excerpt

The Book
of
MAL
(Middle Age Love)
A BOOK OF CHANGE
God, who is enthroned from of old
Will hear, and will humble them
Because they do not change
They do not fear God
Psalm 55
1
CADIZ
We both had had dreams, deep driven dreams. My
Mother, one of a famous actress remembering her art
and then her brother betraying her; ‘It was because I
was worried you’d be better than me’ was his excuse.
‘So like his mother’ she said, later, still a little bit
unresolved in her sad heart, long yearning. And I, of a
lost friend, meeting me again and aged a little, a soft
hello, cordial but distant, knowing that it never could be
the same again, lost it was, our time and it had
departed.
Last night two ships passing each other in the bay
and a cliché, a snatch of a song, came resounding over
the waves; but still there were two ships passing, two
lights in the darkness of the ocean, and the lights
touched, overlapped for a moment, then went on,
North-West South-East, passing on along their allotted
course. More stars came out around the new moon the
more I looked, patterns sidling in and out of each other,
silent figures with dogs walked along the wet beach,
one running North the other walking South, the hotel
occasionally echoing with lovers laughter, and I smoked
over the balcony, thinking of a time when life was like
this only, a collections of feelings, songs, sounds
coalescing memories, yearning for a point of unification,
oceanic, for a picture complete.
And Yes, it was complete in a way; I am in it now,
I thought then, enough time behind, enough knowledge
before, those defining points dotted along the shore and
in the sea beyond.
2
It all seems apt now, looking in the morning
ocean, the water, wind breaking on the shore, one man
established there towel and mat, another looking
outward, another walking, pumping strides, it seems all
apt now, the horizontal cut across with the big solid bar
of the balcony balustrade, as here I write again of the
past and what can yet become, 48 hours away from
the City of Work the antithesis of poetry, I try to
reassure myself, asserting that Yes still we can move
between the States and there staring at the stars I
could hold again that time before, I could live there
again, with her, my Mother, marveling at the world and
the Love therein.
Change was still possible.
Thaw follows frost: hard on the heels of spring
Treads summer, sure to die, for hard on hers
Comes autumn with his apples scattering,
Then back to wintertide, when nothing stirs.
Housman after Horace: Diffugere nives
AVAY…
3
Change is a not a choice; it just happens to youCharlie Kaufmann- from the film Adaption
4
The meeting was rushed, people buoyant but
unfocussed, minds not quite there. I had spent a couple
of hours explaining the latest hi-tech shopping service
on the Internet, which they, execs from one of the
largest IT firms in Finland, were meant to be buying, as
it had been, by the bosses back home, already
prearranged.
It was, of course, boring. I’d explained it all before and
this time had even drawn diagrams, but they still had
this puzzled look on their faces though, being Finnish,
were too polite to ask ‘What exactly does it do?’. As
usual I felt that it was me who wasn’t quite getting it,
the point of the technology and the way these meetings
were meant to go, even with the prepared PowerPoint
and Flipcharts, I didnt really understand the point of it
all.
But it wasn’t only that which was mostly undermining
me and my presentation. It was light outside, almost
blindingly white against the modern block, all the sharp
angles saying Sun. You see, this was the last day here
before the holidays, people were rearing to go and
having spent nine months head down in the darkness of
the Nordic winter, it wasn’t surprising their minds were
already somewhere else. For me, it didn’t take a lot to
make this work feel ridiculous and so I easily went with
the holiday mood hurrying up my presentation towards
the end. The whole thing around computers and the
Internet seemed overly hyped, all artifice, the hi tech
offices, security and presentation contraptions; maybe
because the actual stuff everyone talked about, the
software, was elsewhere hidden and no one quite
5
understood it, except for the half mad programmers we
all treated with a mixture of ridicule and awe. But the
artifice was now cracking, with the Millennium having
pricked the dotcom balloon, and the seriousness needed
to make the invisible I was talking about more tangible,
was now melting around the table in the new suns
warmth, the white shirted sales people feeling the metal
heat up on their wrists turning to noon and time for the
mass exit out.
My presentation was also undermined by the fact that I
was not very articulate having slept little the last night.
Lying in the big hotel, its automated anonymity
seemingly designed to drive the lonely businessmen to
satellite porn, I had spent hours flicking through first
the TV, then Time, and finally even to Gideon’s, the
damned Bible, trying to stop my spirit descending to
doom at dawn. I didn’t want to be a wanker and use
Channel 9, even though I increasingly felt like one in
this stupid and vacuous job.
Voices came out from the summer night, the sky above
the buttresses rang high into the constant twilight that
hovered here between dusk and dawn. By 3am the
Voices were slightly crazed, joy and anguish mixed,
enough to put one on edge, forcing you to open up,
expose the excitement and trepidation being inside
yourself as well. I didn’t really want to go there, the
feelings, it would let the bad thoughts through, about
the stupid job I felt alien in, the stupid work-wife-house
setup forcing me back into self loathing and perhaps
even the addictions that could destroy the whole lot in a
trice. So, in the end I’d turned towards the final
aversion, the porn coming in, parading loudly
6
destroying thoughts, the pain and the voices, garishly
demanding to shut up the happy-mad witnesses to this
my mid-life mid-night despair.
The last time I’d been here in Helsinki it was in deep
winter, almost silent the city wrapped up in snow and
ice, everything muffled in the darkness. One morning I
went for a walk, edging along the pavement careful not
to fall, following behind a shuffling old man, puffing
along through his smoky breath. I’d passed a ship being
built, a huge ferry, multi-storey and with a shudder a
deep longing for the ocean to be somewhere else
faraway rose suddenly up into my throat. I hurried on
for cigarettes and coming around the corner the wind
suddenly screamed into me, ice dust like sand blowing
down the street scratching my skinny fingers. It was
only for a moment, before I broke into the shop and
then, shaking down, I realized I could feel every bone in
my body; I was a skeleton shot through with the cold xray light. I’d thought it a nice crisp morning when I’d
stepped out, but now I knew what minus 15 meant.
They, the Finns, had six months of it.
So now with the sun bright outside, it wasn’t surprising
that after my slide show power point demonstration the
meeting began to disintegrate fairly quickly. First, Erik,
excusing himself saying he had to get a plane, then
another anxious that he had to meet his family by 2.
Soon it was only Milka and Harri and me left. Milka, a
huge fat man who was big cheese in the organization
and Harri, who was our company’s representative,
Infinity Plus plc Nordic region. They weren’t friends
exactly, but they had worked together before in this
same company for a long time and Helsinki was a small
city and in winter everyone spent a lot of time inside.
7
We went out onto the balcony. It was a suntrap, the
white cement taking the light in and converting it into
baking heat. Milka lit a small cigar, his bulk growing
against its smallness. I had a roll-up self conscious that
it didn’t quite fit the hi-tech surroundings. Harri had
nothing, just stood there quiet, slightly older, smiling.
Mrs. Hokanen, Harri’s assistant, stood there smiling too,
more erect, blinking behind thick glasses. You
wondered about Harri and Mrs. Hakannon; she seemed
nice, gentle like Harri and someone had said his wife
was not well. But you couldn’t tell looking at them, the
Finns being even more muted in their emotions than us.
Milka was going north, to Lapland for holiday. He had a
passion for dogs and sledges, but I think he must have
been going fishing. Although highly proficient in English
he talked so quickly in that highly clipped staccato the
Finns used, you had to really concentrate to hear him. I
was too tired, just wanting to lie somewhere and soak
in the sun. Harri was going sailing soon and Milkas said
something in Finnish and they all laughed. Mrs.
Hannoken said she was still working, spending the
weekend up-country at a Farmers Fair, trying to sell our
company’s Internet Access, but anything to do with
computers now sounded fairly ridiculous in this weather
and the summer all around us flooding in.
We all wanted to get away from the Business Park,
fortress like double-glazed and guarded. We said our
goodbyes and left. Harri was going to take me back to
the airport, but first we were going to see his boat,
something I’d been wanting to do since I’d found out he
had one, on my visit in the winter. It was one of those
telephone niceties that had almost surprisingly
8
developed from the normal telephone businessy
‘breaking of the ice’ into an actual event. I’d always had
a longing for the sea; one grandfather had been a
captain and the seaside always seemed to take away
the anxiety of things, but I’d never even sailed properly
and to be frank, when I did I didn’t really like the
knocks and the irritating spray. It was alright being
sailed but Id accepted that doing it was probably
beyond me now. I still loved the idea of it though. The
Ocean, being faraway.
We drove through brilliant spruce wood along
uncrowded roads. The parks were filled with people
frolicking in the sun and even the huge Powerstation
gleamed. The last time there was no one, just snow and
occasional movement in the twilight and the
PowerStation, a massive presence in the middle of the
City, stood there groaning keeping the people from
freezing, a smoking lung; but it was looking a bit stupid
now in the hot summer sun.
We half talked about the business, both moving away
from its importance as we talked, becoming more and
more detached from the work as if we were speaking
about someone else’s job. The boom was over, shares
were diving and the grand illusion that we had all
collectively supported was beginning to drain away, a
mess of half baked entities to e left and a vague guilt at
the waste of so much energy and time.
We rode out into the harbour the wide open bay
shimmering blue and light. Flat wooded islands broke
up the horizon as though the place had been flooded
and boats were appearing and disappearing between
them, bright white, akin to the minimal waves and the
9
gulls below and above them. We parked. Harri took off
his jacket and tie and so did I. It was a bit awkward,
the first time we had been together unsuited.
Technically, although, a lot younger, I was his boss and
this was strictly a business trip, but perhaps he also
sensed that it wouldn’t last much longer anyway, as I
knew the business was soon to go caput back at HQ in
the UK.
Harri led me down the planked walkways through the
ranked yachts. Their rigging was fluttering in the seabreeze with the occasional clang. Harri said Hello to the
odd person working on their yacht. The dock was
strangely intimate amid the bustle of the huge harbour.
‘Here, this is it’ said Harri shyly. A sleek white boat, ‘a
schooner’ he added, catching me before my question
came. ‘It’s lovely’ I said and it was bigger than I
expected and aware that it was a bit cheap to ask the
price I couldn’t stop myself wondering where he had got
the money from. The boat was gently rocking in the
water a tinkering of rigging and the fluttering of the flag
above, a blue cross on white, the mast shining almost a
beacon like in the bright sunlight. ‘I go below- prepare’
he said, almost skipping across the deck and then
dipping down into the dark interior.
I sat on the prow and unbuttoned my shirt. It was
almost enough just to be there, leaning back into the
sun accepting, eyes closed, a white hot light behind the
skin a tightening wind blowing through the hair, except
I didn’t have any and my nose was still irritated by the
air-conditioning of the meeting room and I opened my
eyes again almost forcing myself to feel closer to the
sea.
10
A white sail was making a broad arc by the side of the
island, a man leaning out from the side of the deck;
doing a tack I vaguely recalled the phrase and it made
me feel corporate, fat and unused seeing the silhouette
of the yachter rapidly bringing in some rope. Moving my
view to the shoreline there was strange ship moored, a
big black hull and a huge oversized top, lots of
windows, bright orange; it looked like it was out of
balance and could easily topple over anytime. ‘Ah good,
everything is right’ Harri said, his head sticking out of
the cubby hole beneath. He looked younger now; his
permanent faint frown had disappeared from his wispy
haired head. Looking at each other it felt we could
almost be friends.
‘What’s that?’ I said pointing to the odd ship, ‘An
Icebreaker’ he said, ‘But it looks like its going to fall
over’ I said and he almost smiled ‘No it’s for the crew’
and he explained that through the eight months of
winter the crew never came ashore, just going up and
down making a channel in the bay. ‘They are like
apartments’ he explained the oversized top bit, with
families, sports hall, everything and again I wondered
about the long freeze in the darkness and the Finns
almost trapped, clinging to the land freezing into the
sea. Now the ship seemed out of place, a huge weight
static there in the middle of the light and movement of
the wide open bay.
I sat and looked back towards the city behind me; Harri
was staring out the other way towards the sea. It was
silent for a moment except for the tinkling, the
fluttering and the creak of the boat being gently lifted
11
up and down by the lap of the waves. Harri wasn’t used
to guests, he obviously didn’t have a standard guided
tour and I felt a bit ashamed being here in his private
domain; but buoyed by the sunlight and desperate for
that holiday feeling, which I was realizing now I had
almost completely forgotten, what with the worry and
the work, I pushed Harri into showing me around, it
also felt it would be good for him too somehow. Sitting
for ages in offices with computers isn’t healthy at all for
anyone.
We went below, Harri putting his hand against the lintel
of the cubbyhole as I came through; ‘I have permanent
bruise’ he said pointing to his head. I laughed. A joke,
that’s good, he’s relaxing. The interior was dark, shiny
wood with two pillars and a table in the middle. I slid
round the cushions on the prow side, Harri taking the
seat opposite his head against the bright blue of the
open doorway. He lay down his arms flat on the table
suddenly sagging.
It was blank again; quiet, as he switched to another
mode for a moment, in the still and hidden. ‘You come
here often?’ ‘In the summer yes’ he said, ‘Many
guests?’ He faltered ‘No, my wife and I used to come,
but no more.’ He stared somewhere else, then stood
up. ‘You want a drink?’ I thought he was going to bring
out rum or something, jolly old sea dog and all that, but
he leant over the table to a cupboard and bought out a
bottle of Coca Cola, obviously last summers and totally
flat. ‘How many does it sleep?’ I asked, ‘Six’ and he
pointed to the camouflaged berths and the one I was
sitting on, ‘And there’ ‘a bit small’ I said smiling, ‘For
children’ he answered then it seemed something
catching in his throat ‘But for now’ he said taking a big
12
breath ‘just for me’ and his long sigh following seemed
to fill the oval room entirely, but for the lapping outside,
and the hulls occasional brittle creak.
Suddenly animated Harri started getting out big rolls of
maps and loading them up on the table. ‘Here I show
you where I am sailing soon,’ he said unfolding one of
the charts. I recognized the big curve of the Finnish
coast, the channel, then Leningrad, now St Petersburg
and Sweden over on the other side of the gap; but I
hadn’t realized how many isles there were, the whole
coastline fractured, broken into little pieces, gradually
joining up, coagulating it seemed into the main land. I
remembered someone telling me that there were three
thousand lakes in Finland, or was it 30,000, and it did
look like half the land was water- was it 3 million
perhaps? But the thing that had excited me most at the
time was that this person had said you could still go out
and put a stake in the ground and call it yours. I
doubted it, but it was a nice idea and I’d always wanted
a house in the country miles from anywhere, just the
cabin, a sauna and a boat, your own personal lake, your
own kingdom. A lot of midges though.
‘I will go along the coast, up round here,’ Harri said
tracing the route with his finger ‘and maybe, if there is
time, across to this island, you know this island?’ I
didn’t ‘Aland is a famous island in Finland, many sailing
people go there’ ‘What’s that?’ I asked pointing to a
shaded area ‘That? You must be careful there, bad
channel.’ ‘What are those?’ I said pointing to little
squares on the land ‘They are cabins; they are difficult
to get to, only in the summer’. It seemed a modest trip,
in two weeks, but I didn’t quite get the scale of the
Baltic. I read the large print; SUOMI, that’s Finland,
13
then USSR, Russia, a huge black blank sitting there
beneath, ready to swallow everything else up. ‘Is it true
everyone has a bunker here?’ ‘ ‘Every office’ Harri said
‘but it is over now, the what do you call it, it is now the
Tor, Russia America yes’ ‘ Oh thaw, you mean, the Cold
War ending’, and he laughed, out loud, for the second
time, again.
We pondered the map together for a time and Harri’s
holiday, alone, his finger still resting on a part of his
route. ‘Is it difficult?’ I asked, ‘Well yes, and no’ he said,
not wanting to seem boastful ‘You must know where
you are going, and sometimes comes…What do you
say?, the cloud.’ ‘Fog?’ I suggested ‘Yes fog. Baltic is
bad for fog then you must do by satellite’ ‘Can I see’ I
asked excited again. The idea of the sonar opened up a
new old world up inside me, the holiday that was going
to be my new life, the being part of everywhere, global,
free. ‘We go and have a look, after drink is finished’. I
forced down the last of the Coca Cola trying to be polite
not telling him it tasted, l imagined, like sweet pee.
‘Do you go for longer trips?’ I asked. I still had this
image of everyone suddenly disappearing for 2-3
months when the sun came out. ‘No I can’t, my wife is
ill, and…Later, perhaps’ he said looking sad again. But
then, breathing in, brightening adopting the ‘keep it
jolly’ English manner, he said ‘And then, I go, Avay’ and
his hand swept off the map ‘Avay’ he said again, past
Denmark, beyond Britain and on out into the open sea
and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
There was panel of instruments, not particularly hi–tech
more of a collection, bits of equipment cobbled
together, manuals and the odd post-it note with
14
numbers scrawled. Harri pointed at two screens, ‘Radar
and Radio, important’ he said. ‘Is it difficult?’ I asked
again, ‘No, just looking really’ and he flicked a switch. A
small panel illuminated and gradually brighter a dial
arm sweeping round. It reminded me of my Babys
recent scan, the lighter areas moving inside the grays
and black, shapes only vaguely grasped at. ‘You see,
this is that island’ he said, ‘and then, you see the boat
coming round the corner. You alter the range’ and
working the dial the island got smaller and more lights,
shapes appeared and then a flock of dots and with
another notch it became just a big mish-mash of dots
‘That’s a bit of a mess’ I said jolly again, ‘Yes’ Harri said
after a pause, getting that I was joking, but really
keeping to the serious subject of the navigation, ‘You
must read it with the maps’ There was, on an odd tiny
piece of paper not much bigger than a postage stamp,
stuck by the screen, and in fading ink on it was written
SOS, the frequency number scrawled below. ‘We go,
yes?’ said Harri suddenly. There was plenty of time
before the plane but it was his boat.
I sat at the back of the deck again for a couple of
minutes as Harri closed up, desperately soaking up the
sun and the sea salt air, again feeling that yearning for
the open sea and the freedom inside me, now only half
remembered as having been lived. Sitting there seemed
more real than the stupidity of the intense work backhome, the urban commuting that was my life;
computer, hype, house, money, sex. Couldn’t we just
haul anchor, or whatever it was called, and go. I made
a mental note to look up phrases in a nautical
vocabulary when I got home, and maybe even sign up
to a navigation course too.
15
Harris head popped up, ‘I have finished the tidy’ he
announced, ‘Shipshape’ I said, ‘It means all neat and
tidy’ I added replying to his quizzical look; ‘Good, yes
shipshape, it is good’. He was ready to go, but being
polite, sat with me instead for a minute waiting, jacket
under arm looking at the scene. But he didn’t relax, it
wasn’t holiday, it wasn’t Avay yet; still he was holding
on to the schedule and the work. He’d been doing it for
a long time, holding on; he must be 50odd now,
although still thin and not too lined.
All of a sudden Harri started waving, shouting
something out in Finnish. I turned and saw a huge
powerboat carving a wave in the water, its past arc still
there rolling across the whole inlet. The plump man
looked ridiculous perched up tiny on top of the giant
machine. ‘Share Options’ said Harri and we both
laughed, although neither of us had hit the jackpot.
‘Over now’ I said ‘Yes over’ he agreed and we sighed
and made to move back to the car.
The sun was very hot now, the water blinding making
our way along the planks of the quay rattling beneath
our feet. We walked slowly, close, among the fluttering
blue and white flags and bright masts. ‘How long has
your wife been ill?’ I asked tentatively. ‘Fifteen years’,
he said, almost matter of factly. I covered up my shock
and asked him if she ever came sailing on the boat.
‘She did yes, after the cancer went, after eight years.
We had 2 years then. Now...’ and he sighed, ‘and now it
is back again’. Harri paused, ‘I don’t think it will go avay
this time, no not again’.
We had reached his Saab by the boathouse and I
caught a chill in its shadow. We got into the car, he
16
slammed the door, but he didn’t start it immediately.
The tinted glass had made the bright scene outside
fade, the sun now contained. ‘I am sorry’ I said, feeling
awkward in the gap. ‘ That’s OK’ he said ‘It is terminal,
this time not it vill not go avay; maybe 2 years maybe,
maybe 5’ he said and I saw the woman now lying in the
dark apartment, one of the few not outside in the new
sun, there stuck now in her own permanent winter. ‘We
have agreed that whatever, in 3 years I go; I take the
boat and I am Avay, the Caribbean, America..’ he said,
his voice fading. He had to go before it was too late;
the last gasp, a life curtailed, a patience indefinable, it
was all unimaginable to me. We sat for a moment, the
cars air conditioning humming up and down, its cold dry
air bringing out goosebumps on my skin.
The engine started and we wheeled out of the harbour
into the main road. ‘2 hours to your plane. Vee go
somewhere first Yes?’ ’Yeah sure’ I said, knowing the
trip was over and now it was just filling in time, but I
needed that time to process the pain. The work sham
had completely evaporated now in front of the real life
thing here. ‘I know a café. We have coffee then go’
Harri said. He was now the Boss, the Older Man, in Life.
The Finns were always eating snacks and coffee,
something hot in the winter and I wondered if the habit
continued into summer. The place was buzzing every
patch of green in the parks, the avenues by the road
filled with people lying in the sun, playing ball, someone
fooling around with dogs, picnics, frisbees, model
planes.
At the café on the edge of another inlet, we got some
sandwiches lining up with the holiday crowd. I felt
17
stupid dressed in the suit and wanted to get back into
the tube of big business at the airport, a more suitable
set. I felt tense. There was too much need for release
now to be held in much longer, waiting, in this interim
stage. By the window a man bare but for shorts and a
black leather jacket, sat smoking a pipe, occasionally
passing down a scrap of food to the two Alsatians at his
feet. A gaggle of small boats swarmed around the
patches of reed and tiny beaches, one man perched by
his phut-phut engine, the hull weighed down by a fat
granny with two kids and a dog, the little bald man with
a pot Lord and Master for the day. I felt the yearning
for the ocean ballooning up inside me again; even a
rowing boat on our dirty canal in London would be
good.
‘I’d like a boat’ I said to Harri, and he smiled his head
shaking. 'Much work’ he said; ‘Having a boat is like a
marriage they say’ I said and we laughed, still chewing
fruit. ‘Lets go’ I said finally, ‘I don’t mind waiting’,
although I wasn’t sure if Harri wanted the time or not,
to go back and do whatever he had to do. Poor wife,
poor Harri.
It didn’t take long to get to the airport, with the empty
road and spruce efficiency of Helsinki. We moved out of
the forest into open farmland, the first shoots of corn
becoming just visible. ‘They must be fast to harvest’
said Harri ‘before the first frost comes again’. There was
a farmstead crouched in the flatland. ‘Is it almost
invisible in the snow?’ I asked. Harri just smiled. Under
siege for most of the year; it was difficult for me to
grasp that degree of isolation. ‘Wonder how Mrs
Hapoken is getting on’ I said to Harri, ‘Oh good, I think’
and I pictured the farmers, all pigs and tractors and the
18
erect woman selling them Internet connections; the
whole business just seemed silly now. Bit of a holiday
for her no doubt I thought, all on the firms expenses,
but who cares, its all rubbish now anyway. ‘I’m sure she
vill make good progress and we will reach 50 000
subscriber target by third quarter’ Harri was back in
work mode, serious and me the Boss again, but despite
this we both knew the cover was blown and the whole
artifice about the Business had finally melted away. We
swept into the broad curve of Helsinki airport, and with
a formal nod, a handshake and shy smile Harri said
goodbye. ‘Have a good sail’ I said and he waved and
drove away.
The plane soon was entering cloud over the Baltic. The
wafts of cirrus seen from the bay below and Finland, a
rumpled green broken into shards of water, the sea
smothered in the gathering yellow of the evening sun. I
wondered if I’d ever see Harri again. I knew there was
going to be a change back at work, the share prices
collapsing, bubble burst, restructuring and all that. My
heart really wasn’t in it anymore and I could deny it no
longer. I wanted out of the game, back to earth, real
life again.
It was a few months later that I sat stupid on the sofa,
the winter dark dank behind shutters, me redundant
and past the initial happiness of being so. The boom
had bust and they’d got in some bastard from BT to
sack everyone. I sat now watching a documentary on
TV. Helen McCarthy, lone yachtswoman was caught in
the doldrums around the Equator, anxious because she
was still behind the Frenchman, but seemingly relaxed
watching the sunset for her video diary. My daughter
19
came in wanting to watch the Simpsons on Sky. I said
No and she sloped off, annoyed.
And now she, Helen, was caught in a storm, worn out,
crying, infront of the wobbly camera, and it was then I
thought of Harri, wondering if he had made it out, avay,
into the open sea and the ocean beyond the wide sweep
of his fingers. Had he left, gone, avay from the dark
room, the dying or perhaps now dead wife left behind,
avay into the white light, a wide horizon, joy, freedom,
at last, the lost love a bleep now, a dot on the screen
fading and I without knowing why I let out a laugh,
finally allowing myself it seemed, to feel sad, inside,
again.
Unrequited Love
The bundle of life that could have been
If love had become rather than hiding unseen,
To be following through the longing rather than
Sitting watching it fade away almost content
20
With the urges and imagination like 3d TV;
its OK, maybe another day another life
when one stops in front of the Other
one follows the lead of the heart yes I
love that that loves me I love me I love
that I love her it’s OK;
but no, trapped
in the accumulation of negatives, waiting
before the locked door, waiting
until the water rises and, overflowing
eventually the negatives tumbling down creating
new blockages not allowing the love to flow
and eventually, in the stagnation, it, the water,
degenerates to a trickle in the ditch below.
The requited, in the ability to step over through
to the light without questioning just
Doing it in the moment rather than thinking
Of the what if in the what for or the could be
Would be should be, but just delighting in it as is;
but no istead, crouching smoking potential
Wondering if it could be a gift or a trap needing
A map or a watching of a rerun of previous classics
Or just not liking the soreness caused by
The stretching of unused muscles and the needing to
Breathe fully again.
Leave me alone can’t you see
I am dying here.
Seize the day
Fuck off.
Later.
21
Head of Change
Household name FTSE 100 service company
£65,000 - £80,000 + Bonus + Benefits
Key product division of multi-£bn service group with multichannel B2B and B2C business model. Currently embarked on
a major structural and operational transformation
programme. Director of Life Operations seeks innovative yet
grounded change agent to take ownership of the
transformation agenda and deliver stretching service
improvement and cost reduction targets.
THE POSITION
• Pivotal new role. Define, scope, resource and lead specific service
improvement and cost reduction programmes, and support line
managers in delivering process excellence and culture change
initiatives to achieve strategic objectives.
• Co-ordinate programmes and share best practice across the
division and wider business. Foster/embed a culture of sustained
improvement. Instil responsiveness to change and build
management skill base.
• Continually evaluate performance against internal and external
benchmarks to maximise productivity and perceived customer
value. Take full accountability for bottom line performance
within project framework.
THE CANDIDATE
• Commercially astute leading-edge programme/project manager
with proven track record of delivering end-to-end system
change in complex customer-focused organisations. Blue-chip
regulatory service sector pedigree, possibly including
consultancy, acquisition integration, outsourcing and life
insurance sector experience.
• Intellectually sharp with strong conceptual and facilitation skills
and results-oriented pragmatic approach that inspires
confidence in all stakeholders.
• Outstanding communicator and influencer with an eye for detail.
Politically savvy and resilient operator, comfortable at board
level with the drive and leadership skills to bring focus to a large
22
organisation. Sees ambiguity as an opportunity rather than a
threat.
Please email/write to the address below, quoting reference
number W/L652 enclosing a copy of your CV and giving full
salary details.
LAST MAN
There was another flurry of activity upstairs. The place
had felt suddenly depleted when Shane departed; he
was the hot ember keeping the balloon afloat, his grand
illusion that was now deflated, its once optimistic
smiling face drawn in chalk, now powder on top the
shrunken balloon. It was empty. The floor that had once
had the rows of white shirts and ties, now had a series
of round tables, for meetings that weren’t happening,
and above the fan in the rafters, was now not working,
unoiled, dead.
Fat John was sitting in the boardroom contemplating his
next move. He’d ridden this cow long enough, he
thought, it couldn’t take his weight anymore and
anyway it was getting uncomfy, the back bones sticking
out catching his buttocks with a twinge, and besides
Quixote had gone back to Brentville and John was tired
of talking bollocks to these IT people. Business is
business, he and Shane had always said, simple, doing
the deal, but in this lark these people it was like they
were trying to make it complicated. They spent more
time justifying old deals rather than getting new ones
done, just propping up old ones; they just didn’t get it,
it was not good without the carrot, without the carrots
you were stuffed, it just didn’t awaken the spirit inside
23
you, the little dynamo that made the business go. Like
the little geisha with her little feet back in the old days,
Shane had loved that, ten of everything, he always
said, those were the days, 10 of everything, sushi,
sake, geishas, laptops, cars…
Johin burped. His head was sore. He shouldn’t have
drunk so much last night, and it was bad enough, he
got so bored here. The restaurant was going OK, there
were enough old brokers there on nostalgia trips to
keep it ticking over and Geisha Guzzlers was definitely a
hit, although the Sharons in Kimonos were becoming a
little too obvious with their any whore derves gents?,
and if he didn’t watch it he’d get into trouble. But it
wasn’t enough, it didn’t have an end game, the carrot,
where was the fuck off money.. er at least the dream of
it. Now his tongue was thick with gunge, slightly bitter,
fucking sake. Nippon shite.
There was knock on the door. Sweet Sammy, two tits
poking through, you could see why she was of the last
to keep her job, ‘Got a package for you John’ I’ve got
one for you too darling, he almost said ‘ Thanks’, He’d
better keep a lid on it, a couple of blokes had been
knicked for the discrimination wrap recently. He opened
the brown packet. A bottle of Evian, label-saying Life is
Great and a little note. One last drop, signed from a
supplier. What the fuck, oh shit yeah, yesterday the
water had run out, the bill not paid. And John wrote out
his resignation on the back of the note. That was it.
The cleaners came in watering the plants. ‘There are
more plants than people’ one said, ‘At least they can
get a drink of water’’ said the last white shirt, alone
sitting there pretending to work.
24
Weak Heart
It was the stepmother
Ticking off his Dad,
Standing there in rain
As she moved
Purposefully into the house
Issuing instructions
And he stood there, glum,
Drawn, passive and fake
Face masking the last flickers
Of a once striving fire, now
Burning conscience and pain
Above a weak heart.
HEART
25
Nightmare A morbid oppression in the night, resembling the pressure
of weight upon the breast
Dr Johnsons Dictionary
It was just a pain flattening the chest, not pain pain,
like a shot, (that came later) but an ache, unsettling as
you weren’t quite sure whether to move or not, or just
let it ride through. One thing for sure was the heart
didn’t like it; it was uncomfortable, deep down
discomfiture, like a piece of furniture not quite right,
hurting itself as well as the person using it.
I sat there and listened to it, noticing something else, a
trickle of rheumer coming down from the neck into the
shoulder then coalescing around the ache, the lake of
the heart. Oh, and then the twang in the throat, that
didn’t feel right either. So it was a triangle of sorts, out
of sorts, bringing all those simmering uncertainties of
age up near to the surface. Had I crossed some invisible
mark, the abuses of before, the awkwardness of now,
the general pain that pervaded, pointing towards..what?
I looked over to her; over they’re lying prone on the
sofa, like a cat, indivisible in her quest for repose.
Separate, even selfish, I knew she had a greater sense
of the self, hers. I wondered if she felt any twinge,
inkling inside her, of the brewing coronary happening
here across the short planks between us, if she thought
at all that it would make her somehow entwined. I
remember years ago, a friend, a doctor, telling me how
people with coronaries usually had people they loved or
were entwined with suffer the same thing before them,
that it was something beyond the mechanical logic of
26
the medical set texts from which he was still recovering,
there was something else there.. He was like that,
always looking towards the indefinable for an
explanation, a poet doctor who fought against the mass
of fact he was forced to study to absorb. Perhaps the
friction did him in as he got cancer, really young,
Hodgkin’s disease, the lymphatic system, which for me
was the liquor of the body, the up and down, growth
and regression, maybe he was stunted, Anyway he was
very ill for a while, but recovered and the training
become less fraught, it didn’t really matter so much,
and even the threatened impotency was defeated, a
miracle child turning up, proving him right after allhe’d followed his heart and all was well, and me sitting
there wondering if I was going to die, while the
guardian of my heart lay across the way watching
Casualty on TV, asked my self if it was inevitable with
the division, the heart compacting, either through a
contortion of the veins, or the arteries thickening in
malaise, or just giving up not bothering to beat
anymore, sad subsiding like a river flattening out to
swamp and the terminal unfulfilment of wettening mud.
Here I was, a mid life, too boring to be a crisis, but on
some bank, redundant, washed up, or was it a watering
hole, but in a hiatus whatever way you looked at it. It
was surely deflated, the heart, as it had increasingly
had little to fill it. The work, despite occupying so much
of the time, lacked feeling, a political charade, where
one of the core criteria for playing was to remain
seated, not to expose the chest too much, an animal
there behind the bar, prowling, the occasional
outstretched claw, but otherwise not a participant. It
was one of the unwritten rules of business and the
boardroom, not to get emotional; even the threat
27
reduced all the ties to flapping anxiety, as if others
emoting would open a floodgate of unbuttoned feeling
creating disorder and misrule. That’s was why women
got on so well within it, like here there, if they could
sneak in, witches twitching ovaries, weapons against
the teenage awkward that remained among the men.
So my heart hadn’t got much of look in, all work and no
play and unused it wasn’t practiced coming out. With
her over there, the sexual congress was a meeting of
sins, lust, exegesis of anxiety, and it was in fact in
repose, just sitting there catching a picture, that
suddenly fitted an image inside me, sunlight through
stained glass, that life a breeze quickly coming in from
a not so often opened door, woke one up with the
feeling within the chest, warm water loosening grass, I
couldn’t believe it, so novel that those brief moments
made up for all the rest, a flag in the snow, with one
word silencing the crowd of negativity that questioned
why I was here anyway. It was like that first whiff of
heroin without the sick taste, the 3rd day of boozing
when the beer bubble smoothed the drain a sudden
releasing with bodily fluids, it was….
I always had a thing you should never mention it by
name, taking it in vain and all that, and anyway it was
so rare that I felt, then paralysis hitting my upper body,
with panic units swizzeling down fire station poles in my
head, it seemed it was threatened by extinction. It had
been too long locked up that it just didn’t work
anymore.
Dr Philby was taking a scalpel to make an incision in the
boys chest, while nurse Telcher, who was starting an
affair with the anesthetist, was making eyes. The boys
28
head open, it was horrible, and I would have yelped if it
wasn’t the fear of letting other horrors in. Casualty was
sick, voyeuristic, and she over there loved it. Her mum
was a nurse, and she got off on the detail, as well as
the soap opera shenanigans of the ward lot copping off
and crisis’s, and the panic and process, She even cried
sometimes, well I did as well, but I didn’t think it right,
that should be held for something else, not over there
on the tele, nearer, more in your face, your life not that
charade. But her, she was on it all the time, be it tele or
the street, or friends, there wasn’t any holding back,
except perhaps she didn’t go in for the longing, the
nostalgia or, the disappointment, ideals desiccated, her
heart was immediate, It was like a bird. The urgent
pumping, when she was excited and you held her to
your heart, you’d feel it. I was only feeling mine now,
because of the aching, the worry it might fall apart.
It was in the family now, that white head lying there is
the soft cell room, the new wife sitting in the corner,
Nigerian nurse with toy trolleys full of brightly coloured
pills. He’d finally succumbed my father, to the fissures
opening, the constant trickle of resentment, hurt and
self loathing, that poisonous cocktail, drip, drip, drip,
despite all the reparations over the last 20 years. His
wife, my mother, had left him, for one of his closest, or
oldest friends, a classic scenario, but it still seemed
extraordinary, stretching the hearts very parameters.
Their love had always been held high, a true
combination of hearts entwined, coming so young
together they had bonded; but she had given up her
hearts desire the work, and however many children she
had, however many hobbies she pursued, it, her heart
never stretched as far as it had in performance, it
always felt slightly constrained, and it was he who was
29
the primary target for the blame. His heart smothered
hers. Perhaps the secret, the secret of her stretched
heart, the equation of self, audience and something
unexplained, had always kept something back in her, so
she was never wholly entwined, had never fully
released the anchor. I’m not sure that that total open
duo does happen anywhere, that’s all Roland and his
white horses; we always hold something back in the
end. It’s not wise, offering up the central organ to
another, all those eggs in one basket, if we accept they
are all equally fragile. I sensed that he, the father, had
done because he did not want wholly the responsibility
of living his life, he had given over, after a brief frolic in
the world, to another appointing my mother the trustee,
following his won mummy’s end of leasehold. And now
her in the corner, the stepmother monitoring the
machine and the pills, was now the next one, but it was
damaged and although it tried, the heart could not
quite bring itself to heave itself fully into another, it was
now weighed down with the disappointment, fractured,
it was enough effort to support itself, let alone another.
They’d talked about the change of diet, the modification
of habits, the silk cut, whiskey, greasy food, over the
years furring up the arteries, but I knew for a fact that
there were correlative to the state of the heart longing,
those lonely days getting through the evenings the days
even, thinking of the women with another, former pure
channels to one another polluted, pulling back,
blockage, pain, the change for the hearts aspect
creating contortion and frayed edges, the lifestyle was
nothing compared to the change.
‘ Have you got the lighter’ she said over the plank wood
desert, you’re always borrowing my fags’, Sometimes I
wondered if that now was our most profound exchange.
30
I shook my head not wanting to move too much. I said
‘You know this smoking going to kill me’ She sneered.
We’d had a row about it, her not trying, when I seemed
to be spending my life trying to give up. She couldn’t
face it, didn’t mind the coughing chorus in the morning,
the constant fatigue, the fears of decomposition. I done
it a few times; gone away, at home, but always cracked
in the end, as if I was going too far away from her, into
the land where, the anesthetic removed, the heart
renewed, I would then want to go further continue into
a fresh open world. But, undermined, fearful of our
hearts untangling, I would, in the end, give up giving up
to come back to her it felt like, back to the fags and not
really talking about anything, the unhappiness of the
hearts., I could have blamed her for the miscarriages
on the smoking, but I knew that in the end it was the
fact that she just couldn’t give enough of her heart to
me..
There wasn’t the room now. I think she’d tried it once,
giving all to a man, and he’d taken advantage, he didn’t
want that anyway, and from then there was always a
reserve with her. She’d worked out that it was just a
compartment for the other, and really most of it was for
others, that was the way to preserve the heart, to give
generally. She knew her mother, as a child, had been
abandoned by her parents, and it had continued, she’d
seen her Mother deserted by her father perhaps sensing
the reserve there, the not stretching, as balloons are
likely to pop. It was just the way it was and is. Her Dad
had gone too, following his heart, and each time he
moved on he left a bit behind him, a bit equaling the
heart aches of those abandoned, aches that remained
inside him weighing down his heart, until a contraction
31
occurred, leaving too little heart for him. He’d had his
comeuppance, it had happened, the heart finally falling
apart, multiple heart attacks, those heartaches
wandering around the hospital corridors, each holding a
bit of him, as nurses kept the thing going, with fluids
mimicking the hearts needs. He’d gone over twice, died,
said he’d rowed a boat seeing all the faces that had
been before, and perhaps those he’d abandoned who
were now here, sort of saying goodbye, at least to their
own resentments, he continued rowing frantically
needing now redemption, trying desparately to win his
hearts reprieve. He’d had to sacrifice bits though, a leg
and a foot on the other side, as if the body had to
contract, the body that had carried his heart away from
the others, was now forced to stay to sustain itself and
face the facts..
And the world tilted and the fluids flowed the other way.
It was him now reaching out for sustenance, his heart
opening its doors for others to come to, and they, who
stood still not necessarily wanting to go. She was like
that over there. There’d been times when she had been
full of versacht, longing for the unattainable her vagrant
father, but now Dad was just Dad, and he was going to
die soon. The longing could have been requited now,
through that ventricle perhaps, it had been left open, its
fleshy lid flapping waiting to be filled, but it had sealed
long ago, it wasn’t going to happen now. There never
could be a joining of hearts now. She had accepted that
the longing was entirely personal; she saw for all the
notions of romance and co-joining in the end the organ
was totally alone, pumping around the vital fluids of the
body and it didn’t really have a connection with anyone
else. You just had to try to make the heart expand and
32
contract the best you could, breathe deeply and hope to
kept going. The longing the giving and the taking that
was the limit of the connection, so don’t let go.
But it definitely did contract, strangled by minds
negative workings, the disappointments and deceits,
and just not living enough. Allowing it to subside, or to
be over agitated so the goal became not to stretch it;
those middle-aged business men rubbing their white
shirted chests, angina massages, hoping it wouldn’t
start to fibrillate. That’s what happened to my father, it
began to fibrillate, judder more like, and that’s when he
began to turn away from Mother, no longer wanting to
be part of her hearts overflow, the beseeching and
stretching of the under expanded. It was then that the
organ ceased to work smoothly, began to become
contracted, resulting in the end to collapse. And then he
had to go into a subdued state, the heart able to take
only a thinned out life, blood diluted by rat poison,
Warfarin, the testerone antidote, the favoured drug of
the white haired golfer extend the hearts natural life
poddling around the greens.
Could his heart have been saved if it had released itself
from the complications of mid life marriage” If he’d
followed the course of so many other forty something,
jumped ship, for a new adventure, some fresher blood
less molested organ. It can’t help but be a bit
vampirism, the joys of fresh blood in which to partake,
or perhaps it’s just be more conscious more honest
about the whole process. A friend had written a story
about a man who collected hearts of young women and
ate them Hannibal like, in the belief that it would keep
him young. What was all that Buffy stuff about anyway?
