hannah

Hannah was going to Oxford. I met her when we both worked at the Royal Albert Hall. She was tall, thin, willowy and black. No one she ever knew had been to Oxford before. I knew dozens of people who’d been to Oxford. I disliked Oxford. It was a toytown. She was excited about going there. We’d talk about it. Not wanting to be negative I came round to her point of view, agreeing that it might be a more positive experience for an inner city pioneer than someone with a privileged background. The unfamiliar spires and towers would have a different effect on the retina.

Hannah and I had a work friendship. The Royal Albert Hall had a shift system. We would overlap once or twice a week. I seem to remember her slightly older, more taciturn boyfriend worked there as well. As is the nature of an unrewarding job, little things make it worthwhile, and I used to look forward to seeing her. We’d exchange a few words, nothing much. Note that we had a youthful bond which set us apart from most of our red-blazered colleagues.

Hannah left to go to Oxford. The week before she finished, The Flaming Lips played the Hall. They brought a crazy crowd with them. Hannah and I were working on opposite sides of the pit, which was stripped of its chairs. Officially we were supposed to stop people smoking, keep them calm. Some of the ushers made an attempt but it wasn’t going to wash. The band generated a mighty atmosphere. I saw Hannah across the way dancing like a banshee, breaking all the rules. I couldn’t quite go there. We agreed it was the best night’s work we’d shared.

Hannah was going to study music, I think. We might have made loose plans to keep in touch, but I doubt it. However, Hannah was one of those people, (we are all probably granted a few), who I would bump into every so often. I ran into her when she was still at Oxford, and I remember her telling me she was having a great time. I think I saw her another time, later, when she told me what was happening with her career. Was she finding it hard? These are all details that evade me. When we ran into each other she would always utter a little laugh and say how remarkable it was. Repeated co-incidence being rare within the city.

The last time I met her was underground, in King’s Cross. She had a child in a buggy. There was an awkward patch of stairs between two lines, which I helped her negotiate, carrying one end of the buggy whilst she took the other. She was grateful, but by now the ties which linked us to that peak of the Flaming Lips had been stretched too far, and we greeted and parted as the virtual strangers which, in effect, we always had been.