The flat on Clapton Common

Ruth and myself had taken a flat on Clapton Common, barely a stone's throw from Lea View, thought it rather odd to have travelled so far, simply to end up so near to where I had started.

By way of showing some willing, had begun a cleaning round, going out early morning, doing a few offices, nothing too strenuous ... it paid the lease. Ruth quite happy with the few sticks of furniture we bought. A kitchen, none of this 'gas stove on the landing' lark. Really a very big flat. Georgian. Ruth, relieved to have escaped from the oppressive atmosphere of her parent's home. Naturally, she was immediately ostracised, only Vivien coming round. She too, visibly relaxing, somewhere for her to breath more easily.

Time marched softly on. I had been back from Australia four years... nothing tangible to show for this time past... had the impression there never would be, quite content to drift on as always. Hardly ever saw the necessity to drive myself mad ... obtaining a 'mortgage', paying to the money lenders, getting a house at three times the initial cost. The word 'house' still a very sore spot in my brain.
Ruth, never the satisfied type, never complacent, always a pusher, this pushing didn't take long to start, once the euphoria of leaving home wore off. She pushed I should become a 'taxi driver', having the fixed impression in her head, as so many people do, simply by sitting at the wheel with the little meter going round, automatically accruing great wealth. Personally, could not see that.
Finally I gave in to her, presenting myself at the Public Carriage Office at Lambeth. Reminded me of the Navy, almost saluted, such was the crippling aura of the dungeon like basement. The policeman behind the steel barred windows, non committal, other than "Been to Australia, have you ...?"

Filled in the forms they passed through to me. Went away and promptly forgot all about the incident, pleased to be out in the street, out in the air, out in soft Sunlight.
But, not quite all serenity, echoes from the past were always with me, just below the surface.
By way of diversion, we had taken to going to Weymouth, of all places. The only reason able to give for this particular spot was having spent a considerable amount of time at Her Majesty's pleasure, swinging round a buoy there. Liked the long beaches, so, the occasional Weymouth ... hotel overlooking the bay.

Ruth had never really cracked the hard shell of my other life. Always been careful to keep that quiet. Successfully built a wall inside my brain. Taken a long time doing it, lying in my yellow room, staring at the ceiling. My mother would go to work at half past seven, when she returned at half past five I was invariably still in the same position. She tried ... once or twice managing to drag me out ... down the pub with her, endeavouring to put a few Guinesses in me, screwed that up finally, by asking the barman for a glass of water, when he had said, very curtly, "What's yours?" She really went into some disarray, "Showing me up like that ... what's the matter with you ... ?"

Never considered myself a total failure. Not caring that much either way. Invariably it always resolved itself into the same question, "What's it all about?"