There was a real story, from a woman who the family
33
had called Bleep because she made so much noise
when being made love to, reverberating through the
corridors of our adolescent torpid house. Her second
husband, (her first was a helicopter pilot, ran off with a
stewardess, but ended up with MS in a wheelchair), had
had a heart operation. They’d swapped his heart with
an 18 years old and the result was he too ran off with a
teenager, couldn’t stop fucking, going, but without the
hormones, and so the rest of his body had broken
down.
It was ER on TV now, choppy waters of the hand held
navigating the sea of emergencies. She over there on
the sofa wanted to watch it, because that’s what her
colleagues at the social service did, uber east enders,
takingtheir mind off the trail of refugees, and damaged
children coming through the doors of their little clinic.
My chest to shoulder nexus was tightening, hurting
more and I thought Id better go to bed, something,
Water perhaps. Indigestion perhaps, but why the first in
the throat.
Was my heart giving signals? Or was it just too much
food too quickly. Or just paralysis of the mind. Seizing
up the body. All I knew it was constricted, and she over
there wasn’t going to help me. She would just be nice
to enfold in it if it got bigger, she didn’t need to widen
her heart with me. It was open to others at her work, to
ER, even the cat. I’d begun to occupy the place where
unpracticed, denied and alone the hearts is constricted
in a world it needs to be kept in wraps against the
horrors around them, where people have nowhere to go
to open up to without fear, opening somewhere to
something else.
34
Maybe that’s why Diana had became a Madonna and all
those people poured out of their semi detached looking
for something together, the something else which was
so personal but so public at the same time, where the
heart could open breath deeply, linked to the other,
among others not contract into its own pain.
Eclipse
Other lives lived in another life
Next door to mine.
See it, feel it, almost savour
A life inside lived in another time.
I can live this life
We, the other
If I allow it
And recognize the rhythm
Of the rhyme.
Old men
Dotted on the landscape
Of the life lived
Mirrors of that life
Lived potentially
Again shying away
From it
That may or
may not be
The eclipse
A dimming of
The Eyes with no shadow
Stillness, except for crows
And the end of day wind
35
A ruffle, a switch,
Once in a hundred years
And think of the other
Changes out there
Beyond us.
ITALIAN HOLIDAY
The Val Radiconelli, a bowl, the twin towers of
Radiconelli, ringing hours out twice, minutes apart
facing Mensano, a modest line of houses above a
vaginal gash of rock, the field sweeping down between
streams of corn and gorse from the forest mountain, in
the moonlight, half formed behind the towers the land
is simplified in patterns of light cultivation and black
woodened top and, dependent on the heat and cloud
the valley shifts in size, Mensano being a stroll, or
walk, hike or major expedition into another kingdom.
Below us, on the ledge below Radiconelli, the lake, or
rather pond sits on another ledge above an abandoned
farm by an abandoned stream, stacks of wood, a white
caravan shell and a boat, oddly. The sheep, a
centrepeed of feet, twindles and trickles down to the
pond, then makes ways through the fields almost
formed chalk letters in the yellowing wheat. A heron
sometimes visits, dabchicks mix with twigs, and strange
burbled song comes from the water, half insect, reptile
bird. Occasionally a buzzard floats above the little
valley.
36
In the middle of the valley is Tescua, a giant farm and
below in a rolling slope a field being slowly ploughed in
a carefully topographic way, grand sweeps in dark earth
lines following contours, all downward, before it makes
its way up again. It stops at ten, when the heat grows.
Then too the sheep make for a shade, lechio, to be
invisible to the forge of the day. Farms sit at the head
of fields, pink orange and the green and cream. Dead
calm, hot stone, a car occasionally beetling away. The
valley echoes with engines, barks and saw, a screech
jay or magpie, somewhere.
At night the crickets hum. A pulsating ooze of heat, the
plough constellation hanging over, with the broad arc of
the valley punctuated by villages and farmsteads on
hills, occasionally connected …. Threading between
trees , a mysterious bird punctuates the night waiting
for an answer, its single recurring note occasionally
made, as stars shoot through the massive sparkling
blanket of the sky.
37
DEAD DAD
….. the sense of powerlessness, meaninglessness, selfestrangement, the failure to find adequate norms for social or
personal relationships….. all these many alienations resolve
into that one basic division between mind and heart. The
38
mind is our organ for truth: the heart our organ for love. But
they cannot work independently of each other without filling
us with a sense of failure, dishonesty, deep boredom or
frenetic evasion of ourselves through busyness.
John Main Word into Silence
The first day
‘It’s a relief’ she said the first born, the eldest daughter,
‘in a way’, and she was almost sure that she had
processed, as she and other therapists put it, had come
to terms with him, the death, his leaving her, again.
There was the first loss when he left her when she was
five, the second, when he had the first attack,
technically dying two years ago and now the third,
gone. ‘It was alright’ she said, he was happy to be in
M&S on a Saturday afternoon, pleased he’d got the
money for Italy, the kids were there too, ‘it was OK’ she
said almost entirely convincing. ‘it was the right time to
go’. Her expression changed, ‘it wouldn’t have
happened though, what he hoped for, in Italy, with him
and Su, I’m sure, silly old sod, 20 years of marriage, it
wouldn’t have’ ‘Sex you mean?’ I asked ‘Yes. He told
me that, not entirely appropriately, but he did’ and she
sounded proud, like an old girlfriend who still retained
the same place, despite of the second, new wife. But
something was niggling her ‘I had wanted to ask him.
About the kids’ (those of the third and final marriage)
were they his, or what?’ She didn’t know if it was IVF or
what, but she stopped herself getting annoyed, over the
not knowing, it was OK wasn’t it, he’s gone now, it
doesn’t really matter now, ‘ Does it?’ the eldest
daughter suddenly asked.
39
It had been a long day, since finding out in the
morning. The third wife had rung and his daughter was
still in bed and although Su was usually tactless the call
I took was unusually short, even for her and I sensed it
could be the final call. So did my sort of wife when I
told her. It had been so long in coming, and now it
came. It was as though she had been there already,
rehearsed it in the mind so many times and now at last
she could prove her own theories, could act out the
conclusions she’d made. The others were coming for
lunch today, as it happened, the rest of his, from the
second marriage, the half brother and his new child, the
half sister and the other mum and so she now invited
her own sister, from the first marriage, and her mother,
the family, his family almost intact. They could have a
doo, seal the fissures of the fractured family finally, she
thought, bring it together, as one, the one she had
always yearned for and she was almost cheerful that
was another opportunity to do so. ‘He’d be chuffed that
he’d got out paying for the Marks and Sparks charge
card loan for the holiday at any rate’ and she laughed
---The talk at the party only touched on him occasionally,
as though people could only dive down into the sea for
a moment, before coming back quickly for air, although
we were all aware that there were cold waters still
deeper down there. The hugs were stronger,and
everyone was checking each other’s eye, to make sure
each other was all right. The talk was about the baby,
the first grandson and the fact he’d been so pleased, ‘at
last, he name continues’ he’d said, which the girls his
daughters had laughed at,(it was so typical not to
recognize their little hurt), and then they all went onto
40
the details of the death, and the funeral which were still
unclear. His third wife was the one dealing with it and
she seemed determined that the others were not really
to be a part of it, his other family that she had
struggled against for so long to be herself, to have her
own one, separate and indivisible. But the talk did go a
little deeper than usual, people being a little more
revealing, a little more open, maybe to show how alive
they were now, or how they knew something had
changed, forever, despite being too soon to know how.
The first wife adopted her usual position, my wifes
mum. the stalwart sufferer, wanting to help in
someway. The second wife spent a lot of time looking at
the details of my house. She’d been part of the
alcoholic phase; madness, bankruptcy and him finally
going away and now sober, she was very reticent. The
daughters fitted in quickly to their togetherness, being
all practiced at becoming abandoned, with their drink
and spliff and the husbands of the sisters sat and
watched, again, at the others drama, of the absent
father taking precedent over the present ones, them,
again.
They’d had to deal with it for years, his dowry to his
daughters, the lack of trust, their false positions as
stalwart rocks mimicking their mother, the first wife;
the energy they put into guarding their abandonment,
the issue of the Dad, which despite the mens initial best
efforts they soon had recognized that they could never
quite solve, fill the gap, because the gap was actually
about not being there, rather than being there like
them, which didn’t leave a lot of room for maneovre, a
double negative perhaps.
41
And now around the table, as the Dad was always late,
there was a latent feeling he would turn up at any point
after everyone had given up on him, as he had done for
years, as he’d done with the first death, 2 years ago
dying technically, and then reviving. It would be a
longer grieving this time, maybe for ever, when this
time he didn’t come back, when this time there wasn’t
something there that needed to be resolved in yourself,
the little forgiving, that filled up the emptiness of him
not being there. Now the resolving was over, he had
gone now and that was all.
The children, his grandchildren, didn’t know what to do.
It was sort of Christmas but not, and they just knew it
was a new thing, quizzical at the tears, wondering what
they were meant to do, as they didn’t miss him,
because it wasn’t missible, he wasn’t there all the time
anyhow. And they hadn’t really thought about death
yet. I remembered my first death, an uncle of cancer
and going through the motions, the funeral, the quiet
house, looking at pictures; but only much later, (or
much later in child time), a month or two, waking up in
bed at midnight with a coldness on my chest, an
emptiness, sort of just about getting what it meant.
Just not being there. And then came the dread.
The lunch went well ‘You’ve done it so well” said the
abandoned wives, ‘Thanks’ I said relieved it was coming
to the end, keeping it within the manageable. But that’s
when it happened. The older daughters, from the first
wife, my wife and her sister, didn’t want to let go. They
wanted to get into it more, ‘Its our thing’ one said, ‘ Its
ours only’ ‘We can do what we like’ said the oldest, and
that’s how they saw the deal: abandoned, suspect to a
certain extent as sixties kids, but which meant they had
42
their own thing which was different, that they could put
ahead of the others (like husbands), some sort of moral
advantage, the pain, that meant they could get into
themselves more (as he wasn’t there) as though they'd
filled in the bit where he should have been with
themselves, the pain and the dealing with it.
But their mum, the first wife, wanted to go home now,
the kids had first day at school tomorrow, but the eldest
said ‘Stay’, as she wanted the second eldest to crack,
so she could fulfill her old role of eldr sister/ proto dad
the carer, that she became when he’d first went away,
and now as then the others could do the crying for her
while she held them tightly. We, me and the mother,
tried to interrupt it, sitting with them, trying to manage
it, getting them to talk about others, about the son
their brother who wasn’t not, who didn’t seem that
perturbed, ‘After all, Dad had never been there for him,
so what was there to miss’ ‘But I do think he was too
close to me’ said the mother, ‘that’s why he cant
commit to a girl’. Then she talked about the Dads dad,
the one they’d named the new baby after, Garfield, that
knowledge asserting the fact that she was there first,
and then more came out, the bits she’d been chewing
over for so long, the fact that he was working class
going up a notch with her and then further still, almost
working class with the second wife; the fact that his
Mum was right behind her, defending the marriage,
when he wanted to end it, how he was rebelling against
his Dad, and then how he had fantasies, sexual ones,
that she didn’t go along with, and she asked, suddenly,
her two daughters, out of the blue, was it her that
made him have the fantasies, do you think, or did he
have them anyway? Another thing not quite resolved,
which she now let out, a sober good person who
43
wouldn’t normally but getting almost as if she was
becoming drunk on the emotion her daughters were
emitting now around her. ‘No its not your fault’ they
both reassured her again, and at least it had opened
the conversation up, and they finally moved on, going
home at last. But again in the hug, as though
demanded, on cue, the second one broke down as the
eldest had wanted, blubbing, moaning, and the hug
between the sisters was almost sexual, each trying to
get something out of the other, something lost, that
now could never be recovered, and perhaps wasn’t ever
there anyway in the first place.
They left at last, and it was just her there, the eldest
and me and she wanted to go to bed. I went up too,
and I couldn’t stop myself wanting to make love to her,
to show us, me, being alive and I suppose sensing an
opportunity where I could finally get inside her, past the
final frontier, past Dad post Dad, the unresolved, that
had made me suffer for so long as his sort of
replacement, the longing held onto, combined with the
lack of trust projected, even the punishment I had as
bearer of his sins.
She almost said yes, but didn’t and I got into bed fully
clothed and lay there holding her exhausted, but still
wanting to, ‘Don’t get fruity’ she said and I felt rejected
again. I know this death was to be either a bonder or a
breaker, as now we’d be as we really were, rather than
some side-show to the on going Dad issue. I even told
her so then, about me being the approximation to her
first big lover who in turn had been a copy of her Dad,
‘What? Do you think I’m just an empty vessel
responding to him’ she said, slightly offended, asserting
herself, alone, again.
44
She hadn’t thought it through though and I wondered,
holding her, when it would surface, how it would show
itself, the bit apart from all the psychological
processing, the bit that just registered he wasn’t there
anymore, the bit that held all that he had carried for
her, the anger, disappointment, the unrequited and was
now back with her to deal with now he was gone. Would
it be the bit of the bit that hadn’t ever come out before
now, the unresolved that would come up and get her,
the lack of the chance to do so now ever again, finality
over finality, the cold water deeper down.
I lay there clothed holding her, thinking what she was
thinking. Was it a photo album? Was it her, or was it
something else, just sad, “Spaced out’ she said, ‘What
I’m feeling ‘she said, drifting into a sort of sleep. ‘ I’m
tired but I don’t really want to go to sleep’ she said, as
if those bits might come out from somewhere else,
aside from all the processed, and get her unawares. It
made her uneasy, made her maintain her guard and
she didn’t sleep very well through the first night after.
I listened to her breathing almost, but not quite,
settling down and imagined it as a sea, waters running,
and there was the long low wave, not quite breaking,
moving through the black wave with streaks of light,
which was him there, moving through but not breaking,
not quite.
The second day
Each person wants a bit of it, a bit of the body, that
they saw as theirs, the death affirming the life. Each
45
person struggles, (or plays) between their own selfish
thoughts, of others, ancestors, their story, or set apart,
complicating the simplicity of it, there not there, the
dark emptiness that, despite religion, distraction or the
self, is horrifically stark. Each person dreads the
physicality of the death, but when it is confronted, the
body as an empty husk, not the person thwarted but no
longer there, then you’ll see the spirit, gone but life
affirming.
The week following
After the first news there was a hiatus waiting for the
funeral. The eldest daughter couldn’t help but get
bitter, the newest wife not letting her know what the
funeral arrangements were. It made her mad because
secretly she still felt he was hers, originally Mums,
they’d been left together holding hands, and now again
they were there left waiting for her and him, as she felt
them both as one in her. Now, after he has gone again
she is left again waiting for her the new wife to ring
with the funeral arrangements, fucking bitch. The
longing the urge to make good, covering for him, to
integrate his life for him is still there, as if she is the
other, the 4th wife, still waiting. The other, the new wife
there with the body, is now finally fully in control freed,
for a moment, from his other family, who are there still
waiting, wives one two and four who cant help but feel
bitter, which she didn’t want to now, not against him,
but she, always the other her, who had destroyed the
original integrity of her life.
10th day
46
The autopsy arrived. He had gone finally, caught by
surprise, sitting in Marks and Spencer a thrombosis
from the remaining leg, the good one, rather than the
one chopped off after the first, causing two strokes
simultaneously. He had the others ailments under
control, the festering leg, the fibrillating heart, the furry
veins, each fissure plugged with a pill, the whole
disfuctioning thing held together by exercise of his
willful mind. But even so Death had found a way,
sneaked up behind catching him unawares, to have its
day, stealing him away. It had been cheated once
before the first time he’d died technically when he said
he’d been rowing through the waves of a thousand
faces, as if already gone, sitting there like a goblin kept
alive by drugs and pumps and a feeling that he couldn’t
go yet, he still had things to do, to face the sin finally to
redeem himself and as usual he had wriggled out of it
again. Death wasn’t going to let him do it a second
time.
Laid out the brain is 1.5 square metres, the lung 1000
square meters, the skin, the gut, more still, and
perhaps there is a correlation between that the land we
should occupy in life. And I scurried about the world
wide web in the basement room, waiting for her to
come back to me now.
Sex and death. I thought and it suddenly stopped, the
3rd time trying to get inside her she suddenly stopped
and, like her mum, she said ‘No’. Sure it was wrong, a
bit perverted, and he’d heard her mums confession
around the table again and wondered why she wouldn’t
and if she caused his desire to do so. ‘Don’t bring your
agenda into it’ she said, when I pitched again for sex,
wanting her to be with her, not others. At death
47
everyone longs for ownership, to be owned or to own, a
link to what is there living now, hungrier, even to take
over the parts left by the departed.
Later in the night, somewhere unknown a bleep goes off
in the household, inside or nearby, time marked,
outside not knowing where, threatening, anticipating
something. He lay there unrequited listening to her
snores, looking inside his lids, the lines there and
thought if followed they become all tangled up, the
death of one persons father, reminds another of time
lost in bereaving theirs, and another of things
unrequited between him and his. The anger inherent in
all this then pollutes the vision of the man who has just
died, which in turn mirrors his own deep held anxiety
that he too has that which is has caused his own fathers
despair
14th day
The funeral at last. A cold bright January day. The lines,
the stray thoughts, longings and questions are meant to
come together into one concrete ceremony
He’d gone, it’s simple as that but we just don’t believe
it; death, finito, nada, there must be something else.
The body there, puffed up and pampered, reddened into
artificial life, but cold then gone, from the Chapel of
rest. Tears, inexplicable come and go, like waves
catching you unawares squeezing in between the
memories and condolences
The funerals a palaver to show he’s gone, the body
there the hymn music reading still waiting for the
breathing to return, a joke with a wink and a smile, but
48
no, pigeons flap blurred behind the high stained glass
muted, blue and green behind the high windows
Larkin had it somehow; he’d loved three also and they’d
been of the same date, if not the same ilk but possibly
shared the same disease. They both seemed not to
believe there was any comfort out there except that
made by yourself, the high window ‘that shows nothing,
and is nowhere and is endless’.
He’s gone, the end finito, nada, death but no, again you
hear his laughter smell the smoke and sweat and
wonder, a child again asking where has he gone to? His
children read poems given or sought not quite
expressing what they thought even if they knew, where
it was he went. Did he run, the live wire gallivanting
after excess food sex drink and endless talk? Or was he
still running somewhere to avoid the solidity of life that
sits pretty over this the unavoidable end?
I don’t know, and do I care? only his voice is still there,
questioning me in a prepossessing way, have a drink,
go on my son, he’d say as my mother and father sit
somewhere else wondering who will be next. ‘Its weird’
said the last wife’s son, ‘I dunno, it’s like a dream’
passing round the skinnies and the light with his mates,
'I dunno, its weird’ say the other children witnesses to
his death, ‘I cant take it in’. ‘No neither can I’. The
Saturday afternoon collapse in M&S; no procedure, the
irritant inside the shop, the buying frenzy suddenly
stopped, no dam bells, staff dumbfounded, death and
money do not mix, and there, flushed with cash from
the credit card loan, slumped in his chair, the last
withdrawal he would chuckled, he’d got away with it,
again.
49
The first wife sits there in the nave, still thinking the
same question of why had he left her, the tears, if any
are for others sense of loss now, but the seepage from
the below is beginning, a change of waters, now
undimmed. The second wife, the third all have a bit of
him but not quite, him continually evading ownership,
but now owned entirely by the stilling domestic force
she had wielded, he tried to defy divorce. The second
wife, recovered from the two decade storm, contrasting
her life now straitlaced and central to her damaged
childrens struggle to get over his going again. And the
third wife, technically the widow, all eyes focused on
her, resentful of the continual accommodation of that
mans history reminded of never ever, totally, just being
the two alone. And the fourth, the eldest daughter, my
wife, the Lover manqué, the one who held on the
longest, having made him stop that one time, in Milan
in her twenties, forcing him to admit then, face to face,
his crime, her pain, his shame.
Each recalls their epic little histories, stories of catching
him if you could, holding him still there where he was
meant to be, a part of you, docked. Solid for a moment
then gone again; a taste, a smell, the hint of a
possibility of him being there alone with you just gone
yet again, leaving an irremovable sense of wrong. Each
with their own picture filling in the gaps, trying to grasp
the actuality of who he was and we all don’t kneel as
the vicar asks, but sit knowing and dumb.
The coffin goes up to the graveyard on a hillside
overlooking the setting sun, by the house where
Paradise Lost was done. Petals thrown in the empty
hole, cold and static clouds of breath and Gauloise
50
filters are handed out in a gesture of respect; a golden
aeroplane streams in the air disappearing into smoke
rings there and the addict daughter laughs ‘He would
have laughed wouldn’t have he’ she says, hoping. If he
could have he would have, he would have been
determined to, despite the pain, guilt and sad residues
of the relationships represented now around the hole
not quite fulfilled, for he would have laughed if he
could. ‘It’s a joke’ as he said often, of life, determined
to stay there in the self constructed place there where
the strutting as seen as a defiance in the face of
absurdity, sadness replaced by gladness, all going if not
gone, in the long day ending and the smokes puff.
The next day
The obituary appears, another surprise as he suddenly
acquires the respectability of a civil service life. No
mention of the complications, the ties and could be life,
a chronology of sorts written then read as a soliloquy by
an old colleague recounting his own youth and the
splendour of one for whom rules were tools to express
the irrefutable madness of life, ‘and I remember…
…probably one of the most remarkable men I ever met’,
he said, and everyone was momentarily cheered, by the
faux completeness of the printed text; then the photos
came out again; Dad laughing young, looking
respectable middle aged and then the furrowed brow
again. The ill looking ones are discarded the good ones
kept, something to hold onto, to decorate the fridge, to
focus the eye, the grief. He couldn’t say anything, or
you couldn’t hear it, the son who never knew his father;
sentences that did not quite fit together quite.‘Come
51
again’ you said but he could drink, as his father did, a
lot, dumbfounded.
The next week
The bequest, and again more to deal with. The first
daughter, clinging to the practical, again volunteers to
sort out the mess as their mother the 1st wife did. Bills
to be paid, no Will, not sure if he and the third was
legally separated or not, the eldest wondering if it was
worth claiming the first prize of being next of kin;
drinking again she is trying to express some kind of loss
but possibly just getting closer through the drink to the
point of not giving a toss.
It dribbles on, the grieving, the wrangle, the furthest
from him getting most enthralled. As a stone falls, the
ripples lessen and they begin to wait for the time when
he will come back again, as he always did; but not this
time and the daughters are snapping at their husbands,
holding the edge of tables, as the weights wobble and
their gravity shifts again. They that are remaining, try
and regain their former places not knowing quite how
to. It will only happen once, like this, although they
think they know how to control, to balance themselves
with the change, the longing, the life and the pain.
The following month
Around the table again, a month later friends gathered
and although unstated it was in way of support for the
daughter of the Dead Dad the extended familys energy
was spent around in the endless cycle of interrelated
change. Malcolm looking, from behind his squint at the
prospect of being free again, saved by Sonia the new
52
woman, the next one to take him in, so he could go
now freelance but remain mutually dependent or so he
secretly hoped; Sonia, infected as she was by huge
doses of self irony finding herself in another play,
keeping sane by anchoring herself in devotion toward
her daughter, as her mother had been before her, who
also attached herself to unsuitable men, in the end self
destroying also torn between the hankering for
respectability and the need to fly away; Jake, Sonias
old friend, now a new father, just sensing this was not
all there was, getting up at 5 to pick up his work mate
at 6, shifting lights, pampering the wife, selling drapes,
he knew things had changed and knowing there was
another life he could have been living out if he wasn’t
attached, or if he had the balls to do so; Honor, whose
ex had fathered Sonia child, now continually protecting
herself from self ridicule, her minding writes overtime
to find flaws in the others, so to keep the door shut on
those self depreciating voices, thinking she should now
be somewhere else; Kate, Jakes wife, focusing solely on
the baby boy, thinking she should be focusing on
herself, and Longleat the quasi artist wondering why
the crowd were not focusing on him and his epic artistic
plight; and her, the eldest daughter of the dead Dad
trying hard to remain calm, not passive not active,
trying to be in-between sensing there was something
else happening to her but not being able to articulate it,
the grieving, the lack of Dad, and wanting to stop
seeing in her mate the bad he’d left behind, not quite
able just to feel, wanting to get drunk when she could
in someway talk about it to herself. And sitting there
around the table they are all bringing their own agenda,
wondering who they are really, each, in a way haunted
by their own death, wondering what would become of
them, and here they all are milling around the food, at
53
the meal which sort of was commemorating her fathers
death, and life. Suddenly a sound, different from the
rest, a slice of time cracking, immediately the parents
wondering if anything had happened to the children but
no they were all in the place where they were meant to
be. It was something else, a crack, a door, a chink in
the infrastructure, some oddity breaking the fragile
casing of the life, and the man, the daughter of the
dead man goes downstairs, sees it, the mirror
shattered, the mirror where she had once made herself
up, battling for a man, the mirror where, on occasion in
which he’d tried to find his act again, the mirror with
awkward feet and weak brackets, with a shudder of the
house had fallen, there, broken like waves frozen again,
seven years bad luck, a millennium, it was gone, now in
shards, as if expressing the pieces of unwritten fear
above.
That night it snowed, a proper blizzard, the type
Scandinavia gets from Nov to Feb, and everything
froze, cars shrouded, signals stuck and the next day we
all stayed at home.
And she suddenly freaked out at the state of the house;
we’d had guests and it was a mess, but when she said
it, the anguish was too deep for the mess. Its seemed
too total, a muddy floor and teabags, used by the kettle
and it was only later that I thought, it might have been
the tide coming in again, the back wash against the
breakwater, the echoing of the breaking wave, the dead
father and the all too recent death.
It had turned into February when downstairs something
came up on the Internet: What is the definition of
death? Who would know? Most definitions were from a
54
lived through action and of course there could be no
proof, and you wonder if it is actually something else
and remembering him you wonder, where would he be
now? Will he re-appear, from behind a door, or pop up
making a call- even the thinking of it makes you
wonder if he has gone at all.
The Probate 2 months from the first day
And it happened, just when we thought things had
settled down, he had safely been laid to rest and the
wrangled bits of family and settled back into their nests,
the restless spirit of things undone re emerging. The
debts, little scraps of paper, loans, credit card slips,
that type of thing, with the 3rd wife, the official widow
not being sure if they were separated or not, they
claimed benefit and in the last year, because of the
wheelchair had lived separately, but not legally so
although in her heart of hearts she had moved on, but
the link, the chain was still there even now and she just
couldn’t face it anymore. So first one sister got
involved, the one who hadn’t really resolved anything
with him, the one too young to really have him as a
dad, but was more attached unwillingly and subject to
the barrage of bitterness and distrait from the mother
as was emerging from an I to U. She got the eldest
daughter involved who as usual adopted the facilitator,
mediator mode, sorting out, trying hard to bring
together the jarring parties to resolve another split. But
Mum wouldn’t have it, when she heard that the debt,
Dads Debt, would have to go to probate, what ever that
was and the next of kin might have to pay, that being
her the eldest child, the daughter whose hand she had
held when he’d left and it finally emerged fully exposed
55
the bitterness, the resentment, all the lava of the
Mother, the first wife wronged, attacking the new wife
the 3rd one, strongly, saying why should they the ones
he’d abandoned her daughters pay?.
But is was the eldest daughters husband, me, who
finally lost his rag, all the effort he’d applied to make it
all alright, and now to lead to a certain extent, be the
man, in himself, rather than a shadow, an awkward
clone of dad, and now it was all getting messy again,
out of control. He’d offered to take care of it the debt,
he’d seen it as a dad type job, and in a way he’d
wanted to cut the cord between his spouse, the
daughter and that view of things of being irrevocably
tied in the tangled fracture of the family the Dad had
left. He hated this way, all this pettiness could be
avoided, the grieving allowed over the real thing; he
hated this way that again the little women could not let
go of their thing, still talking about the failure of their
useless dad, trying to claim superiority of tenure to the
2nd and 3rd family, seeing their let down reflected in all
the men in their life, not being Dad, being inefficient
also. ‘So he fucked up, he left you; he’s an irresponsible
git;’, and then she lost it, pushed him back a mile, the
anger she couldn’t express, going up and down almost
getting the knife and it was too much for her, she
immediately went back into the self-pity, her self
righteousness that clothes her hurt and lack of self
worth, ignoring the fact of his love, because that was
the link and had been for ever, the link below herself,
and him, the hurt… And I, the husband just wanted to
bury it, Dad, rip it out, so again she could see mw with
fresh eyes, see what was, value us in ourselves. But it
didn’t, wouldn’t ever, work.
56
The 3rd wife then had sent a letter to Dads brother. The
brother couldn’t do anything; he didn’t feel any love for
the brother who abandoned him too, and you wondered
if the wife actually wanted to spread the crap, see the
pain, in a way it might loosen hers, her sadness of a life
wasted in the facts of their life. She had longed to be
taken away from him, had slept with his old friends but
he wouldn’t let go, he had to keep chasing her more,
though now legless, and he didn’t really have anywhere
else to go.
They were going to Italy together, and he had been
excited about getting his end away, at last, and there is
a suspicion that the lust was his drug, the instinct his
original sin and it was true the goblin I saw in his face
when he had first died, he was one of those who, at one
with their instinct are so self motivated, totally of their
own universe, that they exclude the possibility of God
(and perhaps other people too).
The reckoning 3 month
And she began to lose it, waves against a soft bank,
digging into the base, cracks appearing, a slice then
falling, sliding down to expose the face, fresh to wind,
of her own private heresy. The eldest daughter, my
spouse, the fourth wife. OK the drink and drugs had
been going on for ages, a little link to him who had
gone and she’d done a few counseling jobs, listening to
others, hellish lives for her to absorb, wrapped around
herself like wet blankets to her pain. But something was
happening, the change was coming in, an inertia sinking
into wet sand up to her knees and now here at last,
she’d found something she could not articulate,
57
reducing her to her essential self, just her the little girl
left by dad.
Most things could be condensed within the frame of
Eastenders and Casualty she found but this would not
fit, spilling over, like melting cheese bubbling within
blackened edge, it was odd, this place, no reference,
white shapes in white space, and finally she felt lost.
Her mum had come round for tea, lighter, laughing,
shed of the weight, camping around the grievance of his
desertion. The sack of stress that had sat biting into her
back, the 40 year sore, after one little go at the new
wife, a twist of defiance and it was gone, it wasn’t very
big after all and now it was gone.
He was the empty space now. The daughter’s lifetime of
pushing him making him do the right thing, scurrying
around repairing the damage, was gone now, leaving
her just with hers now, them with theirs, and there was
nothing she could do now, sort out nothing now, but sit
immobile and stare inside out flaying about of stuff in
the wind.
A week later
And she comes back, again.
58
Wife
Mother, daughter and the Missing Man
She lives through her, the Mother
Fighting her battle still
Suffering her fears, settling her dues,
Continually living in preparation
For him too to leave so she becomes her
The mother again, alonein the flat
500 quid in the bank with
The missing man istill there
continually building up the case that isn’t there
rather than living with him and fighting his battles
making them theirs, being with him
in fulfilling a vision shared
she is waiting for him to leave
and continually she prepares
not recognizing him and living with
the missing man instead
that negative force
so he too must in the end
negate his life and die
to fulfill her vision
and leave.
59
Daughter
And she began to lose it, waves against a soft bank,
Digging into the base, cracks appearing, a slice
then falling sliding down to expose the face
fresh to wind and her own private heresy
OK the drink and drugs had been going on
For ages, a little link to him who had gone
And she’d done a few counseling jobs, listening
To others, hellish lives for her to absorb
Blankets for her pain. But something was happening,
the change was coming in, An inertia, wet sand up to
her knees and now Here at last she’d found something
she could not Articulate reducing her to a self, just her
A little girl left by Dad.
Most things could be condensed within the frame
Of Eastenders and Casualty but this would
Not fit, spilling over, melting cheese, bubbling
Within blackened edge; it was odd, this place,
no reference, white shapes in white space, lost.
Her mum had come, lighter, laughing, shed of the
Weight, camping around the grievance of his desertion
A sack of stress biting into her back- one little
Go at the new wife, and it was gone the 40 year sore
Wasn’t very big after all, at last now gone.
He was just the empty space now,
the daughter’s lifetime of pushing him
60
Making him do the right thing, repairing the damage,
was gone now
Now just leaving her with hers,
them with theirs, and there was nothing
She could do about it now
Nothing to sort, to do now but sit immobile
And stare inside out t stuff flaying about in the wind..
WRITING-Work in progress
Change is only bought about by awareness and
understanding. Understand your unhappiness and it will
disappear- what results is the state of happiness.
Understand your pride and it will drop- what results is
humility. Understand your fears and they will melt- the
resultant state is love. Understand your attachments
and they will vanish- the consequence is Freedom.
Here is something you must understand: There are two
sources for change within you. One is the cunningness
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of your ego that pushes you into making efforts to
become something other than you are meant to be so
that it can give itself a boost, so that it can glorify itself.
The other is the wisdom of Nature. Thanks to this
wisdom you become aware, you understand it. That is
all you do, leaving the change – type, the manner, the
speed, the time of change- to Reality and to Nature.
Last Meditations of Antony de Mello
She was at the door again. Her androgynous figure a
blurred silhouette behind the beaten glass. Her perfume
hit you first, then the smile, small teeth, cherubic
youth, short hair down the shallow curves of her body
and legs, she was smart, going uptown west. I handed
over my daughter to go with her daughters, to go to
her ex husbands while she went on the razz with her
big sister just back from Brazil, to see her brother who
was moving into a new house of his new wife; it was all
very modern family stuff.
She stood there now almost expectant, waiting for the
round of applause, a wilting of the knees, a
compliment, what did she expect? I was a counselor as
much a friend, and I tried hard most of my time to
focus strictly on her mind. But it was rare, the makeup
and clean clothes, and it was as if she was allowing her
beauty to be exposed, shown off briefly. Most of the
time it was cheapo gear, Oxfam and Primark and her
skin was always bad, particularly after a few nights of
drugs and booze, and recently since the divorce, there
had been quite a lot of those. And her breath smelled.
It was useful to remind yourself of that, particularly
when you felt yourself going, weak kneeded and
mooning, usually well away across a crowded room, a
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born model she looked better that way, the elegance,
poise, combined with the softness of her features- she
looked quite secure even or frighteningly beautiful
depending on how one felt.
She had been a professional in her youth and it hadn’t
really left her, the persona as model although the rest
of her went against it, with the sloppy clothes and
grungy attractiveness. It was really a trick, the trash, to
make her look more beautiful, in the same way she
spent most of her time with low lifes, addicts, pimps,
depressives or people whose their lives and families
were more fucked up than hers. It made her feel better,
kept her ill feeling and discomfort at bay, usually
provided a drink or a smoke as well and of course made
her, in comparison, more beautiful. The bad company
also gave her the edge, allowed her to keep in control,
maintain the narrative drive that was increasingly her
life. The novel was never quite written but constantly,
everyday, more pages would be typed up in her head.
Obviously there was a dream, an intention, to be a
writer (her father had been, pulp fiction, and Mum was
an old, now drunken, hack), but it was the state of
mind that she longed for, where she felt comfortable,
safe, the script providing a barrier, no mans land
(except hers) which buffered the pain.
‘The coke had been a bad idea and Glendine woke in
her new suburban dream house feeling paranoid and in
fear only of the neighbors’ she had written that morning
“she” i.e. Glendine, who was almost totally Gloria,’
skulked round the small house fox like for the morning,
peering round the curtains, afraid to go into the garden
or to make too much noise’. The writing usually
happened after a bit of a binge, the hangover providing
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the semi sober state of elevated reality and it was
Gloria’s habit to then spend a few days at home writing,
gradually coming back to earth. Others just ate a
massive meal and slept for a few days, but Gloria,
being a bit of an anorexic didn’t allow herself that, she
preferred a gradual come down, like a feather after a
pillow flight gradually floating to settle on the floor .
‘She sat at the bedroom window watching the old oak
trees shifting in the breeze and wondering at her
nieghbours water features’. The streets were stranger
for there was a dress code….’ It fortified her, the
writing, acerbic in tone, particularly when it was
mocking someone else ‘ that was so uninspiring it was
hard to fit into its mundanity, or just downright
uncomfortable- white trainers, or six inch heels, track
bottoms or up your crutch faded jeans with ugly
knickers lines’. The fact was Gloria was snob,
particularly when it suited her. Yes, she knew a whole
gamut of people, from underclass addicts, through to
aristocratic wastrels, but there were all were united in
their fondness of excess and common weakness of will.
She, Gloria, could conveniently choose a point of the
scale to take a view on another, to detach, with her
friends giving her judgment the requisite cred. It was as
if she was playing cat and mouse with her self, tiptoeing
across ice pieces, keeping above the undertow of grief
which was always threatening to pull her under to
drown in her secret self hate.
Her father died you see, at 15, after a nasty disease,
and she was and she did not try to repair as it somehow
kept her near her fathers spirit if nothing else, damaged
not quite fully inside her own life. It be could be
construed that it was in Gloria’s relationship with men
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that this contradictory state of not being quite one thing
or the other was most telling, her inability to commit,
so afriad she was of being swallowed up by one thing,
one person, one man. It was this, the love thing, the
lack there, that exercised her need for detachment
most, and what drove her to writing, it being the fuel to
her half-life dreaming. ‘Now listen, carefully this time.’
‘Glendine my love. Glendine my life’ she mouthed
exaggeratedly over the lyrics as the song gathered
momentum. ‘ See. I told you, its obvious, and you know
what’s it all about’
She wrote excited that this was a real thing to write
about, pushing away the thought that it was slightly
mad- insanity makes life more interesting in the end,
doesn’t it, it makes this sitting around in the back
bedroom feeling at the edge of things worth while.
Anyway she went on to write about how her friends,
she had two very old girlfriends, thought she was mad,
that is Glendine, and how they determined to find her a
shrink. Gloria had constructed the Glendine character
around herself in such a way to bring out the
eccentricities, slightly oddball but essentially sweet,
innocently lost in her emotions- but the fact that she
was then writing about it, setting not only herself but
her friends and family in this narrative destroyed that
innocence, almost as if they were becoming playthings
in her own little play, which, in order to replace the
humdrum humiliations of her everyday life, were
dressed up to be all slightly maladjusted, odd too.
But the thing is I know that it wasn’t all fiction, even
exaggerated reality. The Popstar obsession she was
writing about Glendine having, she did actually have,
somehow getting into her head that it was fated,
65
written in the stars, that they, her and Jarvis, would be
one; and she had spent many lonely evenings and wet
afternoons listening over and over again to the anthem
lyrics. The question is did she will on the obsession and
increasingly bizarre behaviour in order to anthemise her
life, make its post divorce emptiness more interesting,
in order to have something to write about, or was her
psychology so genuinely confusing that she had to write
it out in order to prevent it overpowering her and going
genuinely mad.
I suppose it was a situation liable to madness to those
with only a slim hold of reality, when a popstar is
actually there as a person in your life (he was a friend
of her ex husbands new wife who was also a friends
oldest mate), and in fact a person who, although not
greatly known occupies a position in that life somehow
nodal, situated at a junction between various elements
of the life, there in a state suspended between the real
and the fantastic, an ideal place for fantasying on the
affairs of the heart, as she called it. All in all, it was one
of my more exotic cases, at times making me wonder if
my own judgment was correct, or it too had become
distorted by the forest of projections in which it was
set.
‘Glendine went through the front door and went upstairs
to scrub the dogshit from her trainers. She thought
about her two friends and how strange its that
whatever people thought she was, whether they
ridiculed her or were they just skeptical or even
positively hard they found it to talk to her about the
subject. Affairs of heart, imaginary or otherwise are
often sensitive issue but Glendine would bet her
ramshackle house on the fact that was exactly what
66
Joan and Amy were discussing at the moment. ULD
AMLMOST HEAR” The typewriter was stiff and her long
delicate fingers were sore at…
Gloria scribbled away looking out the back of the house,
the long thin garden, a broken shed and a bank oak
trees, the edge of Epping. It had been a compromise,
moving to Chingford, a sum of her contradicting
aspirations; to walk barefooted in country or to be in
the West End by 6 after picking up the kids up from
school, The trees were grand here, their branches
coming over to shelter the ends of the gardens but
around their base were bottles and condoms, crisp
packets and the odd can of paint. BNP, was sprayed on
one of the oaks in white, PAKIS OUT on another, a
Father Christmas gnome sticking his head out from the
nettles. Gloria smiled sitting there thinking of the
fabulous decorations along her road, whole roofs
covered in lights One had a sledge with reindeer pulling
it along; another had Santa waving from the drive, red
eyes staring menacingly. It made her laugh and sad,
that she was so different. “I m the only middle class
person here’ she’d tell others back in town, and she felt
the quizzical looks her neighbours gave her, but she
hadn’t quite registered that she was now spending most
of her day wearing her tracksuit and she had begun
worrying about her trainers being clean.
