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Railway Shoes	By : signorinaravelli Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 644 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Pink Floyd. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Railway Shoes
- 1
The last Christmas I spent with you was in 1969. It had snowed, which I took as a good omen for the upcoming decade. And I just remember 3 AM, lying there in the darkness, on your hand-painted floorboards. You sat beside me and took drags from a hand-rolled cigarette. The curtains were drawn back and we just watched the snow falling outside the slightly grubby window, soundless and serene. It was one of those random moments where I was doing the most mundane of things and I was suddenly filled with a great sense of well-being, of peace and safety. I voiced my tranquility to you but you said nothing, so I took it that you didn’t concur.

I was making Christmas cards with Polly yesterday. Tedious chore, yes, but just one of those things we “family men” have to do. Besides, cards can sometimes bring a little cheer into someone’s day, to know that someone cared enough to write their name on a piece of paper and stick it in the post. Anyway, I was going through and addressing a rather large pile of envelopes when, out of habit, I started to jot your name down on one of them. I always made sure to send you and Rosemary a card each year, just one of the little ways I tried keeping contact with you. By the time I got to the address line, Polly had noticed and laid a hand on my shoulder.

“David…” she said gently. I looked over at her questioningly and when I saw the look on her face, realization dawned on me.

“Ah…yeah, wouldn’t be much use to him, would it?” She smiled at me good-naturedly and went back to work on her pile. I cast a final glance at your name before pushing it aside and getting back to work.

The reason I was there that night in ’69 was because you had no one else. You’d sent them all away – the hangers-on, the groupies. Duggie was off visiting some friends. And you’d called and asked if I’d like to come round to your place for a drink or something. Well, I didn’t really have anything on, so I said alright and told the girl I’d had staying with me that I’d be back in a few hours.

You met me at the door, attempting a smile that would be scrapped quickly enough. You were frightened of January, of when The Madcap Laughs would be released. “Two weeks,” you said, and were secure in the notion that people would hate it, no matter how much I tried to convince you otherwise. You paced and fretted a bit more until I finally got you to sit down and have a drink with me. The flat was freezing so after awhile we both crawled under a few layers of blankets on your bed, which felt deliciously comfortable. You’d curled up against me, buried your face in the crook of my neck. It all felt so vulnerable, like I was suddenly your mother. I let my fingers trail through unkempt tendrils of hair while you made clear in no uncertain terms what you wanted to do. So we did and fell asleep afterward. At some point during the night we wound up on the floor but my memory seems to be blank concerning the earliest hours of Christmas morning.

As it turned out, The Madcap Laughs was actually fairly well-received. Once I went round to your flat and found you’d begun clipping out glowing reviews of the record and storing them in a scrapbook. Not a terribly pop star-like thing to do but then again you were never much of a pop star.

The Mapcap sessions themselves were a fairly frustrating, sometimes unrewarding, but all-around nice time. If you’d had it together, you’d have been a producer’s dream. And there were times then when I felt were we really connecting for the first time in years. Strictly through the music, of course. You’d sit in the studio strumming and singing softly, the music and the lyrics acting as a type of surrogate speech to replace that which you seemed to have mislaid. One afternoon we were having you lay down the guitar and vocals for “Late Night”. You were surprisingly together, though I suspected there was more than blood coursing through your veins that day. Things even went well the first time around and you played near-perfectly. But you never once broke eye contact with me as you sung, quaintly off-key but with quiet sincerity. It was such a pretty song, simple in its meaning and delivery, touchingly frank, and who it was really intended for, if anyone at all, remains a mystery to me. You told me it was about a girlfriend and others corroborated. Regardless of the song’s true subject, that day in the studio I think we were both quite aware of who you were directing it at.

And the way you stared while you sang was eerie. It was the same stare you fixed unfortunates with when they’d angered you, or sparked a rather keen interest. The multi-purpose, terrifying stare. You’d used it the year before when you popped up at a couple Floyd gigs, planting yourself firmly in front of the stage and directly across from me. You glared at me throughout the entire set, which was really the only protest you could make against my taking your place. I couldn’t blame you really…still, those eyes made me feel like you could see inside of my head.

