Tryalectic nots

’Say something’.

They’d been sitting in silence for some time. Paul and Pauline, at the Companions, because it was close, and she’d said she wanted to talk.

’What do you want me to say ...?’

’Anything. Say what you’re thinking, for once.’

This wasn’t the first time they’d moved those pawns, chosen those antipasti. This wasn’t the first time they’d sat with pints, facing each other over a small table in a smokey pub. This wasn’t the first time he’d avoided her eyes, or that she’d been exasperated at his lack of communicativeness.

’I’m not thinking anything in particular. Thinking about this pint, thinking whether I’ll have another cigarette. Thinking about the people around.’

’That’s not thinking. That’s just ... observation. Not even that. Why don’t you ever say anything? Why does it always have to be me, to force you out of your shell? We come out for a drink – somewhere quiet so we can talk – and you just sit there, looking miserable.’

’I’m not miserable.’

’Could have fooled me.’

’I’m just tired ’

‘You’re always tired. Why don’t you see a doctor – see if there’s something wrong with your blood ...?’ ’There’s nothing wrong with my blood. It’s just I have to get up at four thirty.’

’So why don’t you sleep more in the afternoon, while I’m still at work?’

’Work ...?’

’Don’t start that again. You know what I mean. "Doing research", if you don’t like "work". And it can be just as tiring, concentrating on a paper, or a seminar, as trotting around with pints of milk, I can assure you.’

’All right, all right. Work."

Another pause, as they reconsidered the bored, after the standard exchanges. She was sick and tired of this predictable opening, and so was he. A silly phrase suddenly popped into his head: "a pigment of my imagination", as he found himself concentrating on the contrast of colours between the murky brown of his beer, and the beginnings of a dirty tan, on the backs of his hands.

’I don’t know why I put up with you, Paul. You’re so … You never contribute anything ... never make any effort to communicate. You just put a full stop on anything I say, desparately agreeing to anything, just to not have to think about it, like ... like you’d rather be on your own anyway. Why don’t we just give up? You’d be happier without me.’

’No I wouldn’t. Come on, we’ve been through all that. It’s just ... I can’t help it, I get tired. I can’t help it if I haven’t got anything profound to say.’

’You could at least say how you’re feeling, once in a while. Like this, there’s just no point .’

He raised his pint to his lips, again, trying to think of something ... anything.

She lit another cigarette, passing one over to him, and lighting his. Her nerves were all on edge; she was smoking too much; she was fed up.

’Do you want to tell me about how you’re feeling, Pauline? Is that it? When you say you want me to talk, don’t you really mean you want to talk? What’s the matter ...?’

’Don’t be so patronising! You know perfectly well I don’t need you to analyse me, or get me to talk about myself. If I’ve got something on my mind, I don’t need you to prise it out of me. I’m perfectly capable of telling you, or anyone else, when I’ve got things on my mind ... or just normal ... conversation ... But not you, oh no! It’s a real drama with you! We have to beg you to let us in on your little world! And I get really tired of that, I can tell you.’

’O.K., so you get tired of it. I’m not hiding anything, not playing ’hard to get’, nothing like that. I could tell you about my day, if you like.’

’Don’t be so stupid.’

Another break, circling, looking for a hand-hold, knowing it was a temporary pause, circling, knowing they were two exhausted wrestlers, trying to get to grips.

’I don’t know. Matty and I seem to be able to talk … to balance ...’

Not true. Matty did most of the talking. But it wasn’t ... like this. It wasn’t unbalanced. Was it? It wasn’t an ...

’It isn’t like an interrogation, with Matty.’

’Interrogation! Oh, that’s new! That’s good, that is!’

’No, I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant ... I never feel on the defensive with Matty.’

’But with me, you do. Fine. Very good. You feel I’m attacking you ... you feel persecuted.’

’You were different, then. Used to at least talk, have a laugh over a pint ... I don’t know. Maybe we just ran out of things to talk about. Nothing to say to each other, any more.’

Paul was thinking of the old Carole King song:

"It used to be so easy living here with you

You were light and breezy, and I knew just what to do

But you look so unhappy, and I feel like a fool

‘Cus it’s too late, baby, oh, it’s too late

Though we really did try to make it.

Something inside has died and I can’t hide

And I just can’t fake it ... oh, baby ...!"

He could feel his eyes moistening. Damn it all! This beer, the smoke. And then there was Joni Mitchell, too, another of the women in his life:

"Do you see? ... Do you see ... do you see how you hurt me, baby ...?

So I hurt you, too ... Then we both get so ... blue …"

Paul reached across the table, for Pauline’s hand, smiling moistly.

’Come on, it’s not so bad as all that …’

’Isn’t it?’

’I do love you ... it’s just that I get ... choked up, sometimes.’

Here we go again, she thought to herself. Same old … But she squeezed his hand, all the same, and squeezed a smile back at him.

’Come on, lets not get sentimental again! I’ll get you another ...’ And she took his empty glass, leaving her half-full glass in its place.

"I do love you ..." he said, but what did it mean? He was trying to ... be nice ... win her over ... avoid having to face up to the problems. But what was the point, after all? There were plenty of others. They’d shut themselves off she’d shut herself off too much from her friends, from the others. It was too much like being married. She could feel herself like a nagging wife, sometimes, and the thought made her shiver. Anything but that. Please God. Anything but that.

She came back with his pint, and he thanked her as she sat down.

’I was thinking ...’ he began, and she knew he’d rehearsed the next line. ’I was thinking that the problem is that I don’t practice what I preach. I talk about thesis, antithesis and synthesis, and about interaction, but then I keep things inside myself, when it comes down to anything personal, or immediate …’

’If we can’t talk to each other, help each other …’

’It’s ironic, really. "My position" ... and I think it’s more or less the same with Matty ... is wanting to agree, to find things in common ... we’re always wanting to nod in agreement, go "mm, mm" when the other is saying something, to encourage ... and then, maybe, say "yes, but." Wanting to reach towards the other’s position, hoping to move forward together. So we’re over-eager to keep saying, "I could be wrong ... let’s follow your line ..’

’So you fall over each other trying to be polite, and you never get anywhere!’

’Mm.’

’But it just doesn’t seem honest, or even very respectful of the other person, to me, if you’re not prepared to take a stand and say what you really think.’

’Mm. So the irony is, with you, or anyone who takes that position, of stating the thesis, inducing the antithesis, and then fighting it out, somehow ... I should move from my position, of compromise and conciliation, to a position of confrontation ... of "stating my position" of "taking a stand". So I take up a position which isn’t mine, compromising, or renouncing my desire to emphasise the points of agreement over the points of conflict, and assume a character, act a part, of "having a position", which isn’t true, in order to interact in your terms, on your grounds, in your scene.’

Silence.

"He asked me to be patient ... well I failed ...

’GROW UP!!’, I cried.

And as the smoke was clearing, he said, ’give me one good reason why.’"

’You’re doing it again ... this time it’s bloody R.D. Laing – "Knots", isn’t it. Jack and Jill. And we’ve been up that hill before, too. You just tie yourself up with words, and what is the point?!