‘She said she was going to go round his house’ ‘She
didn’t’ ‘Yeah she did’, I was horrified, I begged her not
to’ ‘She needs to see a shrink Amy, she needs to TALK
to some other person about it, someone who doesn’t
know her; she’s got a lot of baggage to shed’ Gloria
bent her head against the soft fist propped up on her
elbow and looked out at the trees. When would the
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green come, the shoots? It will make sense of moving,
show Kenneth why I did. Kenneth was her ex and still
Gloria was fighting him, validating herself, bohemia
against his convention, although her wildness was still
weighed down with the reference to the convention, it
was safer, and his convention was ragged with bohemia
because she had been too egotistical (and drunk) to be
contained by it. But the argument was all but over, and
they were closed to each other now, post split, and
each time she thought about it Gloria tensed up and
turned back to her two old friends, wanting that warm
feeling again of being with them, single and happy
although since hers they had both married too, more
successfully it seemed also, so it gave Gloria some
satisfaction to put them in a position, with her popstar,
of them being secretly jealous of her, ‘ What was she
smiling about anyway’ asked Joan as the pair drove to
the City ‘ God only knows, but Ill tell you what, the
funny thing about all this she looks absolutely fantastic,
her skin is glowing and her eyes are shining, its weird ‘
Hum I noticed that as well, funny isn’t it she hasn’t
looked that good for ages’ Amy peered in the mirror
above the passenger seat as she spoke pulling at her
eyelashes’…
Gloria turned towards the window again and, rather
than the trees she saw a pale reflection of her self, she
could get her hair cut soon, the boyish look was turning
into a top heavy mop. She tilted her head to one side,
and as if moving tracing paper over a picture, the new
Romantic pose, a streak of turquoise in her hair, gelled
together into the old photo. She knew the snap, in The
Face it has made her famous for a while, her fifteen
minutes as she put it and for a while, everyone wanted
her. It still lingered that feeling, now occasionally
68
reproduced when she got more than one male looking
at her across the crowded room.
But she wanted to change and she had turned her back
to the old flash, moved in with the one eyed artist,
dabbling with H, making her skin erupt but made finally
feeling part of something more earthly, a real Art and
it had fitted the play she perceived she should be in.
Her Dad, the sci fi writer, wasn’t really an artist, more a
hack on the make but he remembered him, hidden in
the darkened room at the top of the house, or away
somewhere in France. She’d said goodbye to him in
Nice, dying from throat cancer a pale smile in front of
the sea, fading from Black and White to grey. Gloria
shivered and turned back to the laptop. It had gone to
sleep and her reflection loomed into the blackness; she
struck the keys rapidly to wake the thing up. She
needed to type, it made her feel better.
She needed to change and a typed page was
undeniable evidence, which sounded a bit like one of
her Dads pulp novels. She’d always scribbled her diary
and, particularly over the last few years, where in her
melancholia she’d sit herself in the broken down house,
the one she’d just moved from, the kids upstairs and
with a bottle of wine and music she’d flick through her
life. It was part of her longing, which her story was
about, that love, or infatuation, the consummation of
self by another, was the only thing that pulled her into
life, stopped her thinking about her life in chapters, that
and getting pissed of course, but that wasn’t very good
for her skin, or sanity in fact. Now things would change,
she’d left her ramshackle house, left her husband, even
left the inner city borough- it was a new, well almost
new house in the suburbs and she was determined to
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put her story together properly, although as ever it was
proving almost impossible to quite finish. For a fleeting
moment a thought paraded across her mind that her
writing of her life, the fact that she had one step back
from what was happening so she was able to smile, so
she was able to keep one step ahead, the reason she
felt some sort of power to manipulate, was in fact the
other way round, this detachment was the reason why
her life had ended up in such a mess, out of control, the
mess she was now trying to make worthwhile, by
writing it, redeemed by setting the mishmash of barely
legible diary into a typed story…
‘Anelise assured everybody she was going to pull
through this now. No more all night sessions in the
dank, asphyxiating cellar arranging bits and pieces,
broken mirrors, clothes pegs and stray beads creating a
crack palace, a fantasy den from a twisted fairy tale,
something that would delight an innocent child but
horrify the unsuspecting adult who would stumble
across her holed up there after a long and busy night an
eleven o’clock next morning …’ Gloria typed out the bit
about Cherie, she’d written it the day after the cot had
come. Cherie was a mate, children at the same school,
who’d got lost on drugs and Gloria would go round
occasionally to help, ‘on a mercy mission’ was how
she’d put it, help poor Cherise clean up the mess,
although this angel never refused the offer of a nice bit
of crack and H.
‘Yes she would pull through now this time. No more
hacking at the red shiny curls with nail scissors. No
shabby disguises with the long matted mouse wig and
trench coat. No stolen cards, no kiting, no filched
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passports or drugs in the kids lunch box, no sex for
drugs, no stolen goods and no dealing. It seemed like a
tall story (crossed out) order’
Or should that be story? Gloria wasn’t quite sure but
left it as it was; maybe the ambiguity would be clever.
Gloria, who worked for her brother occasionally as a
court clerk, remembered she’d described a scene there
at some hearing and flicked quickly through her
notebooks to find it to put it in with Cherise bit..
The whole story was about putting things in really,
filling in the gaps; perhaps it was about her emptiness,
this was something to fill it up, something put in to
balance it. How she longed to have everything in place
solid now. In the past she had thought that writing was
the place to explore the hyper reality of the
imagination; the phrase had stuck since O’level English,
Keats and the other one. But the writing had melded
into the club scene when she going out with Ned, the
acid, the H, spliff and mushrooms, and underlying
conviction that she should abandon the text and was
meant to live in the land of Art. And then suddenly the
thought came that it would be better to go straight.
Meeting Kenneth. I know he’s different but I can see us
together, him playing the piano me the guitar. Little
kids in the ramshackle house. Set building and camping
holidays. So why not marry lets do it and she did.
Happiness, there, for a while, then draining away as she
felt the parameters close in around her again and her
facility for fantasy rapidly fading, seizing up as the
actuality of the situation set in, not allowing her mind to
move, killing all the wild possibilities. So she said No,
and that was it, the end. And the family was broken, a
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dream collapsed a picture folded, the little girls crying in
the night, loneliness, weakness as the stopcock burst
and fear in the middle of the night as people knocked
on the door giving everyone a fright. And there she said
Gloria, sitting there, feeling the awful never to be
quenched thirst for a forgone life.
‘Yours naturally out if it Stace, (Gloria had called herself
stace in this one), said Anelise as they wound up
Homerton high street warm and dry in Anelises clapped
out Vauxhall. Chevette in the pouring rain, while
bedraggled pedestrians battled it out against the traffic
in the cold and wet. It was true she had cracked up as
Anelise had- but without the drugs’ ‘It’s the billboards’
Stacey had ranted as her fragile and intense mind had
been pushed and pushed until she was verging on the
brink of insanity ‘ they’re aimed at me’ ‘its you (that
was the giant hand from the lottery) was deliberately
aimed at her- it was blatantly obvious, not that anyone
else would know, how could they, it was a secret
message after all- a phrase from a love song he’d
written about her after they’d met.
What Kenneth did next still hurt her and the memory
broke through her writing and made her hear him
again. ‘I just wanted to do the right thing’, he’d said to
his friend later. ‘OK I fucked up. It was a mistake, but it
was as if she was pushing me, wanting to destroy me,
you and Nance I just wanted to puncture that tight little
coterie; after all she was my wife, we had the vows.
And it was Nancy and Gloria, taunting me with Jarvis,
Nancy’s mate, Her ex's best friend, a tight little
Sheffield in London crew, and here me thinking it was
some sort of sick joke, Jarvis the great, just to get at
me, after all we did sing songs together, Gloria and I,
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me on the guitar her with cymbals, lovely melodies, and
I’d even made a demo tape, she was just trying to
taunt me. Drive me away, making me try and strangle
her as she flaunted the bit in her I could never get at,
driving me crazy ‘ You’re just driving me crazy, isn’t it
lazy, why are you doing this to me’. It started by
putting on Catalonia full blast, going on about Cherise,
getting the poster, pretending to wank in front of her,
trousers around me ankles. Stupid look in my face- that
was probably the last time, the last time I got under her
skin, we were just sharing something together two
children laughing. And there she was, Nancy, big lips
big eyes fluttering, me knowing that she was knowing
what I knew she knew and yes there was the hots
between us, I’m not sure how much was because I
could see Gloria face shock belittled me giving Nancy
one hard and fast in the back of the car at Frinton the
tangerine sunset catching Nancy’s neck. Maybe she was
in on it as well, Nance- she told me after the second
time, in the B&B the Rock Castle, that she didn’t really
like Gloria deep down, flaunting her model looks,
putting her down because she didn’t have a child didn’t
have a man. But she did have Jarvis, and Nancy
thought it was silly, Jarvis wouldn’t even think about it,
even for a flicker, he liked something more grounded,
good and true, his Sheffield girlfriend worked with the
handicapped, or more exotic, he could always get a PR
Fulham model type. Gloria wasn’t even in the running,
in fact it was rather embarrassing when she turned up,
out of the blue, knowing Jarvis was coming for tea,
sitting there mooning, going all coy, Jarvis then getting
all uncomfortable, I mean that was the reason he went
round to Nancy’s, it was safe, away from the groupies,
and then Gloria following him out into the street, trying
to make polite conversation- Jarvis said later he had to
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jump into a cab just to get away from her. And it made
me feel better, strong again, armed having fucked
Nancy, although Id never thought it more than that,
she was a bit mad, really bohemian, though she said to
me the third time, Pier View, that she wasn’t really like
that and just wanted a regular life, it was only that her
Dad left her when she was a baby and her mum had
committed suicide when she wasn’t even a teenager,
and her madness was a defense- Well that really
frightened me off, what a fucking bitch, coming
pregnant that really put the Kibosh on everything, it
fucked everything up and rather than feeling better that
was it , she’d totally done me in, she’d robbed me of a
leg to stand on, even though she caused it, it left Gloria
in the right now, as far as everyone else was
concerned, although I knew she was secretly pleased, it
was obvious, it all fitted into her story…
‘The magazines slung carelessly under the bed were
beginning to irritate Glendines husband. They had slid
into view as he hoovered the floor and Mathew had a
feeling she was leaving them there deliberately in order
to provoke him. He’d had a tedious day at work
resulting in a thumping headache and the last thing he
wanted to see as he got undressed for the bath was ‘
boy wonder’ peering at him from under the bed wearing
that faintly mocking expression which Mathew found
disturbing. ‘ Pull yourself together woman, he snapped
when he came in that evening taking her by surprise to
find her covered in pink paint, writhing around the
sitting room floor in the dark, He flicked on the light’
And Glendine turn the fucking music down, please’
adding sarcastically ‘ haven’t you heard this particular
work of art enough for one day’; Glendine slunk into the
bedroom like a naughty dog, She knew the music would
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start him off so had stopped playing it when he was in,
but she hadn’t expected him home early. She threw
herself into the bed and buried her face into the pillow
unable to stem the advancing floods of tears. There she
cried quietly alone for ten minutes, then as if relieved
by her emission she sat up and rubbed her eyes and
reaching under the mattress pulled out a large dogeared diary. Lying in bed etc etc.. –
Gloria stopped. She found the writing exhausting,
converting her own reality into this story at one
remove. It would be so much easier if she could just
type out her diary, maybe she should, but they seemed
too sporadic, disconnected to make any sense, people
might even sue- And I’m not sure about this- seems too
corny but it explains the story, and she converted it to
italics which made her feel a bit more professional.
It felt good though that she was finally making
something concrete from her scribblings, it had always
been the plan. It was one of the reasons she left
Kenneth, her mind felt trapped, she could have those
times in the half light with her diary; he’d always be
breathing down her neck, wanting something, getting
her to get on, be practical. It was good, they’d got a
home. got the children but then what? Stuck with the
children and him and that was it, she was what she
was, his, or so he kept telling him and that meant she
was stuck with her, that was it, no room for make
believe or the what if, the Jarvis and her together
forever, lifting her out into the free world of glamour
rock bright lights and endless flights. And the little black
photo in the corner on the bookshelf beside the piano
that Ken had got from a TV set, there he was looking in
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slick 50’s hairdo, sharp features, collar and tie- Dad,
the Father who was never quite there, up in the attic
scribbling pulp fiction, stories of lesbians taking over
the world, a new Hollywood of Virtual Reality sets
stealing dreams and big brother radio sets. He was up
there, and Mum downstairs in a drunken feud, and then
he was gone, not there, a snatched phone call after her
big sister and brother, endless trips to see him
cancelled at the last minute, until, finally, they were
there on the promenade in Nice, a cold wind in March,
sun too bright behind him, a half bottle of whisky in his
too large coat, there but not there, fading, the pale face
coming away from his too bright eyes, that sad light
smile, blinking and he wasn’t there now, just the wine,
a void always there but not there, unable to hold but
stuck inside you…
‘..running into oblivion, refuse incineration chimney,
hospital waste chimneys, motorway intersections
speckled with bleak tower blocks, and here in front of
her a gentle crow speckled mist. The quiet was
unnerving but it was at this point Glendine realized she
was leaving the bad times behind the ugly muddled
distant London, it would fade and a simpler way of life
would take its place. The quiet unsettled her but she
would get used to it on a little island of green…’
Where was this story going Gloria thought, it can’t
always come back to me looking out of the window.
What happens next? Shall I just go on about me or
what? Gloria felt the emptiness growing inside her, the
terrible feeling of just being there, suddenly alone,
useless, redundant, wanting needing something but not
sure want it was.. She flicked vaguely again through
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her diary, ‘ What about him? he might ring’, he always
seemed to sense when the empty times came; that’s
why he got her in the end and how he got her again,
and now…
Mike was the old man who’d come into the story
recently, but this time one who’d Gloria actually fucked,
or rather got fucked by, because I would judge, from a
professional perspective, taken from a psycho-analytical
viewpoint, despite all her independence, freedom of
spirit, she really wanted to be made dependant, no
longer feel so alone. At depth, despite all appearance
contrary, she wanted to be taken and controlled, so at
last she could stop having to try and control everything,
at last she would be the star of the story written by
someone else.. Her Dad perhaps? Jarvis? the poet? I
don’t want to but maybe I am getting sucked into the
story too, maybe my part is unavoidably going to be
revealed, the roles façade discarded, but for now, her
Counselor will do….
‘Charlie (Mike) caught her eye immediately. He stood
out among the old faces, the young trendy West London
crowd, sat at a prime table in the center of the room
seated with his pretty dark haired French wife Nina. He
was the oldest person there and wore an aura of
confidence, success and wealth. The controller. The
meeting had taken place rather predictably in the toilets
the three friends (that would be I suppose Amy and
Joan). And Charlie crowd around a wrap while his rather
demure wife4 sat innocently at a table in the dimly lit
club, the meeting triggered a sequence if events, which
had swiftly led to the current position.. ;;
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Gloria liked the last bit; it really put things in place
although she felt below the little persistent fear that he
might ring at any moment. Was the ugly feeling
bubbling away that said maybe it was Gloria’s turn to
be had… Used and abused, but that too could find a
place in the story. In the beginning it was a bit of a
laugh, a little lust expended out on the piss, the old
bloke hoving in, he had lots of drugs and it was just
nice to have someone fancy you. And of course the
coke, the fast track escalator to freedom from the
humdrum goings on that had been going on too long,
the jackanory suddenly becoming a thriller, comedy,
erotic love movie,and yes it could be you too, be the
star, it was great, 16 again going up west soaking up
and rebutting the leering pests but now almost 20 years
on.
But it wasn’t quite like that. They were suddenly talking
about Jarvis, the popstar who now thought she was a
stalker, the seducer who had suddenly become her
taunter with Gloria finally getting tangled up in her own
puppetry bringing the scenery upon herself as he went
off with a French model poetess and there was Mike
now, his Producer, the man behind the man, it was
almost like revenge. The older man, as the pale
younger man faded away becoming the older man that
actually is the third man, with the key to her heart, the
shape to fit the missing part she had.
Gloria did not think of that, stepping away inside herself
to see why it was him that she fell in with, after
Kenneth, or did she call him Ned, after Jarvis, the one
she’d called Ivan, in the diary, now Mike called
Charlie. What was he in her story? The old devil, the
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dreammaker, the chief puppeteer, or simply a rich and
famous person, her exit route from the suburbs; after
all she too had been a glamour model once. No, she
had obviously decided cast him as the corrupter, she
the victim- it saved opening up the thorny chasm of
self-doubt, making another mistake without knowing it,
showing the powerlessness she had on her own
condition, even if she had constructed the drama in
which now she was floundering about in.
‘ but now the atmosphere in the studio was becoming
stale and tepid and things were slowing down- Charlie
couldn’t allow this to happen, he needed to inject some
adrenalin into the situation- he needed to do a bit of
homework on Ivan,, the tall moody and difficult singer,
so he had a drink and soon enough his tongue
loosened, the gist of the problem was Ivan’s girlfriend,
who was a sweet girl, but they had been together so
long that rather like the recording atmosphere, the
relationship had stagnated..
SPPEECH, THIS MEET (Gloria added) …. Of WRITER,
controller of the controller, it not really happening to
me)
She needed to spice it up a bit, get a story going, gee
Ivan up a bit make him a right bastard, and her more of
a victim, the Dracula myth. Gloria put in some stuff
about being a bored housewife, softening up herself as
a target, so she removed the bit about taking a whole
load of coke with Raymond Rialto, who I think must be
Roland Rivron, the one with Jools Holland famous for a
while back in the eighties, and drew a picture of herself
as unbalanced, fragile and mad.
79
‘It was perfect. The women would prove a superb target
for his plan, there was tall skinny Joan with the long
long legs and the naughty short skirts, and restless
redhead Glendine. A bit of a goer by the sound of it,
what with the husband away on a business trip. Now it
was a matter of timing, and timing, as Glendine would
find out, was an area in which Charlie was particularly
talented. ‘Do you want to meet Ivan then’ Amy was on
the phone to Glendine’.
Gloria made it out to be some sort of spiders web, but
the fact was she had been pushing Sonia (that’s Amy)
who worked for Mike (that’s Charlie) to get her to ask
her round when Jarvis (Ivan) no Ivan (Jarvis) was
there, and the fact was that at the studio Jarvis ‘ the
tall young man with dark hair and tight velvet trousers
stood looking blankly at the assembled party ‘ as she
had described him trying to ‘ fictionalize’ has seemed
totally oblivious to her even though she was with Mike /
Charlie the main man. That was when her fantasy had
collapsed, Jarvis looking straight over her, then through
her, and for all her longing, the conviction that he
would recognize as a soul mate, after all she had left
her husband for him, he had just looked straight
through her,. ‘ Was she another PR girl or sommit’ was
how she was described later by the PopstarAmy had
said, and it was that ‘sommut’ that had done her in..
‘Another chance to prove her ‘ love’ gone wrong.
Another evening spent drinking and skulking around a
dingy music venue her heart in her throat ready to be
scorned but this time she was the one prepared. The
first tomato hit him square in the center of his
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immaculate suit “Take that loser” she screamed
although her voice was drowned by the music and the
Star had not noticed although the audience was seeing
a red slime working its way towards his navel ‘And that’
she lobbed another tomato, thankful for her ridiculously
long arms ‘ WANKER’ She had made there tomato
rotten and quite unpleasant… Revenge at last ‘Worth
every Penny’ she sneered as the bruiser bouncer
slammed the door behind her.
Gloria liked that. She’d made it up, or rather
transcribed a fantasy. She should have done it, it would
have made more sense. She could fill this bit in easy,
‘…another morning recovering. Back on Chingford Plain
life carried on at its gentle pace. The trees hissed in the
breeze, larks calling from the upper most branches, old
Albert did some joinery in the house.’ (I’d
recommended him, and it was his real name, despite
sounding made up)
The cat chased squirrels round the house and children’s
voices drifted over the little wood during playtime (that
was so convenient that it could have been made up, but
it was true all the same). The children. There you had
love, sweetness and innocence and the contact after
another night of rebuke, arrogance, hypocrisy and more
arrogance. It was enough now. How to free her mind of
this possession, possessed by a man she didn’t much
like at the moment but still dreamt at night of his arms
around her, and made her sad’
She had made a mistake. That bit was about Charlie not
Ivan. She never got anywhere near Ivan to like him or
not; it must have been Charlie. It had been a heavy
81
night; her head was a bit fucked up. This was Charlie
(one morning anyway) but she was making it Ivan, and
it didn’t quite fit, Charlie was meant to have been the
manipulative bastard, she the victim; maybe she knew
she wasn’t after all.
‘She should not have taken them down there in the first
place and realized now it was a mistake, but the lure of
a fantasy garden, central heating and fresh air had
proved too much after another night of May rasping and
wheezing away in a dusty bed in a damp and mouldy
house (that was the one before Chingford) in a choking,
suffocating city and Glendine had quite suddenly
whisked them up and bundled them into the car for the
two hour drive. She had anticipated further
psychological damage to herself during their stay but at
least the little ‘uns would be able to breath.He was into
the Valium and Remy Martiun by the time she arrived.
The kids went straight to bed and she sat listening to
him moan about himself while his tongue lolled lazily in
his mouth. He reminded her of her Mother (she was a
drunk too)’
The story wasn’t quite gelling. She had gone down
there. Why? It sounded like just to enjoy the wealth of
the Fat Man, ‘he seemingly oblivious sawed away on top
of her- could he really be so blind as to still think they
were having sex? She didn’t believe.. but he was
dragging and squeezing every last drop from this
shriveled deceitful affair now? And it was her choice.
She’d missed out the bit about how the affair had
developed with long lecherous phone calls, breaking up
the emptiness of her nights, and she reveling in his
desire; it was what she wanted. Mike had replaced
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Jarvis, with the same handy caveat that from the
beginning she knew it wasn’t going to work, she
wouldn’t get totally lost, because they wouldn’t or she
couldn’t, whatever, as her daughter said, she’d remain
in control, above it all, they’d fill the void, she’d write
about it, she’d walk out of it despite the dramatics,
fairly unscathed.
She’d written this bit about Charlie ages ago, and here
she was pasting all the bits together, and she knew
rather too quickly, (she’d have time later on), and,
although she hated herself for it, she was still waiting,
for the call, still it wasn’t over his rotten affair, but she
needed to make it solid something coherent, all this
scribbling, there had to be a conclusion, even if she
made it up she felt her life depended on it now. She
hadn’t written about the trips to France with him, she’d
loved those, among his interesting friends in beautiful
places, she hadn’t written about the laughter they’d
had, her happy after all those evenings just sitting
there munching, wondering if she was getting fat, or
becoming an old soak like her mother. And he had, for
a moment, taken her out of herself; intimacy, feeling
loved, was that the feeling she had had, for that
moment, that then back in her bedroom had made her
all afraid. She’d written then furiously, and set it all out,
making herself feel guilty again and she’d backtracked
from him that fairly soon after that. Shed made it
public, her distate for it, the fact that it was a joke; old
fat rich git with modelly type with Dad complex- again
the puppetry set had collapsed on itself.
‘Des (his name was Mic) liked doing favours. He’d heard
all about the events I am ( that’s Gloria/ Glendine)
describing through his moll. Glendine best friend
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Anelise, the only person in fact who had never doubted
Glendines sanity and had been shrewd enough to
understand exactly what was going down. Des and
Anelise had been around each other for a few years
now, he oozed Irish charisma and he liked Glendine ‘
Oh the kids, the messes they get into ‘; he’d smile his
shiny green eyes a and his graying sideburns, just
turning ginger as the met the stubble of his neat
moustache and beard. Always well turned out, sheer
check shirt, clean new shoes, fifty, fit as a fiddle, strong
and handsome, kindly but hard No you don’t mess with
Dessy
Not another one. Another bloke, another puppet, I
sighed to myself. Why cant she see to give her diary
means something much more doesn’t it, something real
rather than made up. It was bollix Dessy or rather Mick
is a fucking dodgy Mick, who was, apart from being a
petty theif, a pimp and heroin pusher, who used Anelise
was a whore, had been trying to get Glendine/ Gloria
into it, his and others beds, so in his particular story he
could have a smart tart as part of his traveling man
scenario. And why had Glendine I mean Gloria put this
bit in there. It wasn’t relevant. Perhaps it was an
unconscious acknowledgement that soon after or rather
in the process of Charlie being pushed away into he
shadows, she started hanging out with Des, and
Guinness in the morning. Days disappearing into that
floating soft dream of a day, flattened out by some
dope in the evening. That’s what she did. Move the
players about to enable her to move on from one
sedative to the other…
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I know, Gloria suddenly thought, feeling almost
inspired, Ill end it with a murder, Glendine running over
Charlie getting rid of all the men in her life
‘ Glendine Brookes you have been charged with the
most serious of all indictments and if you are found
guilty by the jury I have an alternative but to inflict in
you the most severe penalty,
Gloria had been a clerk at court, as perhaps as I’d
mentioned earlier, we had often posited that the
appearance of the criminals in her dreams was really
about the projection of her own guilt. But her new
attempt to make the story coherent didn’t quite gel.
There was no bit when her and Charlie had got violent
before, and generally the story didn’t have that bite,
just drifted on as it was, a journal of slightly
unanchored life. If anything it was the old tale of
unrequited love, the search for love and, really, the
only ending for the story was either suicide, or,
particularly in these Hollywood times, meeting the right
bloke who had been there all the time, supporting her,
a rock for her, no glamour but an other worldliness,
and if she had allowed herself to admit it, he was
actually the man for her.. that’s where, now I’ve let
myself fall into the story, where I should finally come
in.
I had cast myself as counselor, going through the
papers, for therapy, but just as easily I could be the
publisher, doctor, , the policeman, or the executor of
her will- the story could have ended in a suicide after
all, or madness, trying to make sense of what she’d
done. But the fact is she, Gloria, I don’t think I should
85
tell you her real name, sent them to me so I could help
her ‘get them into shape’; and that’s what I had
become., as Jarvis, she was looking over my shoulders
to somewhere else me there just as a helper, one of the
relegated past stars, now kept in the wings as walkons, production support, chorus, make up artist all
rolled into one. There was a moment when, in the
wobbles before the break up with Ned, or is that
Kenneth, that I came in, in my fantasy at least, as a
white knight the guy who could show her the light and
perhaps I too was looking for someone to become the
embodiment of all my desires, the particularization of
the void, the need echoed into a shape. Gloria had the
posh voice I was missing, she valued the Art, she
wanted to live on a farm and grow herbs and organics,
let the children run wild; we could escape together in a
caravan to Connemara, be free of the squalor of the
city, chokey as she out it, and both discover the
creative freedom away from each of our own misguided
marriages.
So I suppose, if I can be so bold a become a counselor
to myself, she in turn was a walk on, a stand in in my
would be Life, soaking up the frustration and
unfullfillment of my current wife. It was a balancing act,
keeping her close enough, so as to fit the fantasy of a
surrogate mistress, but not too close as to infect the
picture I had of her, to allow her to contradict the vision
of the life I had constructed for us. I couldn’t hold the
poise too long, the contorted position, and I had to be
careful because following the desire too closely,
inevitably I would begin to loose the Virgin Hope.
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First there was a night when we both went to stay with
my mother in the country, and it was like on the card
that, you know, we might, but, sitting there in front of
the fire, a bottle of wine in front of her open, listening
intently to the story of her life, a leering lust waiting
behind the earnestness of my ‘ finally you’ve found a
playmate’ stare, and then suddenly as she let herself
go, the cool Writer /Artist reverting to the little west
London girl, I saw the person inside the mask, a
teenager confused and frightened, a posh girl in the end
self obsessed, vanity and full of fear (and I smelt her
breath and I rapidly retreated going to bed before she
wrecked me and my set of stories. I had wanted my
wife, again, earthy, mature, a woman who’d had to
fight for what she had got, was clear in the hard truth
of life, which made her something to hold onto, to look
up to, (even if she was two foot shorter).
The second time the moon was full, again at my
mothers- and we stayed up, pastoralists, as the wife hit
the sack and Gloria lay there in the long grass almost
baying, legs open ‘ they say the full moon makes a
woman more fertile’ and all of my body said ‘Yes take
her’, longing for a child the wife cannot bear, the child
that will take you to the land of the hearts desire. But I
didn’t, clammed up, felt myself shriveling, talking about
unrequited love, vaguely hoping she might come out
and take me instead, but really just holding up the
mirror to show my crippling lack of resolution, my
sadness and my fear.
So the dream had slipped away after that, and although
she was still close, she became a lost hope rather than
a possibility and I her counselor of sorts.…And at heart,
I didn’t like it, she was meant to be my star, and I was
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meant to be directing the play, instead of a bit player in
her drama- we shouldn’t have tried to share
productions I know now and I saw her in me, our need
to create our own drama, because we didn’t have a
great deal of conviction ourselves, essentially passive,
needed a play to play on, to dictate our part, as
essentially we didn’t have anything particularly pressing
to say.
At least we recognized that in ourselves and knew our
secrets, me laughing at her latest episode, suggesting
some alteration, embellishments, even plotline; her
kind enough to maintain enough closeness, smiles,
intimacy to keep my little hope (and ego) house in the
surrogate mistress fantasy going. But really, it had
gone sour, as she just reminded me, and I reminded
her, of our inability to grasp our dreams. She shown a
torch at the lack of integrity in my marriage; and I was,
in the flesh, the dampner in the latest ongoing love
drama she was involved in. She did include me, which
filled up some of my longing, the past episodes, and I
got pleasure out of giving my direction; but at the same
time secretly willed that they wouldn’t come off, still
held out that really I was the man, the fourth man, the
one who was there, and always had been, for her., the
one who understood her,and the person she was meant
to be with, in the country, away from drugs, exploring
her creativity. But it had gone sour, become too
obvious, it had changed and I now know I can’t keep
the fantasy going much further Ill run out of life and I
know really she doesn’t really want anybody, she’s been
pushing the soap opera too long now, it’s all too safe,
almost dead.
88
Beep, Beep, Gloria felt her heart miss a beat. It was the
text. Charles mate, Tony had been texting her all night
now, little messages willing her toward him.
U14menotC. He was a musician her age, in a charity
band of Charlie’s, bought out for Formula 1 gigs only,
and Glendine had known that suddenly as they cruised
a gang around Beauchamp Place looking for something
to eat that something was on. Texting was great. Neat,
secret, a code, the saved message a diary; neat, hand
held. Ucume? she typed, slowly, her long fingers
missing the keys. Mike, I mean Charlie was out, Tony
was in, but in the interlude they going to have to have a
tussle over her, the snow queen ‘Achme’ Gloria only
found out later that in fact the text was from Mike
/Charlie and that whole 48 hour episode, was him
mucking round with Malcolms (Tonys) phone. It took
her a week to get over it, cover up that hole. She’d
been had, and maybe that was the reason she couldn’t
resist his call.
‘Ill buy you a ticket’ I said, for a ball at Silverstone,
which the band were playing at, after listening to Gloria
yesterday going on about wanting to go but neither of
them, the musos had invited her yet. Getting her a
ticket gave me a sense of control ‘Why don’t you take
me, we could go together ‘and she did it again, threw a
bit of meat to the hungry dog, who wagged its tail ‘OK’
The ball was at my old college and I knew well which
den I could fuck her in, and which adolescent fantasy
she might fit into and suddenly I knew it wasn’t working
any more the unrequited, it was just sick. ‘Ill get my
brother to go with you ‘I said trying to regain control. I
knew nothing would actually happen, in reality nothing
89
will move on and I knew it had to change now, I had to
actually do something rather than fantasize, I had to let
her go.
I suppose that’s why I’m writing this, to concretize my
story in her story, set it in type o I can leave it, finally.
She, as always has left her story open, bits of diary,
one days to make a whole, and at heart she didn’t
want to close off any possibility, The scribbling for her
was a stimulus for more adventure, a curer of
hangovers, a defense against the raw edge of life. I had
taken her writing so I could reclaim the edge, take back
my story from her, and really I was disappointed that I
didn’t even get a mention, but at least through this I
could put her in her place.
‘Gloria taped with the tip of her pen on the tip of her
mouth, letting her tongue go up and down the shaft,
clicking its end inn time with the beat of the music.
She’d tidy the story up later. It was almost there, She
was pleased shed done it 15 pages. 13524 words
including the bit where she repeated herself, the paste
had gone wrong. She just wished she had finished
Charlie off for real so it would make sense of her
murder. It briefly occurred to her that the murder might
have ended her ability to love simply but let the thought
vanish to wheel in the set piece of the courtroom solid
dependable and now a weekly occurrence, underwritten
by all those episodes of Ironside. It will give it an air of
a proper book rather than meandering around the self
and sounded good when she talks about it ‘ Work in
Progress shell say. The grunge version of Bridget Jones
Diary. If only she could find an editor. And again (the
coke was finally wearing thin) if it was this that
prevented her from finding a man. As it was about one
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man being replaced by the antidote to his deficiencies,
allowing Gloria to change clothes and chamele into
someone else- Music Fulham Chick to Suburban Nature
lover, to, Shell sort it out later, at least in type, the
children will be back soon and nothing was going to
change that.
‘ Your mitigation states that you were pushed ad
provoked in a way that is a modern manifestation of the
conditions of modern living in a media dominated
society. An artificial world in which people have become
increasingly isolated as normal means of
communication breakdown. However this mitigation is
flawed, no witness had come forward ad beyond your
testimonial we have no proof, unfortunately for you,
those that may have been in a position to testify on
your behalf are now dead. I would however like to add
for the benefit of assorted press and members of the
jury. this is what you get when you mess with love..
Court Rise.
It was almost a neat ending.
91
Child/Woman
And there she was lying prone across the bed
Mismatched bikini Justin Timberlake on the wall
Mother performing therapy, leg wax and
Go away Dad she said Piss Off, with a
Strong desire to attack the Old Man
Throw things, hurt him, like an Imposter,
Spy, Intruder, emblem of the
Enemy gathering at the Gate.
Hey Dad
Hey Dad, Angels going to be a Dad Dad:
I looked and there the vampire exploded
Leaving the baby screaming naked in the street:
Do we have to I asked,
And Mums watching the documentary
On miscarriages next door and I sagged,
Caught between the future and the past,
The not so tangible still beyond my
grasp
Suicide
He carried death inside him
The death of all those babies
And the love that made them so,
The death of him in perfecto
The benefit that showed him how
92
The death of a life he saw gone
And now could see before him:
Thirteen years
And still the fears,
Whip it out quick beforehand,
What if we can’t?
Why don’t we talk?
Thirteen years
And still the fears, on and on
Co –dependency
93
The self-defeating learned behaviors or character defects that
result in a diminished capacity to initiate or to participate in
loving relationships
A definition of co dependency by Earnie Laarsen
They were lost, or rather the Man was, who, despite his
cool and forthright demeanour, inside was becoming
increasingly frantic with the unsettling feeling that he
was going totally the wrong way. The Woman, sitting in
the car beside him, was trying to trust his driving just
enough to be able to sit back and pretend at least to
enjoy the holiday scene. The child, in the seats behind,
was aware that her belly was empty, wondering if it
was true what her Dad said, that it was because she
was bored rather than really hungry her tummy was
rumbling, making it her fault somehow, though she was
unaware that she didn’t ask him to stop in case it
started another one of her parents rows. It was very
hot in the car.
‘Look at the fucking map’ ‘We haven’t got a fucking
map’ but Jack and Jeanine were fighting again, like
murder. ‘But we’ve got three fucking maps’ ‘Yeah but
they’re not the right fucking maps, there isn’t the right
map. Hiking Map, Touring Map, Eating Map there isn’t a
proper fucking Road Map’ ‘Cant you work it out ?’
94
Stupid woman he thought, sounding like that little big
man in Dads Army he knew but Jack prided himself on
having a good sense of navigation, had always with the
Geog A+ and all the backpacking he’d done and she
couldn’t even fucking drive a car, Twat. But why was it
taking so long, it didn’t look that long on the map? It
must’ve been the f-ing map, a Michelin tourist guide
with only the flimsy map at the beginning, Principle
Sites, Dolmen and Churches, and then the Touring
Programmes with one route in blue and one in red; God
it irritated Jack, fucking French and he didn’t like being
told where to go by anyone, he could follow his nose
thanks. Give him an Ordnance Survey and I’ll show you
the world he always said, but the false scale must’ve
had done him in, made him think that he’d be there
sooner: then again he always thought time would take
less to get there wherever that was. But in his mind he
could see it so clearly, the miles or rather kilometers
ahead and driving fast by himself he could have done it
he was sure, in no time if there wasn’t the traffic, the
winding roads, and then the stopping for the endless
frigging snacks of the child. Definitely, it would be
different, easier, faster, if he was traveling alone, but
he stopped himself thinking that too loudly, again.
‘Brittany’s a lot bigger than you think, France is’ said
Jeanine, placatory as usual, adding ‘Anyway what’s the
rush-we’re on holiday. Relax’ Jack grunted inaudibly
‘Prat’. He had seen it in his head where he was going to
and it was part of the story he had already sketched out
and, if he didn’t fulfill it it would be another failure for
him, like the business, although for this he’d be the
only one to know. Finisterre was where he was making
for, he’d worked it all out and that was where he was
going to finish it, this marriage that wasn’t a real
95
marriage really. God he was sick of the squabbling of
this endless affair with no resolution, always the
uncertainty of where they were going to, never really
agreeing where they were going to end up what they
were going to do.
It was very hot in the car, even with the airconditioning and the pilgrimage of vehicles with roof
racks, young families poddling along the coast road
preventing him from putting his foot down further. The
fact was, secretly Jack didn’t really enjoy driving; he’d
rather zap down to the next destination and enjoy the
time then there, rather than take the time now to enjoy
the journey itself. Jeanine of course could lie back and
think; she refused to drive abroad or even on
motorways at home, even though Jack had put her
through lessons and bought her a car. It was the same
old thing, him somehow landing himself with all the
hassle in order to placate her and therefore keep some
sort of control ( and the chance of a conciliatory shag),
but then, him not liking it, hating the responsibility that
came with the control and becoming every angrier
because it made the whole task of living worse. Why
couldn’t they just try and share?
‘Slow down you’re getting away from Tony and Alice’
said Jeanine ‘Oh bollocks, they’ll catch up’ snapped Jack
‘Dad can we stop soon I’m hungry’ ‘You mean you’re
bored’ ‘Yeah I’m bored, Come on Dad. Pleeeese’ ‘Oh
shit. Fuck this’ said Jack. Tony and Alice, old friends of
Jeanine were following them and kept slipping back
behind, Tony refusing to ever go above the speed limit
and besides the new Ford was still being run in. ‘Dick,’
Jack thought but another quieter part respected the fact
that the man had two kids in the back and it was a new
96
car, but it still made Jack all irritatedly tense. The
sooner they got to Finisterre the better, he wanted to
be shot of the whole lot of them, he wanted to get back
to his own psychic space, (as the relationship counselor
called it), rather than always feeling jostled by other
people, going where they wanted to at their own stupid
pace.
‘Hi Tony we were wondering whether we should stop
soon.. Yeah ...’ Jeanine was asking on the mobile, ‘OK’
Tony was married to an old girlfriend-flatmate of
Jeanine, but Jeanine had gone out with him before. It
was all so close her life, thought Jack dotted with
people and places that were still there or thereabouts,
she’d only lived in four places in her life for fucks sake.
Jack had a much bigger map, geographically speaking
that is, with lots of places he’d called home for a while,
but the people, well they had mostly faded, just
outlines now hardly registering at all. Jack had always
moved on, as he called it, so they weren’t really missed
at the time, there were new ones in the new places to
come, but, when he had finally stopped, having to with
Jeanine and the child, he’d turned back for company,
his life and they had all disappeared, gone.
‘Yeah, I know, Emerson Fittipaldi here’ Jeanine giggled
into the phone; Jacks blood began to heat up they were
ganging up on him as usual. He suddenly felt very
alone, trapped in her world, locked up. ‘OK Chook, pass
me over to Alice….’ ‘Here we go’ he thought, another
long-winded discussion about where to stop, what to do
and how to do it. Tony and Alice and Jeanine all were
like that, everything deeply considered, talked through,
between themselves and with other people. Everything
considered. Fuck that, ‘Ok.. Yeah... that’s good...if
97
Jeremy Clarkson here agrees- Jack, do you think we
could stop in half an hour OK? And Tony thinks we
should find a place to stay soon he doesn’t want to
drive for more than two hours at a go, the kids will get
fed up’. Shit, what about Finisterre ‘I thought we were
making for Quimper?’ said Jack, ‘It looks good in the
guide book, then not far to Cape Corneille the next day’
‘Come on does it really matter, a beach is a beach after
all’ Jeanine replied. Jack couldn’t argue with that and he
could hardly start talking about Finisterre now and
ending it with her, finis le fin, the car was already far
too hot.
In Jacks head his own map came up and he adjusted
his arrows to allow the stopover before his final thrust
towards the peninsula and the tune ‘Who do you think
you are fighting Mr. Hitler da dadada...again Dads Army
began leaking in from the sides. In fact Jeanine was
beginning to look a bit Adolphy, dark hair, sharp
features, harsh eyebrows, the image of the sultry
odalisque he had fallen in love with had long gone,
disintegrating in the campaign of hostilities that had
broken out last year. ‘OK, he sighed,’ but we‘ll go on
tomorrow, early, to get to the Point, in time to go for a
walk and… It’s meant to be really beautiful you know’
he urged ‘OK....’ and Jeanine nodded ‘Captain Birdseye
says OK let stop but he still wants to go to the Cape
Corny... whatever its called tomorrow’ Jeanine giggled
into the phone, ‘ Yeah I know, he’s all wind through the
hair and all that..’ and she broke out laughing ‘ Yeah if
he had any... Always the Romantic... Yeah’ and she
laughed again…’Yeah cho bella , I mean auvoir, Darl
bye see you soon, I hope, I really hope he does too’
Stupid cunt thought Jack, just wait until we get to the
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Point de what ever its fucking called, I’ll show her what
for then, I’ll show her the real outdoors’.
--------
‘Finisterre literally means End of the World, said the
Rough Guide. He knew that, he thought, he’d always
known that since trying to work out the Shipping News
at Uni. Finisterre, French innit, End of Land, the very
Edge of the Map, Finish There and shaped like a tongue
it was almost too appropriate. But this one there wasn’t
like the other one, the first one in Spain; he could see it
there now; red sun, light house, her no knickers,
everything richer more colorful.
