She Knows Where Syd Barrett Lives By Kernan Andrews

Kernan Andrews is from Galway. He is the Arts Editor and Political Correspondent for the Galway Advertiser newspaper. He holds an MA in English and a H Dipp in Applied Communications (Journalism) from NUI Galway.

She Knows Where Syd Barrett Lives

By Kernan Andrews

THE COLLEGE week started the same way it always does; Muggins stuck in that auld prefab which was more like a World War II POW camp than a lecture hall, freezing me nuts off listening to Prof Mulvehill drone on and on. Today he was talking about some set of statistics and how they compare to some set of other statistical data, and how they both relate to some Venn diagram of population movements or Gaussian Curve of population distribution or some such auld shite. I was furiously taking notes but could not make head nor tail of any of it. My brain was getting fried. I needed to take a break and do a different kind of research.

My eyes scanned the lecture hall. There must be someone who knew what was going on, whose notes I could cog later, or who could make sense of it all for me. Then I spotted her – Susan Murray. She was in one of my soc’n’pol tutorials. She was always getting A’s in her essays and assignments, always had the answers before anyone else, and was the only person I knew who genuinely found exams a breeze.

The girl had brains to burn, but in the spirit of the old fine line between genius and madness she looked completely nuts.

You could not miss her. Perched on her nose was the most enormous pair of thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Buddy Holly was not in it. Then there were the elaborate hairclips – usually with a big flower, peace sign, or once, a skull on the end of it – placed always, only, and ever, behind her right ear, partially keeping her, long and slightly unkempt, black hair in place. More than any of that though, it was the clothes she wore that really attracted attention. Although I could not see from where I was sitting – Susan was down at the very front of the hall, I could only make out her head – it was a safe bet that whatever she was wearing would be loud and quirky. Whether this was her just looking for notice or an expression who she really was, was a mystery.

Susan had a thing for Paisley tunic dresses with patterns that looked as if the dressmaker was prone to seriously bad flash-backs from too acid trips. Then there were her Doc Martins. She had an array of them – white, yellow, floral patterned, even velvet – any colour but the traditional black; but topping all this off was her penchant for luridly loud pink tights which made her legs visible from about a mile off they were so bright.

I will never forget the first time I saw them. It was at a party at Seán’s gaffe last year. For some reason I found myself sitting beside her. The party was in full swing but I needed a serious sit down having overdone it on a combination of Tennants and the particularly lethal punch that was on offer. Goodness knows what went into the making of that witches brew. I suspected, but unfortunately it was only afterwards, that it contained foul levels of Buckfast, a beverage memorably and accurately described by my mate Billy as “the sweat from Satan’s scrotum”.

I headed for – or rather fell into – the sofa in the middle of the living room. I was a bit out of it so that may be the reason I did not fully register the gingham pink, purple’n’dayglow orange dressed entity beside me until it spoke.

“Hhhheeeyyyyy!” said this lazy drawl of a voice. I could not tell immediately if it was a greeting or an expression of distain.

This girl was a bit out of it as well, but I imagined it was as a result of quite different substances to the ones flowing through my bloodstream.

“You’re Darragh, aren’t you?” she said. Again I had difficulty reading the tone. Was she being polite or looking to pick an argument?

“Eh…yeah…”

My second thought was, ‘How the hell does she know me?’.

“Eehmm…have we ever…met before?” I asked.

“We’re meeting now, aren’t we?” she replied, not that she sounded sure herself.

“How do you know my name?”

She gave a derisive snort and regarded me through her heavy lidded, almost narcoleptic eyes, which were magnified to twice their actual size behind her glasses. I could not help but think that those horn rims could do some damage they were that sharp.

“There’s nothing I don’t know!” she pronounced with a wave of her hand. There was no ambiguity in her voice this time.

With no warning she leaned right up close to me, her right arm all but touching my left. Her face was directly before me. She had glitter on one of her cheeks and two small stars painted on. Less than an inch separated the tips of our noses.

“What’s your star sign?”

That was a demand.

“I, I, I don’t know,” I stammered. There was too much drink in my system to be able to make any rational guess as to where this conversation was going.

“Well when were you born?”

“Eh..August 24!”

“Virgo!,” she drawled, drawing out the ‘o’ for as long as she could. Then, with great urgency, she announced: “I’m a Taurus!”

Well fair play to ya, I thought, but did not see in what way this little nugget of information was useful, and besides, I don’t believe in any of that Horoscope stuff anyway.

“A Taurus…and a Virgo…” she said, before sinking back onto her side of the sofa, a funny, satisfied little humming sound coming from behind the coy smile that had spread across her face.

