down from an upper window. Across it, in large rainbow coloured lettering, was painted:



welcome to the 'end of the world' party, 1975.



Merlin shrugged. "Yeah, sorry, man, looks like it wasn't. Bit of a disappointment, that. Or a



blessing," he added amiably, 'depending on your point of view."



"Blessing," said Archie, with passion. "Hundred per cent, bona fide blessing."



"Did you, er, dig the sign, then?" asked Merlin, taking a step back behind the doorstep in case



the man was violent as well as schiz. "You into that kind of scene? It was kind of a joke, you see,



more than anything."



"Caught my eye, you might say," said Archie, still beaming like a mad man. "I was just driving



along looking for somewhere, you know, somewhere to have another drink, New Year's Day, hair of



the dog and all that and I've had a bit of a rough morning all in all and it just sort of struck me. I



flipped a coin and thought: why not?"



Merlin looked perplexed at the turn the conversation was taking. "Er .. . party's pretty much



over, man. Besides, I think you're a little advanced in years .. . if you know what I mean .. ." Here



Merlin turned gauche; underneath the dakshiki he was at heart a good middle-class boy, instilled



with respect for his elders. "I mean," he said after a difficult pause, 'it's a bit of a younger crowd



than you might be used to. Kind of a commune scene."



"But I was so much older then," sang Archie mischievously, quoting a ten-year-old Dylan track,



arching his head round the door, "I'm younger than that now."



Merlin took a cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, and frowned. "Look, man ... I can't just let



anyone in off the street, you know? I mean, you could be the police, you could be a freak, you



could '



But something about Archie's face huge, innocent, sweetlyexpectant reminded Tim what his



estranged father, the Vicar



of Snarebrook, had to say about Christian charity every Sunday from his pulpit. "Oh, what the



hell. It's New Year's Day, for fucks sake You best come in."



Archie sidestepped Merlin, and moved into a long hallway with four open-doored rooms



branching off from it, a staircase leading to another storey, and a garden at the end of it all. Detritus



of every variety animal, mineral, vegetable lined the floor; a great mass of bedding, under which



people lay sleeping, stretched from one end of the hallway to the other, a red sea which grudgingly



separated each time Archie took a step forward. Inside the rooms, in certain corners, could be



witnessed the passing of bodily fluids: kissing, breast-feeding, fucking, throwing up all the things



Archie's Sunday Supplement had informed him could be found in a commune. He toyed for a



moment with the idea of entering the fray, losing himself between the bodies (he had all this new



time on his hands, masses and masses of it, dribbling through his fingers), but decided a stiff drink



was preferable. He tackled the hallway until he reached the other end of the house and stepped out



into the chilly garden, where some, having given up on finding a space in the warm house, had



opted for the cold lawn. With a whisky tonic in mind, he headed for the picnic table, where



something the shape and colour of Jack Daniels had sprung up like a mirage in a desert of empty



wine bottles.



"Mind if I...?"



Two black guys, a topless Chinese girl, and a white woman wearing a toga were sitting around



on wooden kitchen chairs, playing rummy. Just as Archie reached for the Jack Daniels, the white



woman shook her head and made the signal of a stubbed out cigarette.



"Tobacco sea, I'm afraid, darling. Some evil bastard put his fag out in some perfectlyacceptable



whisky. There's Babycham and some other inexorable shit over here



Archie smiled in gratitude for the warning and the kind offer.



He took a seat and poured himself a big glass of Liebfraumilch instead.



Many drinks later, and Archie could not remember a time in his life when he had not known



Clive and Leo, Wan-Si and Petronia, intimately. With his back turned and a piece of charcoal, he



could have rendered every puckered goose pimple around Wan-Si's nipples, every stray hair that



fell in Petronia's face as she spoke. By ii a.m." he loved them all dearly, they were the children he



had never had. In return, they told him he was in possession of a unique soul for a man of his age.



Everybody agreed some intenselypositive karmic energy was circulating in and around Archie, the



kind of thing strong enough to prompt a butcher to pull down a car window at the critical moment.



And it turned out Archie was the first man over forty ever invited to join the commune; it turned



out there had been talk for some time of the need for an older sexual presence to satisfy some of the



more adventurous women. "Great," said Archie. "Fantastic. That'll be me, then." He felt so close to



them that he was confused when around midday their relationship suddenly soured, and he found



himself stabbed by a hangover and knee deep in an argument about the Second World War, of all



things.



"I don't even know how we got into this," groaned Wan-Si, who had covered up finally just



when they decided to move indoors, Archie's corduroy slung round her petite shoulders. "Let's not



get into this. I'd rather go to bed than get into this."



"We are into it, we are into it," Clive was ranting. "This is the whole problem with his



generation, they think they can hold up the war as some kind of-'



Archie was grateful when Leo interrupted Clive and dragged the argument into some further



subset of the original one, which Archie had started (some unwise remark three quarters of an hour



ago about military service building up a young man's character) and then immediately regretted



when it required him



to defend himself at regular interludes. Freed finally of this obligation, he sat on the stairs,



letting the row continue above while he placed his head in his hands.