‘Body on a horizon of sea, Body open, to the slow
intoxification of fingers, body defended by the
splendour of apples, Surrended hill by hill, Body made
moist, By the tongues pliant sun’. It was the poem he’d
memorized to recount to Jeanine on bended knee ten
years previously. The trouble was here they didn’t have
an exact point, Finisterre, like they did in Spain, or at
Lands Ends even, the sea exploding at the end of that
long bleak road in Cornwall where he’d finished with
another one over two decades ago. Here it was the
whole region, west Brittany basically, so he had to
choose himself where the end point was, where this
ending was going to be.
The Michelin Guide, the Green or the Red, didn’t even
mention it. Why hadn’t he bought a proper fucking
map? There was only the Rough Guide with its crap
outline but it looked like a place called Le Raz was the
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end point of Finisterre, at the end of a peninsula called
Cape Corneille. There was statue there called Our Lady
of the Shipwrecked and at Uni he’d read a poem by
Sylvia Plath called Finisterre which Jack had bought
along although even he thought a bit corny to read to
Jeanine before he left.
He was the land’s end: the last fingers, knuckled and
rheumatic,
Cramped on nothing. Black
Admonitory cliffs, and the sea exploding
With no bottom, or anything on the other side of it,
Whitened by the faces of the drowned.
…….
A peasant woman in black
Is praying to the monument of the sailor praying
Out Lady of the Shipwrecked is three times life size,
Her lips sweet with divinity.
She does not hear what the sailor or the peasant is
saying--She is in love with the beautiful formlessness of the
sea.
Jack didn’t trust the Rough Guide though, not since the
last time of the very few times Jack and Jeanine had
traveled alone together, a deux, since the baby. They’d
driven all over Portugal trying to find a place to stay for
a few days, but Jack could never decide where to stop,
so he just kept on driving and driving on. Jeanine just
wanted anywhere with a beach and food, but once in
the hire car Jack felt compelled to keep on driving, get
his moneys worth, driving, driving, driving, on and on
and on but both he and the car fuming he’d finally
stopped, hitting Portugals lands end, Sagres, and there
they’d found a day of surprising peace, together staring
out into the endless formless sea the man thinking of
America, the land of the free and Cortes who had sailed
from nearby Jack remembering being told by his
addiction counselor that when the Conquestidors had
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first hit land the great explorer had told his men to burn
their boats on the beach. ‘The thing was to have faith’,
the Counsellor had said at the end of this story,
‘perseverance, see it through to the end’. And now four
years and a thousand miles away he was wondering if
he had done that with Jeanine, persevered enough, was
it over or was he ending it too early just because he
couldn’t handle what it the relationship made him feel,
or was it that with her he couldn’t hide who he really
was? In fact , thinking about it, those two days on a
beach with the naked gays, a couple very brown and
German, the yacht bobbling in the middle of the bay,
the stars by the fire that was the last time Jack had felt
a bit of hope, when it had felt he and Jeany might come
together again. But even then for some reason Jack had
extinguished it, had the compulsion to drive again, the
next day and in the last 3 days they had raced right
back up to the North and then back to Lisbon again 700
miles ‘ to see what the cheese was like’ he’d laughed
later, but it was mad, really; trying to get somewhere
but once there trying to get somewhere else. Where
was he, what was he trying to get after all?
‘Can we stop and get something to eat soon Jack?’
Jeannine was flicking through the Red Guide, plotting
her course according to the predicted movement of
enzymes in her alimentary canal Cow. ‘Animal’ Jack said
‘eat and sleep that’s all you want to do’. ‘‘It says here, a
bonny place avec repas’ ‘Where is it?’ said Jack’
‘L’orient’ ‘No don’t be stupid that’s a big shitty town.
We’ll stop at Le Pouldu, by the seaside. It will be much
nicer’, ‘Oh come on Jack, that’s another hour at least,
the children are tired, Delphi is starving and L’Orient is
the next stop and we told Tony we would’ ‘Why don’t
you fuck off with Tony, then, I’m sure he’ll have you
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back’ ‘Don’t start Jack’ ‘What do mean start, its not my
fault your old fucking boyfriends everywhere? But Jack
suddenly felt weak and couldn’t stop himself submitting
to Jeanines request, neutered in the hot hormonal box
of the holiday car. ‘Yeah, maybe we should stop quite
soon’ Jack said, he wasn’t going to make Finisterre
today. Overcome by sadness Jack suddenly felt a huge
longing for the sea; quiet, formless, no words and cool,
at last peace. ‘We’ll turn off the coast road soon, ring
the others’ and with the flicker of a triumphal smile,
Jeanine got the mobile out to call her friends to discuss
the considerable range of options for food.
---------The car seemed to cool down once they were off the
motorway, winding roads and high hedges, Jacks neck
straining over every hill almost praying for a glimpse of
the sea. Our Lady of the Shipwrecked, overlooked the
ocean at Le Raz the guide book said and Jack thought
he saw the white statue high above the black cliffs,
although he knew it must be hours away. He consoled
himself with the fact that they were at least traveling
through Finisterre, he was at least entering the
beginning of the end of this world and so the end of this
so tortuous affair.
He thought about how he would say it, le Fin, and then
remembered very clearly the first proposal, even
though he must have been very drunk at the time. He
saw the red route he had made up extending down
through to the Bay of Biscay through Santander
towards Galicia, to the Western tip taking her there
soon after they’d met, to the end of that Pilgrimage to
the relics of St Jacques, Santiago della Compostella or
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in his case to getting her and his end away,
permanently or he had secretly prayed and then 10
years ago this month she had said Yes.
But she had said ‘No’ yesterday, at the friends Mill
they’d stopped at for the night, Not now’ in the tent ‘
Its too close to the other tents’ ‘So what?’ ‘People might
hear’ ‘ Oh Sod you’ he’d said steaming in the chilled
air, a few disturbed quackings coming off the mill pond.
Sod you. A cow pleading somewhere in darkness and
the moon hung low above the poplars and there was no
sound of cars, nothing but the soft rush of water rolling
over the broken view. Oh God Jack thought standing
there dew working through his toes sharpening up into
his spine. Why can’t we be just happy together,? He
had left home happy, free from the London crowd,
money was OK, the child was happy, why couldn’t she
respond fully to that, join him, be happy at the same
time? But she was agoraphobic, always tight up in the
country, unless stoned or drunk, and now he knew he
couldn’t with her, in his dream of the little farm,
chickens and kids. And it had been a struggle for so
long now, deciding whether to stay or not, sensing it
was going to be his life or hers there wasn’t a life in
between ; but without her he’d be totally alone,
abandoned, but without his ideal to travel to he felt
utterly lost.
Father why have you forsaken me, and Jack stood there
naked by the pond hands pressed against his head a
marionette hanging between the white and silver of the
water. He wanted to stretch out his arms in his own
crucifixion somehow to relieve the tension he felt, but
checked himself in case his host Liz might see what sort
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of weird guest Alice had bought to stay in her own
dream house.
He listened instead, very still. A bird: a single, sad
solitary note, repeated, like a beacon waiting for an
answer from somewhere else. He turned and as he did
he noticed his shadow glide weirdly across the tent as if
it was from someone else. Jack thought he might sleep
in the car, but after a cigarette and trying hard to see
the bird, that was sporadically calling, like a code, he
sneaked back next to Jeanine snoring and soon fell
asleep, thinking before he did ‘I wonder if they call it Le
Coot in French?’.
Why can’t we stop’ implored Jeanine now increasingly
agitated in the car. ‘We are going round in circles.
Aren’t we?’ she said trying to get a bearing on the map.
‘You’ve got the fucking map’ Jack said ‘Dad stop saying
fucking’, ‘Delphi don’t say that word’ said Dad, ‘Jack it’s
your fault’ ‘Yeah but I’m fucking driving aren’t I’ said
Jack his voice descending into the grating growl that
signified an imminent rage. The two females
immediately quieted down; Jack tried to breathe.
But few minutes later and she couldn’t contain herself
any longer ‘Dad please can we stop soon’ Delphi said
again, almost pleading this time. ‘Ok darling we’ll just
get to the sea first, then we’ll know where we are’ The
map didn’t show how squiggly the roads were, made
out there was one coast road which was pretty
straightforward, following the inlets and the headlands,
but really the roads seemed to be a mesh one little lane
running into another and the French were crap at
signage, or that’s what Jack thought he couldn’t get his
bearings without them and he was getting into a sort of
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kamikaze state where although knowing that he’d had
done enough driving he had to keep going on and on
pushing the boundary so he’d get to somewhere and
not have to drive anymore. He didn’t want to get
somewhere, stop, then have to go on further, he was
driving on and on in order not to drive anymore and in
this obsessional state he became deaf to others around
him, subject now as they were to his own completely
personal mission.
‘Jack they’re beeping, Tony and Alice’ Jeanine was
looking behind her, they’re flashing their lights. We
have got to stop’ ‘Stop Dad’ ‘OK’ when we get to the
next café’ ‘Stop ‘ Jeanine yelled. Jack was shocked,
frantically looking for somewhere to pull over. Jeanine
never shouted, she never lost her temper or only a
couple of times since they had met, three times in fact
and one of those was with a knife. When he flew off the
handle usually she’d just take it so something was
definitely changing, thought Jack and he felt a big wave
of fear. Things were becoming definitely odd, the
control slipping and he thought perhaps the Change he
was pushing for wasn’t such a bright idea - but he
pressed on kamikaze regardless that things were
coming unstuck and everything was going topsy-turvy
ending up god knows where, it was all part of the
journey, the change, the ending that he was driving
towards..
------The two cars parked up. They were in trees, le foret,
again not marked on the map. Fucking French. Tall
conifers, ranks of trunks receding, dark except for the
occasional shaft of light. There was a rugged mobile
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home, which was a café but wasn’t open now; it may
have been closed down. ‘Didn’t think you were even
going to stop, the endless journey eh?’ said Tony taking
off his shades. ‘I’ve got a flask of tea’ said Alice. ‘I’ve
got a bit of picnic left’ said Jeanine and soon they were
busy at it. ‘Go on girls. Go and play’ Tony and Alice had
two little girls younger than Delphi and they looked like
aliens let out of quarantine, blinking, feeling their way.
But soon, with Delphi the leader they were mucking
about with conifers cones, making a pile of the biggest
ones, while the youngest was, slightly separately,
breaking one up limb by limb.
Tony and Jack looked at the map; Jack sitting in his car,
Tony standing hand on door leaning over him. ‘So you
know where we are, leader?’ said Tony and, sensing a
bit of mockery, Jack replied firmly ‘Yeah pretty sure,
there’ his finger wobbling over Moelen sur Mer, Tony
was older and like Jeanine kept up with all his old
affairs, on good terms with all his old girl friends of
which there were many. It wasn’t that he was so very
good looking with that Scottish pasty skin of spirits and
batter, with small pale eyes in his leather jacket and
black trousers he looked like a faded rocker who’d
swapped his Harley for a Hatchback, but he was funny
and gentle and girls, women, felt comfy with him and
secretly jealous it was another reason to make Jack feel
uptight. Besides Tony was a sort of guardian to Jeanine
and here Jack was plotting to get to the Point beyond
Le Razwhere he could dump her, the bitch, and,
although he didn’t want to accept it, the secret quest
made him feel a bit of a cheat.
‘Here have some tea, pet’ said Alice, ‘might help with
the navigation’ she said to Jack, smiling
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sympathetically. Jack tried to the see the light side but
he felt isolated and wished this, the last Jeanine holiday
could be over soon. Tomorrow we’ll see. ‘We should
camp soon, on the coast and then make for Quimper
and the Point de Raz tomorrow’ he stated ‘Right
Captain’ said Tony. ‘We might as well have a party at
Raz’ he added making Jeanine laugh and Alice to all
giggling together an old joke that they shared ‘a reet
royal razz’ said Tony laying on the Glaswegian ‘Reet’
said Jack the one who couldn’t drink anything anymore,
trying to laugh too but not really succeeding, saying
more seriously than intended ‘We better get going
before sundown’ and almost in unison ‘Aye Aye Skipper’
the three others chanted tittering together.
------
Soon they were in convoy again. Jack made Jeanine sit
in the back; he could feel his blood heating up again
and the last thing he wanted was a row.
They came out of the woods on what seemed a plateau,
lots of trees and criss crosses of lanes. The sea was
somewhere just beyond he sensed, frustratingly close.
‘Where are we now?’ asked Jeanine ‘Near Moelen sur
Mer’ ‘Are you sure. Alice’s given me a new map’ said
Jeanine, ‘Does the road have a number’ she continued
seriously navigating. It annoyed Jack that Jeanine had
the map now; even while driving Jack liked to read his
own map and he didn’t trust Jeanine to find the way. It
seemed as if her friends had armed her, taking
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advantage while he was weak and he was feeling his
control slipping away. ‘Here’s a good place’. But Jack
was too tired to fight, fuck it, so he said ‘OK Where to
Skipper?’ but still secretly thinking, that once they got
to the sea, he’d get the map back off off her again.
‘Turn right here’ said Jeanine said rather smugly. She
had a thing about being a navigator, her dad had
always got her to do it apparently, on their mad driving
trips abroad without Mum, teenage Jeanine trying to
get her and her brother and sister somewhere before
mad Dad ran out of petrol again and now, Jack sensed
uncomfortably that he was sitting in her Dads seat. He
didn’t want to be her Dad, a fucked alky thrice married,
a bankrupt who now was having bits of himself cut off
to prevent the gangrene spreading. Dad (Alec was his
name) had had a heart attack the previous year, died
twice technically and had his leg amputated because of
the blood clotting up then died again. Jack had taken
Jeanine up to Cambridge when it happened, to join the
troop of ex-wives and stepchildren milling around at
Allenbrookes, almost tribal in its dysfunction.
Everyone had said goodbye to Dad, the last rite,
whispers and tears and there he was bobbling up and
down on his bed propped up with drugs, eyes wide
loud, a gargoyle damned and astounded. Jeanine had
summoned up all her emotion to say goodbye and Jack
was secretly relieved thinking that with him gone,
things might finally change, he’d released from the
shackles of Jeanine childhood trauma and him and her
could be as they were, together again, him as he really
was or at least trying to be rather than stumbling about
in a pair of dead mans shoes, heavy like divers boots,
paying for her Fathers sins. It could be the rest of his
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life and he was sick of it now, he didn’t want to a
puppet in her shadow-world anymore. Ok he might
have been like her Dad when they first met him, drunk
having lived in 7 countries in as many years, exhausted
with half finished projects, clutching a bottle trying to
find a place to stay, but it was different now, sober and
diligent and it had been for 10 years.
Jeanine had met Jack at a party in a squat after another
spell of him trying to give up drinking and only after a
half bottle of scotch had he managed to get out of the
door into a blur of strobe images and there she was
coming through the crowd, mini-skirt black hair and
tights, making a beeline for him suddenly sitting on his
knees and there he was, Jack seeing it from somewhere
else now hard eyed and clear, being dragged off back to
her place, a nest all small and stable and warm, giving
him a place on the map for him at last having lost the
plot completely for years. That was it then, like being
dragged under by the undertow and, now finally coming
up for air a decade on he was finding himself trapped,
enmeshed, living within her Life, his own life somehow
hers.
He looked after the thought into the cars mirror to
catch her, his woman sort of wife, partner, dependent
whatever she fucking was, staring down into the new
map and then he saw himself, a strip, two blue eyes
broken by a nose, doubly scarred by that alcoholic
worry ravine and he wondered how long it would be
before his heart went like her alcy dads, Snap Crackle
Pop. ‘Make for Le Pouldu, there should be a turning in a
minute, not Belon’ she ordered and he replied ‘OK
whatever you say’ telling himself to keep the anger
contained and let her be boss, it’s only for one more
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day. OK I will be Dad, her Dad, just for one more day.
But he couldn’t control himself, he wasn’t her Dad, he
didn’t run out of petrol, he’d stopped drinking a decade
before, before the child and he was still here for fucks
sake her Dad would have fucked off years ago. But
maybe that’s was it, he was in fact the Dad she had
wanted hers to be, how her mother had wanted him to
be before he left, a Dad controlled, muted, tamed.
‘Little shit’ he whispered ‘What?’ said Jeanine, ‘I said,
Brittany’s a git’ ‘Oh’ she said with that little furrowed
brow.
Perhaps that was it; their love at first sight, or in his
case after that first coming, her eyelids flickering. Each
of them had superimposed their own oedipal image
over the other, she had become his Mum, the same
unconditional love, forgiving and there still whatever.
One almost illegible map on see through paper slid over
the other, and yes fitting, almost, two lives, like a key
to a heroic find, the nirvana of the teenage eureka, and
bingo. Will you be my…? I will be your…
Finisterre, ten years ago. Santiago, ecstasy gasps to
the tolling of the long roped Mass Bell, sex in the dunes
and overflowing showers in pensiones, even the staff
forgiving sensing the special thing between them,
electric intimacy across crowds of strangers, wanting
always to be back together again the bells of Santiago
ringing out the pilgrimage end and how could they let
this one slip away, this heaven sent salvation,
Finisterre, the sunset blood red black cliff the light
shining in the distance at the worlds end and this was
the one, the one and only, this was the one to place
ones heart on a plate for, here take it, its yours, you
have made it beautiful, be gentle but yes I am all yours,
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yes yes yes please come with me, let me ask you, us
together, forever, will you marry me? Yes. I do…
Jack saw it now, heading westwards towards Le Pouldu
through the window of the rented ford, a video on fastforward, some frames more prominent than others
rewound he felt the madness, the surfing on the edge,
the drink trying to keep it together teetering on the
brink of the alcoholic precipice and winced again at his
drunken ghost. How could he have rushed so quickly?
Why hadn’t he gone off and got sober first before
committing to her? Why didn’t he see that was only half
of himself, the drunk mad bad and dangerous to know,
the other one, that quieter one knew then that this
would end in ruin too. No, he’d just wanted more and
more of whatever wasn’t him, he had wanted to be lost
inside her. He’d lost faith and needed another’s faith to
replace it, he’d gone too far and he’d gambled all on her
to save him, this tryst, and now, ten years later, he felt
he had lost it, and himself.
‘Jack, Jack’ ‘Dad Dad’ ‘What? What?’ ‘Turn now’ ‘There
You should have turned there, Le Pouldu’ ‘OK’, ‘Dad you
were dreaming’. ‘That’s dangerous Jack’, ‘ OK, take it
easy, Ill reverse back’ ‘ Jack watch out, Tony’s behind
you’ Jack slammed on the brakes going into reverse,
gesticulating madly to Tony as though Tony had done
wrong rather than Jack, whose mind was still ten years
back stuck down some taciturn alley. ‘OK be calm, so
lets go’ Jeanine looked at him with the furrowed brow
all serious with her map and Jack lifted his nose
ignoring her accusatory glare.
He should have gone as soon as he saw it, that brow,
that glare in Santiago, ‘Shut up Jack’ she had suddenly
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said, but it wasn’t the words, it was the stillness and
her totally humorless face the words solid utterly flat,
truth and Jack suddenly felt like a dirty fellow, light,
flaky fluttering and he knew she was in the right. That’s
when he panicked and lost his watch, left his time
behind speeding his life up so he wouldn’t lose her,
wanting to get her to say Yes and so he too would be
somehow weighted down. That’s when he decided to
marry her, there and then, to ignore his map, ignore
the differences between them and take the leap, no
earth, no time, no sign, jump up miss a heartbeat and
hope the landing would be sound, because if she’d
abandoned him then he’d have been left only with the
proven verification that he was indeed nothing, false
and insubstantial, not even there.
‘Oh God, Jack sighed hopeless, ‘this is the last thing we
want, thanks a lot navigator’ ‘It’s not my fault’ said
Jeanine, ‘its called holiday time’. There was no escape.
Le Pouldu was packed, the promenade car park
overflowing, bikes and people streaming along the
seafront, a carnival of tents behind, ‘Hey Dad, what’s
that?’ It was a Llama, and Jack in a blink saw himself in
the snooty down mouthed animals face ‘It’s a Llama,
darling. Do you want a ride?’ and Jack couldn’t help
himself get a little excited as the child burst out to join
the others, ice cream and bunting the late afternoon
sun setting all in a bright picture postcard scene. But
Jack wanted somewhere quieter; he needed a place to
collect himself, before the monstrous amorous finale at
Finisterre.
--------
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‘Come on let’s try and have some fun’. Jeanine reached
over her warm hand with that so soft touch that still
sent a tingle down his forearm, her big green eyes
sucking him back into her and her flesh. God how he
hated her for it. ‘Oh fuck off, I’m going for a walk, we’re
leaving in 15 minutes’ and he got out slamming the
door and through the half open window he saw her
looking down into her lap and an eye-edge of tear, then
saw himself contracting, a wobbly presence in the hot
tinted metal of the car.
Jack needed a better map. The scale required now to
find the right place to stay was much smaller with all
these little coves and twisty maze of roads, let alone
campsites. INFORMATION: same word. The tourist
office was set back a bit from the promenade with a
crop of flags fluttering loudly in the sea breeze, the
sound of waves crashing against the breakwater just
beyond. It was quiet, subdued in the glass cubicle, a
mass of leaflets glossy and flimsy. Within the inner
sanctum a ruddy-faced man in a blazer and tie sat
smoking Gauloise with what looked like a small glass of
Armagnac by the ashtray. Le Camping, that’s what Jack
was after prowling around the shelves, just a map. He
stuck his head around the door to the alcoholic guide,
‘Excuse Moi, avez vous le carte de camping’. ‘The map
for camping’ the man sneered back, displaying a broken
row of tarred teeth, ‘There are sites everywhere sir just
look at the route signs’ ‘ Route signs what’s that?’ said
Jack, suddenly coming over all BNP, fascist and bald
glaring back at the Frenchies sneer. Why can’t the frog
answer his fucking question straight? ‘Signs on the
route,’ ‘Road signs?’ ‘Yes Road signs’ ‘Look, mon ami, I
just want a map of the area’ said Jack slowly, trying to
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effect a Clinty stare. But with a flick of the hand the
French git just dismissed him ‘Ah a map. What iz a map
without an idea? Sans idée monsieur’ he said. ‘A map,
outside monsieur, par la porte, the door monsieur the
door outside la porte, I say go, go, Allez’ he
commanded. Jack didn’t want to get into a row or even
a discussion and anyhow he wasn’t exactly sure what
the git was on about. But the man was right. It was just
by the door, a huge map of the vicinity ‘Vous etes ici’ in
capitals, a cross for the Eglise, les Magasins and the
jardin, all very Babaland and then going out north or
east le camping le camping le camping, all long by the
road either way. It seemed so simple now and Jack
wondered how they’d got into such a mess in the first
place.
‘Do you want an ice cream there?, it was Tony looking
like a late night chat show host, holding an ice cream
the extra delicacy of the saucy whirl on top giving away
its Frenchness away ‘ Have you worked it out old chap’
said Tony, his shades not giving anything away. Was he
blaming Jack? This great defender of Jeanine’s virtue,
had he guessed Jacks plan? ‘We should stop as soon as
we can don’t you think?’ said Tony, ‘We don’t want to
be putting tents up in the dark’ ‘Yeah sure’ said Jack,
not really wanting the ice cream, just bashing it about
with the little plastic spade.
An extra gust of wind bought up hard specks of sand
pin pricking the odd couple by the map, ‘Lets get back
in the cars I’ll go get the kids’ said Tony ‘You know we
should try and have a bit of a laugh’ he said over his
shoulder ‘Jeanine seems a bit moany, Alice is worried
about her’ he added quickly, almost surreptitiously,
obviously part of the talk he was meant to be having
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with Jack, no doubt prompted by Tonys wife. Jack saw
himself in the other mans shades, compressed and
inferior but said ‘Sure’ anyway, half smiling. Bastards,
he thought, they were all part of it, the gang of Jeanine
corralling him in and it was Dave really that they
associated Jeanine with, the Great New Romantic Love
Affair, until it sort of broke up Dave going after uppercrust totti, Jeanine going round the world with the band
and then he was suddenly having a kid with some rich
bird and Jeanine was becoming the 30 something
almost on the shelf, and that’s when he appears, Jack,
looking a bit like Dave and in retrospect he could see
how it wasn’t just some sort of serendipity at that party
but the meeting was part of a pushing together from
everywhere surrounding him, her world cajoling the
affair onwards, urgently trying to get them fixed, get
Jack in place of Dave, the new actor to complete the
happy ending of the second act of her play.
Dave fucking Dave, he was just the twats clone and
Jack didn’t go back to the car but moved off up the
promenade toward the breakwater, feeling the pinpricks
of sand bombarding his forehead. He’d remembered the
night not long after the first Finisterre when Jeanine
didn’t get back until four in the morning having had ‘a
drink’ with Dave, and he was convinced then Dave still
had her heart and she had his, Jacks and that’s when
he felt the earth move beneath him, all unstable, his
feet lose grip imbalance setting in, the vision blur his
world going topsy turvy and if he didn’t hold on for dear
life he’d been left as nothing in an empty space- it was
the physics of it. Perhaps it was part of the Life, the
scary adult life he had avoided for so long, this love
that’s gets you in the end, beyond comprehension it
ends up pulling you in and perhaps inevitably for good
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or bad destroys you. ‘You kill the thing you love’ said
some Fassbinder queer movie and he still wasn’t quite
sure what it meant: ‘the man had killed the thing he
loved, and so he had to die’ so here. Was that how this
was going to end?
Jack watched the tourists move one after the other
along the breakwater, making for the little lighthouse at
its finish, a few fishermen dotted around it. The fresh
wind was blowing up sea froth, the beach and the dark
blue sea was strewn with wave edges. White horses his
mum had always called them and Jack marched
towards them wanting the wind to lift up the darkness
enveloping him, allow him to be in the Sun again inside
the holy of this the holiday, in the bright light himself,
alone and free. But all he saw in the Suns haze was the
looming face of Dave and a thousand other white faces
wedged between the prison bars of his almost closed
eyes coming out of the Bay. The other man, the third
man, him, Dad and Dave, one of many, all these were
now buffeting against Jack and the emptiness he felt he
was beginning to feel lost in. What was it? the fear of
being left, Mummy removed, or was he angry at her
power over him? Why couldn’t he just let the whole
thing go? ‘Be here, in the here and now, letting go of
envy and anger- the mantra of Pop Kee Lam or
whatever the monk was called began whispering in the
wind rattling around the lighthouse, the slumped figures
around it intent on their rods held up erect before them
and Jack slouched hands in pockets, stood as if waiting
for a boat to take him away.
Let go he told himself, let go and be free and Jack
thought of the time on the lilo a five year old being
washed out to the ocean off Conemara, unable to swim,
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but calm just floating there his Mother then coming out
to rescue him. ‘…and the seagull was flying high in the
sky.. blah di blah… ten years later he’d written a poem
at school knicking that line from the now old mans
Genesis but hadn’t told anybody he had, as twenty
years later he’d pretended to Jeanine that he’d written
the poem for his proposal to her, Body open, to the
slow intoxification of fingers…, Body made moist, By the
tongues pliant sun’ although he hadn’t though him
getting into her was infact part of a desperate trying to
recapture the capacity for poetry that had come to him
so naturally as a child and had finally dissolved in drink.
And so happy for that brief time, together traveling to
Barcelona, Jack had thought he had, in love, refound it,
bathing in the poetry of his being, the sleeping
compartment being blown through with warm evening
air, the sun setting and lying there finally he’d felt a
deep contentment, fantastic but utterly real, in the
resolve of love that they had finally committed to, she
having said Yes and he having said Yes, at last a sense
of open-ended-ness and in a tide of the relief at no
more traveling, no more aborted relationships, no more
relation with abortions, yes and the seagull was flying
high in the sky he had felt, briefly happy again..
Waking up, ten hours later, coming to out of the black
out, vague images of drunkenness in the restaurant,
only an unbearable gap as if cheating the happiness
gone just that nothingness again, illogically the self
cheating the self and still drunk crazed after the
breakfast beer at the Barcelona Stazioni Bar, Jack
getting to think about Dave, his love just a joke and so
he’d carried on drinking through that horribly muggy
Hispanic morning, midday, night knowing all his love
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was gone and in that mad hot siesta time that day or
the next he’d gone, trapped in the madness, the utter
fucking madness and she was mad to stay now she
knew it was utterly illogical he was too mad to be with,
she had to leave it now all this the new life imagined, it
was best for her, the child, him..
‘Jack’ ‘Jack’ ‘Dad Dad Dad’.. voices behind him breaking
out into the gusts and the gulls were calling and Jack
turned and saw then his wife and daughter waving
silhouettes along the promenade, blurred above the
waves beneath the flags their hair blowing high in the
winds and suddenly his blood was filling up the
emptiness, warm and he felt the feeling they talk of,
inside out a catch in the throat and he made towards
them urgently, as if anxious they might disappear again
forever, already leaving, into the sun and the sea gone
forever…He loved them, he couldn’t deny it and he
loved her and he shouted out loud ‘I love… ‘ but the
words getting lost in the wind
‘Jack You shouldn’t keep Tony and Alice waiting’ said
Jeanine angry again and he closed up, suddenly hating
her again backing off deeply insulted, she had put
them, the other people in-front of his precious all is
forgiven comeback moment and his throat hurt knowing
that this love would kill him or her or both. ‘Fucking
Bitch’ he teethed into the wind turning toward the sea
again to hide his anger, gulls squawking above,
wheeling around flapping across the glowering sun.
----------
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Inside the car it was very quiet, the sound of sea and
gulls suddenly cut off. Jack was staring out of the
windscreen fingers not quite tapping a tune on the
steering wheel. “Come on Dad, stop staring’ said
Delphi, Jeanine laughed with her daughter, ‘Mad Dad’
and Jack felt his neck stiffen, ‘Hah Huh, Lets go’ ‘ I
thought if we followed the road’ ‘Shut up, I know where
we are going’ said Jack ‘ the info guy told me where to
go’ ‘ But I’ve got a camping map here’ said Jeanine
waving a leaflet, ‘Fuck the map, just follow the signs, its
no good until you see what they’re like ’ said Jack. If
only he’d done that with her, he thought. She looked
good enough, her thighs, back, neck, her openness and
rich past it seemed OK but he knew now he should have
looked longer rather than commit so soon at Finisterre.
‘Please yourself but we’ve got to stop soon to camp, the
children are getting fed up’ said Jeanine, the sky behind
her head turning orange as the car climbed out of the
village back onto the main road.
‘Just the next turning’ he said, making it sound as if it
was up to her. He suddenly doubted he could face the
emptiness after Finisterre tomorrow, although he knew
he had to. Life had just become a series of pushs and
pulls; crap marriage, crap jobs, crap sex, as though
submitting to it the crapness made sense, at least there
was a rhythm, a fugue of crap, at least the momentum
of the repetition got you through the weeks, months,
years. Ten fuckin years. Finisterre to Finisterre. A leap
of faith, it was then and since a continual backtracking,
their life being taken over by her fears, the doubts and
the endless battle of babies. Will she? Wont she? Will
he? her uncertainty breeding uncertainty in him, her
fear creating his fear. ‘Yes but life is passing us by. And
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after ten years, what then? just disappointment?’, it
was as though the weakness of their love just
contracted their life together, the broad horizons
narrowed down to only as far as her frightened eyes
could see, hope made invisible by fear, only feeling safe
in the smallness of the life they lived together which,
increasingly made him feel suicidally squeezed.
But now?
One night before the holiday he’d suddenly woken up
and seen his own body contorted with frustration. It
was true. He was living in her life, small, controlled,
everything in its place, not moving not becoming, not
growing, static and he saw how he had abandoned his
own life, she and then he had given up trying to
combine their maps, be as one and, as he had always
let her life go before his, co dependent and self hating,
here he now felt he was left with no destination but an
end. Finisterre, Finish there, like a worn out gland it
was the end of place and his end to the world of
contrivance, illusion, ill-founded desire and now finally
coming to his senses, stopping still he now saw it so
clearly and it made his chest bone hurt and stomach
sick to the core.
‘Fini so there, you fucker’ he blurted out, ‘What Jack
what did you say?’ ‘Nothing.. it was a rap thing’ said
Jack and she double-checked him seeing again what
could have been she thought another slightly
condescending sneer. ‘ We’ll stop very soon don’t worry’
said Jack surprising himself comforting her and he
suddenly felt almost affectionate for little Jeany there,
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lovely and plump in the darkness, and his groan started
stirring uncontrollably ‘One last time, tonight’ thought
Jack and although deeper down he knew he was
breaking his word, it had happened before the taste
then destroying his conviction, he told himself felt
better now, more in control clearer in his mind.
Admitting to himself what had happened, what was
happening, where he was at, and allowing himself the
‘one more time’, the day now had an aim and still he
did not see it, did not quite recognize that all is
movement, all his thinking, everything he thought or
did was in fact determined only in relation to her and
the base desire of getting his end away, again.
-----The sky was stretched pink, as their little convoy turned
into the Les Jardin des Pines, 4 neon stars beginning to
gleam, open with children playing on the broad sandy
lanes without saying and they all shared a great sense
of relief. Tony and Jack went into the gate office to pay.
A Brittany woman with a large half moon nose, wonky
teeth and heavy eyelids, took their money and her twin
brother led them to their pitches, walking along the trail
down a shaded avenue to a bank of trees. ‘Ici Ici. Bon
nuit’ ‘It’s OK’ said Tony pushing up his shades ‘ Well
done Jack ‘said Alice and Jeanine gave him a squeeze
on the buttock ‘Nice’ she said smiling. Again Jack felt
himself melting, all those thoughts arranged as a house
of cards beginning to collapse and again the stirring in
his groan unable to stop himself and he felt his spirits
uncontrollably lift. ‘Maybe we will stay more than a
night’ he said unexpectedly, the strain of expectancy in
his voice making it sounded unusually light. He didn’t
intend to say that at all.
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They pitched the tents, one family either side of the
avenue, facing toward the wood and soon they had
their little stove on for tea. Jack got the barbecue going
and the children went off to the play area where the
sound of high voices echoed in the concrete ping-pong
hall. Virgin memories filtered through the last suns
leaves, of teenage French trips the early exoticism of
crepes, Citanes and long baguettes. ‘I’m going for a
slash’ he said and Jeanine waved to him as she and
Alice went off all womanly to the communal showers.
‘Its not bad heh?’ said Tony shouting across the avenue
‘Yeah nicer than expected’ answered Jack putting the
last of the sardines in a dish. Having got the fire going
he was over smoked and a bit greasy so he made
through the trees to the stream below.
The odd jonny lay among the pine needles, trysts in the
shadows, French letter, that was the condoms first
name Jack thought, more spent passions, empty
bottles, crisp packets and chopped bits of wood
discarded. He picked his way through the brambles to
wash the fish and grease from his hands. Sitting on his
haunches he tried to catch sight of the bird whose
blurred shape he saw weaving above the water. He
wanted it to stand still so he’d have a chance to tell
what it was. The children’s voices were faint now here
superceded by the brook breaking over rocks and the
birds whistling too shy or too quick to be seen. Oddly
Jack felt calm here, in the cool away from the crowd,
even happy to be there sending a surprising tingle
through himself with fingers outspread in the freezing
stream. Was he to finish it, with Jeanine, or keep
trying? Was it him not her, that was wrong? He felt love
when he was calm and madness when not. Which was
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true? Sometimes it didn’t seem to have any possibility
of an ending, this double-mindedness, this instability,
there didn’t seem to be any alternative, and the
ambivalence was pushing him toward the point of
despair.
Life hadn’t turned out as he thought with her, the
picture postcard of the family was now all tattered and
splattered with a mish mash of his worn out desires. He
felt the weight of the incompatibilities and of carrying
her and her differences, but maybe that was the deal,
that’s what it was about, marriage, in the long term. It
was bound to be messy, full of not quites and shifting
borders. What do you mean love? They haven’t even
been married for 20 years’ ’ the old Indian woman down
the street had said to a freind.
Jack had the fantasy of starting over again, with
someone else, one of the Unrequited he knew or
imagined in his head, having lots of children, a country
house; maybe he could do both like Beerbohm Tree the
Victorian actor, a grand lady in Kensington and a cuddly
woman in leafy Putney, each not knowing of the others
existence. it must have been exhausting though; all
that lying to do. His Mothers adulterous lover had died
of cancer of the tongue, unable to swallow at the end
and there was Mr Road at school, the one with the
acrophobic wife who, everyone knew, had a thing with
Miss Gypsy the geography teacher, and he ended up
going blind and having his legs cut off through diabetes,
one by one. Jack wasn’t sure if he had the energy or
the courage for anything else but a clean split and then
even becoming celibate, only lonesome, it was quite
fashionable now. But whatever happened he must stop
the hate, that’s what was killing him, the resentments,
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the same old gripes Dave, Dad, Used and Useless, a life
half lived going around and around in his head, the
darkness inside him that spoilt everything else in Life.
Surrounded by the ranks of dark fir trees Jack felt like
howling and grabbed a handful of pebbles throwing
them down into the stream then wanting to dive in after
them, forever sucked under. He just couldn’t take it
anymore, he had to finish it, he was lost. He didn’t
know anymore. Maybe that was what the gay Kraut
meant by saying you always end up killing what you
love, the tension becoming unbearable, no longer being
able to take the pain of the loving of the other, the not
knowing if it was taken or received. He didn’t know, he
just saw the deep red sky again and the blue lead sea;
Finisterre, a wind warm around them as the sun burnt
the horizon, Finisterre a decade ago, ‘Will you marry
me. Please’ Finisterre ‘Yes’, a hug his hand around her,
a full body overtaken with longing and desire.
Finisterre, no, he had to jump now, he couldn’t go on.
Tomorrow at Finisterre he would end it, one way or
another and he felt like a swimmer gasping for air,
drowning not quite, in the dry sea of his own
uncontrollable vice…
‘Bon nuit’, a French guy strolling past punctured Jacks
anxiety and he stood up feeling the evenings warmth
again, hearing the cooing of the campsite behind him
settling in for the night. He saw Alice and Jeanine,
through the trees the lamps hung outside their tents,
the kids running around the fire, insects fluttering
around the light. He saw Jeanine legs so long though
she was so short, the body of a gymnast, the bottom of
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her brown buttocks edging out of her shorts. Still there,
stirring again. What a beauty Jack thought, stomach
tightening again, she was the earth and he was the
dust, she fixed, heavy, he light, fluttering about. He
just didn’t understand her and she didn’t understand
him, almost but not quite, so close as only to sense
their separateness, the aloneness of being, together,
tight.
-----They sat around the fire eating the last of the sardines
and bread. Alice had made tomato salad and the adults,
apart from Jack, passed around the Vin Rouge. The
children, exhausted by excitement, had gone to bed in
their own tent, the torchlight racing around its ceiling
showing they were still awake.
‘Its nice here’ said Alice ‘ Lovely ‘ said Jeanine, ‘ Yeah
its alright’ said Jack ‘ Happy campers heh?’ said Tony
‘We should stay a couple more days I’m sick of driving ‘
said Alice ‘ Agreed’ said Tony, ‘Jeanine and I want to go
to Raz’ said Jack ‘ Where?’ ‘Finisterre, the furthest
point’ ‘Oh right where you...err…did the business eh?
You know?’ ‘Yeah, but No, that was the one in Spain’
Jack said with a forced smile back to Alice ‘And did it
happen, really? What did happen there?’ asked Jack to
Jeanine with a bit of an edge, but she just smiled. ‘Why
don’t you marry now?’ said Tony mainly to Jack ‘No
she’s said no and that’s not Yes’ Jack replied ‘She’ll
have to ask me next time’ said Jack and again Jeanine
smiled, too knowingly and a gust of cold air passed
amongst the group wafting a pillar of smoke from the
fire. ‘Oh shit’ said Tony breaking away, ‘the things
going out’.
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‘Look’ said Alice ‘ Everyone look, there a shooting star’
and they all looked up the sky ‘Its gone’ but suddenly
there was a mass of stars, the sky was incredibly clear.
‘There look’ said Tony and a star dropped out of the sky
a trail of vapour gold behind it ‘There. Again’ said
Jeanine, ‘Another two’ exclaimed Jack, ‘another,’ ‘and
another’, it was almost a shower and they all felt,
individually together, like children again ‘Get the kids
up’ said Alice’ No, its stopped’ said Tony. ‘Has it?’ ‘Yes’
‘Look’ and their necks stiff they all looked up in the sky
to see if there was another one, ‘Why is it happening?’
asked Jeanine and Jack felt compelled to answer, but he
couldn’t think of anything to say.
It was still and quiet. Moths fluttered around the lamps
hanging from their tent. A snore came from the next
avenue and they all laughed ‘Shh we’d better go to bed’
‘Look there’ said Alice, ‘is that one?’ ‘No it’s a satellite'
said Tony, ‘Come on, lets go’.. ‘Night Night’ and Tony
and Alice disappeared into their tent two torchs against
the tent skin, tinkerbell and his mate.
Jeanette and Jack stood there, not sure what to do.
Then Jeanine moved up to him and held him around the
stomach. She was very hot. He’d always thought that,
her heat was almost overwhelming and he wondered if
others felt it too when she hugged them, or was it just
him? Jack looked out at the stars again, seeing the
patterns emerge, then change, not there the next time
he looked and he thought about the sky being a curtain
and the stars pin pricks to a huge sun behind and she
said, ‘they say each star’s a soul’ and he tightened his
arms around her.
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Oddly they made love that night; softly so the tent
wouldn’t shake. She opened herself to him like a flower,
surprisingly almost with the same abandon as when
they had first met, and he let himself enter into it,
stopped himself thinking, swimming in her as if being
swept along full of the love and expressions of love,
wanting her to shine like a star, to fully come out of
herself into him. And she did and then she quickly
faded, like a comet, seen then not and they fell asleep
in each others arms not turning away this time, this
time fitting into each other, snug, warm, secure and
almost safe.