We did not say anything for a while, just sat on the couch and let the party rage on around us. ‘On A Plain’ by Nirvana was playing on hi-fi system. It was a near continuous rotation of Nirvana, Happy Mondays, and Primal Scream. It was really getting on my nerves but I knew this was the kind of party where asking to hear Guns’n’Roses or Mötley Crüe would get you ejected out the door with the sole of someone’s boot imprinted on your arse and a ban from invitations to all similar future events. Still, how many times tonight had I heard Nevermind already tonight?

Eventually, some merciful soul changed the CD, and put on something I actually knew, or could at least tolerate – Pink Floyd’s Dark Side Of The Moon. It was another of the records my dad had, but never listened to anymore. As ‘Breath’ flooded into the room, or what I could hear of it over the babble of voices and shouting, I felt myself relax completely.

“Oh, that’s a great song,” I said. “What an album.”

“Really?” said Susan, who was somehow under the impression I had directed my last utterance at her.

“It’s not as good as Meddle…or Piper at the Gates of Dawn…”

Her nose wrinkled up in disgust as she said it.

“Sure whatever you’re into yourself,” I said. I really did not want to get into a debate with these music geeks I seem to be forever stuck meeting. “I just like the song.”

As I said it, I was looking at the tights she was wearing, and part of me started giggling. They were a shocking shade of pink. They were near luminous – as was the pink headband she had on. I could not get the image out of my head of her walking home at night, lighting up the road as she went along. She saw me giggle. I stopped immediately. She was looking directly at me again.

“Huh! Dark Side’s got nothing on Syd Barrett,” she muttered, before her tone became interrogatory. “D’you know Syd Barrett?”

“Eh, well not personally,” I said. She ignored or did not hear that.

“He was a fucking genius! The lost child of Swinging London.”

She was now drifting off into her own world.

“Who is this Syd guy?”

Susan gave a sigh of exasperation. She scratched her knee and shook her head slightly.

“The original leader of the Floyd!” she said. “Oh you need to experience Syd. He was…he was…Oh I’m going to have to make you a tape of his stuff.”

She was wagging a finger at me. “I’m going to have to educate you Darragh Kyne!”

For a few moments there was silence between us again until she began looking around her.

“This party has peaked!” she declared, and not exactly quietly. “It’s just flattened!”

I could not figure out how Susan had come to that conclusion. The party was roaring all around us. Everyone was talking and laughing, the place was crowded and Bernard Dempsey was due in a while. He was bringing a stack of house and rave albums with him and that was going to take the whole shebang up several notches from where it was already. Maybe though when your brain is stranded on some far flung astral plane out in deepest space it is hard to get an accurate perspective on what is going on back on planet Earth.

“D’ya wanna split?”

She was back giving me one of her stares again.

“What?” I blurted.

“It’s boring here. D’you wanna go?”

“Eh, eh, w-where?”

“D’you wanna come back to my place? We can listen to some music, I can introduce you to Syd Barrett. We can just…hang.”

I always dream of being at a party where some girl comes up to me and wants me to go home with her, but a geeky freak intent on giving me a musicological lecture on some acid-casualty was never part of the fantasy.

Yet her eyes were really staring into mine, almost boring a hole through them. No one had ever looked at me with such intensity before. Our faces were very close now. Her mouth was partially open. Her lips were full and moist. I’m sure it was just the effects of the drink, it must have been, but for a brief moment I really wanted to kiss her.

“You interest me,” she said.

I was suddenly very confused.

“We can just hang,” she said again. “Just chill. Everyone else is so boring.”

It was all getting too much for me. I was torn over what to do. She was a freak, but there was something about her that was beginning to excite me. She just wanted to hang, but I was not sure I could trust myself. I do not know what I said but I made up a host of excuses. I am sure none of them were convincing, but I made them and got out of the living room as fast as I could, decamping to the kitchen where Mickey and Seán were and there I hid in the corner for ages.

Some time later I ventured back to the living room. Susan was no longer around. I admit I felt a bit bad about the whole thing, but she was so baked that there was not much chance of her remembering anything from tonight, least of all talking to me. My suspicions were confirmed as she never made that Syd Barrett tape for me. I still say ‘Hello’ to her, and sometimes chat, when we’re waiting outside the soc’n’pol lectures and tutorials – after all she does claim she knows me – and though she always replies, and is very polite, a look of confusion never leaves her face. It is as if she wonders why we are engaging in this ritual. Still, it is enough, because hey, I am going to need to pick her brains, and notes, later on today.

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