After the Christmas card torture, I got up from the table with the intent to have a walk outside and stretch my legs. Then thinking back to my earlier mistake, I realized it had been a bit since I’d last phoned Rosemary so I decided to get that out of the way. I’d interrupted her in holiday preparations of her own but she seemed keen on talking to me anyway. She asked about my tour and how that had gone, we asked after each other’s families, but I doubted either of us really cared. I didn’t really know what I wanted to say about you but I felt this burning need in my chest to mention your name.
Awkward silence, then I asked her how she was getting along. Fine, apparently. That was good, I said. How did the auction go? That went fine too. Great. More niceties followed in spite of my unbearable need to talk about you on a more intimate level, to ask if she remembered this or that that you’d done and said. I guess in the end I felt that it might be inappropriate to dredge up all those memories, so I said I’d better be running. Oh, she was having a New Years party and would I like to come? I’d see if I could make it, which actually meant “not on your life”. No insult to her of course. I’d just recently developed this sensitivity toward all things involving you and didn’t want to associate myself.

I sometimes wish I’d gone to the memorial service. Of course had I done that it would have been even more of a media circus than it already was. Aside from that, Rosemary preferred to keep it limited to family as close friends only, the latter of which I can’t say I’d been much of in recent years. And finally it just seemed too much to deal with. When the call came in early July, the first leg of my tour had ended with great success and a wonderful string of gigs at the Royal Albert Hall. There was generally a good feeling all around; the album had been doing fantastically, Polly and I were looking forward to Venice in August, and I must admit that I was rather proud with myself for ignoring all of Roger’s not-so-subtle hints of hope for reformation.

Then the news came and for quite awhile nothing seemed to be happening inside of me. I nodded solemnly, said I’d been expecting it, made a statement, traveled to the continent, and finished up my tour. And that seemed to be all there was to it. Then one afternoon in autumn I was flipping through my old record collection, searching for something to listen to. Some were rather old, dating back to my teenage years and eventually I came across a worn copy of Bo Diddley is a Gunslinger. With a fond smile I pulled it out of the box and began to examine the song listing on the back. You’d gotten this as a Christmas present when we were fifteen and made the mistake of lending it to me. For months you were asking me when I was going to give it back but I’d always conveniently “forget” about it. Eventually you relented and just bought another copy but for years afterward you’d joke with me about still waiting for its return.

It was at that precise moment when I’d realized that the person who’d lent me this album was gone indefinitely. It struck me hard. Suddenly I realized that for the past thirty odd years, you’d been alive and, in essence, I hadn’t cared. I did all the things a colleague and an old friend should do; I cleared up that discrepancy with your royalties, phoned your sister every so often to check up on you, sent out the fucking Christmas cards. But I had done all of that with Roger Barrett in mind. For years all I could think of when you came to mind was some great tragedy – the fuzzy memory of the happier days of our teenage years was still there but it had been completely overshadowed by all that happened afterward. How long had it been since I’d thought of you as Syd? How long had it been since I desired your company? Oh Christ, for years you were still in fucking existence and I didn’t care!

I felt a sob welling up in my throat and tried to repress it to no avail. So for the longest time I sat on the floor and held the record, crying to myself like a hurt little child. If you were there, you’d probably have found it quite amusing.

On the floorboards of ’69 I’d laid my head in your lap while you started on your next cigarette. While feeling so safe like this, I was compelled to ask you if there was anything you were afraid of.

“Lions.” Be serious. “I am. Aren’t you? I wouldn’t like to be mauled…”

I didn’t mean it like that. I meant in terms of life. You know, like failure.

“I don’t know about that…sometimes, I guess. Tonight.” About the record? “Yeah.”

What about dying?

“Em…not really. Want a fag?” No thanks.
“Are you?” What? “Afraid of dying?”
I guess it’s more the way I’ll die. I don’t want to die in some crash. Or be stabbed or anything.
“Or mauled.”
Right.
“I wish I could have a heart attack while I was fucking someone. Like you.”
Thanks, that would be so nice for me…
“Hey, I don’t wanna die alone!”
You won’t. You’ll be fat and old and married by then.
“I don’t want to be fat or old or married.”
So you’re going to live fast and die young then?
“I don’t want that either.”
Then what do you want?

“I don’t know…” You stared at the window for some time before nodding approvingly to yourself. “Peace.” That was awfully generic, especially for you, Syd.

You just shrugged and eyed your watch.

“It’s almost six. Why don’t we go back to bed?”
It’s late…early. I have to get home.
“Are you sure? I could make some tea.”
No, really. I ought to be going. I’ve got some people coming over in a few hours anyway.
“Oh…”

You wanted me to invite you along. I could tell. But for some strange, spiteful reason I didn’t. Instead I just got up from the floor and without further ceremony I walked to the door, muttering a “see you around”.

“Dave?”
Yeah?
“Merry Christmas.” You looked incredibly childlike and innocent sitting there, ignorant of just how severe the upcoming spiral would be.

I nodded.

You too.

Then I left.
- 1
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Railway Shoes