Jack dreamt of the waves crashing against rocks and
the sea a mass of white wind almost blowing him over,
the sun, blinding, sparking, splintering behind the
eyelids, lashes like bars and he was shouting, shouting
out loud to the point of the lungs bursting, throwing out
something to the wind, giddy wet, the air chilled, a
manic light creeping beneath the tent flap.
Almost dawn. Jeanine was snoring, gently and a bird,
just a single note calling a low whistle rising high then
ending and again, some sort of call, sounding like a
point inside a point, alone, single, the calling of some
sort of longing, for the unseen, in the dark.
-----Cadavre Mystérieux Trouvé!
It was three weeks later when they found a body,
washed up on the Cote de Morte, in a little cove
beneath the statue of the Lady of Shipwrecked, up the
Coast at Corneille.
L'identité Incertaine
Genre ambigu
127
The body had been half eaten, nibbled away by the
fishes and it was sometime before they could tell the
gender of the corpse or identify the cause of death.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
--Mechanical.
It was almost mechanical:
In the mirror I saw the upturned nose
Of self concern and the calculation in the eyes
Weighing in advantage against disadvantage
On the scales of manipulation I saw, in short,
The cost of my desire and was not in
The mood for paying, like a consumer
Looking in the glass and noticing
The fingerprints of the display artist
And the items over-obvious price;
But it was almost mechanical as again
The skin still tasted smooth and her
Fingers still lit up my candle, my flame
Dancing as I performed, I saw the pictures again
Trying again so hard to enact, but between the cracks
The shadows of the price lingered and
The cost smiled wide as again I drained myself
Into her the cashier grinning
Beastly behind my back.
128
FAITH
He thought: Faith, it’s a question of faith, faith that the life
one wants to live is right. And living it is right too. But then
you let go of the faith, disregard the faith and a sense of all
faith goes, I feel a need to have something that sustains my
faith, now, that will help me in my hour of need I know will
come.
He said: the thing is I feel uneasy. I’m not sure what it
is, he said, not wanting to admit that actually being there, in
the house, with her, was driving him crazy. The thing is now
at 40 you’ve got your life and the question is dealing with it.
Right?.’ ‘Yeah but yeah. But.’ He covered his face up with his
hand. Sighing. ‘Its just that, it’s just that..’. He’d got his face
now. The one deserved they said. And it felt contained. About
to set. It was it. And it didn’t feel right, yet.
‘And it was just a question of dealing with it’, he
muttered. No mates. The wife. Who could never supply
everything, and the child, who was it, the point, but not
quite, it. Enough. That feeling that you could change a life.
The whole life, and it wasn’t possible, here, now. I suppose
that’s why a man go off with another woman. It’s a change.
All of it…
129
THE WIND WAS
STIFF WITH EXPECTATION
130
The wind was stiff with expectation. It came from the
whiteness hovering beneath the blue, was moving up
from the coast in pirouettes circulating among the
cypresses until, in waves, it lifted itself over the shining
balustrades around the pool and then flat up against
the walls breaking echoing there between the villa,
swimming pool and trees, shades and sounds
synchronizing in the crinkled dappling of dry leaves,
meshes of yellow and green the hot air breaking over
her pushing up over her and around her body
something sinister licking, lifting her white crepe dress
and she shivered, feeling all cold inside.
Was it the Sirocco or is it the Mistral wind? One or the
other and she remembered from childhood holiday talk
of both being bad, their blowing inevitably causing grief
and disturbance, something about men being allowed,
or rather then being let off lightly, if they murdered
their wives while the hot air was burning, blowing up
from the desert full of menace and Sahara screams.
She folded her arms around herself, her fingertips
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feeling the goose bumps breaking out on her skin. He’d
be here soon and she didn’t want it; she’d moved on,
something had shifted, changed since their last time.
She’d finally decided that she couldn’t anymore, with
him, it wasn’t on; the two sides of her had been arguing
for ages but only recently had she identified their
constant warring as the cause of her seemingly
perpetual unease. Here she was though, still in his villa
waiting for his grand arrival, like some aged candy girl
stuck in his Cote d’ Azur chocolate box, waiting in her
bed for Monsieur to have his way.
Oh shit, she shuddered, it really was a shame, horribly
shaming in the bright shining light, the distant strip of
sea dimmed, a postcard covered in fishnet stocking
discarded, as Ellen dropped her sunglasses down from
the top of her head onto her nose as if to stop people
seeing she was there hiding inside them.
‘Ellen Vot are you doing standing there in the shade’, a
voice came from a window above. No wonder she was
cold, stupidly standing in the strip of dark shade of the
cypress tree as if she was caught in some giant sun
dial, as if she was stuck in his time, his world that was
‘the villa complex’, being the barometer of and her
there still, stuck perpetually on the time that was
marked Still Mine.
She did feel trapped, caught up in his big game and she
resented it, although she knew that it was her who in
fact had allowed it to happen, letting herself become
part of someone else’s game, maybe so she could
blame it for not having a life she was happy enough
with call her own. It had always been so; Ged, Gordon,
now Glenn, each had soon become empty, confused
132
bits just jostling around the great black hole inside her,
the death star that was somehow linked she was
thinking, with her own peculiar desire to be shamed.
But she knew this now, and by knowing it she knew she
didn’t have to stay here, in the syndrome, she knew
now, at last, she could change.
She'd bought her two girl friends here and their kids as
padding to the noisy fact that again she was taking stuff
off the bloke and in return he was going to want stuff
off her although now she couldn’t give it to him. It was
a transaction, she thought, her mind could compute
that, it’s the oldest game in town she tried to laugh it
off, weren’t all relationships in the end like that, but the
fact was this one didn’t work anymore and it just made
her feel worse.
The wind suddenly dropped the rustling and cracks of
the trees suddenly not there as if shut behind some
hidden door leaving again only the crickets chirruping
and Ellen wondered if they were talking about her:
Whore, Loser, Cheat, Whore Loser Cheat, the siesta air
shimmered around her full of whispers and for a
moment she felt she might have flipped, gone mad,
finally over the edge, crazy like her mother before
her…..
‘…. a genuine gem of an abode encapsulating the
ultimate in relaxed opulence, immaculately elegant
simple exquisite taste’ as the Rental Brochure said, or
‘It cost a fucking fortune’ as the bloke said, but now it
was beginning to feel like a detention camp for the
demented, the sun a huge searchlight catching her in
its crossbeam exposing her desperate state. This is
silly, she had to get out of it, she urgently thought, had
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to get out of this, break out before it was too late, she
had to change. And the fucker was coming tonight, and
that was what was winding her up, making her all
irritable and discontent in this supposed paradise,
because his arrival was when the reality would strike
and she’d have to deliver. Oh god, that was ultimately
the cause of her madness, she knew deep down the
inability to face up to the fear, to finally state who she
was; it froze her there, the having to be honest, herself,
in her aloneness, the denial of which froze her in her
own particular dread.
Agitated she had to get up and walk back away from
the balustrade back towards the villa, hurried and
breaking into a jog moving from one piece of shade to
the other making for the dark verandah cover. She
should wake up the children, rouse the women, he’d be
here soon, it was teatime, and the siesta steam was
melding into the evening haze moving towards the
night. He was coming and she was being backed up to
the wall and with no clear reason she knew she needed
to gather her crew around her; she didn’t know why,
but knew they held the solution somehow.
Feeling safer but somewhat breathless now under the
canopy she wrapped her arms around herself, goose
bumps again but this time from the real chill. For a
moment a dizziness came over her, seeing snapshots of
herself there, a slither of presence, a dash of white in
the grey, then suddenly not there at all, as if
evaporating, a huge dark shroud of shade enveloping
the villa turning the silhouetted trees and shapes black
against the low afternoon sun and her going into
nothing, lost in the dark, her identity gone. Oh shit Dad,
she almost said after her breath, Wherefore art thou?
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and she decided that, as if to verify she was alive, she
needed a cigarette, and more so, a little slug of wine, or
two.
In the frame of the doorway into the cool quiet house
she turned looking out again towards the sea, now a
rectangle of picture postcard blue sky and a sparkling
strip of sea, the cypress tree-tops curled over waving to
her cheerfully, celebrating the heaven sent scene this
was meant to be. But all she could see and feel crawling
around her inside was him making his way up from the
coast, climbing around the bends in his fatfuck red
Ferrari, his long white hair blowing tobacco stained
yellow, dark glasses and claret jowl, B-movie verging
on Porno, as he vigorously pushed the bulbous
gearstick into a higher gage slithering up around the
hairpin bends, one after another, a big red slimy snake
tongue in between his rheumy but hyperactive eyes,
mirrors to his mind behind perpetually vacillating
between upper and downer, blues and speed, the
tongues tiny tip probing, searching irrevocably
somehow irresistibly making its way up inside her,
again. She almost retched shivering and scurried back
into the house to hide between her two sleeping sundrenched girls crouched down there listening out for the
Italian carburetor growl.
-------------------‘Born to be wild weeping for you my sexy child, Give
booty to the open world, Take me and make me your
sacred pearl’, the wailing anthem scrabbled out up
above the roar of bass pistons and Glenn snarled, those
fucking lyrics was naff fucked the harmony right up, all
the guys lyrics were naff and he was getting fucking
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sick of it. ‘Give me love and Ill give you cream, Sweet
mother of loving I can’t make it without my Queen’…
Queen, Prince, Madonna, King Crimson, Jesus he’d done
'em all, grossing billions for the Suits. If they wanted
some orchestral massiveness to fill the stadium Glenn
was your man, he’d made a whole generation of acts,
the Main Man, the Producer, the guy who actually made
the music work, made all those dumpkoff street kids,
the white trash, acid heads and crack casualties,
listenable to, even sound like musicians though most
wouldn’t have made Grade Two. Ok, he wouldn’t look
any good on the front cover, a bald old fat git, but he’d
been in the thick of it for two decades for fucks sake, he
was a walking fucking legend, a cultural icon the
unproclaimed Godhead of popular music, he was… Then
why did he always feel such a piece of shit ?
Last night on top of Christiana, the yacht moored off
Cap Ferrat, beating Shin at Backgammon, pink
champagne and those P251s Slice had got hold of, that
black chick doing her business as the sun went down
over the mauve water, it was all as it was meant to be,
he’d thought, the warm glow of the world comforts fully
immersed. The album was going well, five grand a day
wasn’t bad, Slice loved it and they all treated him as if
he knew everything, as he did of course, but it kept
happening, and it did again, then, suddenly the little
tweak in his thigh getting up on the too tall stools at the
mahogany long bar, sliding over the whales foreskin or
whatever it was and whoosh it came into him as if his
guts had spilled out all over the marble and he was left
with nothing but an aching emptiness, all over and
crying again for his mother inside, still hers, there in his
hairy shirt over pink chapped knees balling out
MAARRRM into the bitter Barking wind..
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White knuckles wrapped around the chrome as he’d
wretched over the gun rail and aping the primal therapy
thing Rona had taught him in Manhattan, he’d howled
out over towards the twinkling and orange lights still
there behind the mountain, he’d howled out thinking
that the demo tape on at full blast inside the party
would drown it out, privatize his anguish as he’d hid
behind the curtains as his mother’d danced with his
fathers supposed mates. He’d howled out again hoping
the sickening emptiness inside him would congeal into a
matted ball of memory, shit and tears, together so it
could be expelled forever gone, but it remained elusive
and if anything was getting bigger as he tried to fight it
make it go away..
Faaaarck and he thrust down his hand into his too big
Bermudas to get one of them pink pills Keith had given
him, and.... No, Yes, No, Yes he had to fuck off out of it
straightway now, and she was there waiting, Ellen, as if
she’d unconsciously conspired to be there when he
needed her most, Ellen, the kids, the Normal, well,
almost, definitely nearer to the Nice than here. He’d
said he wouldn’t bother them, he’d said that he
wouldn’t have the time, and he knew it was one of the
reasons she’d agreed to go in the first place, with the
inducement used back in May when she’d come to finish
it off with him, once and for all, again; but she couldn’t,
again, she’d liked it too much, the deadheading in the
Coxwold garden, the ‘here have the keys, treat it as
your own’ and in the end it had worked itself out, he’d
let her go a little , a bit of lead he called it secretly, but
he still needed her to be part of his life. ‘Yeah no
strings attached, really, use the Villa, for the whole
facking summer if you want, I don’t care. ‘Cept the Mrs
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for one week July and Julia Roberts has rented it for
Sept, second half, otherwise its free for you because I
do, really do, but for you no strings attached’ and it had
worked nicely, plus the Château Lafitte ’65, and he’d
got in then, ‘ go on one more time’, had had her again,
as always it seemed he’d got there again in the end.
Yeah, the reluctance at first was just a front, all the
best birds had it, it was part of the game and of course
the Daddy thing, Yeah, he now persuaded himself,
she’d like to see me really, wouldn’t she, tales of Slice
and Shin, the rich and famous, he knew it made her
feel more connected, someone, her being with the One
(him) who made them tick, then she’d adorate him,
fawn at them via him. But NO, it came on again, the
emptiness, the virtual void and a chorus of howls came
up behind him echoing around of the bay and the Boyz
of Me3 were all there, the crew breaking out into a
mass mimicking of him howling and what they
presumed to be some sort of genius ‘ting’. ‘Noce one
Glenny boy’, ‘Great you odd fucker you’,’ wheel pud dat
at de end’, ‘Hooling loke a banshee’, ‘Never stops does
he Firckin genius he is Begoid’ and they all came up to
him giving him most fizz, slaps and sniff, the Boyz
around their hero, as Glenn smiled with clenched
enamel thinking only of Robert Maxwell floating off
behind him another fat lump lost in the watery darkness
finally finding had he some sort of peace.
Give me a licking give me some love, oh my Jane take
away, my pain, Jesus what shit and Glenn slammed the
multitask CD player off. And then on the steep incline
climbing up towards her and the Villa, it was just the
car and the wind, no music and it seemed an age since
there had been no music; the studio, the bar, the wall
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to wall Bang and Olufson on the boat and swinging the
brilliant red bonnet around the wide arc of road Glenn
suddenly pulled onto the gravelly verge. Yeah Stop,
why not, stop for a moment, take it easy, why don’t
you stop….
He jumped out of the car. Well, got out, heaving his pot
on stiff joints and stood leaning like in an early car ad,
looking out towards the sea. The sun was beginning to
make long shadows and he could see the port, the
marina, silent cars little shining lights in an arc and
there the Onassis yacht moored out in middle where he
was, it seemed, only a second ago, almost in static
slightly out of place, or was it Cape Town and Robben
Island, Nelsons place, the view from the Table Mountain
no here, Alpes Maratimes innit?
And click, it went again just below the stomach a twist,
Oh shit, and he took off his sunglasses and it suddenly
hit him, the light bludgeoning him with its white gold,
the sound of crickets flaring up around him and a
screech in the forest below. He was frightened, he felt a
bead of sweat dribble down his forehead and along the
side of his nose and they were howling and laughing at
him the fat old man out of shape and whoosh there it
went again the hot wind inside him. Fuck this, fackin
safari he needed a drink, a line of, shit TV, anything,
full on Formula 1, re-runs preferably and hurrying back
into his machine he gunned up the V12 which seemed
to shift the fear to one side, then off again and the
horrible stuff dissolving back into his spine. ‘ Born to be
wild, Yeah Born to be free’ the bulbous red blob of the
Ferrari again rushing off up the hill, its gases creating
an odd little cloud of quasi post-siesta haze.
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---------------------‘Mummy, I love you Mummy’ Moonchild enveloped Ellen
in the half darkness of the bedroom, ‘Yes Darling, I do
too” ‘I do too’ from the other side came Zesta and it
was as if they were the same together and for the first
time for a long time Ellen felt safe.
They could get through this OK, this time she knew,
oddly, even if they, her little girls, didn’t have a clue.
They did know that Mummy was anxious, the hug was
harder but it was like the weather for them, big Men
things, and subconsciously they still bathed in the relief
of not being in the Daddy-Mummy maelstrom anymore;
Gordon was long gone, those dark violent years now a
distant land, a place never to go back to, Mummy had
promised not to.
Consequently Zesta and Moonshine were both known to
be good at power games at school, and also at
reconciliation. ‘Don’t worry Mummy everything will be
alright you’ll see’ ‘Don’t worry Dad everything will be
alright’ giving him those sweet smiles he so liked. In
fact, they were two very well adjusted children as if
balanced out by their two warring parents. It would only
be later, when they entered the playground of sex,
Moonshine destroying hearts with her ruthless
detachment and Zesta almost violently promiscuous,
treating the boys around her like playthings, that their
early experience of their parent breakup would come
into play.
‘Come on Celia, Freida, Come on Girls’, Ellen rapped on
each of her friends doors rousing them from their long
siesta. She felt better, more in control, the flippetty flip
140
flops on the marble floor echoing around the stairwell.
‘Mien Gott it stinks in here’ she burst into the dark suite
and opened up the shuttered windows. ‘No’ said the
long twisted shape on the bed ‘I told you no smokinghe’ll get upset’ pulling out the long muslin of the curtain
and pushing them over the balcony side. Ellen suddenly
caught herself being Mrs. Glenn, the protective mistress
protecting his bits, as he liked to called his vast estate
of assets. She knew it was a role inside her, one she
longed to play, but it was a wrong one like an intrusive
virus and she pushed it away.
‘The old wanker will go pear shaped- well he is already,
actually ’ and she giggled coming to sit next to Frieda
and lighting up one of her friends Marlboro Red. ‘You
know what the old bastard’s like worried about the cash
cows, Julia then Sting’. She took a big drag ‘ You know,
he’s coming tonight’ ‘Oh my gott’ Friedas long spindelly
fingers came out of the bed and made their way to the
bedside table searching for a fag, then not finding them
about to panic, the fingers frantically making their way
over to a pair of black rimmed specs. ‘Oh I see’ and she
propped herself up on the bed, ‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know’ said Ellen sat beside her suddenly flat
watching the muslin shrouds limp refusing to blow. ‘I
just feel a bit sick’, ‘ Don’t worry’ said Frieda wrapping
her long arms around her friends midriff pulling her
gently down onto the bed ‘Its only a man for Gotts
sake’ and they laughed now two twisted long shapes on
the bed, smoking, inverted commas facing the light.
They’d known each other for ages and were well known
on the arty party circuit back in town, two long legged
good time ladies out for something they hadn’t got.
Frieda lived with an old gangster in West London, who
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had been one of Ellen’s first father replacements early
in her teens. Like Glenn really, thought Ellen lying there
watching the blue seeping though the window, the
white muslin to move. He was there always, worldly,
watching, wanting and he gave her all the space that
she needed, that’s why it was so difficult to get away. It
was so easy, not like the constraints and continual
criticism from Gordon, where there was always
something obvious to fight against.
With Glenn he didn’t get in the way of her at all, just
there appearing it seemed almost telepathically in her
empty time, the most lonely hours where, bereft of
clinging kids, work fantasies and boy dreams she felt
herself sinking deeper and deeper irretrievably into
what her counselor friend always called her ‘inherent
lack of self esteem’ and then, as if on cue, the phone
would ring and he’d be there, Glenn coming in from
somewhere exotic like Barbados, as if he had a satellite
link into her level neediness and desperation, soothing
her, saving her with his compliments and promises, and
then, despite the previous resolve, she found herself
here again, in his bed, in his home, waiting for him to
come up and have his bit slithering inside of her, as if
already there she was unable to say No. Oh shit she
thought it was checkmate, again.
‘Hey you guys what’s up, what’s all the banging about?’
It was Celia a grey presence in the door, wrapped in a
new sarong. She found the bed with the two woman
aligned curiously attractive and shifted awkwardly on
her feet pushing the feeling away. ‘The bathrooms over
here if you want a pee’ said Ellen authoratively, ‘No’,
said Celia in her New England twee drawl, stepping
forward, ‘I just wondered what you were doing, it looks
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kinda strange that’s all’ ‘Come in and stop being so
uptight’ commanded Ellen, willing the tension in her
midriff to go away by trying to rid the other of hers.
‘Don’t you get girlie where you come from, the fuckin
prairies or wherever it is’ said Ellen, ‘Come over here’
and she patted the bed invitingly by her side.
Celia had a funny face, now squirming, very serious one
moment, almost manly, slightly peeved and quite
frightening really, but which would then suddenly light
up when caught off guard or made to laugh, very
feminine and sweet. The obvious split somehow drew
people to her not wanting her to fall back into that
painful hardness, although she was unaware of the look
herself. But she too had Man Trouble. She did have one,
she always insisted, although Ellen doubted how real.
He came once a month apparently, when mutual
schedules corresponded but the fact was he kept on
letting her down, not turning up at the last moment
almost abusing her, particularly recently and she
wondered how many others he had in his Outlook
Contacts folder, marked ‘For play’. Recently the nearest
they had had to sex was a fucking disgusting SMS text
he’d sent yesterday.
In fact, Ellen saw her mission was to bring Celia out of
herself loosen her up a little. Celia had a proper job,
corporate PR, always had done and she wasn’t one for
getting rat arsed and letting herself go. She was even
more awkward around boys than Ellen, which made
Ellen more confident when they went out on their
‘raids’. Frieda on the other hand, always ended up with
some bloke or other, could always get herself laid,
though it rarely went beyond the first date and Frieda
would then feel used and hurt. Ellen had determined
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that Frieda would become more considerate to herself
and stop smoking, be less neurotic, do yoga, eat well. It
was as if Ellen chose, (and perhaps this was to some
extent the function of her friends), to be with Frieda
and Celia because they filled in the gaps in her self; the
professionalism of Celia, the clinical ambition and
glamour of Frieda and being with them made her feel
more whole while also highlighting the strengths she did
have in comparison with the other two, making her feel
doubly stronger sort of. Now together, there on the
bed, arranged as two quavers and a dot they could
have been signifying a mysterious completeness viewed
from high above.
-----Three birds, tasty, perhaps they could have a Triple
Decker: Glenns imagination was in play. He’d had one
in Barbados recently, fucked his back right up but the
memory was still vibrant. The scene seemed to play out
inside the glass of his mirrored shades, supported by
the tinnitus bass still pounding somewhere inside his
head. No, stop it and he banged the calf leathered
wheel pushing down slightly on the accelerator so he
could change gear.
No, he was meant to be having a relationship. Ellen
wasn’t like that, she had something else down there,
something he couldn’t get hold of, special, touched for a
moment only when he made her laugh or that time
when she cried; it was something even he couldn’t buy,
which made him really want it and there it went again
that twist in the stomach again. He had tried, he really
had, for her, to become gentle; gone to AA for a week
when she said so, read that book, stopped the valium
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for a month and moving towards the next bend, he
remembered clean for a few days a new feeling, like a
breeze blowing through him, finding an unknown space
inside him like a blanket being lifted and aired out. He’d
laugh and want to cry, wanting to carry on into the
undiscovered this new place, the somewhere new,
fresh, alive. But it happened too fast, suddenly finding
he could hardly breath heading towards he felt a
precipice, he was out of control and he’d had to pull
back, hold up, bring things back under his command,
feel safe again, dirty but safe and he made her do it
again, there behind the mirrored glasses, he made her
turn over so he could do it again, without feeling, purely
physically, almost anonymously, devoid of any
possibility of his suffering further pain.
No fuck that. He was what he was but he knew he
wanted her and Big Time. She was his ticket to an old
age, griefless and besides he knew she had needs, no
money, a poxy home, no job, no prospect and he had
the answer for them all and if he kept doing so she
might even love me, he thought, sticking the gers into
third powering away from the cliff, inland towards the
burning orange, beginning to glow inside the gold
beyond the blackening edge of the mountain range.
--------------Ellen was now furiously cleaning, on her hands and
knees, sponging the big fluffy white sheepskin rug. It
was probably not sheepskin but something else, some
poncy type, a rare species tracked down in the
Himalayas and slaughtered for the benefit of those who
must have the finest of everything, those who have to
show they are different from the rest of the human
145
race, or at least some reassurance that perhaps there
was a reason for them being so fucking rich in the first
place.
Fucking Wankers, Ellen hissed at her hands, the yellow
rubber gloves squeezing out the red then pink sponge.
It was the strongest disinfectant they had, although
they weren’t sure because the house was done by a
Moroccan maid, who came and went without anyone
seeing her, a cleansing spirit tidying up the ashtrays
dusting down their dreams. Ellen wished she was here
now, a fairy godmother to make everything better and
get rid of this fucking stain. Tomato ketchup in three
bloody dots, the kids and chips in front of the
cinemascope plasma screen. What did he expect for
fucks sake? Why didn’t he have a sofa? There was the
fireplace, the tele, the rug and a large marble blob, a
sculpture shining out black and smooth, some sort of
phallus no doubt to stroke rather than to sit on, unless
you were a model on a photo shoot. In fact the whole
place was just a set. All beige and white and grey, the
same muslin curtains as upstairs, occasionally doing
little jigs, shaking themselves out to remain suitably
cool and loose.
Sponge it out- her sister’d said down the frantic line
and Ellen did although resenting it- he could throw it
away and buy another one easy- the time he take to
say Tut Tut enough cash would come from royalties to
cover it- tight bastard twat. Its probably the skin of the
last Yeti she thought, Bigfoot, frightened scurrying
away beyond the precipice and for a moment Ellen felt
sad for the innocent creature hounded to extinction, if it
existed in the first place and she shuddered as she felt
its hair between her shoulders rise as he, the real
146
monster, came taking them both from behind. She
squeezed out the sponge, with the yellow gloves the
water bubbling up into froth, then dabbed the red dots
some more. The sponge darkened pulling the tomato
into it and the stain got less. Why was she getting so
hot and flustered, after a few beers and pills he’d be
alright, probably won’t even notice too busy thinking
about spreading his oats and all that. She shuddered
again and bent down further, feeling the sweat rolling
down her spine round her neck and onto the carpet,
splat.
The other girls were in the kitchen and out by the pool
taking an evening dip. Celia was still upstairs preparing
herself for the rich mans arrival, using bottle number 6
of her 10, ‘special medication’ for her skin, that tended
to crinkle particularly when she was stressed. She was
terribly excited now though, a flutter below the belly
button with the great producer arriving soon. He’s done
Madonna for God’s sake and Me3, maybe she’d even
get to meet them if they came up from the coast. Glenn
was only coming a couple of nights but you never know,
he might invite us to the yacht or something, that’ll be
something to tell the folks back home.
Home, she wasn’t sure where that was anymore now.
Boston, Vancouver, New York, London. She’d been this
side of the water for 10 years and she’d sort of done
what she’d set out to do originally. Now what? More of
the same? Sucking up, working longer hours than she
should, being tired, feeling life was one long continual
fight. She looked at her face in the mirror edged on the
table light, cool, and most considerately on a dimmer if
you weren’t feeling so cool yourself. She saw the
darkness around the eyes, mouth more pinched and the
147
curve from her shoulder to her hip becoming less
everyday. ‘No more peanuts’ whatever Atkins said and
for a moment she felt herself about to sag. Let go, the
voice said, but she couldn’t, not yet anyway, she still
had to, had to…. had to what? She was sure there were
things that needed to be done. There was this
unidentifiable something inside her, growing, a
heaviness she just couldn’t shift and she wondered
what it was?
She knew really. Kids. She knew and it wouldn’t go
away, biology right? Or is was only a rotting and an
unbecoming, and yah she wanted one, didn’t she, yes?
no? She’d put it off so long, like everyone else, to build
a career and get on with the job, but now, almost 40 it
had to happen, or else. More of the same, it was almost
convenient, the successful career veneer too,
considering the lifestyle was more important. Anyway
people like Ellen went for it, had two by 30, and now all
the willing determination, and sheer handwork that had
got her on with the career didn’t , with this, seem to
have woredk. Men were, as usual, the problem.
Beep beep. It was Rod, as if someone had called out his
name, and again he always got in touch when another
man was about to enter her orbit, shit.. ‘ Heybaby
hot2nite luv2lik u sweet ass and suku dry..’ Urrg how
horrible, she whispered but Celia couldn’t stop herself
flushing, a little laugh coming up from her insides. He
always got her, that’s why she could never say no, even
when she knew he was abusing her. He’d probably done
text2many, bastard, Dubai, Hong Kong, Paris, wherever
his fucking consultancy job had taken him to recently,
but at least the 142 characters registered that she was
alive and still in the game, a sexual being, and there
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holding the Nokia 3100 heavy in her hand she knew if
the truth be told that what she really needed, and she
wasn’t that fussy, was a good old fashioned…
‘Fack fack fack’ it was Frieda storming past, an anorexic
odalisque in white towel turban and a green facemask.
‘Ver are my facking fags?’. Celia smiled; the kids or
Ellen had probably hidden them again. She didn’t seem
to care, Frieda, about smoking or babies; she seemed
the most assured of them all. She could get a man just
like that, always scored when they went out in a posse
at one of the cultural doos, and of course she had old
Dickey back at base just in case and to Celia, Frieda
seemed cool. But no it was her night tonight, Celia said
untwisting the gold top of her Estee Lauder beetroot
lipstick, blood red for the Top Dude. Ellen said that she
didn’t want him anyway, Frieda had said she was sick of
old men, and Celia well, if nothing else surely he’d be
impressed by her social connections, he was a collector
after all and if nothing else they could talk cultural and
perhaps you never know, he’d see there under the clear
Mediterranean sky her intelligence, knowledge and
sweet understanding, discover that it is character that
counts rather than the high cheek bones long legs and
pure cheek of Ellen, and if not, well there might always
be another job opportunity, with one of the bands, him,
right?.
‘Stop stop stop’, Ellen was, for no reason, still wacking
the damp patch with a wet flannel. The red was gone,
but dampness remained. She needed a bath now, her
linen shirt was wet through with sweat. Mauve shot
through with pink, the rectangle of sky of the window
was the nearest thing she had to a clock; he’d be here
soon. O God, part of her couldn’t be arsed, wanted to
149
be sweaty and unkempt as possible, play the shoddy
servant girl- but he’d probably like that too. It felt like
ants crawling inside her skin and in the half-light she
was sure she saw something slither across the marble,
then up beside her, dark presences everywhere on the
walls and corners. The curtains suddenly stirred, lifting
themselves up and around reaching out to her as if
trying to articulate a way out for her and Ellen noticed
one star had appeared from behind the dark purple
cloud. She had got off her knees but without knowing it
she stood there, hands clasped infront of her holding
the cloth, praying for some sort of intercession.
Clack clack clack clack clack a knife almost instantly
made the carrot five and Frieda got a particular frisson
from slicing the top off and then flicking away the base;
controllable, perhaps it was the Swiss inside her. She
was preparing the salat for the evening meal. Salat,
Steak Chips, simplement, followed by cheese coffee
fruit. She’d leave Glenn to sort the wine out, he fancied
himself a bit of a connoisseur. Frieda and Ellen had only
sneaked out a bottle of Haut Brion, and the Rothschild,
when he’d expressly told them not to, but fack him he’d
drink Thunderbird if there wasn’t anything else, it was
there to impress. The fancy claret was there to make
him feel better by drinking it, and its expense better
about drinking so much of it. That’s what men
constantly wanted; stuff to make them feel better,
comfort, and that was what she always provided, just to
be later discarded, except by Dickey and Frieda
suddenly violently coughed, a bit of ash falling off onto
the sliced vegetables. ‘Schisser’.
She washed them under the tap, glad of the distraction.
She heard the splashes of the children in the pool
150
outside, little girlie screams, laughter and the
occasional ‘Stop it’ coming in from the darkness. The
pool lay below the verandah, on the terrace, water
lapping over and down the hill, its edge the horizon to
the sea, sparkling darkness there beyond. Ellen and her
had had a little giggling there sipping the flash wine
staring up at the stars and they’d even got Celia
sniggering a little after she’d gone and put the kids to
bed, but now Freida was beginning to feel heavy again,
that irritation and self loathing gathering around her
with the dark. She didn’t want to admit it but it was the
approach of Glenn, a fucking man making everyone self
conscious again, creating the competition between her
and the other women, and now, well she just wanted
some security, peace, not the mood swinging and
paranoia about will he wont he, might he if I let him
and without thinking she swung the cleaver high over
her head and slammed it down hard, making the table
shake the piece of meat cut clean in half, without any
fray to its edge.
--------------A marvelous panoply of stars each note hanging there
in the universal symphony unsung and Glenn
unconsciously rattled out Mahler’s 5th on the calf leather
steering wheel. ‘Fuck that’, he stopped himself quickly,
that was old stuff from the classical career long ago
abandoned, the Conservatory swapped for LSD, and a
violins string, a goats tendon stretched and going
slightly off twanged inside of him reverberating around
a tiny chamber tucked away behind the ribs, hair
blowing, leaves, a warm touch ungrasping, a light at
dawn, a becoming a part of, then fading down, smaller
to black, an image in a droplet, as though it didn’t exist
in the first place, that hope.
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Cunt. He was going to give a fucking seeing to her
tonight and in a kaleidoscope of pornographic images
with Ellen tumbled through his head as he tried to rid
himself of the overpowering feeling of waste he
speeded up, What was it all for? the birds, the succour,
the money, the cars.. Why? it felt like he’d had a
chance at something else but.. ‘Fuck God’ he suddenly
shouted out into the night, the tight-throated
exclamation getting garbled up in an endgame
somewhere, then disappearing back into the darkness
vapourizing itself like exhaust. Life was hard, like a
bitch, you just had to look after number one and that
was it. Dog eat dog, get it while you can, savour the
joys of life, food, sex, whatever, that was the point,
that was it, wasn’t it?.
Anyway he’d fucked things up, royally, the two pissed
exes, a long list of debaucheries descending into hell
and he’d lost the flow, that elusive something needed to
play the piano properly, to bring that proper music fully
to life and now it was as if it had been pounded out of
him by the billions of heavy deep-down beats. He
turned up the Bang and Olufson in car stereo to full
blast, even the taut texture of the Ferrari rattling
slightly with the noise, two sparkling stars high up in
front of him and Glenn swerved quickly the car went
right almost to the edge- some rabbit or something,
Fuck… and he screeched to a halt. He was shaking,
sensing his bones shudder and feeling sick again. Oh
shit….
The cry rumbled around the arena of rock-faces, their
vague menacing presence surrounding him here up in
the high sierra, ghosts sneering at the echoing sounds
152
soon engulfed into the greater silence. Glenn suddenly
felt very old, a bag of bone and cartilage and he looked
out and he felt very afraid, alone. He was getting tired,
he couldn’t keep this up very much longer and the fact
was he didn’t know any alternative; there wasn’t
anywhere else to go. Yeah he had the country cottage
in Sussex, the Chelsea flat, Ealing villa, France
farmhouses times two, Mustique, old company or no
company in each of them, in fact he had anything he
wanted, but still he didn’t know anywhere he could rest.
Except Ellen. And she had nothing. She wasn’t attached
to anything, except her kids and she was alive, each
moment happening that’s what he saw in her and what
he really liked was when she was excited, about
meeting people, about going out, anything new, a look
coming into her eyes which was almost child like in its
eagerness and anticipation, how he longed to replicate
that inside himself, on top of her, somehow osmotic,
cloned, it was that essence that he, for whom nothing
seemed new, that he wanted to get from her, bottle,
buy, inject, , it was that which he wanted to suck out of
her ‘Viagra for the Soul’ the phrase came into his head
and again he suddenly panicked, fumbling around his
multiple pockets, double checking he’d got his clutch of
little blue pills.
Yup, the stash was there next to the white ones, white
powder sashes and the ME15s, the organic stuff Slice
had which he thought he could get Ellen to take. He
couldn’t bear the thought of more awkwardness like last
time, it had fucked his head up (and balls) for a week.
And Glenn didn’t let the thought of the little pill in his
soap box as it came into his head, a guilty secret, his
Rhohipnol (the just in case), an ultimate solution
coming from somewhere nasty because it was like
153
fucking the dead. But he would be here soon and he
needed to buy a nurse for his old age (before the
hearse) and Ellen, well she was good and with her
hands, healing he always called them afterwards.
Go go on go on and on, keep going and Glenn pushed
himself on, not long now its OK, ‘Onwards’ he said out
loud, on towards his own holy grail and it was clear,
again the fear for a while pushed aside, as clear as it
will probably ever be… And he gunned up the engine
ready for an F1 sprint to the end but just before he put
his foot down where the carbs would obliterate any
thought he heard it, whispering ‘ you old wanker you
old… gurgling up from inside the rumblings of the
Ferraris valves.. But he didn’t hear it fully and tried to
laugh instead, as he zoomed up the hill, wondering
what time he should drop the first star-shaped pill.
----------‘Mummy Mummy what’s going on’, Zesta was pulling at
the black velvet of Ellens cocktail dress. ‘We’re getting
ready for Glenn darling, it’s his house and we want to
make it nice for him don’t we?’ ‘ But it is nice’ the child
replied flat-faced and correct. ‘We are here it would be
empty without us and Glenn would be lonely’ and it
caught her, mid eyelash curl there bent over in front of
the mirror, the child was right and it articulated like a
cloud passing away from sun the thought she’d had
throughout the day: he was fucking lucky, really, and
should be grateful we’re using his poxy villa lonely old
git, it was only her thinking that it was some sort of
trade, perhaps with a little help from him, that made
her feel beholden, and a piece of shit. It was like when
she left Gordon, or pushed him out rather; it was OK
154
she was a bit bereft frightened about no money and
everything but it was only her who immediately saw ten
pound blowjobs in Shoreditch as her only career option
then, that was what she was worth and it wasn’t much
of a career move anyway seeing most of them there
were gay.
No, and she stood up straight and stepped back looking
at herself full on. Yes, he was lucky, she wasn’t past it,
she looked good and it was her who felt sorry for him,
the wretched old genius just like the other one trapped
in his office upstairs, long gone. ‘ You look nice mum’
said Zesta and Elle went red and beamed and felt a
little current of electricity pass through her, because
she did, for a moment, believe it and for the first time
in a long time she smiled at herself. No, she’d didn’t
owe the guy anything, he was lucky they were here, to
stop him going mad and yes she did feel for him and
they would look after the never satisfied baby, they
would nurture him, make sure he was alright, before
packing him off back to the other Boyz down by the
beach.
-----------‘OK all, you’ve got the idea, you know what to do?
Zesta Shoo go back to the video’ Ellen was very
commanding now, standing there all in black, expansive
over the candlelit table where the other two sat. Celia
had that deeply concerned, slightly squashed look on
her face, ‘You know that’s revolting and I don’t think its
really me, besides I don’t even know the guy- you
never know we might get on’ ‘ OK, vot evir, it zeems
zer logical solution, a compromise.’ ‘Look lets call it the
cleaning schedule’ said Ellen giggling swinging around
155
the pair of bright yellow rubber gloves above her head,
‘B52 Marigold,’ she said reaching inside one glove, then
smelling it pulling over her nose and mouth, ‘ Ahh
lovely, nothing like the smell of rubber in the evening’
then she blew out the yellow rubber hand suddenly
pointing out behind them into the night ‘ It iz zer only
way’ Ellen laughed, mimicking the French and Celia
suddenly felt left out ‘ OK l’ll do it but somebody must
be nearby to bail me out in case. Hey you hear
something?’ and they all went outside and there it was
like a searchlight going through the tops of the trees,
the beam occasionally hitting one of the curl tipped
cypress trees stirring like sleeping sentries out in the
dark. ‘OK girls, here he comes and remember be nice,
he’d just a lonely old man, right?’.
------Warm waves and cold flushes, crickets and piano notes,
white rosy faces candles in the moonless night and
Glenn was determined to feel well. ‘More Lafite darlin,
have you tried the Haut Brion- here darlin have a little
quail egg, fresh this morning, go on lick out the crushed
truffle from the pastry base..’ Zesta stared back at the
grinning gargoyle with a little sweet smile noticing that
there was a little gristle stuck in his beard. ‘ No thank
you, like the crisps better’ What about you?’ and
Glenns gaze moved over to his left side to Moonshine,
sitting there straight-backed avoiding the thought that
this was all rather strange and something odd was
going on, and she wished things were a little more
normal like when she was with Dad. ‘No thanks Glenn,’
and she smiled just like her Mum, non-plussed.
156
Glenn just wanted to eat Ellen the bitch, she was at the
other end of the table sitting there all lit up by the light,
the two other birds, the six foot two one the other one
chunky, each side of her like minders, to her, his own
little star. But the thing was she wasn’t; she was just a
divorcee from Hackney, if it wasn’t for him she’d be
lucky to make it to Margate let alone the Cote d’Azur.
He imagined his cock there, viagarised rigid extending
itself out of its trouser leg slithering between the forest
of bare legs up hers and then wriggling inside her
wrapping itself around her pulling her back towards
him, then..
‘Fancy an apple darling or maybe a fig,’ as he pushed
the splayed fruits insides exposed into his mouth from
bottom to tip. ‘No thanks’ she said coming down to his
end of the table with some wine. Her long fingers came
up from behind his neck over his scalp stroking him.
‘There there, here we are, all in good time,’ and he
grabbed her thigh putting his arm round in a lock,
‘Beddy time yeah, my iggy boy tigered’ ‘Just have a
drink first, then go up and wait’ she almost commanded
Glenn and he took a big slug of the wine that tasted a
bit bitter and went going upstairs feeling rather lame.
He needed the fuck badly, to keep himself up and stop
the little gremlins he sensed now gathering at the
borders of his mind. He didn’t want them to make him
again seek that oblivion that now was becoming an all
too regular occurrence when he was ‘on his tod’ as he
called it, a phrase Ellen for some reason deplored.
