June 2nd, 2020. I never went to his funeral. In this time of Coronavirus Lockdown, social gatherings are not encouraged, not even permitted in some cases. Funerals, of course, must, unlike the dead, go on. But even they are affected, the number of mourners limited to the closest family members. Did he have a close family? A sister still living, I am informed. An ex-wife and at least three children to my knowledge. They won’t be children now of course. That was in the eighties or nineties, a long time ago now. I hope they turned up to say farewell. I don’t know why I think that. It’s not like Arnie will be aware of who did or didn’t attend. For all I know there may well have been a crushing crowd of relatives, friends and acquaintances wanting to pay their respects and fond farewells. Who was or wasn’t invited. Invited? That seems like the wrong word for a funeral. He’s free of all that now. Eternal, untroubled oblivion is all that awaits. Nevertheless, it would be a miserable affair if no one bothered to turn up, making the lockdown as their excuse. It’s just a ritual, an hour or two of one’s valuable time with a gathering mostly of strangers or people who have become strangers through time and neglect. I imagine a chapel of some sort, the occupants safely spaced two metres apart, just in case. I hope no one wore a mask, somehow disrespectful. I imagine some sort of minister or secular official leading the service. A pine box, its lid screwed down tight in case the supine occupant within should escape. Though in his sixties and probably dressed in some sort of shroud, I see him still in his mid-twenties, his baby face and liver-red leather jacket. Not plastic, not for Arnie. Arnie in his box with his last ‘numbo’ smouldering away between his fingers. The finality of the flames.
I don’t know what his life was like through these last three decades. I do remember clearly the last time I saw him. It was in the early nineties when I was working in St Helens. I was working in, what was then, the rather nasty, run-down area called Fingerpost. Fingerpost, he knew it well. Along with Clock Face and ‘Clinky’ Wood, routes he often quoted when speaking of his adventures on the buses. I can hear him talk about ‘Twirlies’. That’s us now. At lunchtimes, I would break free of Fingerpost and walk into St Helens centre to look around at nothing in particular. It was on such a lunchtime meander that I ran into Arnie. In my mind, he was wearing that red leather jacket. He probably wasn’t but that’s the memory I have. He was almost certainly dragging on a ‘No. 6’, that’s a cigarette, not a bus route. Did that brand exist in the nineties? Though harassed by small children, pushchairs and a twitchy wife eager to get on, he stopped and chatted. I may have added the pushchairs as the children were probably beyond that stage. He did at least appear to be happy. Happy to see me after so many years? I hope so. How many years? I don’t recall. Even Julie was pleasant and friendly to me. Julie, well turned out, her features thin and sharp. I can’t be sure but I think Arnie was still on the buses back then. He may have been wearing his busman’s uniform. No, I can still see that leather jacket. No doubt, after the usual pleasantries and asking how everyone was doing, we probably talked about work. That’s how things usually go, isn’t it? Dodging around the central point of our friendship, our common connection – Kevin. I need to explain: the truth is, though Arnie was within my social sphere (albeit a very tiny sphere), could I call him my friend? Well, I did though, in truth, Arnie was, as I was, Kevin’s friend. Kevin, the kingpin, the social glue, the central hub, the sun around whom we, Planet Arnold and Planet Kurt, orbited. Hi Arnie, Kev can’t make it tonight. I’ll see you in the pub around 8.30. This never happened. This could never happen. This was the bizarre nature of our triad.
How well did I know him? I don’t feel I did, not really. I would mostly get to know him through the filter of Kevin. How much did he tell me and how much did he keep to himself? I cannot answer that. I have no way of knowing the things I don’t know. I did often wonder what he thought of me. Those few odd trips we made together, the three of us, did he enjoy them? There is a picture, taken in West Berlin in 1980 which I think, even if it doesn’t answer that question, at least in explains why I even ask it.