily, still enveloped in the comic. I guessed
that Spiderman must have been on the brink of stopping another power-crazy
master criminal. Michael had a sharp mind but he often pretended to be dull to
avoid complications. Usually he just kept quiet, or spoke only short sentences.
Today, he looked sad. “An
overdose won’t set you free, so they say,” I said for my own amusement. “What is
it?” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“Something’s wrong,” I said, serious now. “Something’s missing.” * * * I can
remember when my parents once took me on a holiday to Blackpool. I think I must
have been about twelve or thirteen and, being so young, I was of course very
excited, so much so that I was sick on the train as we left Leeds. I felt ill
all the way there and didn’t properly cheer up until I started to breathe in the
sea air and eat a ham sandwich in a seafront café. At first
I was ecstatic to be at the seaside where everything smelled of popcorn,
candyfloss and hot dogs, so delightful and pure that I walked on air. Then there
was the music coming from the video games and fruit machines in the arcades,
enticing tunes like the Sirens on the rocks, drawing holiday-makers and children
into the shops, the candy rock making demonstrations, the Waxworks, the bars and
showcase theatres with their usual selections of vaudeville, music hall and Russ
Abbot. The
perfect jewel in the crown though was The Pleasure Beach. The centre of the
world. A brilliant and wondrous city of gold where every fantasy could be lived
out and become reality, an afternoon of harmony and oneness with the world. The
Alice in Wonderland ride, the Gold Mine and the Ghost train were all different
dimensions in which I became lost in fantasy. Ride after glittering ride, it was
enough to send shivers down my spine. Beautiful. At least
that was the first day, but after that all the fun seemed to vanish. Maybe
the novelty had gone, or maybe it was because I was starting to become a
teenager and what with hormones and everything I was becoming bored more easily.
For the rest of the holiday my parents went shopping and in the evenings they
would go for a meal and wander along the Golden Mile. I did join them once or
twice, but most of the time I would just stay in my hotel room or in the lounge
downstairs reading a comic or a book. Soon, even that became a chore and I
decided to take up smoking. I bought my first packet with little difficulty and
leaned out of my bedroom window and gingerly puffed away. The
holiday was turning out to be a week of despair, nothing like the 24-hour party
I has expected, and what’s more I was beginning to miss my bed at home. I
resigned myself to reading and Incredible Hulk comic in the downstairs lounge
and common room. It
happened then. I heard
a man and a woman talking to the fat hotel owner in the reception, nothing
unusual about that except the size of the owner’s belly, but it was then that I
saw her. The couple had a daughter in tow and she looked about my age.
“Perfect,” I thought as the holiday in Blackpool spun around in my thoughts and
I mentally turned it into a Caribbean cruise. Just me, my girl, a few palm trees
and a sun-stained beach. She had shoulder length curly brown hair and a round,
cheerful-looking face. She was chewing bubblegum and her sulky lips and sultry
dark eyes came sharply into focus as everything else around me blew away.
“This,” I thought, “must have been arranged by God!” With my
stomach pounding I stuffed my comic into my trouser pocket and followed the
family, at a distance, as they heaved their cases up the stairs. I heard a door
shut, but I didn’t see which one and for a few minutes I stood on the landing,
trembling and holding onto the banister for support. I could smell something
sweet like sugary strawberries and I knew that it must have been the smell of
her bubblegum. I ran excitedly back down the stairs and all the way I could
smell the synthetic strawberry scent. It felt like something out of a film, she
had disappeared from my sight but her sweet trace remained. I floated back up
the stairs again and locked myself in my room. My bland day had been transformed
into a beautiful day of delight. This girl I wanted and needed was all that
occupied my mind. My new born hankering and longing, which were surprisingly new
emotions to me, made me feel tender inside, and, positive that I was head over
heels in love I drifted off to a warn afternoon sleep and dreamed dreams filled
with her seraphic face; nascent sexual feelings engulfing me. Later
that evening I persuaded my parents to eat their evening meal in the hotel
restaurant in the hope that my angel and her parents might be eating there too.
They didn’t. My mum and dad went out that night and I, feeling slightly less
enthused and just a little deflated, went to bed early. * * *
Travelling home on the train I felt hollow, as if a part of me was missing, a
part that was never really there at all, not physically anyway. I never saw her
again that holiday and I felt confused and absurd that I’d managed to fall in
love with a girl who I only saw for a couple of minutes at the most. For weeks
after I thought of nothing else but her, I was off my food and I couldn’t sleep
properly. Nothing interested me. The only thing that was real in the whole
bizarre incident was that strawberry bubblegum smell, I didn’t know her name, I
never had a chance to speak to her or even get to meet her. This was the first
time I’d ever fallen for someone, and this infatuation was my sad introduction
to love. I felt cheated. Love was
not what I had expected it to be. In fear and shame I pictured her face again,
the face I had known so briefly and so falsely, and I loved her all the same. * * * The
Yorkshire moors were my birthplace. I have a vague impression of something else,
an impression of walking through heather-filled hills and valleys, and always
walking alone. I’m always walking, looking for someone special whose name I’ll
never know. The fields are wide and the grass is as high as the sky. So high
that I must never look up as I ring doorbells that bring no response and knock
on doors that always stay shut. They are the moors of the lost and the lonely. I
never look up. Up there, there is always something better. Up there can make you
and ruin you in a minute of fleeting and wasted emotion. A minute of hope. It’s
a place where all the unloved people, and all the people who don’t belong, are
always alone. Sometimes I doubt my own identity. Something is missing and it’s still missing when you reach out in the dark and kiss a girl for the very first time. Something is always missing.
Steven Gilligan |
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