It got lonely, people didn’t understand, and the
pressure, people expecting you to deliver all the time,
the goods, another hit and fuck its not surprising he got
fucked up, why he needed all the release he could get,
157
all the palliatives the world could provide. And the job
paid for them, from the medical insurance through to
PA whatever was needed to get the job done, money
begot money if you treated it right and he knew that for
all the orlright Glenn me old mucker fuck this for a
game of jokers eh, he was in fact only a paycheck,
insurance policy and a bet rolled into one, for the Boyz
he’d been playing with fast for the last thirty years and
as soon as he didn’t deliver, well maybe the second
time fer auld times sake then he wouldn’t be worth shit
and soon they wouldn’t even remember his name, out
on his ear. Ellen didn’t understand, no wonder he had to
buy all the houses, cars, all that, it could all go,
disintegrate in a minute. He didn’t have to work, but
what then? What happened when the music stopped,
what then? His wife didn’t talk to him anymore, all his
mates were either work, business or that odd mixture
like those stupid gigs for the Formula One boss..
Oh for fucks sake shut up he shouted silently at himself,
enjoy it for fucks sake this is the point of it, the summit
of it all, my lovely house my lovely bird my lovely wine
my lovely…. Where was she anyway? and the heavy
silver sacking hung above around the four-poster bed
seemed to balloon out of focus and then came back
again. The two women, Frieda, Ellen’s mate and this
new one what’s her name, what one is she? Frieda was
the conduit to Ellen, that the one he needed to woo,
‘How are you darling you look lovely’ he’d said…‘Fine
Glenn’ had said Frieda. ‘Absolutely, This is good, innit,
enjoyed your stay, would you like to come again? said
Glenn dangling the carrot. ‘ Of course, maybe, maybe
not, too hot’ said Frieda and Glenn wondered for a
158
moment if somehow he could buy something to sort out
the sun.
‘What a Arshlock’ thought Frieda, just like Dickey
crushing me with comfort so you can ease their pain as
she told him ‘That’s right, turn over lets sort out these
shoes yah’… ‘ Another fool’, Celia had been hurt too by
being totally blanked by the lout, he had looked straight
through her, it had made her sick, yeah she was going
to get into this too and hurt him, do it really roughly,
the stupid prick.. ‘Like some more wine Glenn?’ ‘Sure
Baby.. babees’ said Glenn not sure if he saw three faces
or one, for some reason that weight tugging him down
by something on one side, ‘Sign here’ What was it he
didn’t know, Where was Ellen? It would be alright, they
had a deal, she’d sort him out, was it happening now?
Was it a triple? why were they clothed? Ahe’d stick to
her word she was that type of bird, it was the way she
did it too? ‘Finished girls?’ he heard her say’ Ok hand
me the gloves’ and he had some sort of sensation which
although painful approxiamated the thing he needed to
relieve his all too ancient pain.
----------‘Oh God how could we?’ and Ellen grimaced at the
Nessa Dorma turn blaring out of the red car as it turned
the corner into the humming trees and disappeared,
and she smirked at the two other women who giggled
like girls. Zesta looked at them with a seriously grown
up frown on her face. ‘ What’s that for?’ said Ellen,
‘You’re all being very silly this morning’ the child
scolded, ‘Are we?’ her mother answered almost
mockingly ‘Its just we’ve all been doing a lot of cleaning
haven’t we girls’ she said holding up her yellow rubber
159
gloves, ‘ We too’ the others replied almost in unison,
then all were breaking into a laugh.
‘What’s for lunch Mummy?’ demanded Zesta wanting
the laughter to stop now. ‘ Roast glove it looks like’
Ellen said and threw the yellow gloves onto the red hot
logs smoldering in the barb, ‘ Hope for his sake its not
voodoo or the silly man will not be able to pee for
weeks’ and Frieda’s laugh became a cackle joined by
the others standing around the fire, and it was only
Moonshine, sitting bored by the grown up Panto going
on around her who turning away, wondered what it
was, out over the curled tops of the forest, the white
plume rising against the azure blue over towards the
sea, what was it, the whorl of white smoke rising like a
spiral into the growing haze of the morning heat.
160
NEIGHBOURHOOD
She emerged around the corner by the Kurdish off license. All
in black but slightly faded, the first tinge of grey bordering
her pudding bowl hair. She had the look of someone who
spent much time alone, looking around conscious of seeing
the scene of the street, she was in, self conscious of the man
across the street looking at her now. Furtive. Shopping for
something she didn’t really need, urgent to get out for the
day, before retreating again to her caring for her self.
They had moved into the neighbourhood over the last few
years, the media types. Apart from the normal people, the
people who had lived here since the neat squares of rapidly
built cheap housing had been built, the last hill before the
river and the marshes. There had been the hippies before,
drongoes, who, as a statement, had killed all aspirations,
accept the one not to aspire, resolutely residing away from
the tumult of those who were striving. No urgent move to
head West, via the East, or off to the airy climes of Chingford
and beyond. Or even the bungalow by the Sea down
Southend, They had been happy in the oddity amongst the
working people, but now felt awkward with the post Millenium
media types moving in. They retreated more, into the
shadows of undone up houses, grimacing at the noise of
builders refurbishing other over the other side, of the street.
161
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302,000
Hampden Way, Southgate, london, N14
A four bedroom terraced house in good condition and on a popular
street, offering an excellent investment opportunity. Three doubles and
one single room, with reception also currently used as a bedroom.
Potential to develop off-street parking at front of property. 75' rear
garden; single garage with access from rear. No onward chain
345,000
Westferry Road, Isle Of Dogs, Greater London, E14
Very attractive three bedroom terraced house, recently redecorated
throughout. Recently fitted bathroom and kitchen (both with newly
installed underheated tile flooring). Expansive double reception room.
48' rear garden and rear-facing terrace. Chain free (all white goods and
furniture negotiable as part of sale)
162
Welcome to the new TV Opportunities section on
TheMoveChannel.com!
Over the last year or so, TheMoveChannel.com has frequently been
contacted by TV production companies with opportunities for for
potential participants in a number of different new shows on subjects
such as DIY, home makeovers and even the chance of starting a new
career in presenting.
Current opportunities:
Property Show
(TBA) - Are you looking to make money from abroad?
End date: Start July
Click here for more details
Divorced
(TBA) - Talkback UK is looking for recently divorced men who want to turn their lives
around, for a brand new series.
End date: End May
Click here for more details
Selling Houses - Spain
(C4) - UK TV’s Selling Houses is back to help you sell your Spanish home…
End date: End May
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Selling Houses
(C4) - TV’s Selling Houses is back to help you sell your home…
End date: End May
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Before & After
(C4) - Are you struggling to sell your house by yourself?
End date: End May
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Move Or Improve
(BBC) - Is your home no longer big enough and you are caught between extending your
home or moving?
End date: End May
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Homes From Hell 2005
(ITV) - Granada Television is looking for stories for a prime time programme for ITV1.
End date: End May
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Property Professional
(C4) - Channel 4 are looking for a presenter for a major new series about making £££ out of
properties overseas.
End date: End May
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Property Developer
(C4) - Are You Looking To Make Money From A Property Abroad?
End date: End May
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Don’t Move, Improve !
(ITV) - ITV1 wants to hear from you now!
163
End date: CLOSED
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Builder
(FIVE) - Five are on the hunt for Britain’s Worst Builders and their dissatisfied customers
for a new prime time TV show.
End date: CLOSED
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Disaster Houses
(TBA) - If you have a story to tell about a household calamity then this show needs you....
End date: CLOSED
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March
16 plane trees in a circle in the park
2 other trees (unidentified) stand inside it
4 cormorants fly low towards marshes
2 terriers scurry inside bushes,
6 widgeon whistle by the far riverbed
Countless crows gather in conference on the fields,
2 almost peck at my lost black hat
144a is the number on the window place
7 sacraments match the stages of man
and Christ five wounds saved the human race.
The Blackbird sings now at 4
Joined by bird unknown later,
They sit on chimneys race each other
Between gardens and are generally
Very evidently on the move.
Two Shags high up come in
From the coast descending towards town
Two more or the same come back
Low an hour later, it seemed
Having seen but been disappointed.
A series of lines make up
A cloud, a comb stroke in blueness
Miming lines in still leafless trees
And later in the sun, the cloud
164
Flattens out becoming
A ghost of itself
Forsythia buds and other green
Dots on tips wanting to be noticed
Birds gather in the tree tops
Waiting for something to happen:
Its spring and its sex,
Again.
HOUSE
Essence of Growth is a willingness to change, for the better
and the unremitting willingness to shoulder whatever
responsibility this entails.
Addiction and Grace
165
It shook when she closed the door. When she got up
and walked around the bed the boards in her room
made the boards in his room wobble, even the heavy
furniture moved up and down. He was sure that he
detected a slight movement when she rolled over in
bed, when he was next door working, and at night, her
cough bought rough dreams into his head.
He’d taken to sleeping next door soon after they’d put
the double glazed windows in. She’d wanted sash
windows, and he’d agreed, he’d had the money then
after all and he just wanted quiet and peace. Perhaps it
was an investment, two grand, it might mean
something to another style conscious buyer later on,
but all he cared about was that the traffic noise would
be blocked out. He hated the noise, particularly at
night. All quiet, at peace, then the hum becoming a
growl and a whoosh, his whole body up with it
unsettled, dependent on the quality of the engine.
Obviously he’d slept in places with traffic before but he
figured that here, in this house which had cost him so
much he could relax, deserved to, not have to sleep
slightly tensed up, curled up tight against the outside.
The builders were doing the roof as well, which pissed
him off as he’d bought it refurbished and the euphoria
of actually getting into the house, had gradually
166
subsided as the stain spread above then in the bed that
first summer there, the stain getting larger as they
moved to their first autumn and the endless rain
expanding the leak. The scaffolding had been put up
and while he was doing the job to pay for the house,
young men had surrounded the place, her sitting in
bed, as they were also doing the kitchen downstairs,
watching their legs. The made to measure windows had
finally been put in, and then they had gone, his cash in
their back pocket, and he waited for the sense of
satisfaction to kick in, the reward and the applause for
his achievement. But it didn’t really happen. It was just
back to how it was meant to be before, there hadn’t
been any dramatic change, the knocking down of walls,
more space or architectural renovation, the modern on
the old, the stamp of his personality and taste. It was
just patching up what was already there, even though
he’d paid extra to buy it refurbished. And the windows,
well they looked double glazed, but not much, seemed
thin, and it seemed to him that the noise was worse
than it was before. He kept going back to the pane,
checking it; he could see the two pains, but there didn’t
seem to be a big gap, where was the locked air, the
barrier against the noise. He kept putting her through
an inquisition ‘Did you make sure it was double glazed,
did you check with him, tell him about the noise’
because he was certain she hadn’t, she didn’t really
care, was more interested in the style, saw it as her
home rather than his, fancy John did you? He then
accused, she’d been more interested in the young
builder who wanted to be a sculptor he was sure, more
interested in the cup of tea and chat rather than making
sure the job was done properly, protecting his interests,
as he grandly put it, making sure he was rewarded for
all the hard work he was doing. But it didn’t fucking
167
work, the double glazing, it was almost bad as it was
before and he moved into the back bedroom to put a
room between him and the road, and a wall between
him and her.
It was meant to be a big change, the house for a flat,
and the daughter with her own room, him with
somewhere to work, her with a proper big kitchen, and
a garden with a tree in it. The old flat had much bigger
rooms but they weren’t enough despite doing up the
basement; the child needed her own room, and he had
still clung on to having another baby, that was why
they’d stayed there so long, not having one, the other
baby. The first flat of the marriage, the new life
together, the baby, in the lovely spacious flat, had soon
filled up with disappointment of, he felt, his life and
work having been compromised but the sacrifice, as he
called it, not being compensated by the having of the
new baby. The momentum of the marriage had sagged,
him not wanting to make the effort to get the new
place, if she wasn’t going to make the effort to have a
child. So it became what it was.
It ha dbeen a classic, the young couple, in the new flat.
It had a golden sheen to it. Full of hope. The flat was
the bottom half of a house, two big rooms, all original
features in fact. It had been done up by architects, and
he’d had a bed built by a friend, the family bed emperor
size with two big horns, ‘For fertility’ he joked, and it
even had a cot built into one of the side drawers. The
baby had been born and all was right with the world, it
felt right. He’d proved to her he could do it Job , flat
and all that. Everything would be alright, she didn’t
have to be afraid. But it began to sour soon after. The
shit selling job he had to do to pay for it began to pall,
168
then the recession bit, no job, and then negative equity,
owing more than they had, despite of the effort and
time spent. Interest rates went up and the cost of
borrowing seemed to him to equate with the cost of the
relationship, what he had to give, the shit job, the debt,
the closure from his dreams. At first the flat had been a
means to trap her, he began to think, newly sober, to
make their thing real, solid, and then as the fear
flooded in as his ownership was threatened it become a
trap for him. It wasn’t working anymore and with the
fear came great dollops of doubt: perhaps it wasn’t
meant to be, perhaps the flat was as far as it was
meant to go. He used to browse the property pages in
the Sundays, dream of holiday houses and rentals, as if
to keep the old roll of film moving, the one he had
always had, children gallivanting around sunlit lawns in
the country, her and him, the dog and ducks and... But
her, she was getting heavier by the day, her life was
setting; she couldn’t even think of such a leap, she
couldn’t even picture it. She had moved four times in
her life and she did not think of the flat as classic, just
‘what people did’. Home, shared flat with college
friends, a cohabitation with boyfriend husband, and (a
recent innovation) a studio flat for the professional
woman to get on the property rung independently early
on. He had been in hundreds of places, if you could
include the floors and the sofas, digs and borrowed
spaces and there was only one place to settle down, in
the dream, the place that was the destination, the point
of the whole journey
That was another thing. Her flat, she didn’t let it go, the
shitty studio apartment she rented out. For her it was
independence, a secondary source of revenue. For him
it was a distraction, a source of hassle, with tenants,
169
landlords, (it was leasehold), tax. It cost him money in
the end, and time, but more than that it was just a
large statement that there was a large part of her that
was separate. Their life wasn’t joining; it was an
arrangement, two rather than one. She was getting
what she wanted, he a child, and well when it came to a
point where there was a divergence, like him wanting to
go to the country, well then it was a tussle. And in the
tussle she held the upper hand, always. She had the
child, and the possibility of having more, and because
the end of family meant the end of everything well, she
closed off any get out clause. Well that’s what he
thought, anyway.
So the flat had constrained them for a decade. No other
child had come. They had left the ‘classic’ path, or at
least moved to another one, less golden. He couldn’t
bring himself to leave, because he couldn’t leave them
in the shit, the mortgage company would have taken it,
and she couldn’t move until she had some more
independence, a job. The flat got more jaded, the
woodwork began to rot. She had a series of
miscarriages, he a series of short term jobs. Neither
gave up smoking. He said to himself he’d get a house
when he had another child, she said the money worries
(and the consequent lack of a house) were probably the
cause of the failing babies. At least the economy moved
out of its rut, with interest rates coming down, and
living generally seemed to become easier. But for him
he still could not resolve his property portfolio as he
called it, he could not relinquish the nomadic urges, the
desire for an unknown place in the country, felt he
couldn’t endure for too long the certainty of a debt
ridden property, fixed, dull, and inevitable . His idea of
life was still open skies, far horizons, quiet, privacy, a
170
clear view; hers, it was an acceptance of how it was,
harshness and inevitability of the constant struggle,
cups of tea and the gratitude for ‘small mercies’. He
just felt the weight of the property bearing down on
him. Stopping him developing, just more pointless jobs
to pay for the mortgage, she saw it as the
development, it’s what people do, not something to
question, there was no alternative, for her.
He remembered the time exactly. The No 38, 152, 106,
he couldn’t all of a sudden decide which bus to take, a
London corner, wind coming round the bend, all wind
and smoke, he couldn’t decide and a great emptiness, a
hopelessness grabbed him. What the fuck was he going
to do? There had to be a change. He couldn’t go on with
her, he knew now, couldn’t go on without her, the
child, he had to have one more go, he told himself,
make the family happen, make the safety she yearned
for so she would have another child, make it real,
solidify themselves into something proper and so he
needed to get a house in order for it to be so. And, once
he’d decided, it happened quite quickly. He stupidly
sold the flat first, got a good price, then got a job, a job
job, wage slips, PAYE, a contract, lots of lists. Then the
house. She wanted to be near the child-minder. Why
not, it was somewhere he could afford. It suddenly
became the mission. The house became the point, the
header of the list. He would do it. They found a house.
He liked to think it was simple; the thing was not to get
taken over by the fear of all the horrors stored up in the
transaction. The flat was already sold and soon he
found a house in the chosen area. It was very busy at
his job, which as he usually thought with most things,
could collapse at any time, so he hardly looked at the
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house. OK he said, the buyer was champing at the bit
to get in and they were already packing up and the call
came through that the seller didn’t want to sell it after
all. They were nowhere again and he was at work 8 till
10 at night as the economy racked up its gears again;
suddenly rather than an orderly transition it was
beginning to feel like a race. He had just wanted a job
so he could get a mortgage so he could get a house,
but it was squeezing very last bit out of him. Getting
the mortgage was tricky because of the credit history,
the moping about waiting for something to happen, and
he ended up for some reason being given a mortgage
by a bank in Walsall, a suburb of Birmingham, he found
out later on. He took on a pension and insurance just to
keep them happy, but now he couldn’t get a house. In
this area they were going so quickly it seemed
everybody had discovered the enclave, the block above
the marshes, they were gone before they even came
up. Before, with the flat they had had a nice smiling
chappy who seemed to take seriously his care of others
lives, but this area was beyond the nice place, new
territory and they were in the hands of the lower grade
agents in the ecology of the house, who it seemed then,
had been waiting for him for years, even decades and
were now ready to screw the immigrants, use the
young buyers pain to step up a rung or two themselves,
buying bigger houses in the suburbs. ‘I think I’ve found
one for you but you’re going to have to move quickly’,
the little Estae agent sod said. It was a shell and
seemed to have 20 people working on it. Bangledeshis,
black eyes and dust caked bodies, scurrying around the
rafters, led by a big foreman with pock marked skin.
It seemed fine at the time, a garden, empty all fresh
paint. He remembered looking at the back extension
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with no floor, and thinking that this would be good for
the office. He shook everyone’s hand, she and the child
came round, he wanted to give the feeling that it was
all a happy move, but even then it didn’t feel quite
right. Apart from the rushing, it still didn’t feel quite
correct; maybe it was because they were developers,
seemed too much in a rush, but they’d gone too far to
stop. It was like musical chairs, wondering where’d you
be when everyone sat down, settled in the new enclave
off the main drag.
He hadn’t looked at the map, just gone with her
suggestion. There was a voice saying he’d better look at
the proposed tube line, are there any potential
developments, what are the local educational and
leisure facilities like, but he was taken up with endless
lists at work, and really he was coming from the
position of could he actually get away with it, as he
always thoguht. He’d got the job, but what about the
credit history. OK he’d paid off all the credit cards,
Amex debt, that being the fucker that had really
crippled him, but there was one more lingering, a stupid
book club thing, for a few quid but making him non
grata. In the end he’d paid his one pound to get his
info, the list of bad debts on a flimsy bit of paper from
Nottingham of all places and then he’d written to them
saying please could they remove it, make it clean Then
someone elses financial advisor had got him a
mortgage. So now it seemed a race to get the bricks in
place before someone shouted out from the back of the
hall, ‘Heh you you’re not a financially sound person, you
are a financial risk’. So there was a whole lot of fear
wrapped up in the house; it could be, like the job, taken
away at any minute, the whole process was fraught. His
view was becoming more and more focused on this one
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little house, making him work harder and harder, and at
the same time not being convinced by the whole thing
the change, her and the other baby, maybe, to be.
Behind the financial minder was another voice saying, ‘I
don’t really want to live here anyway, my dream was a
place in the country’. It was if the chamber had begun
to fill with more and more voices shouting contradicting
assertions, bolshy guidance, directions from one side
and another, so he shut them out just focused on the
work, getting the fucking house, moving everything in
that direction. The buyer was hassling him to get out of
their flat, and the seller was taking longer than he said,
and he was sitting there thinking it was sure to go belly
up, so when the call came through from the little
bumptious estate agent Marcus, saying that someone
else had put in a higher offer and the developer was
about to say yes he didn’t even fight it he just said OK
another 10K, felt shitty about it but so what, that was
it, he had to get in, he was being made a sucker but
there we go, he’d got himself in that position so there,
fuck you it just made the whole change less positive,
pushed him over to the voices saying you’re setting
yourself up, for more hassle, more debt, more
constriction of movement, digging a hole for yourself
mate, was what the younger man inside him said.
They ended up on a floor. The buyer had to get into
their flat, their house wasn’t ready. The floor was at a
girlfriend of his that at times he’d fantasized about
setting up home with in the dream country. It was a
shitty little house, her, totally unrefurbished, but she’d
bought it at an auction, and consequently had made a
packet. Lying on the lilo, the ash blowing from the
grate, he suddenly felt happy, therein limbo. Like a
squat, Over the years in his youth, he’d sleep in
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temporary abodes and it made him feel happy in so
much as he was lighter and moving ever upward and
on. Not quite a nomad but at least with a sense of
freedom. Not with the tortuous movement to get from A
to B, the flat to the house, they were less than a mile
apart; it did not feel like a journey at all, more like
being pushed over rolled on by a big foot, keeping
another patch of ground dry, it didn’t feel like change at
all. He didn’t take time off work. The move was
something he co-ordinated in his lunch hour, taking an
old van after work to get into the house, there wasn’t
time to think. Too small, the voice was saying, but he
didn’t want to put a dampener on the move, it had an
upstairs and a downstairs, it would do. For him it was
somewhere to put her and the child, it was something
to do at weekend, the garden, that was a mess and he
quite enjoyed doing it digging, putting up fences all
that. But he didn’t like the fact that all the houses on
one side slightly taller, had their top windows looking
down into the garden. No privacy. He didn’t like the fact
that road was so close that you could hear bad engines
pass from the garden. He didn’t like the fact that the
floor had holes all over the place, between the skirting
and the floorboard, between the planks of the wooden
floor, underneath the front door, it was thin, not private
he felt exposed and it was too small. But he went into
work, 15 hours day and she liked fussing about the
house, the obvious look of pride on her face, and his
daughter upstairs, getting her room ready, but it wasn’t
his, didn’t feel quite right, it had become another
project as far as he was concerned something to add to
the list. He told himself that if he could keep doing it
up, take away all the niggling things away, the holes,
the exposed side of the garden the traffic noise, it
would be alright, And he had the money, the money
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was getting bigger and soon they were spending, The
bathroom they got covered in tiles, expensive ones
from the rich borough next door, The bathroom was too
small, even the bath made his shoulders contract, but
he had the idea that you could make it into a shower
room with the tiles coming to a hole in middle of the
floor. It would make it chic, like a hotel but more
importantly it would allow him to make a mess as he
liked to do, and it was his bathroom for fucks sale as he
said to the woman. He got the odd job man to do it, it
took a couple of weeks (and a grand) but the plug hole
didn’t work, the water seeping through the kitchen
ceiling below until there was a wet patch spoiling the
refurbishment. The shower he’d constructed didn’t work
either Of course it wasn’t a proper power shower, but
he didn’t want that really, not yet anyway, he didn’t
even need the right temperature, he’d go with cold, but
the water pressure was so weak it could hardly make it
to the top of the shower cord. Again he found himself
saying that the new buyers wouldn’t see that
happening, they’d be impressed by the tile work, it
looked smart and assume everything worked. He kept
telling himself they’d make it nice and laughingly they
went to buy Elle décor, Wallpaper, thinking they could
make it into a double page set up; it was a joke given
the fundamentals of the building, the hutch at the end
of the terrace, built when the navies were bored and
tired, looking toward home.
The job was becoming more intense and his time more
and more constrained. It was getting to the point where
he came home late and went in early, it was just a
place to sleep, the house. He was so tired that the
traffic noise was just a little irritant before sleep, and
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that was it, double-glazing will do it he’d tell himself,
once I’ve got that in.
It was meant to be a change, setting the family up. Be
proper, But beyond the lists and the right thing to do,
was still the niggle that this wasn’t really it. It wasn’t
really solid. Something was evaporating from him and
her. Obviously he was out at the job all the time, and
the job was making him become someone, something
else. A little businessman and of course the house was
another project and, to a certain degree, she was
becoming part of that, his organization, his business.
Before they’d been united in the messy poverty of their
too long stay flat, muddling through, the mortgage and
all the paperwork, being something they both couldn’t
cope with, but had to, something separate they both
coped with together. Now he’d had to build it into his
life. It was part of him now. The job, the insurance, the
mortgage, the accounts. He felt it inside him. His
responsibility, getting everything absolutely safe,
controlled, and her, muddling along stoning, getting all
uptight about her part time course, she was becoming a
dodgy investment, another element in the business,
and increasingly he saw her as not really providing a
return. His dream, or vision, as they liked to say at
work, the 3-5 year product development plan, was that
another child could be borne which would make it a
proper family and that would put a cap on it, as far as
him dithering about the so called marriage. It would
dispel the doubts over whether they actually could live
with each other, were meant to be together. The doubts
expressed, he thought through her miscarriages, her
fears, her moaning what in time undermined his
confidence, would go, and she’d be able to bear another
child, and they’d have solidity then at last until the
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children were old enough to go. But it didn’t, the same
charade continued, ad the fact was, it wasn’t stated, it
still went on all the time, shall you wear a condom,
whip it out, all that, and the truth be told he was over
the hill, the disappointment over the marriage that
wasn’t, her doubts, had now weakened his resolve to
such an extent he didn’t really want it anymore. The
ideal was damaged beyond repair. He couldn’t kid
himself anymore that it would make any difference.
So it came to pass he slept in the spare room. It kept
away the traffic; he was so tired at work he would go to
bed before her. Something had changed. Before their
relationship had been about him constantly proving to
her pushing into her, because he knew he wasn’t
providing fully, according to the structure they both
made themselves believe in, or at least couldn’t
relinquish, he wasn’t fulfilling his role. No house. But
now he’d got the house for her, he’d paid an allowance
to her, he’d insuranced everything he’d….etc etc he was
done. All those fears of hers answered he didn’t feel the
need to move towards her, for intimacy, she was
another thing to be dealt with along with the house, the
job, the etc..> he thought it was her turn now, but she
didn’t, and she didn’t want to; let the doubt go.
Then the roof started leaking,. It was meant to be
refurbished for fucks sake, he roared. But at least its
not money wasted she noted, but its my fucking life
that’s paying for it he implored, but there was nothing
they could do about it. It was the builders, Don and his
gang, OK. Might as well get the ceiling done, and the
windows. It almost cheered him up, all the work felt like
doing something positive, even put a roof window in the
back extension, a skylight, at least one room would be
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nice. It fucked up his sums though, and he got a
remortgage, He could well afford to pay, with the job
getting more money, but that was meant to be for his
place, the other place in the country, the one that had
come forward again in his mind. He was moving
already, trying to avoid the bad thought about the
house and the waste it was creating, and looking for the
fresh place, open space, his life free from all the
complications of this and theirs.
It took much longer and was much more expensive
than they said but he didn’t give a fuck anymore, The
dream of their place was fading, he had begun looking
at it something separate, calling it a project, her house,
his mind was now moving into some fantasy of her
being the town person, him the country, a lot of land, a
long project called his life. He’d answered the
responsibilities and now he could get on with it. The job
now got into silly money. Shares, boom, six figure
packages. He thought really they should move, he could
get twice three times the mortgage, but then it said,
(the voice in the hall) he should stay and finish the job,
that you should move when it was finished. He still
hadn’t unpacked everything form the move yet, what
with the full-on job. He was part of the boom so he
thought it could go on forever, but he was frightened;
though he didn’t admit it, that it would all fall part if he
mucked around with it, the set up and he thought,
secretly, that he didn’t really want to put everything
into the house, if they were going their separate ways,
as her doubts and whip it out now asserted, so it was
her house, get her right first, so then he could go and
get his life somewhere else. Why should she get half?
they weren’t properly married, she was so full of doubt,
he should shore up his resources. Maybe then he could
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go get his life, somewhere else. He almost got a place,
on the Internet, 50K, a wreck in Suffolk, in the country,
by auction. He got the paperwork, made a gap in his
diary, but driving back from up north by himself, the
idea of staying the night, going to the auction the next
day, then back home, he couldn’t quite do it, he
thought of the job he had to get back to, of getting
back to the family, he couldn’t quite do it, take the sign
to Newmarket, he just carried on. It wasn’t a priority, it
remained at the bottom right hand corner of the to-do
list, He hadn’t made time to look at it beforehand, and
hadn’t talked about it with her. Perhaps he couldn’t take
the risk. Although he had the money, he had the
amount needed but he couldn’t accept it would be that
easy financially, it somehow had to be far more
tortuous, like the house, and second, he felt it would
put the rest at risk. Basically, he didn’t have the
confidence when it came to it, that he could support his
life as well as hers; that would be some other time
somewhere else. Perhaps the set up was what he
preferred, to keep the other as a fantasy; he proffered
to hang onto the oppressed potential of his desires,
rather than fulfill it. Whatever it was went, the time he
could have had it as then things changed again.
At work they stopped talking to him. Other managers
came in. He was out of the loop. He knew it was coming
to an end. His vision contracting, the fear set in. Time
was running out. It was a relief really the fact that he
didn’t have the opportunity to move, a whole load of
other things to add to the list. All he wanted was no
pain. He couldn’t face it, the threat to the house; he’d
been though too much with the flat, He kept the cash
back waiting for the storm. He did hurry through to
finish the project, a couple of windows changed, and
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Sea grass put in the bedroom. A new kitchen sideboard,
a table that fitted. Hurry hurry boom time is almost
over buying time is running out. He sort of accepted
that they wouldn’t be much coming after that. Creature
of the boom, gone with the boom. That was what was
going to happen; he felt the project, the job, and the
house, coming to a completion. He’d get on with his
own stuff after that.
He made a fire in the garden when they gave him his
notice. He had 3 months gardening leave although he’d
almost finished the garden. He had paperwork to do,
the will. Again he thought in terms of not being here
much longer and he didn’t want her to get it all. He left
the house to his daughter. He didn’t discuss it but she
sneaked down into the basement and read it, didn’t get
it, that’s what you usually did and he didn’t mention the
deed of trust, how it had fucked him off, her getting in
and getting half of it although he’d put in everything
and was paying for everything, It wasn’t as if she was a
goldigger even, it was that she expected everything a
wife could have, but refused to trust, did not allow him
the space to be king. She didn’t realize that doubt just
created weakness in the structure if what they were
trying to build. Naff but its part of the equation; bloke,
job, house, the workhouse equation. Now he just
thought of his daughter, fulfilling that obligation, the
final responsibility.
He sat in the basement, with his final responsibility and
felt like suicide the satisfaction of the new plastered
wall, overhead lights, and book filled shelves faded
quickly. Even the last case, sorted unexpectedly
because he couldn’t find the daughters birth certificate
left him feeling queasy, it was finished, everything was
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in its place, that was it and with the confirmation of the
life insurance it felt like all he had left to do was die.
The job was finished, the house was finished, the family
was finished, no more babies, (her 43rd birthday
somehow confirmed that) and now, exhausted, empty,
it seemed the best thing to do was to die. He had spent
the job, with the 15-hour mad messy days lusting for
seclusion, quiet, the chance to enjoy the self-structured
days again, but sitting there now he just felt lonely and
increasingly stupid. The completion of the project, the
house, gave no joy. He tried. Quick calculation of all the
necessities of responsibility, the boxes rapidly ticked,
just confirmed that he’d completed the mundane
necessities of family life, but this life itself was crap.
The locality, the block of houses off the main drag
perched above the marshes with its high street of local
shops ceased to be charming. Operation Trident and the
sporadic shooting at the pool hall no longer caused a
cackle. The panorama of humanity, the Turkish, Kurd,
Somalis, and Indian, transformed into a collection of
poor people trapped in the ghetto trying to get out of it.
Location, Location, Location, as the Tele programme
screamed told him he was marginal, at the very edge of
the city, in a house that could just be called a house, at
the end of the terrace, the end when the navies had
started to get sloppy, in the last street before the
descent to the Marshes.
There was another flurry of homebuilding with a
Christmas party. It should have been a celebration and
with the kids downstairs on the computer, the quiet in
the front room, and the hugger mugger in the kitchen.
It went well, everyone was happy, with the collection of
people all getting on, but he ended up feeling
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embarrassed. It felt too much of a crush, and he was
sure people were just looking at it thinking that the job
could have been better, the house was too small. It
made him look around at the neighbours, seeing the
baby children and the pensioners, and saw that he had
been left behind, He should have been in a bigger
house in the next borough by now, where the other 40
somethings lived.
Interest rates the lowest since the war, the property
market exploding, headlines yelled, and he sagged.
He’d got out too quick. He shouldn’t have got out. . He
should have just moved when he could, He shouldn’t
have thought about the family being unsettled, moving
too quickly, of finishing doing up the house before
moving on, those stupid leisurely thoughts, You’re
meant to grab it while you can, then just hold on to it.
You shouldn’t be thinking about the balance, I mean, it
wasn’t about being economically correct, taking the
space appropriate to you, as in Tokyo, a few mats. Its
bollocks, Grab as much as you can when you can and
hold on for dear life. That is the game we’re in.
Perhaps it was the old hippy dictum seeping in. Or
perhaps it was her, a single mum perspective, the fact
that she had not gone with his vision, and now she had
her little place, in her little neighbourhood, with her
little child. She had dictated this married life, not his
married life, and made sure she got half of it; and he,
full of resentment, wanted to have it, complete it, put
boundaries around it. In his fuzzy logic, it was almost
punishing her, saying she could only have so much
something had to be left over for him for his life, his
vision to be fulfilled.
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After the party in the dark days of February, the fire
burning, her and the daughter and the cat tucked up in
front of the Tele, it did, briefly, feel all right. Together,
it made sense, the small family, with the small house,
near to where she was working (she had the job now),
not to far from the daughters school. It felt right. Then
a draught would blow in from some secret hole and he’d
get all uptight. ‘I’ve spent god knows how much to
block up those holes, and still its cold’. And it would
start all again, seeing the little failures around him,
fingers coming out of the fabric of the house, pointing
at his larger failure.
But it was his father, coming down from his big house
in the country, a quick lunch before going to his new
wife’s daughters flat near Harrods that finally flipped
him. It was just a phrase, on the postcard ‘thank you
for lunch in your little house’; your little house, and
that’s what it was, a little house, a little family a little
fucking life. Suddenly things became clear, it was not
good enough, He let himself say it, it was a crap house
in a crap part of town, and it was not good enough. No
longer was it part of some slightly funny sit com. An
Adams family of awkward characters in an awkward
house. This was it. He was in a crap house, with a
stunted family, a dead end hutch in which to slowly die.
She’d always used to tut, with a crooked smile, when
he said it was too small and he had told himself she
was right; in the broad schema of things they were
lucky to have a house at all, He’d told himself that this
was reality, and the fact that he’d grown up in a bigger
house was irrelevant, This is now, this was it, everyone
was in the same game. It was as if he’d started living in
her house, her mind, trying to see things through her
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eyes, the scale of things, the comparison with a
particular range of people. But it wasn’t reality at all,
his sense of space was different, the people he
compared himself to were different, his vision was
another house and another place. The fact was she was
smaller than him.
The house became a hole. The buckled walls and the
tatty paint work outside made him cringe, the wobbling
floors made him queasy, and the thought of the missed
opportunity bought bile into his throat. What a fool, he
could have borrowed 4 times as much, he could be
living in a mansion, he could be proud strutting about,
and because of fear, and resentment, and basic
financial stupidly he hadn’t, and now, jobless, he was
impotent to do anything about it. And he couldn’t, even
now, think of doing it with her, he still couldn’t bring
himself to include her in his great plan, he wanted to do
it despite her, package up the wobbly house, hand it
over to her in his grandiosity as he glided through to his
other grander place. But now he lived in the monument
to a bad marriage, a wasted job and a stunted
ambition; it was a sign of the ineptitude of his financial
acumen, and an awkward indication of failed wealth.
He surprised himself how much it affected him. Before
he had sneered at the property ladder, the degree
people assumed they would be judged by the bricks and
mortar, it was their work, their family, their friends,
their minds that were them not the extras, and, as a
poor man, it was easy to see how exterior wealth could
correlate with interior poverty, but he’d crossed some
invisible line and was now sickened by how the house
or rather the hole affected everything in his life, as if a
brilliant artist had filled his interior with plaster to show
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how it would come out in a structure, all fucked up.
Then to the finer detail. The room. His room. Even the
daughter knew now, it had a broken catch, and the
door wouldn’t close properly, (he must get another, a
double door, with a lock), and the floorboards now
shook more as he stomped next door. The weak water
pressure and the shower was a dribble. All the lights
kept going in the kitchen and an ominous crack had
developed in the window ledge, and if you followed it,
a. hairline crack could be found in the wall opposite,
Subsidence perhaps.
Housing crash predicted, rates increased, maybe his
caution would be rewarded he hoped. But mortgage
rates remained untouched, the boom continued, the
New wealthy grew wealthier. He longed for a crash, his
caution to be proved prudent, to be vindicated rather
than laughed at. But the boom continued and he could
feel himself being drawn into purchasing again now at
the height of the market, like he did with the flat. He
was just in the wrong cycle, as he was with the
marriage, He shouldn’t have got together with her when
he hadn’t got his work sorted, having to get any old
job. It started the cycle where now he couldnt get back
to where he was meant to be with the property he was
in the wrong cycle, buying at the height selling at the
bottom.
Everywhere he looked he saw his own failure, The
dribble from the tap, the rotting paintwork at the front,
the defunct refurbishment, the crack above the door,
Even his room, it shook when she and the daughter
closed the door on the way to school, it didn’t seem
right, His father had bought him a desk that was too
small, and its antiqueness stood stupid amid the IKEA.
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He fixed the other door to his room but it didn’t quite
fit, and he couldn’t be bothered to sand it to size,
Outside he saw that every house, even along his row,
was somehow better, slightly bigger, better features,
double glazing that probably worked. He began to long
for the middle class borough with its cappuccino delis
and estate agents, the nice media people suddenly
changing form a homogenous gaggle of the conceited
he’d seen before turned into his tribe that had left him
behind by mistake. He saw the big house, calculating
mortgages and interest, against the salary he had had,
and he saw he could have got it, had it all. Ok, he’d be
freaking out now without the job, but still, now
insurance would be paying for the 18 months, he’d be
there, rather than here dam it, he could have been a
contender, Gatherings at other peoples houses were
soured by the skirting boards, original rather than 2 by
4s tacked on by the Pakis, as he calculated the extra
few feet in dimensions, the secret of his own unease,
stuck in the no mans land of the discontented
It was her fault. She should have pushed forced him to
scale up.. He should have gloried in his achievement,
rather than in her fear seek only safety. OK for her,
suited her almost, the project was achieved. But he had
no more babies, and as she solidified into her job, he
felt the same exclusion as when she had the child. It
wasn’t that important to her, and she sneered at his
complaint. Bitter and resentful, she called it. She just
didn’t get what a huge mistake it was. They were
defined by the house, they had lost a huge amount of
money, there were going to be poorer, his ability to get
wealthy diminished by the sad mirror of the house,
showing his stupidity, weakness, and decay, The house
was them and it had a crack in the middle, and for all
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the sea grass, paint and tiles it would remain a crappy
little house, to house their crappy little life.
If together they had been, energies joined towards a
joint vision perhaps it would have worked. But she
didn’t have the longing, the ambition, the need or,
more important, the sense of the possibility. It was
sufficient for her, and he gasped when he realized that
beyond just servicing her requirement, he had to a
certain extent held back something for himself, not
wanted to share everything with her, he realized how
that had diminished him not him. Divorce was the only
option after such defeat…
The house had changed them. It actually had revealed
what they really were and he could not accept it,
although it was undeniable the house was what it was,
and they were what they were, set in stone and he now
he couldn’t live in it. They lay there either side of the
wall, Him looking back to the garden, and her out to the
street, and they festered, letting the house
refurbishment go to seed. The hutch, in the prison block
of clapped out habitations on the edge of the city,
above the marshes slowly getting covered in the weeds
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New Man New Wife
And it turned, the weather ruining
after another exhausting week.
Summer time, but through the window
the window could have been November,
the window through which for too many seasons
you wondered what it would be like.
Had she been too early, was it a mistake?
Her welcoming, taking on him and his son,
his work and God knows what, had it all been too much,
and now, is he just leaning back into his new life,
her life, is she just being madder made into
the over active superannuated wife.
But you did do it didn’t you,
you did set it up,
you wanted the third person,
the shadow father for the child
you wanted the someone else to do something,
occasionally make you feel wild,
you wanted the car and driver too,
But it doesn’t go away now, does it,
there isn’t a place to go now,
to imagine what it would be like,
it is,
and is until you say no,
now you know that’s what it’s like
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with another new man being a new wife
END OF BOHEME
‘SO it all change’ said T, ‘Jarvis has finally been
hooked’ said T.
‘Yes, I suppose so’ said P, another fantasy failing.
‘The French bird, got him, that’s it, the star is always
the one being followed, and now he’s the one made to
beg’ said T,
‘The thing I find odd is that he’d moving into her house’
said P
‘Well his house is full of people’ said T.
‘And what are Joel and Martin going to do?’
‘Well Joels not sure, the girl friend want to get settled
down but he’d a bit resistant’ said P.
‘Well he’d done it before and he got shafted’ said T
‘Yes its funny he’d always attracted to these homely
middle class types but always resistant’ said P.
‘That’s what makes him the artist although he’d really a
home body himself’ said T, ‘it would be good for him, a
bit of structure’
‘Yes she wants to go back to Germany but Joel doesn’t
like that idea’
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‘Yeah fuckin Germans’
‘And Martin?’ said T.