Shame. He would have liked to have been part of a commune. If he'd played his cards right



instead of starting a ding-dong, he might have had free love and bare breasts all over the gaff;



maybe even a portion of allotment for growing fresh food. For a while (around 2, a.m." when he



was telling Wan-Si about his childhood) it had looked like his new life was going to be fabulous,



and from now on he was always going to say the right thing at the right time, and everywhere he



went people would love him. Nobody's fault, thought Archie, mulling over the balls-up, nobody's



fault but my own, but he wondered whether there wasn't some higher pattern to it. Maybe there will



always be men who say the right thing at the right time, who step forward like Thespis at just the



right moment of history, and then there will be men like Archie Jones who are just there to make up



the numbers. Or, worse still, who are given their big break only to come in on cue and die a death



right there, centre stage, for all to see.



A dark line would now be drawn underneath the whole incident, underneath the whole sorry day,



had not something happened that led to the transformation of Archie Jones in every particular that a



man can be transformed; and not due to any particular effort on his part, but by means of the



entirely random, adventitious collision of one person with another. Something happened by



accident. That accident was Clara Bowden.



But first a description: Clara Bowden was beautiful in all senses except maybe, by virtue of



being black, the classical. Clara Bowden was magnificently tall, black as ebony and crushed sable,



with hair plaited in a horseshoe which pointed up when she felt lucky, down when she didn't. At



this moment it was up. It is hard to know whether that was significant.



She needed no bra she was independent, even of gravity she wore a red halter neck which



stopped below her bust, underneath which she wore her belly button (beautifully) and underneath



that some very tight yellow jeans. At the end of it all were some strappy heels of a light brown



suede, and she came striding down the stairs on them like some kind of vision or, as it seemed to



Archie as he turned to observe her, like a reared-up thoroughbred.



Now, as Archie understood it, in movies and the like it is common for someone to be so striking



that when they walk down the stairs the crowd goes silent. In life he had never seen it. But it



happened with Clara Bowden. She walked down the stairs in slow motion, surrounded by afterglow



and fuzzy lighting. And not only was she the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, she was also



the most comforting woman he had ever met. Her beauty was not a sharp, cold commodity. She



smelt musty, womanly, like a bundle of your favourite clothes. Though she was disorganized



physically legs and arms speaking a slightly different dialect from her central nervous system even



her gangly demeanour seemed to Archie exceptionallyelegant. She wore her sexuality with an



older woman's ease, and not (as with most of the girls Archie had run with in the past) like an



awkward purse, never knowing how to hold it, where to hang it or when to just put it down.



"Cheer up, bwoy," she said in a lilting Caribbean accent that reminded Archie of That Jamaican



Cricketer, 'it might never happen."



"I think it already has."



Archie, who had just dropped a fag from his mouth which had been burning itself to death



anyway, saw Clara quickly tread it underfoot. She gave him a wide grin that revealed possibly her



one imperfection. A complete lack of teeth in the top of her mouth.



"Man .. . dey get knock out," she lisped, seeing his surprise.



"But I tink to myself: come de end of de world, d'Lord won't mind if I have no toofs." She



laughed softly.



"Archie Jones/ said Archie, offering her a Marlboro.



"Clara." She whistled inadvertently as she smiled and breathed in the smoke. "Archie Jones,



you look just about exackly how I feel. Have Clive and dem people been talking foolishness at you?



Clive, you bin playing wid dis poor man?"



Clive grunted the memory of Archie had all but disappeared with the effects of the wine and



continued where he left off, accusing Leo of misunderstanding the difference between political and



physical sacrifice.



"Oh, no ... nothing serious," Archie burbled, useless in the face of her exquisite face. "Bit of a



disagreement, that's all. Clive and I have different views about a few things. Generation gap, I



suppose."



Clara slapped him on the hand. "Hush yo mout! You're That dat of'. I seen older."



"I'm old enough," said Archie, and then, just because he felt like telling her, "You won't believe



me, but I almost died today."



Clara raised an eyebrow. "You don't say. Well, come and join de club. Dere are a lot of us about



dis marnin'. What a strange party dis is. You know," she said brushing a long hand across his bald



spot, 'you look pretty djam good for someone come so close to St. Peter's Gate. You wan' some



advice?"



Archie nodded vigorously. He always wanted advice, he was a huge fan of second opinions.



That's why he never went anywhere without a ten pence coin.



"Go home, get some rest. Marnin' de the world new, every time. Man ... dis life no easy!"



What home? thought Archie. He had unhooked the old life, he was walking into unknown



territory.



"Man .. ." Clara repeated, patting him on the back, 'dis life no easy!"



She let off another long whistle and a rueful laugh, and, unless



he was really going nuts, Archie saw that come hither look; identical to Daria's; tinged with a



kind of sadness, disappointment; like she didn't have a great deal of other options. Clara was



nineteen. Archibald was forty-seven. Six weeks later they were married.

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