‘Well they are looking in some place near Camberwell,
some place you just don’t know the name of’ said P.
‘Nuneaton?’ said T.
‘Yes, I don’t know’ said P
‘Is Martin getting broody? asked T,
‘Yes but you know, with someone as organized as
Miriam they’ve probably got it all planned out- you
know, next two years, pay a bit of the mortgage off,
you retrain Martin then you can.’ P laughed,
‘So all change then’ reasserted T.
‘Yes, it looks like the end of Bohemia’ said P.
Drove her back to her home. ‘More scaffolding’ she
said, approaching the doorway. Next door was being
built up, some architecturally tasteful dwelling in a tip
of a garage? ‘Quiet now, remember don’t mouth off the
workman’ I warned. James had been doing up the
downstairs and he was somewhat errant in his ways,
disappearing to the pub and last time she’d complained
loudly and he was inside the bed.
James was running the bath. I spoke to him in the
kitchen. He was nervous wide-eyed mouth open. He
was texting his girlfriend Eva, not Ava, Ps child, some
Indian princess type from West London. Last weekend,
they’d had coke and an argument at 2 o’clock in the
morning and it ended up him getting arrested and
police turning up at 5 to ask P if her brother lived there
‘Temporarily’ she’d said- it was a council property after
all.
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And now it was a texting contest going on- ‘ Y fukin
bith, you dit care abut anybody cept yerself & its time
you took your head out of your arsehole’
‘Can you fit that in 150 characters?’ she asked, ‘I’m sick
of her’ he said,
Beep Beep, he almost grabbed the phone ‘Fuck off you
angry bitter old git’
‘Ah well that’s it she’s deleted from my Contacts’ he
said ‘But you’ve still got her in your Inbox’ I said, ‘Yes
but..’ You could already see he was moving on to the
next message, he just couldn’t let her go. ‘So, school
tomorrow my little one’ said P saying goodnight to the
daughter in the living room, ‘Me too’ she said, back to
work after half term and Bohemia was almost over save
for the wide mindedness of her easy smile.
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Unrequited Love
The bundle of life that could have been
If love had become rather than hiding unseen
Following through the longing rather than
Sitting watching it fade away almost content
With the urges and imagination like
3d TV; its OK maybe another day another life
when one stops in front of the Other
one follows the lead of the heart yes I
love that that loves me I love me I love
that I love her it’s OK; but no trapped
in the accumulation of negatives, before
the locked door, waiting until the water
rises and eventually overflows
the negatives tumbling down first creating
new blockages not allowing the love to flow
and eventually in the stagnation the
water degenerates to a trickle a ditch a rut
in the ground called Balk.
The unrequited, the ability to step through
Not the light without questioning just
Doing it in the moment rather than thinking
Of the what if in the what for, or the could be
Would be should just delighting in it as is;
Instead, crouching smoking potential wondering
If it could be a gift or a trap needing a
Map or a watching a rerun of previous classics
Or just not liking the soreness caused by
The stretching of unused muscles and needing to
Breathe.
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Leave me alone can’t you see
I am dying here.
Seize the day
Fuck off.
CAMPING
My son, do not trust your affections, for they are changeable
and inconstant. All your life you are subject to change, even
against your inclination. At one time you are cheerful, and
another sad, now peaceful now troubled, now full of devotion,
now wholly lacking it; now zealous now slothful. Now grave,
now gay; But the wise man, who is well versed in spiritual
matters, stands above these changing emotions
Imitation of Christ Thomas a Kempis
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It was sort of my arrangement. We were both single,
sort of, with kids, not rich really, with a long summer
holidays in front of us. Sort of single in that I was
unemployed sort of out of choice and the sort-of-wife
was working, conscientiously, in town, and she was
divorced and her bloke was not around in France with
his kids and, she kept saying, its not a proper
relationship, its over it doesn’t mean anything. So,
when the emptiness appeared after the flurry of
barbecues and midsummer reunions and the sun had
finally come out, it seemed that the time had arrived, I
thought and had persuaded her, though she slightly
irritatingly then assumed it was her idea, that we would
do an early expedition, short, to get the hang of it, then
after the kids came back from their holiday with the
ex’s family, we could set off on a convoy, do Devon and
Cornwall, it would be a real summer holiday. Fuck
France, Angleterre could come up with the goodies. It
was simple so I thought.
The trouble started on the day of departure. I was
sitting doing my work, anxious that I might loose
momentum, now Id finally got somewhere, and having
the inevitable interior debate about whether I should go
or not. She rang. The arrangement changed slightly,
with her deciding to bring down a friend. That was fine,
particularly as she was a woman. I found that easy, it
was the unknown male that set me on edge. I’d met
her the friend Frieda a couple of times, and she was OK.
A tall German fashion designer, had had her own label,
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now worked for M&S. Lived with an old London geezer,
Bob, in a sort of weird father daughter relationship,
which, apparently so Ellen said, she was now trying to
get out. Frieda and her went off out together cruising
really, two mature women on the look out. Apparently
Frieda always scored, while Ellen couldn’t quite do it.
The easy chat always got complicated, she couldn’t
quite separate herself into the easy chat, easy lay, easy
episode, from the long playing record of reconciling her
need for love, proper love long-lasting, the one,
forever.
On the other hand Ellen was, or saw herself as the carer
of Frieda, she recognized someone more neurotic than
herself, and, particularly in the camping scenario, with
a wider experience of coping. ‘Come on Frieda’ she said
as they sat in the garden without kids, after Frieda had
gone on about going crazy, ‘ ze flat iz zo zmal, and im
zo ztrezzed’ ‘ Lets go and get dirty, Ill introduce you to
the joys of nature, you’ve got to learn to slut in a field,
she said, pushing her arm, as Frieda fell back ‘ Oh Gott’
her Marlboro getting lost on her chest ‘ and it might
help you give up smoking’ Ellen added, ‘ give you some
perspective’ she thought in her caring mode.
Someone to talk about men with, and get drunk with
more like. But hey I’m easy, I thought, and my real
concern was the kids. With a single child, and not
having other friends with children of the same age, that
was the point, it was the kids going camping together,
and although we were both the type with hankerings for
freedom, descendant of the 80s mutoid gang, and all
receptive to the nature, it was, in essence, a kids thing.
Ok, Ellen and I had been through a little fantasy once
together, what with her divorce drama, and my upset at
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no more children, in which, for a moment something
might have happened. But, being slightly older, and
Ellen being a friend of my younger cousin, really the
thing had been, I explained myself, a caring thing, me
helping her get through a difficult time, a handy man,
helping with the kids; it felt like an extended family, or
that was the fantasy, and, of course, you never know
maybe… But over the years, things had slightly drifted;
I’d got a job, so Id logged into another world that she
wasnt part of, and the divorce finally concluded she’d
bought the house, and now she was totally
independent, a woman of means no less. It had moved
to a sort of friendship, though the other elements were
still lingering on, meetings mostly to do with the
children, but still staying for a chat, a walk, doing stuff
together, partly because of the friendship, and partly to
do with the fact that we enjoyed the same things, and,
particularly after losing the job, we had lifes to fill.
But more recently things had changed, a deeper shift.
She’d got a bloke, which, she kept saying wasn’t really
a relationship but nevertheless he was moving in,
taking over the space that I had occupied when it was
spare. Ellen had an anathema over control, hating
people trying to control her, but she was drawn to those
that would want to. She didn’t want to be dominated
but she wanted to be dominated. It seemed to me that
she then spent the time in a tussle, playing hard to get,
dropping him, but then, in the emptiness of the dog day
evening, he would ring, dangle some excitement, a
change in front of her, and she would be brought in
again. Then she’d drop out again, have a row, leave a
holiday early, not go down to the house in Hampshire,
abandon a well laid plan, ‘ It’s the sex that I cant do’
she’d say ‘ he’s a fucking psycho’ ‘ I just want some one
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young and innocent’, and she’d flirt, try and start
something up with one of his band members, openly
insult him; but he’d take it, liked it really, after all he
didn’t like himself that much, but ultimately liked
control; he was a music producer, after all. But it was a
bit irritating as a sort of friends, with the chopping and
changing, because you, trying to be supportive would
have to chop and change with her ‘Yeah drop the
fucker,’ Go on give it a go; and I ended up saying
marry the old git’, although I wouldn’t like it to happen
much, and preferred it as her secret component, hidden
away somewhere, out of view.
Anyway with the camping, I thought it was our little
happy family extended, even though make believe, so it
was irritating after her saying it was definitely over with
the bloke that, sitting upstairs anxious over my work,
getting everything compartmentalized, that in the
garden before the open window I should hear her on
the mobile ringing Brian. I cant remember what was
said but it was the usual stuff about, ‘Yeah well I was
going to ring you, look I’m replying to your message,
Why don’t you let me do the talking. Oh really’, then a
laugh, and it went on for about an hour, ‘ So much for
ending it’ and she laughed going red, refreshed, ‘You
heard everything?’ and I pretended that I did, it sort of
got me in there in a way ‘ Arse hole ‘ she said moving
close to me ‘ At least I put the phone down on him’ and
I laughed, knowing it wasn’t over, but glad she still was
rejecting the old git in front of me.
But it was fucking irritating when we were pouring over
the map that ‘Brian says Bere's a good place, and he
said something about Chesil beach’. I took a deep
breath, Chesil, a great bank of boulders, cold water, the
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distant prison, Id walked the fucking thing, why was
she referring to Fatty who only knew about fancy fish
restaurants. But I swallowed it, let it go, she was
obviously missing him, why should I worry about that. I
did though. It meant she was gone. Something clicked.
It meant she had definitely passed over to the other
side, she was with him, for all her ‘it’s definitely over
this time’ ‘I put the phone down on him’ and ‘its not a
proper relationship’- it was a relationship all the same.
It changed the set up; I was going on holiday with
another bloke’s bird and my image of being tribe leader,
with the bevy of women and children, was crap. I was
now the spare man, spouseless and available, so
therefore redundant not off doing manly things. The
irritating thing was she was pretending not to be
involved and the fact that she was now hooked, which
perversely made her more independent. It made things
messy, and the one thing you need to be going camping
is tidy, organized, together; and now suddenly there
was a separation between us, which had been gradually
happening, but now put us into an obvious limbo, into a
not-quite-clear, and I wasn’t really prepared for it.
Unity was gone.
The day passed, and although we were meant to set of
at noon, that’s what I had decreed, the decamping was
taking a lot of time. I wasn’t hassling, barking at people
as I normally would, I didn’t want to get into a power
game. It didn’t work really, particularly with the mature
independent woman; it would set things up for
confrontations anyway and we didn’t want any friction
in the camp, on the outside anyway. Finally we set off,
heading west, at 5. I knew it would be late to get where
she wanted, and I’d mentioned Purbeck before, done
the research on the Internet. Frieda was interested in
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the naturalist beach, being German, and Ellen kept
saying ‘we’ll see’, ‘where is Bere anyway’, but I knew
we’d couldn’t go there, because of the time, the kids,
and particularly as I was leading the motor convoy. It
was typical. She wanted to take charge, be in control,
but enjoyed being lazy, letting men do the work; it
gave her a sense of more control while it was
happening, but then slightly resenting it when she
found they were leading her where she didn’t
particularly want to go. Her men, she liked to call them,
I was one of her men, but no she was one of my
women, and it didn’t work when she was attached and
she was now, even if she didn’t think so.
Fuck she took the wrong turning. Typical, mobile off.
We waited in the rain in a layby. Finally we got through.
‘We’re at Wareham’ said Frieda, they were ahead
annoyingly, ‘Ok keep going to Corfe Castle, we’ll meet
you there’ I said, at least I was giving the directions, ‘
It’s a small place ‘ I said. I’d been there before, which
obviously gave me some advantage.
The castle loomed up in the last light. Shattered towers
in bone stone, it was much more spectacular than Id
imagined. They were in the pub garden over the gorge,
Ellen, Frieda, Ellen’s kids, and as we came in, no smiles,
the confrontation already brewing. ‘Oh and they’ve got
the fucking dog’ Ellen snarled. The children were
suffering after the long journey. ‘What about fish and
chips’ I was thinking about the plan, getting a map,
getting a back up camp, enough time to look around. Id
done it so many times before, I knew the system,
maximum exploration minimum risk of no where to go,
‘We should continue up the road towards Chesil, we’re
bound to come across something’ ‘We need to get to
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somewhere wilder’ said Ellen. She was living some sort
of Brontesque fantasy with Heathcliffe on the mobile,
her longing was all too palpable, and I was obviously a
weight. A weight of an old life, the rock, an anchor
when she’d gone through the divorce, then the
Durtelles syndrome, all that shit with the Rock star, the
wobbles over Fatty, but now the chain was straining,
she seemed to have moved into a new place where he,
Fatty, was now, stable, someone else she could float
around. I was redundant now, in more ways than one.’
Its too late ‘I said. ‘Let’s go to the Beach see what its
like, maybe it has a campsite, if not go to the farm
behind’. I moved off quickly to get to the car before
them. I got the Map first. Obvious, but she wouldn’t
think about it. Frieda was all smiling, looking to be
helpful, but at a disadvantage. After all she hadn’t been
camping before, and she was the one trying to change,
get away from the old bloke she was shacked up with
without sex, get away from the corporate job, give up
smoking, ‘Come on Frieda time to get dirty ‘ had said
Ellen, and you could see that Ellen was enjoying having
a playmate but weaker, someone she was teaching,
showing off her now almost sorted state. And me, well
she was trying to find me a role. The male, as a thing,
not for sex, or almost sex, shed done that, and she' got
the other now. Well fuck her, I didn’t need her, I knew
her through her weaknesses, and this didn’t rub, Maybe
she was showing off, maybe she had genuinely moved
on, but to me it was just boring, the male female thing,
we were beyond that. You get competitive with other
men, not women, and OK it was nice being with
beautiful women, but I didn’t need them pulling me
down. Relax, let it go, it’s them who are made minor by
such behavior, I know who’s really in control…
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My ego battled back, driving down the lane towards the
beach, the one I’d heard about, naturalist. Long
sweeping sands. We came to the end, and there was
nothing there; a car park, and bushes, and I decided to
drive back, go to another beach on the headland. I
caught them on the way back, and Ellen had that face
on, you could see she wasn’t into it the trailing around
looking, she wanted to get somewhere soon. But she
followed me back to the other beach I worked it out,
and I knew I had a good sense of direction. And it was
OK, beach huts, a wide bay, the children soon paddling,
the dog running around the sand. For me it was the end
of the journey away from London, the sea, it always
had a sense of finality, things suddenly subsiding, the
mind flattened by the wide horizon of water. Ellen had
gone ahead with Frieda and I was alone on a beach
again, but not quite, which makes you feel more lonely.
Sun was struggling through the rain cloud, catching the
white cliffs moving towards the west, and I was there
thinking of her and her thinking of him now represented
by the place along the coast. It made me angry; she
was in another place and time altogether. What about
my fantasy, the gaggle of children, happy camping,
with someone who enjoyed the country, could see the
reasons why. ‘Your dog shat, be a good boy and clear it
up’, it was the tone, it really fucked, me off, and they
giggled the two grown up girls. I tried to override it,
quickly cleared the thing up, leaving no room to
connect, trying to come back with a response ‘ One
man and a dog, and shit’ ha fucking ha, and I turned
away to walk back towards the car. ‘Jack come on Jack
here boy now’ the dog, who was a puppy, was playing
with some boys on the beach, jumping up just wanting
to play, but the boys weren’t sure so I started shouting
at it, a bit too aggressively ‘Gently Tom the dogs only a
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child’, she shouted’ Bitch’ I whispered and went to look
at the map. Keep ahead, assume the position, show my
worth, ‘ Lets have a look, give it here’ she said, ‘ No
look’ I wanted her to follow my finger, see what I was
plotting ‘ Look its too far to go on further now, we
should backtrack here’ ‘Where’s Bere’ she said grabbing
the map.’ No, we should camp now ‘ said Frieda, her
German twang giving the suggestion an authority of the
obvious ‘Hang on Ill ring Brian’ ‘ What the fuck does he
know, fatfuck producer when’s the last time he went
camping?’ Ellen ignored me ‘ Shit I cant get a signal’
and looking at her I thought it was pathetic, that little
panic in her voice, She ran back into the beach, her
slight long figure framed in the lake of amber light on
the still bay. It was depressing, it made me feel
inadequate. ‘ Dick’ I said smiling at Frieda, ‘ Yes’ she
said, a touch of envy in her eyes, I went back to the
cars. ‘ Fuck it I know where we’re going’ I muttered,
the weight of sour dreams on my shoulders. The dog
needed feeding, so I got the stuff out of the boot, and
fed him, the slavering anxiety of his feeding slightly
worrying. Too long in the car I thought. ‘ Can we camp
Dad?’ said Hannah, my child. ‘ Yeah of course, if Madam
can get of the phone’ ‘ Madam, why are you calling her
Madam, she’s not old’ said Rachel, Ellen’s youngest, all
defensive in the face’ She likes getting her own way; I
said smiling, ‘ So do I’ said Rachel and looked pleased
and they both ran off with the dog ‘Jack Jack’ pulling
and petting him ‘ Down boy’ but not quite meaning it,
more on the dogs level. Ellen was coming up the beach
jogging clutching her phone ‘Brian says here is a really
good fish restaurant we can go there’ ‘Yes the kids are
really interested in Rick Stein’ I said ‘Fish and chips
yeah ‘ said Hannah. I couldn’t go into it with them, was
thinking of Ellen being fucked by the old git after a 4
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courser, in the little inn overlooking the fishing port
‘We’ll get fish and chip later’ I said. ‘ Let granddad have
his Sole meunaire later’ I said and got into the car,’
We’ll go back to Nordic Farm, Ok?” ‘Yes Please’ said
Frieda, and Ellen got back into her car, the one bought
by Brian, saying nothing, just a snarl.
Shit, I shouldn’t have said what I thought, driving back
too fast, to Corfe; after all we are going camping
together. Have to find a level, somewhere, even if she
is now another blokes tart.
I led the convoy, into the gloaming of the Top Field,
sneering at the Donkey Field of caravans, convoluted
contraptions of tents attached, lights already on. The
top field was the overflow field as the woman at the
reception put it, a few tents dotted about a rough
pasture, wheel sinking ominously. I drove to the far
corner to pitch tents, leading women and children to
appropriate spot. I took in the aspect, tomorrows sun,
the view, the position away from the others, up against
the wood, for shelter, the barbed wire giving a sense of
security; but she just drove the car where I was going
to pitch, didn’t even consult me. ‘Come on Frieda, lets
get the tent up’ The children ran all over the place; they
should have been told to help, integrated into the
camp, so we could get it into a fine art. ‘I think we
should look to face that way’, I shouted over but she
didn’t listen, was getting all tangled up in the tent. ‘
Mind the fucking dog Hannah’ ‘ Don’t swear’ she said
looking over the shoulder. Ok Ill fight, just put the tent
up, prove you are more efficient, and methodically I set
out my poles and the tent corners. It was a
performance, I was constantly referring to her,
checking what it would look like. I got the tent up first,
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and got the fire going slightly closer to my tent so Id
Establish who was in control. ‘Get the dog Hannah’ The
dog was with the cows in the next field, only a thin wire
separating us from them which I wasn’t sure was
electrocuted and the last thing we wanted was the dog
getting lost. I had been in two minds whether to bring
the dog, but the children had pleaded me to; and at the
back of my mind I had wanted a companion. It would
also bring the focus to me, for the kids, away from her
and her friend. Id put the kettle on the gas stove; I was
the one with the gas stove, and the wire grill and the
hot coals. I was the one with the hot coals. She had the
food though. ‘Potatoes?’ she asked ‘No’ I said,
‘Sausages’ it would be simpler, ‘ Why don’t you have a
drink’ I said. Stop her moaning about giving directions,
‘I’m cold’ said Moonshine, ‘ I’ve got something in the
car’ an old husky jacket, Ellen couldn’t even have the
stuff for her kids, ‘I’ll get my wooly jumpers from the
car’ she said hearing my criticism, ‘Here Kids’ I shouted
with the sausages about done, and soon I had them all
around me, close by the fire and I felt I had won. Frieda
was rolling a spliff, ‘ 25.5 minutes’ said Ellen’ nothing
like a bit of Empire competiveness’ Ellen said to Frieda
laughing, not even taking me into the joke,
It was dark now, the lights dotting the field, the first
stars appearing between almost invisible cloud.
Moonshine, Ellens eldest, was a sensitive child and was
cold and moaning ‘Mum I want to go to bed’ Ellen
started to make arrangements ‘Why don’t all the girls
come over first, and Tom can go in his tent with the
dog’ she said smirking ‘ She was being purposely
irritating, winding me up. ‘ Hey hudge come into my
tent, Hannah, Zestas coming too’ My daughter looked in
two minds, checking Ellen getting Moonshine to bed and
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Zesta mucking around with the dog. ‘I want to go with
the others’ she said. ‘Come on Hannah, Zac can come
too’ I encouraged. She was off to talk to Zesta, I called
Zac over, opening up the tent to make it look more
enticing. ‘ Mummy can I go with Hannah and Zac’ said
Zesta. Ellen came over with the free light, looking
slightly diffident. ‘ Are you sure’ she didn’t look at me,
and the two conspiratorially started getting their stuff
together into my tent. Another small victory… I did the
washing up, with the hot water bottle Id put on earlier.
It was the order, the methodical thinking that was
required to make camping work. I had enough left to
make the two women a cup of tea. ‘ No thanks we have
the wine’ said Ellen, ‘ Yes I would like some, coffee
perhaps’ said Frieda, contradicting Ellen again. I put the
ground coffee into the saucepan, adding hot water, and
put on the hot coals that seemed to work. I felt the
warmth of thanks from Frieda, Ellen slightly irritated
looking at her mobile phone. ‘ We should set off early to
get to Bere by lunchtime’ said Ellen, to Frieda. I
tightened up again. ‘ Fuck Bere’ I thought, but didn’t
want to make it too obvious, the frictions released
might make the camp too unbearable, and I had to
keep the children together. ‘We just want to get to the
sea, no?’ said Frieda, and I leapt at the chance. ‘Yeah,
lets just get as near as the sea as possible’. Ellen
looked deflated and went off to the car to call. It wasn’t
technically her car, it was his I thought. ‘ She’s being a
bit bolshy to me ‘ I said to Frieda ‘Ya, tense’ she said,
but we didn’t really know each other at all and my
attempt at bringing her onside really made it worse.
There was obviously a scenario going on between them,
man trouble, and I was excluded. I didn’t want to be
excluded, camp was meant to be about togetherness,
cohesion. I sighed. ‘Come her you fucking dog’ I
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shouted and pulled the dog into my tent, tethering him
down, ‘Stay’ The dog looked up at me with mournful
eyes, not understanding the sudden anger. I went to
call Eda.
We’d been apart for a while, Eda and I, me in the
country not working, doing my own thing, and her in
town, working as a family therapist. I was loath to ask
about things which might be deemed therapising, but I
said ‘She’s driving me crazy, always contradicting what
I’m saying, trying to split things up’ Eda put on that soft
steely voice on ‘ Yes I see- Why don’t you talk to her
about it’ ‘ Yeah Yeah’ I dismissed it, but it was obvious,
then I realized walking back into the camp I was using
my wife as a marriage counselor..
Frieda and Ellen were snuggled up by the fire, chit
chatting. They looked up at me as I walked into the
flame light. ‘ Got any spliff?’ I said trying to get into
the party ‘All gone’ said Ellen flatly, ‘I have some more’
said Frieda helpfully, ‘ Ok’ I lay down by the fire, my
fire, and gave it a blow. Ellen then got a stick and
moved some of the coals together. I moved them apart.
She put on a piece of old wood It started smoking the
wily breeze blowing the smoke back onto Frieda. I got it
off, and rearranged the fire again. This went on for a
while, me blowing then she, and it made things brittle
and we should of laughed at some point , but we didn’t
……
Ellen monopolized Frieda intentionally, pointing out
stars, telling her about the owl, ‘the little owls that is’ I
thought but didn’t say; and we all looked at the tent in
the middle of the field, shaking slightly, copulating
shadows, the girls giggled, ‘ Hey lets party, said Frieda,
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‘Hurrah for one night stands’ but the joke didn’t really
go anywhere. The two females and a bloke, all not quite
attached, the thought was obviously there, but not
there at the same time. I was determined that I’d go to
bed last. The man minding the camp. There was some
more giggling from the women, a child moaning, the
dog gave a little bark, but soon they settled down. I
walked around, checking the cars were locked and
looked around the oval field surrounded by wooded
hills. The cows were munching methodically, huge
presences so near, but contained. A half moon had
risen at one end, the sea side and its light created
shapes in the cloud. I saw a figure of 8 sculpted in
bone, and thought, 8 years, dead soon. It made the
tensions slip, the bullshit between us all subside, I could
be dead soon. I went to sleep, the picture of fat wet lips
pulling up grass in my mind.
The cows had gone, The grey bright light revealed an
empty field. I let the dog out of the car. He was very
glad to see me. We walked a bit, but it was already
anxiety making as he soon picked up the scent of the
MACVI camp and its sizzling breakfast so I had to put
him back on the lead. I busied myself with the fire,
getting the kettle on, arranging the food, ‘Sit down you
fucking dog’, ‘No swearing’ Ellen said coming up behind
me ‘Id better get some water’; ‘Not that one’, I said
pointing the stand in the middle of the field, ‘Not
drinking water’ ‘OK’ and off she sauntered lithe long
legs lit up by the new sun. The children emerged bleary
eyed from the tent, hopping out in their sleeping bags, ‘
Wheres Mum?’ ‘Gone to get some water’ ‘ I’m hungry’ ‘
Don’t worry I’m on it. Eggs anyone?’ I had the breakfast
done by the time she came back. Frieda crawled out ‘
Kaffee’ she said fumbling with a Marlboro Light. It felt
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good, all the children, the dog, the woman, gathered
round as I handed out plates of greasy egg and bacon,
and tomatoes burnt. ‘ I don’t like tomatoes’ said Zesta,
‘ Give them to Hannah,’ Gradually the children heated
up, began to smile again. They all ran off with Frieda, to
the shower, and I was left with Ellen. ‘ Do you want me
to be here?’ I asked, suppressing the bubble in my
throat, ‘ Yeah sure’ she said non chattily, ‘ It feels you
don’t’ She was filling the ice box ‘Really?’’ ‘Yeah really’
I said a bit more forcefully ‘Perhaps there should be
another man’ and I took it as an insult ‘No Lets just try
and treat each other as human beings- there’s no sex
here after all’ I said OK’ and she said, after a pause, ‘
Sorry’. It changed things, felt better, the tension out of
the air. For a long time it had been about the sex, the
possibility, even though both of us in the end, didn’t
really fancy each other. She said she always went for
tall long people, working class, and in the end, although
I longed for the perfect body and high cheekbones, in
the end, she ended up being the silly Fulham girl, no
depth. and besides for some reason, to me her breath
smelt. ‘ So, we’re clear are we? Go to the beach, then
get a new camp for a couple of days, near by, then
think of going to Brians place’; ‘Yeah sure’ I wasnt sure
if she was just placating me, slightly condescending,
and when her and Frieda went off to packed up the tent
I heard high laughs and was nt sure if they were about
me.
We stopped at the shop on the way out. I moved
quickly having prepared a list in my head: honey,
veggies, and new pump. ‘Torches for everybody’ ands I
flashed a bit of money around, the bloke with the dosh.
I could do it too, although we both agreed to go cheap.
She got out her wallet and pulled out a few notes ‘ No
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don’t worry. Get the meal later’ I felt in a role, the
leader again, ‘ You can only barbecue on Ketteridge, ‘
said the red faced woman with a slight squint behind
the till, telling me the directions and I thought I was
being impressive finding out where to go from the
locals. ‘ Lets go’ I said to the women and children were
loitering and I knew I was overstepping the mark but I
couldn’t stop myself. Driving out we got stuck behind
some hens, and a cockerel, all stuck up coxcombs
flapping. The hens scurried away, into the shades but
the cockerel loitered, its wide open but blind looking
eye jerking about in its so proud pose. Ellen beeped,
and finally it moved following the hens to the side.
I led them back down to the castle and then right along
a winding road to the beach. It opened up a huge
curve, the sea. I was longing for the cold salt water and
after lugging a ton of gear down to the beach, blew up
the lilo and swam into the deep. I couldn’t stop thinking
of them, the women, looking at me cavorting, the
young sprite, all muscles and energy loving the sun. For
a moment, diving down to the cold water I wanted to
touch the point of no thought, be one, but I couldn’t
quite rid myself of the thought of being looked at, of
performing, of trying to get the tiny strip of flesh, two
red dashes of bikini, to think of me, I couldn’t get her,
or my fantasy out of my head. She was meant to see
me as the still youthful child of nature there set against
the bleary eyed old urbanite who kept sending text
messages about where to eat, but at the same time I
wanted to be free of it, all this bullshit, to be with
myself and the sea and the sun. When I paddled my
way back to the beach the dog was getting too hot, and
Ellen and Frieda couldn’t get the windshield thing up. I
pushed the stake into the sand, and made it right ‘I
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suppose that’s when a man comes in handy, the extra
weight’ said Ellen snidely, and it started again, the
schism, and I suppose it was a joke, but I was upset
because I thought we could just spend today being
mates. Then again maybe she knew about my fantasy
and didn’t like it. Could she tell sitting on the beach?.
The dog tried to get some shade and then, bothered by
something, started digging furiously, trying to find
something indefinable, It was like a tom and jerry
cartoon, with Butch and his bone, but there wasn’t a
bone there… The girls, or women rather, they were
fussing about with lotions trying to get the sun, and I
lay, the picnic and beach stuff between us and for a
time it seemed all well, relaxed; the sea wind, the
children’s voices buffeting around the bay, as they
found crabs and shrimps which were slowly revealing
themselves as the tide went out. Occasionally a
scramble of rock broke loose from the cliff, adding an
edge of danger but we laughed after we all decided we
weren’t going to move.
Lunch, sandwiches of tomato, cheese marge and sand.
The dog suddenly was animated and I felt a bit fat in
the heat, but said fuck it and devoured the lions share.
I’m the biggest I thought, ‘Come on lets go to the lilo,
come on go with us’ Hannah and Moonshine said, and,
slightly reluctantly I went out with them.
The lilo was unstable, the last sun making the paddle
splash freezing, Screams and ‘oh No’, and made it
wobble and they screamed even louder, ‘Oh no oh no’,
cried Hannah, ‘let me off Moonshine’. I was getting the
chills and slid off round the back to engine the craft
with my legs, occasionally getting tangled in the long
columns of kelp, that made you think there was
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something else lurking there ‘Come on faster Jeeves
faster Parker’ Moonshine was a clever little girl, an avid
reader and TV watcher while Hannah was stumbling in
her mimicry of something she couldn’t think of, ‘Come
on you, balding git’ I pushed on, wanting the salt water
to wash through me clean me of everything, the bad
thoughts, the thought of Ellen’s legs, the conviction of
them slandering me on the beach. I pushed the boat
round towards the center of the bay the clean weed free
water, grunting noises to the children. I looked at the
back of Moonshine, skinny white flesh, straight-backed,
a little red patch forming around her shoulders, and
Hannah fuller formed developing the curve to her body,
burgeoning adolescents, soon to be desirable. Peaches
and cream. The tabloid threats subsided, the stench of
peadophilia pushed away, and I allowed myself to think
of their beauty and in a few years time of Hannah
voluptuous, smiling wanting to party, and Moonshine
the serious academic, sneering at those wanting to
come close to her high cheeked beauty, together
remembering this, wondering if they could stay
together waiting for some man to take them in the
opposite direction that their characters would inevitably
lead.
I turned the lilo over, and both emerged gasping.. ‘Got
you there’ I said …’Flipping heck’ said Moonshine, ‘you
old git’ said Hannah, and they grabbed the lido and
started kicking me off me pretending to be a monster of
the deep, diving low and coming up beneath the lilo
exploding to the surface the great white shark, the
never ending predator dada dada dadadada
dadasdadadadas ..the base amplified by the water..
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Suddenly worried that they’d get exhausted and there’d
be an incident in the Bay, I switched off the act and
made them get back on and, slightly muted as they’d
wanted to continue the game, I pushed them back
towards the beach. I did’nt want to go back to the two
women and the tensions of being the Man, I turned the
lilo over at the rock ridge which was now exposed as
the tide receded and told the girls to get to the beach,
‘for Gods sake swim before it comes towards you’, and
paddled out again. I tried to just lie, float on the water
staring up at the wisps of white blown against the sheet
blue but the freezing water along the ducts of the lilo,
or the tenseness caused by the munching disturbed
sleep kept me from relaxing and I turned over into the
sea, that moment on the roll a brief moment of respite
from what had happened and what would be. I motored
towards the quay where the post was; there was an
abandoned tower on the promontory of the cliff a line of
shirts whites and reds along the path up to the top.
That was the South coast path Id walked years ago, ‘in
my youth’ was the phrase, and I pushed harder refuting
the age. The body was good, it was the breath that
wasn’t, the smoking, the sinking into oneself that aged
one, the energy going, gone. Low down, a submarine, a
U boat, and I hummed a tune like the moan of a
propeller. Ummmm Arrmmm Urmmm Arrmmm .. the
spluttering of the water in my mouth, hitting my chin
along the ducts of the lilo making me blink in the bright
afternoon light, refracting over the calm of the little bay
of the marina. Gliding in noiseless I hit the diagonal of
the Slipway 6 inches then 2 inches grinding to a halt a
mariner coming into rest. Plonking the lilo up against a
bank in the sun to dry, stones digging into my bare
soles softened by the saltwater I walked up the steep
stairs at the beginning of the upcline. Looking at my
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feet I soon reached the top cool breeze coming off the
cliff around the tower. Danger Keep Out, it said but
next to the earth path it was the cliffs that were the
danger. I thought of the day, and the children perhaps
too hazardous to walk here, but again, Id found
something for them to discover, leading my little tribe
on. Looking down I saw them, Ellen and Frieda
swimming out into the bay slim white sharks cutting
through the stillness of the low tide, the occasional
slither of voice coming up with the breeze. The children
were at the waters edge, the dog barking at them not
quite sure whether to go in. I walked a little down the
path, away from the bay, the echoes of voices suddenly
shut off, and just the sea far down below the cliff and
breezes in the grasses. The hills unfolded in great rolls,
and grass fields with black and white cows giving way
to hay half cut and rough heath scrub at the horizon;
over the broad sweep of bay and up to cliffs at the far
side seven sisters promontories , shadows deepening
away along the coast, the whiteness of the white cliffs
fading. The sea was burning white melding into haze a
gateway between the cliffs and the lip of the Isle of
Wight and I saw that the silhouette seen from the
beach was not true, and in fact it was a promontory too
and there was land to its side stretching out into the
haze. I breathed deeply taking in the scene and felt full
of the world before around me wanting to run, walk on
forever loving the world but with my children and I had
to get back though, make sure all was alright, get them
to come up with me, perhaps a light evening walk, and
suddenly things contracted not sure anymore of what I
was doing was right. No go on and feel free, expand
that sense of being at one with the world, or go below,
and be part of the group, the contradicting desire, be
forced to take the lead.
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The same thing happened, the contradiction, when I got
back to the Beach. I felt full of giving. Telling them how
lovely it was up there in the cool breeze, thinking what
a pretty scene it would be all of us taking a walk up on
the cliffs, and Ellen said, ‘ Frieda come for a bit of a
walk, take a spliff watch the sun go down’ ‘ I thought it
would be good to take the kids for a walk’ I said. They
were silent. They’d drunk a bottle of white wine and I
couldn’t see Ellen eyes, “Yeah, that’s a nice idea’ A
barking came up beyond them. The dog was pestering a
family along the beach for food of course, and although
the children were trying to stop him, he kept jumping
up, and it was obvious the parents were not a dog
loving family, they wanted to keep their family free of
intrusion. ‘Zac, come on Zac’, he hadn’t quite got the
hang of commands, sometimes thinking there were a
good idea but not sure, and certainly overridden by the
possibility of food. I grasped the lead, a lion trainer to
tame the beast, and went to grab the dog, slightly
embarrassed at the ineptness of my command.
Eventually I almost rugby tacked him, getting the lead
around him pulling him away. They had gone Ellen and
Frieda up the beach and you could see them picking
their way over the rocks to the quarry. I felt suddenly
sad, that they didn’t want me to come. Ellen hadn’t
wanted to share the time with me, the love of nature
and instead chose to go up with Frieda for a giggle and
a gaggle about men, and I was left with the dog slightly
frantic what with the teas coming around him, the sea,
and the too hot sun. Why couldn’t they have stuck to
my plan, be together, Why had I been shut out. Fuck
them, silly girls.. and I decided to do a picture, that
might impress them, show them another way apart
from gossip, wine and spliff.
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The sea and the sun had almost become one, the Isle of
Wight a smudge across the horizon. A dark blue swept
across the far edge of the bay, mirrored up to the far
horizon then bright haze. I could see a yacht a bending
fleck on the cusp of the mist and the sea, and nearer
the white haze flattening the almost still water. The
girls were in a tight group each with a net, and I tried
to catch their poses, Moonshine stick-like straightbacked, Hannah getting stuck in sea up to her waist,
and Zesta bent over trying hard to see the fish below. I
was always surprised when with a dash of the crayon it
turned out alright, some secret link between eye and
hand, without too many words in between, and I sighed
as there was a whole country out there which I seemed
to have spent my life just touching, the couple of
pictures on holiday, not quite getting into, but enough
to know that there was something else a richer life
there.
A giggle came from behind me, ‘Ooooh very good’ said
Frieda, Ellen putting out a sniffy glance; I know I’d
make her guilty, she was meant to be the artist,
although she hardly did anything. But I stopped myself
thinking of that, of comparison, of what they thought,
and kept hold of my little secret, the little thrill of the
mind making the pen work, the light coming through
the door from that other place. Finished, I lay back not
looking at them lying beside me and let the sun bathe
me, letting the little sand flea play around my chest,
the waiting that brief moment to let the breeze smooth
the irritation. Just breathe, I am breathing in I am
breathing out, the lapping of the wave, the softness of
the salt air, I am with everybody, I am everything, I am
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here now, I am now here alone, I am alone. alone,
love…
‘Stop it’, the wet sand smacked into my face, smashing
my sleep, ‘You kids just stop it, get near the sea if
you’re going to be mucking around. Where’s the dog,
Zesta get the dog, Moonshine you haven’t lost the good
net have you ‘ ‘Jesus the monster has arisen, ‘ Ellen
said adjusting her sun hat slightly, lying on the towel ‘
Keep it down will you’. The sun was now almost behind
the tower, a shadow laying first claim of the bay around
the quay. I gathered myself, trying to return to the
calm before looking out to the bay. The Isle was almost
gone now, a darker slab of haze, the yacht lost. The
dog was mucking about with another dog up the beach
its owner throwing a stick out into the sea and Zak not
quite sure whether to go in, but pouncing on the collie
when it came out with the stick, making it play, the
bigger dog biting into the neck pushing it over, then
Zak getting up to do it again. I wanted to separate
them but the man sitting with his family eating
sandwiches out of a packet waved me away ‘ He likes a
play’ he shouted ‘they’re only fooling about’ and it
made me like the man very much.
One man and his dog that was enough and the kids, let
them get on with it, the plucking pube and texting
lovers, they were in a different place and so why should
they effect my well being, I just wanted to get on the
right level with them. I just wanted that clear passage
between us, or in me, when I was with them, friendship
perhaps, but no politics, gender or otherwise.
The beach had thinned out, post teatime departure.
We’d thought of a barbecue, in the evening but we
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needed to make camp in good time, not faffing around
in the dark and dew. I started to dismantle the beach
set up. ‘Come on Dad can we stay?’ ‘Come on please’
said Zesta, ‘please’ she said exaggerating the ees that
made the plea not quite serious. ‘No we’ve got to make
camp, find a new campsite, otherwise you’ll get all cold
like yesterday’ I threatened ‘ Just a bit longer, more
fishing, there’s lots of crabs’ pleaded Hannah ‘ OK Ill go
up to the car with Zak, he needs feeding, then you
come OK?’ ‘Whats happening’ blinked Ellen.. I told her
and she snarled ‘We were just relaxing, ‘We’ve got to
make camp’ ‘Oh my Gott’ Freida jolted up suddenly
looking frightened; another mini landslide came down
from the cliff ‘We’d better go before it collapses’ I joked
but Frieda took it seriously for a moment, and she
tensed all up standing to look, and I laughed seeing her
silly fear. You can always get a German I thought.
I loaded myself like a mule picked my way across the
smooth huge pebbles under the cliff. It really was
messy, weeds mashed up with old bottles, plastic
containers, un definable picnic debris, Stones, I needed
stones for the Barbie tonight. At the break in the cliff
where the path went up to the car park a stream
trickled down through the pebbles. I found 3 stones
about the same height, and wrapped them in a towel,
feeling a bit stupid doing so, ‘What are you doing’ asked
Ellen, ‘For the fire’ I said, but she sniffled and got in
front of me going up to the grass plateau. I was worried
about the dog, hot all day, and got water fast into a
bowl, but he knew what was happening and sensing the
time didn’t drink it, just wanted the food. The children
came up soon after and I sent them off for ice cream in
the van in the middle of the car park. I suddenly felt
like treating myself but had missed the moment to ask.
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I pre packed the boot systematically; order, that was
the imperative, no mucking about. The two girls were
looking in the wing mirror giggling, with Friedas make
up out. I wondered if they were planning a party
tonight, in the pub, picking up blokes. It made me want
to kidnap the kids and go.
‘Come one lets go everybody’ I announced. and again
we had the little messing about wondering which car
the kids would elect, and me fearing that Id be left with
no one. So I was very pleased that Hannah wanted to
go with me, wasn’t frightened anymore to be left out
from the gang.
It felt sad leaving the bay behind us as we drove up the
hill, leaving the relaxed state, the simplicity of the sun
and sea, everyone able to find their own place. But we
had to find our new camp, and Ellen and I had agreed,
and that was a first, that we should get ahead, set up in
good time. Eat. Besides we had to select the campsite
first, which given the contortions of the set up was
going to be no easy task.
We went through the dinky villages back into the highhedged roads. We stopped at one, a lovely farmhouse
with a camp outside of it, a couple of union jacks flying.
I saw the sigh SYC, and reckoned it was a youth club,
certainly not open house, but Ellen insisted and I
parked up. Just relax I told myself, there was plenty of
time, if she wants to OK, but I wasn’t sure if I was
being smug. Then we came to another one, which had a
red flag at its entrance, and I wheeled in. A broad
concave field with tents along the sides. It looks a bit
exposed, and crowed and I wasn’t sure about it. As
Freida stuck up her thumb as we passed at the
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entrance going out and I smiled although I was sure we
weren’t going there, I saw another red flag bright
flapping in the evening light and towards that thinking it
might be camping flags, so hikers could see and
wheeled up the hill towards it. Suddenly we were in a
new area, barren scrub, and the view over the top of
the hill stretched out towards Poole, a new land. It must
have been the army ranges and there were massive
numbers on the hillside, 3/2 5. The flags must have
been warning flags although I didn’t know what colour
denoted what and I turned back. Meeting them I could
see that Ellen and Frieda were laughing, I wound down
the window, ‘Red Flags camping Yea Yeah Very funny,
Lets go back the way we came’ Trying not to feel stupid
I quickly moved on. Why were they making such a meal
of it, I didn’t pretend to be an expert, did I.
It was little sign, hardly legible in the shade of the tree
tunnel CAMPING, and you could easily mess up the
turning. It was just a little field of hay, a mown bit
down the side. A broken barn on one side had a boat in
it, and on a post was a little notice nearly… #6 a night,
no trespass in the woods, please pick up litter. ‘Where
are the showers?’ asked Hannah, and I saw a standpipe
below the notice with a yellow hosepipe. The field was
surrounded by wood, except behind where there was a
hill, and from the middle you could see across the
valley to the sunlit hillside ‘ East’ I said ‘ you’ll get the
sun in the morning’ Ellen smiled ‘Yeah its crap. Lets go
back to the first one’ said Frieda‘ Why’ I found it
difficult, I didn’t want to get heavy, but to have the field
all to one self, except a little caravan to one side, a dog
tethered outside it, the clover hay, the woods to
explore, the hill to climb, it was great. ‘No Frieda this is
much better’ Frieda looked around ‘It is nice and open
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there, people’ Perhaps she wants to make friends or is
she afraid. ‘Perhaps we should go and have another
look’, said Ellen. I was worried again, about being
abandoned, ‘That means the people who go decide’ i.e.
not me. I pointed out, and Ellen looked at me, slightly
amused ‘What’s wrong with things?’ then suddenly
Frieda said ‘OK’, and Ellen and I looked at each other,
for a moment together, we agreed for once. and then
felt guilty that the other didn’t want to’ Are you sure
Freida?’ I said. ‘maybe it would be better’ I felt myself
being exposed, not sure what was happening, the
decision floating somewhere between us, things out of
control, But I let it be, there, it didn’t matter, and it was
not good that the person who was new to this and of
between me and Ellen should have to do what she
didn’t want. ‘Its Ok here, I’m fine’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘OK’ it
felt good, the decision. It has been allowed the time to
work itself out, no one had consciously pushed it
through, there was no bitter after taste of some one
else’s triumph. It felt better, I felt better, lighter
somehow, not having to try and control the situation.
There wasn’t a race this time to put up the tents. We
discussed it with Ellen this time, me there you there,
slightly facing round, the fire here, the cars there. We
had time to put the tents up properly, the kids went off
to explore the woods, the dog sniffing around the hay.
The sun was setting behind us, and the huge silhouette
of the hill behind us provided solid assurance. Frieda
went to do her toilette in Ellen’s car, radio on, a bit of
technological reminder, and I got the fire going. It said
no fires except off the ground, and I found a discarded
barbecue base in the barn. I half thought of smashing
the pallets but asked Ellen first, and they laughed at me
rather than thinking about it. I did take control of
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supper out of reflex mostly. ‘Mummy there’s a hut in
the wood, a shack, We’re frightened a man might be
there’ ‘Don’t worry darling’, said Ellen hugging her, and
I wondered also. There was a money box by the
entrance and we wondered if someone would turn up,
tell is to move on or put out the fire. We sat down to
eat, the dog frantically sniffing, and Ellen put some old
wood on the fire. It smoked like shit, getting everyone’s
eyes, but rather than do anything about it, I waited for
others to complain. The sky turned pink then mauve,
and after the stars appeared, a huge panoply of lights
and everyone looked ‘there, a shooting star’ said Zesta,
‘and there’ said Moonshine, ‘I want to see one’ said
Hannah, worried again about being somehow left out’
Look low’ I said’ There’ ‘No it’s a satellite’ ‘There’ and a
brief stroke of light dropped down towards the mounds
of black hills opposite.
I washed up the dishes while Frieda and Ellen played
Had with the kids, They had to get into the tent, back
without being caught. ‘ Your turn,’ Ellen said,’ I didn’t
feel like it, exhausted after all the swimming and the
tensions. ‘ Ok but we’ll play a different game, I have to
catch you in the torchlight’ (so I didn’t have to move),
but after a while Zesta came up and told me’ You have
to catch us properly, its more fun that way’ ‘ I know’ I
said ‘ what about you having to reach the ice box
without the light getting you’ thinking I could finish my
coffee and have a fag’ Go on, play’ said Ellen’ ‘This is
better, more psychological’ I said, ‘ I knew he’d say
that’ and she giggled with Frieda, and for a moment I
felt anger return, the put down, not as good as Brian,
put in a pigeon hole of being obvious. But I let it pass
and asked myself if I’d enjoy it, and why not a good run
around, and off I went prowling around the tents
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flashing my torch, Stalag 13, the Great Escape, The
Marathon Man, prowling the woods. Growling, Zak was
a little worried, but the children loved it, screams
coming out of the fields disappearing up into the sky of
lights.’ Do it again’ said Zesta, and I ended up counting
to twenty three times, exhausted but exhilarated by the
end. ‘Pushing the boat out’, I said to myself lying there,
extending the energy rather than sitting there smoking
thinking about what people thought of me, what I
thought of me, what I thought of them, just getting out
there and enjoying the place.
It was chilly and I gave everyone a coat to wear
including Ellen and Frieda. Hannah came and snuggled
up beside me and we talked about the stars, I told her
about the Greeks thinking it was a big curtain with
holes in it, and we got slightly lost explaining the fact
that the stars might be dead but the light was just
arriving. ‘ Geeta says each star is a person. ‘ (Geeta
was her primary school teacher), and at the back of my
mind I remembered there was an anthropological study
about a tribe that… Fuck it and held Hannah closer,
loving her wonder her smell and the lightness of her
voice.
‘I’m going to sleep with you tonight ‘ said Ellen, and my
body twitched ‘Zesta and me. In the big sleeping bag.
Frieda snores’ . So at last I slept with Ellen, her taught
body sliding about on the lilo, sensing her not quite
peaceful sleep, with little Zestas head all pale at the
other end. ‘And I was happy because not once did I
think of fucking her I was thinking about the animal
noises outside, the sounds of the sea in the trees, and
catching the dawn the magic of the first light.
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In the morning soon after breakfast an old landrover
rumbled up. ‘Cover the fire quick I said, and Ellen threw
a coat on it. I thought it would be an old Fascist full of
rules and orders, but I was determined to keep the
lightness of spirit I went to speak to him. He was
alright, awfully well spoken, curly eyebrow, ex- navy,
and he seemed all very easy, didn’t really want to be
bothered by it. I told him about the fire, why carry the
deceit around and he said fine, the thing was that if you
scorch the earth grass it doesn’t grow back only weeds.
It struck me as important at the time.
We’d decided to go to the same beach as yesterday, the
same the second time around. Not quite such a brilliant
day, and you could see the cloud coming over. I just
wanted a swim, feel fresh get on with the day. Despite
the children whining we moved on soon after lunch and
went along the coast over the ride and the army
ranges. I knew Lulworth Cove and Durdle Door would
be great to look at but touristy and when we got there
it was more touristy than I had thought , the car park
crammed packed ice cream a cement path up the hill
with streams of people. I couldn’t handle it so closed in,
‘We should stay and have a look around’ said Ellen, ‘Yes
stay ‘Frieda said’ I don’t want to go back and forth’ ‘Lets
just have a quick look further along’ I said but soon we
were away from the coast and although I was happy to
total along in my so smooth car, I could see they were
getting flustered. I kept getting ahead of them, then
slowing down, and I was sure when we came to a
junction that they’d see my turn left but suddenly they
weren’t there, and Hannah who was alone in the car
with me was getting worried, ‘ Dad, we’ve lost them, go
back’ At the next junction I stopped and waited. It was
an odd place to stop and people hooted and I got tense,
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the bitch has gone her own way; and there was no
signal on the phone, and Hannah kept saying ‘Go back
Dad’, but for some reason I went on, ‘Let her go, there
was no point going back because they’ll loose us, and
then we’ll both be going round in circles’ and then my
phone went and it was message from the wife saying
please ring, but still we couldn’t get a signal, and
Hannah looked really upset and despite myself we went
all over the place, the look out point we said we’d go
back to, the campsite then back again, but I knew she’d
said ‘Fuck ‘em’, and I didn’t mind but for the child. I
wanted Hannah just to do something with me,
explaining to her that they’d inevitably come back to
the camp, but she said she was sure they were having
fun and she wasn’t, and she was obviously upset that
they weren’t looking for us, and I was annoyed that I
didn’t have my own self sufficient family, always
dependent on other kids, and that was the tie Ellen had
over me, and was back to the beginning the fantasy of
her being the other wife and here we were playing
happy families, except she had Frieda and Brian on the
text and me and Hannah were just tagging along. In
the end I let it be, I let myself feel sad, and told
Hannah, and in the end we sat at the campsite and
waited, in silence mostly, except Hannah saying ‘I’m so
angry’, as though aping me, except I wasn’t angry
anymore, I was sad, and glad that at last I had at least
felt some emotion again, I knew that was real, rather
than supporting some worn out fantasy over and over
again.
I was about to give in to Hannah and go back, when in
they came the car swaying along with the radio full
blast, all smiles and happiness, They’d gone back to the
Cove, Moonshine staying in the car to read, and it was
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lovely the beaches looked gorgeous, and I wanted to
say I told you so, but for some reason Frieda had got in
her head that I had said the beaches were shit, but I
could be bothered to argue. They’d bought food and it
was obvious Ellen now, after the little independent
sortie felt full of herself and in control, so I let them get
on with it. There was just time for a walk and I took the
dog and although naughty we went through the wood
over a couple of fences to the bracken and gorse of the
hill. There was an old path, and I knew it would take
me where we wanted to go; Zak was frightened for
some reason, rabbits probably, and I cajoled him on.
The sky was turning pink as we climbed up the hill, the
silhouette of cows on the ridge, and there beyond us
the estuary of Poole, mauve now, the last light coming
on, and then the ridge breaking up the two valleys and
you could see the path winding along the ridgeback, the
brown and yellow and green of the land solid now in the
half light up the valley Corfe Castles bone grey jutting
out, a church spire, a glebe farm, and the manor
house, and the sea there seen between two hills, a last
sparkle fading, and I breathed deeply because it
seemed a long time since I had felt the land and
grasped its contours, sensed I knew exactly where I
stood, and it felt good. I wanted to go on, along the
ridge but it was getting dark and we almost ran back,
and there between the pigeon cooing and occasional
cow bellow I heard the children screaming ‘Suppertime
Suppertime’, and my heart felt light as I shouted back
‘Coming Coming’ to the little tribe of children and
somebody else’s women, that today I was part of, but
not lost in or trying to take control of.…
It rained almost immediately after supper was
completed and this time it was Moonshine and Hannah
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and me. Hannah was happy because Moonshine and her
were meant to be friends, and Moonshine had been
moody lately and Hannah wondered if she was still her
friend. And Moonshine told us about the books she had
been reading and Hannah wanted to talk about most
embarrassing moments, but I told then about the time
on the lilo, and my mother coming to get me, and then
they were asleep, and I listened to the rain beating
against the tent roof and thought about little at all,
happy to have come and happy to be going back to my
home and my wife tomorrow.
We left later than we meant to the next morning, as I
was trying to get back for lunch. The girls wanted to get
back to London, going on about the shops, good old
London town, which I think meant sitting doing nothing
watching tele. It was as though it ended as it should
have begun, me with the children, and Ellen left with
her playmate to discuss affairs, and text the lovers
being sexy birds, and as we wheeled out of the little
field all waving to the two women and now only one
tent, it was OK, I had my trip and they had theirs, and
the two ways could run together sometimes but didn’t
need to get tangled, if you know where you’re each
going they don’t need to get into a tense little knot.
227
Anniversary
And it happened then too
The gulf War 1, the birth
The inevitability of conflict
The inevitability of union
The bombs dropping
The baby coming
Sand and wind
Cold and snow
And the forces navigating up
The gulf, past the old tips
Of Qatar the slit at the base
Running past Kuwait and Basra
Entering the desert with Baghdad
The devil (or Heroes) seats somewhere
Beyond
The tussle continues, physical
And psychological, playing out
Positions for some leverage of power
Crossing points, oasis, oil, parts
Each ‘encountering resistance’
Each trying to etch out some idea
Of freedom
Of pride
Of salvation
Mixed..
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CRAP DAD hadn’t shaved, and was all sloppy, no socks stepping down
the street with that silly hat of his. We went to the video store, looking at
all those on the wall, and he kept saying in a loud voice ‘ No you’re too
young’, it really got on my nerves, ending up getting something he thought
we’d all like. ‘Oh No, Mr Babla you are twenty one pounds and 17 pence
overdue on your account, and three videos this time late.’ The huge black
man sighed deep, he was obviously used to Dad being late; Dad offered
him 2.50 on top of the video money and he said OK. It was embarrassing
the sort of weedily smile Dad gave when he handed over the money. And
I’d wished he’d shaved. We crossed over the road to the Turkish Shop,
‘Dad wait’. He just went out into the street with his hand held out almost
got us run over. The man in the car had shouted at Dad but Dad just stuck
his nose in the air, ‘Pedestrians come first’ he said. I wanted a drink, but I
wanted something exciting, fizzy, a pick me up Mum called it, though I
don’t know what it was picking up. ‘Here try this’ and Dad just got a bottle,
it was gold and fat and brought it out to open it there in the middle of the
shop. He hadn’t paid for it, and the women was looking at him and it
looked like she wasn’t sure to shout or laugh, and she looked at the man
behind the counter who eyed Dad. ‘Here try it’ Dad said ‘No, pay for it first’
I said and he just laughed. ‘Its OK’ ‘Well Pay’ and he lifted it up and
showed the man, and they sort of smiled. ‘ Ill drink it, when you finish
paying it’ ‘ Look its alright’ he said, as we walked down the street for
vegetables, ‘ they know me ‘ he said, but I don’t think they did. I wanted
to get home, so I helped Dad get the stuff. He got more than we needed
for Supper but he said we might as well but when he came to pay he didn’t
have enough money. Everyone was looking at him, at the holes in his
jumper his white scrubbly beard as he went through all the pockets and the
other people looking, ‘ Ill pay you 60p later’ he said, and the Lady at the
cashtill said, ‘OK’ looking at the man next to her with the pencil and the
pad…. O God I could have died, it made us look like poor people. I pulled
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Dad back home and he was just laughing and he didn’t seem to realize that
I had to live here too…
Giving up again
Almost the ides, and another cigarette the final
What is it? You don’t live life, want to be there really;
Its time to close the gap, the gap between the me and
you
That little bit that says can’t, the little voice that says
But you need it, another day, there, another chance
Gone, it was what is written, some fucked up destiny,
Instead of the gap, filled with that poisonous weight,
Fill it with Life, the life that says yes, it will
Be because I am, not the other one which says,
OK it doesn’t matter, (mustn’t lose the train of thought)
It must be, you feel like shit anyway, might as
Well live there; No, in the end is No to say Yes,
And it finding that Yes inside one, the I am yes,
Please, thank you, not the what if, maybe;
Fill the gap with the I am yes, I am what
I want to be, the actual, be it fully, its
Time to change, forgive, repent, and hand
Over to God that is there, and be it actually
Willingness, to open up, and say yes you know me,
In partnership, I trust God will look after me,
Will allow me to be who I am, if I trust him,
Not construct the world as I would have it, but
As it would be.. In love, and do it now, yes no yes
230
WANKER
231
In was Sunday in May, the sun hidden behind the low
cloud hot above London. A morning breeze swished up
the bushes and eucalyptus tree which was getting too
tall in the next door garden. The traffic was muffled in
the wind, and out of it rose a high strong song of a bird,
insistent that the summer had begun.
The house was empty, quiet except for the odd creak of
a window, buffeted on hinges and the low rumble of the
washing machine. Another fucking wash thought the
man, his wife was going to ruin the clothes, and if it’s
lying there anywhere doesn’t matter if it’s been worn or
not into the Bosch it goes. They’d left early his wife and
child and the man had the house to himself, Time to get
on with things, think clearly without the mess of
domesticity around him.
He moved slowly around the house, determined to go
slowly, not to smoke, breathe deeply. Mindfulness they
called it, living in the moment, being at one. He got his
tea and sat staring out of the window, the hinges
swaying back and forth, other bird notes coming up
from the garden, and the distant humdrum of traffic
from behind the house. He looked out, I am breathing
in I am breathing out, beyond the house gable to the
big black chimney of the hospital, No smoke today, no
bodies to burn he thought. The bitter taste following the
line of his gums, dirty, and he knew with the not
smoking he’d have to endure the fag aftermath, sand
tar taste, cough snot and flem, the tenseness in the
muscles, the intermittent mental battles, and the threat
of shame. He pictured the wet rusty monkey man in his
dark dank cell, scratching him for feeding, he pictured
himself ignoring the fag animal of addiction, and by
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ignoring it would die. He tried to counterbalance the
stinky convict with images of a Viking funeral, a raft of
cigarettes being pushed out to sea then the proud and
noble warrior spiritually pure and physically clean firing
a flaming arrow high into the sky coming down into the
raft igniting it disappearing into mess. But he sagged,
What was he going to do if he couldn’t think? what a
waste of a day. The sun was breaking through and he
saw a seagull wheeling graceful over the hospital; he’d
go outside, clean up, finish the house.
He walked out of his study, the spare room, which had
increasingly become his bedroom, separate from his
wife. He couldn’t stand the noise, and he was irritated
that the double glazed sash window that he’d put in at
huge expense didn’t work. It seemed as they were
double-glazed, a gap between the panes, but it was
even more noisy that before, and now there was a
suspicious damp patch between he windows. He felt his
stomach empty, and lightness in his chest, he hated
this house he’d done all he could in it, but it was a
waste, a fucking crap hutch. Carpentry, seagrass
carpet, tiled bathroom, wooden floors, all painted, and
still the cracks appeared, still the house wobbled when
you shut doors. Why didn’t he buy a bigger better
house when he’d had the job and the fuck off money.
The DIY it was just making a glossing over of
something intrinsically weak, and now he couldn’t
move. Why did he do it? What a waste. A crack had
appeared again above the doorway to the bedroom;
he’d only painted it last week. He went back into the
bedroom, study, and spare room. Ill read something
good he thought, get my mind on the right
track…Breath is a tool. Breath itself is mindfulness, The
use of breath as a tool may help one obtain immense
233
benefits, but these cannot be considered as ends in
themselves, These benefits, are only by products of the
realization of mindfulness.
He breathed deeply, all will be well. I am breathing in..
Was it because he had thought he’d leave his wife? Was
it because he didn’t want to give her half of any big
expensive house as she had made him move here in
this place. It was her fault somehow, he groped.
Half smile when you first wake up in the morning. He
tried, smarmy idiot, and he hadn’t left her, still through
the week his life between fucks, though little talking,
and now he had no job, he was stuck here, wasting
money on a house she half owned.
He had to have a fag. He went downs stairs to the
fireplace, they the butt ends will sure be in there and
sifting among the ashes, There got you, a half smoked
rollup. And then the kitchen to get a light, aahh, he
waited for the smoke to smooth out his veins but it
didn’t, just tightened his brow and blocked his nose,
and he flicked it away. No it didn’t count. He grabbed a
book and went outside, the sun was out and at least the
garden was alright.
He sat in the garden trying to make something of the
day. Enjoy it, he said to himself,. There is nothing to
stop it except yourself, he goaded himself on, just say
no to the cigarette, its rubbish. He arranged himself on
the patio, towards the sun almost breaking through the
clearing cloud. Summer was almost here, and the
garden was becoming. He’d cleared the garden from
scratch when they’d moved, dug it up, cleared all the
rubble the builders had left, heaved tons of peat and
234
mix, erected new fences and laid, in a figure of eight,
pale yellow bricks around the edge, But the grass was
wrong. He’d reseeded it, but the earth had moved itself
into mounds and dips, with uneven covering, the odd
bald patch. A bit like his hair. He was getting sick of it,
he’d added some seed earlier in the year but it hadn’t
taken, ‘Ill suppose Ill have to dig it up again and start
again later in the year. Always starting again, it seemed
his life was never in a clear way forward, it was back
and forth hardly making any progress at all.
The empty feeling had come back again, his legs had
grown tense and he moved back inside What to do?
Read a book. He’d finish the suicide book. Jesus he was
getting sick of his mid life crisis. The Savage God, a sort
of academic litany of suicidal poets he’d been reading.
He’d get depressed again as he always did in winter,
and what with the redundancy, and being 40, he
thought he’d fill the time up, or at least convert the
depression, with studies if suicide he knew he couldn’t
commit, He’d worked out that his life was pretty
pointless, had got itself into a maze with a dead end,
and now it wasn’t really rectifiable, there wasn’t any
redemption left. Even his family could be better off,
cashing in the insurance and his wife could start to
make some friends again. And although he had wasted
many hours imagining the ways he’d do it he always
knew he wouldn’t so he read a book instead.
Death is easy Life is difficult to live.. He read
Mayakosvsky, or rather someone who had, How true,
and soon, rather than being an unemployed person
filling in time trying to avoid smoking he pictured
himself as a writer or at least an artist making study to
further work. Music had started at the bottom of the
235
garden , although it wasn’t quite big enough really for a
top and a bottom, easy listening but quite loud, he
peered over and there was just open French windows,
dark inside, a dirty net curtain flapping in the breeze. It
was an alcoholic, who’d he hardly ever seen, but
occasionally shouting would come out of the window,
with lots of fuckings and growls.
He’s harmless, said the neighbour but it made the man
nervous, hearing the drunken outbursts reminded him
of the fits he used to have when the having a drink and
a laugh tipped into blackouts and upset women,
remorse and weeks of depression, years gone by, and
now he had a drunk at the bottom of his garden, a sort
of ghost. There he was, he’d come out in the sun.
Scraggy shirt, cardy, bald nut head with long hair
hanging from one side, the man stepped back from his
window. He’d planted Virginia creeper to cover the
fence at the end but he could see him there now, in the
sun lighting up the garden, then a big fat man came
out, goatee beard and ponytail. Was he one of his
drinking buddies in the arguments overheard, and the
man remembered his drinking buddies and he had
thought them friends, you could count your friends on
one hand he would say, but they friends for life, but
they had sort of faded away, he’d hid from them when
he d given up drinking, but they had gone when he’d
come out, sober; some’d gone into further addiction,
other burrowed into wifes, a couple had died. The fat
man looked clean enough, maybe he was a social
worker. He had a sense of purpose about him, doing
something in the garden, the alcoholic just standing
there smoking, looking over the fence staring as if in
another land.
236
The Man decided to do something, his mind was
spreading out, the nerve ends not quite meeting, and
he couldn’t concentrate. He knew he could have a fag
but he knew that if he did he’d feel shitty and he
couldn’t necessarily feel any better, think clearer. He’d
gone past the point of no return. He’d had it with the
drink, as soon as you came off you couldn’t really get
back in again, it made you feel ill and you were weighed
down with the baggage of giving up, the whys and
wherefores. The train was going on and you couldn’t get
back on so you were left trainless, in shitty weather,
with no train, in limbo land. The analogy had got all
fucked up. He couldn’t think straight. Do the washing
up and some painting of walls he resolved,
It looked like they were digging a hole in the garden,
the alcoholic and the fat man. They were planting a
tree, Maybe it was a fresh start for the alcoholic,
perhaps the fat man was a long lost son come back to
save the old man again, before he died, some sort of
redemption. It cheered the Man, and he went to get
some paint, finish the woodwork outside. He might
even talk to them. But they’d gone back inside, and
suddenly the Man felt very tired, What was the point of
painting, it wouldn’t had any value, and anyway he was
bound to make a bodge job, As long as he didn’t
smoke.
He lay in bed, fully clothed, and read some more about
suicide. He was sick of hiding just to stop smoking. It
was his occupation now, and having stopped before
Christmas he knew that he could and really what a
simple process it was. But this stop start, not quite
stopping but too ill when doing it, it was ludicrous, the
237
last addiction now turning into another addiction, the
addiction of giving up over and over again.
He lay there staring at the page. To kill yourself is to
kill everyone you know…. But the book soon dropped
from his hands. He wrapped his legs into the duvet
closing his eyes and he thought of her legs wrapped
around and, a face asking for more, of another taking
her, No he shouldn’t its addictive, it just makes me
grumpy, and changing sheets after all… Soon he was
dozing, the no smoking emptied him and he soon
descended into a dreamy sleep. Sounds of doors
slamming, running, a hole, a huge mouth screaming, a
massive tongue wagging. He awoke his mouth dry stick
coated; it was the fags seeking revenge. His back
aching and it felt he’d been sleeping an age, but the
clock only said an hour or so. They’d be back soon; he
didn’t want them catching him in bed.
He got up and looked into the mirror. His face was all
cracked up, and, looking closer, he saw mucus at the
edge of his eyes, He didn’t usually get that, and Dark
was gathered around the bottom of his eyes, folded
over in creases. Wankers eyes, his gran had said, about
some hopeless actor. Secret craving, closet raving, and
a hangdog non-presence in the crowd. He’d go
downstairs and finish the painting look industrious, fuck
he could do with a cigarette.
He went outside and started slapping it on the wall. It
was quite warm now, the music was still playing, it felt
all right. He soon built up a sweat, it felt almost he was
doing something, Then he heard it again the fuckin cunt
fuck, at the bottom, like dogs quarrelling, a woman
laughing Bitch, Hey no need for that, Settle down Brian,
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Fuckin cunt, the net curtain was flapping and dark
elements moved inside the interior. A hand reached out
and the window door was closed, becoming a mirror to
the outside, the new tree looking distorted, distinct,
dead.
Oh God, the man moaned. He’d drink some water, flush
the toxins out. Put on the radio, more news, PM, he
wanted it soon to be night. I wish they’d hurry up
home. He was sick of this battle. He made for the fridge
and stuffed some old potatoes and mayonnaise, a ton
of tuna and Ryvita in his mouth. At least send the taste
away. He felt sick. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t
get weight gain as they called it, but he had to forgive
himself. But it made him want a cigarette more, He
went outside again. The shouting had stopped, and the
music was off. Maybe they’d gone. To the pub or a
park. Lets get some sun the Man thought. He sat on the
patio, the sun now in a clear sky, just above the gables
of the back of houses opposite. He took off his top. The
windows looked on him, no people but he felt exposed.
He’d put fences up and high plants but they still saw
him and he felt trapped, boxed in, the aches on one
side, his fucked up house on the other, and then the
backs of windows, black and staring looking on
accusing. He’d given up the booze, but he hadn’t
replace it with anything else, and here he was not really
doing anything but giving up smoking. Oh fuck it Ill
have one, and he knew where it was, the butend. He’d
flicked it away a few evenings before, bravely saying he
didn’t need it, didn’t need to finish it and pretended not
to hear the voice saying Ill save it for later. He got it, lit
it, watched the tip of the stained stick turn red and
breathed deeply. The smoke hit his throat grating, he
felt the bottom of his lungs as if for the first time and
239
then a smooth flow of blood through his veins to the
tops of his toes. Then he felt shitty. Bowing his head so
the windows could see him, his muscles contracting,
and tenseness around the bottom of his neck between
his shoulders. All he’d done was avoid smoking all day;
then have a fag he knew he didn’t really need; it had
come and gone and now here he was having wasted all
that time getting tense. It was like he needed the
drama. The ups and the downs. The yeses and the
noes, his own internal argument to tell he was here,
alive. What a fucking wanker.
He was annoyed with himself, covering his shame.
Looking angry when his wife and daughter came back.
His daughter sighed;’ Why are you always grumpy Dad,
and she went off to bury herself in front of the telly, the
wife went into autonomous mode, busying herself
around the kitchen. ‘You could have cleared up I’ve got
a lot to do for work tomorrow’ ‘I didn’t have time, I’ve
been painting all day’ he lied ‘ Ill do it later, its fucking
difficult giving up smoking you know, and you don’t
make it any easier leaving your fags everywhere,
fucking bitch and he grabbed her pouch and went
downstairs into the basement. One more fag he thought
switching on the computer, to see if he had any email.
11 new messages, 7 newsletters he wouldn’t read, a
joke round robin he never read and 5 jobs alerts,
nothing relevant. He opened up Explorer, and without
really thinking went to Google and typed in giving up
smoking. Hundreds of sites came up on the list, Zyban
he clicked the wonder drug he’d heard about, ‘ it is not
known why it works but it has been found that the anti
depressant aided people in their quest…Bollocks, it’s the
strength of will they need, and he took another drag.
One and a half in a day that’s not too bad. Cheered he
240
thought he’d look as some sex sites, but then thought
better of it it only depresses me in the end he thought.
But he did and it did, feeling dirty a taste in his mouth a
bit like smoking but a motel sweetness added. He
switched the computer off and saw a pale reflection of
himself in the monitor, crunched up into frown. An
image of himself shouting, arms all over the place
accusing, the video his wife had taken of him at the end
of his drinking days. He flinched, Had he changed? still
shouting, still offloading his shit onto her. He had
another fag, one more. The last of the day. I can’t let
the not smoking spoil his relationship he figured, - it
was a convenient excuse,
He went upstairs. ‘Come here’ and gave her a hug, He
went to do the same with his daughter but she was
stiff, she hated his shouting. They sat and watched
Eastenders, his wife liked it. Pat was looking out for
Jeanine who’d become a whore, Cat was recovering
from the incest episode, Peggy was upset over Phil.
Blah Blah to think he’d ended up watching this shit. It
was just emotional wank for people who couldn’t
express themselves. But he mustn’t have another fag
he said he wouldn’t. If he didn’t smoke this evening he
would be less likely to in the morning. He knew it
wasn’t right he thought, shirking way from an
abdominal operation on ER, not being sure, the
smoking being seen as all powerful, he knew you had to
get above it, over it, see it as a separate thing to be
able to get over it. But he knew he found that difficult,
he always let life control him. He thought everything
was going to be alright, one thing to lead to another
and when he didn’t he turned to drink- it was the same
thing, setting yourself up for a fall with no strength.
241
He agreed to take his daughter to bed, although she
was old enough ‘ she’s 11 now for fucks sake’ said his
wife, to do it herself, But he felt guilty and his daughter
knew he did. He tucked her up and straining himself,
lying on the floor, listened to a chapter of a Jacqueline
Wilson, a lesbian mother fighting off an alcoholic dad of
the heroine. His daughters little sweet voice made it all
sound nice, but it was more Eastenders than Hansell
and Gretal. Time for light off and he breathed deeply, I
am breathing in I am breathing out, he said to himself
stroking her hair, Close your eyes he said marveling at
the cleanness of her skin, he winced at the innocence,
and his fears that he’d damaged it with his shouting,
and longed for the sweetness of being together, all
together, a life that was there for the taking. He loved
her so much why couldn’t he be into that love rather
than fuck it up with all the grief, the anxiety, the
shouting… There there, goodnight and he kissed her,
then moved to switch off the light. He caught a light in
the corner of his eye, and looking out of the curtainless
window he saw a figure in the alcoholics window,
abeyond the back of his garden there set in rectangle of
light. There he was staring up at the window, legs bent
like an ape standing no trousers a vest, he was wanking
there a little dog yapping around his ankles. The man
felt nausea in his throat and turned off the light quickly.
He knew it would never leave him, the image, and he
knew he had to leave the house, this life. His life was
closing in around him and it was all becoming too tight,
a mirror surrounding and he made for his wife’s pouch
for another fag and another light.
242
Reality strikes
And it begins to dawn on him
That is not special, him what he’s doing
The anxieties and tensions of his life,
Even the most complicated and ambitious
Schemes are minor to the wholeAnd that intense excitement is anxiety, multi
Dimensional dynamic is actually quite little
Being a tiny part of the view rather than the
Landscape itself…
Ending up living with the phobias
Elements of life which from a child
You have feared, promised yourself to shun
The single child, neurotic wife, job despised,
Little house in town- How did it happen?
Was it then sensed before
that it was your life to be,
What was it really?
Listening to yourself, the petty interruptions
Assertions of superiority, compensations for lack of
Recognition in the real world, feeling the urgency
Of instincts, lusts, avarice, jealousy, fear,
Interplay
243
Walking down the street, who am I? the time the date
The person, the self, the dress, the actuality
This is it, not the becoming, the could be
Would be world what was and shall be,
But the IS.
It may not be right but it’s the only starting point
And its only you, yourself who can change it..
ANOTHER
‘ I didn’t have time for it, I was on a roll, getting on, after
despond, and the slow go winter blues, I didn’t have time, to
let it in, in the end I had to let it go…’
Another death- Sweet Mary – car crash, Ellen said, she’d
been called on the mobile, in a traffic jam, and we thought of
the kids, poor kids, the addiction, the fights, in the end going
to Glasgow; she was so funny, and bright, when not on it
hard, and like other already dead, when on it, and now,
gone. It was difficult to take it all on board, immediately, the
grief, because she’d already gone, to a certain extent, with
the heroin, behind the curtain, where you couldn’t felt sad for
her again, and now she really was gone, so you had to let it
in, the bits when she was what she was, again.
‘The fact its death is always there, and to be in the right state
one should always be there, in a place with it, otherwise
you’re just running in the little world, false, away from the
true power of life…
244
‘It is the spirit that gives life
The flesh has nothing to offer,
The words I have spoken to you are Spirit
And they are Life.
1
HOPE
In love there is no room for fear,
But perfect love drives out fear.
2
245
Definition of Cancer
Cancer is a popular generic term for malignant neoplasms,
a great group of diseases of three main causes, occurring in all human and
animal populations and arising in all tissues composed of potentially dividing
cells.
The basic characteristic of cancer is the transmissable abnormality of cells
that is manifested by reduced control over growth and function leading to
serious adverse effects on the host through invasive growth and metastases
.
Hope: The flight of the intellect in love towards that for which it
hopes
And with hope comes love, and even with hope then gone the love
remains
Stendhal On Love
…to practice death is to practice freedom. A man who had learned
how to die has unlearned how to be a slave..
Montaigne
this existence of ours is as transient as autumn clouds
the Buddha
Midway between illumination and abandonment lies the experience
of trial, and midway between sadness and joy lies hope
St Diadochos of Photoki ‘On Spiritual Knowledge’
Definition of Bardo
246
Bardo is a Tibetan word meaning the interval or gap between two things.
Etymologically, it breaks down into 'bar', which means some kind of a
movement or flow, like a stream; and 'do' which means some kind of an
island or rock in the stream. There is an area amidst movement; a 'pool of
temporal space'. All living beings of the six realms undergo the experience of
bardo states.
Tibetan Book of the Dead
Characteristics of Cancer
Abnormality
Cells are the structural units of all living things. Each of us has trillions of cells, as does a
growing tree. Cells make it possible for us to carry out all kinds of functions of life: the
beating of the heart, breathing, digesting food, thinking, walking, and so on. However, all
of these functions can only be carried out by normal healthy cells. Some cells stop
functioning or behaving as they should, serving no useful purpose in the body at all, and
become cancerous cells.
Uncontrollability
The most fundamental characteristic of cells is their ability to reproduce themselves. They
do this simply by dividing. One cell becomes two, the two become four, and so on. The
division of normal and healthy cells occurs in a regulated and systematic fashion. In most
parts of the body, the cells continually divide and form new cells to supply the material for
growth or to replace worn-out or injured cells. For example, when you cut your finger,
certain cells divide rapidly until the tissue is healed and the skin is repaired. They will then
go back to their normal rate of division. In contrast, cancer cells divide in a haphazard
manner. The result is that they typically pile up into a non-structured mass or tumor.
Invasiveness
Sometimes tumors do not stay harmlessly in one place. They destroy the part of the body
in which they originate and then spread to other parts where they start new growth and
cause more destruction. Click here (Get Acrobat Reader to view and print the file) for a
graphic depiction of an invasive cancer. This characteristic distinguishes cancer from benign
growths, which remain in the part of the body in which they start. Although benign tumors
may grow quite large and press on neighboring structures, they do not spread to other
parts of the body. Frequently, they are completely enclosed in a protective capsule of tissue
and they typically do not pose danger to human life like malignant tumors (cancer) do.
A group of diseases
Although cancer is often referred to as a single condition, it actually consists of more than247
100 different diseases. These diseases are characterized by uncontrolled growth and spread
of abnormal cells. Cancer can arise in many sites and behave differently depending on its
Rheumatoid arthritis (rue-ma-TOYD arth-write-tis) is a chronic disease, mainly
characterized by inflammation of the lining, or synovium, of the joints. It can lead to long-term
joint damage, resulting in chronic pain, loss of function and disability.
Rheumatoid arthritis (RA) progresses in three stages. The first stage is the swelling of the
synovial lining, causing pain, warmth, stiffness, redness and swelling around the joint. Second
is the rapid division and growth of cells, or pannus, which causes the synovium to thicken. In
the third stage, the inflamed cells release enzymes that may digest bone and cartilage, often
causing the involved joint to lose its shape and alignment, more pain, and loss of movement.
The spinal cord extends from the base of the brain down inside the bones of the backbone, which is also
known as the spine or the spinal column. The spinal cord does not extend the full length of the spinal
column, but ends in the small of the back (the lumbar area).
Just as the brain is surrounded and protected by the skull, the spinal cord is surrounded and protected by
the backbone. The backbone is made up of bones called vertebrae.
There are 26 vertebrae in the spine:
•
•
•
•
7 cervical (neck),
12 thoracic (chest area),
5 lumbar (lower back),
the sacrum (pelvic area) and the coccyx (tail bone).
The sacrum and the coccyx are made up of a number of bones that have been joined, or fused together,
five in the sacrum and four in the coccyx. The nerves spread out from the spinal cord between the
vertebrae.
Also surrounding and protecting the brain and spinal cord are the meninges (the membranes that cover the
brain and the spinal cord) and a fluid known as cerebrospinal fluid (CSF). There are three different layers
making up the meninges; dura mater (outer layer), arachnoid mater (middle) and pia mater (inner).
248
Spinal tumors and back pain
Most spinal column tumors have spread
from another area of the body
(metastatic), with the majority originally
coming from tumors in the breast,
prostate, kidney, lung or thyroid. These
malignant tumors usually produce pain
that does not diminish with rest, and the
nighttime pain may be worse than
daytime pain. The tumors are usually
associated with other symptoms such as
loss of appetite, unplanned weight loss,
nausea and vomiting, or
fever/chills/shakes. This type of tumor
tends to occur in older adults. Often, the
patient already has a known primary
1. The diagnosis
‘Three months to a year. You understand the treatment
will be purely palliative from here on in?’ he said, ‘Does
she want it vague or to the point?’ he asked, ‘What sort
of lady is she?
(It was almost the end of January)
The X- ray or perhaps it was a scan, made it graphically
clear. The almost S bend of the spine, the river of the
central nerve flowing white and smooth through the
serried ranks of vertebratic bone, ‘And there’, the
surgeons finger pointing, ‘You can see it clearly,’ a pale
bulge was biting into the nerve squeezing it an obvious
abnormality a mutation a growth, the fucking cancer
call it by its name I thought to myself. ‘If we don’t
operate now she’ll be paralyzed from the waist down
before the month’s out’ the Professor said, crystal blue
eyes brutally frank.
It had started as a twinge down one leg before
Christmas. The main pain had been in the back,
249
rheumatism with an odd sounding name. Steroids had
been proscribed and for some reason she had then
taken herself off the correct dosage making the pain
more severe almost unbearable and ‘cracking’, as she
put it, she was then forced back onto a new regime
making it alright again. But you could see that she was
already denuded, very thin and weak and hating it and
now smiling up at the surgeon she was coming to this
new battlefield already half worn out.
And the back rheumatism thing had turned out to be
just a diversionary tactic by the Disease, a sneaky
distraction from the coming main event. The pain in the
left leg had got worse then it developed in both and
then it was almost impossible to walk. ‘It’s only a
trapped nerve’ she kept saying persuading herself
‘Nervosa entrappe’ she joked in ham French. She’d
been in Provence helping out on another friend’s project
and although she did what she had always done, in
illness or any other difficulty, Willed herself to get
better, this time it hadn’t worked. This time the pain
had got worse and perhaps in retrospect it was, despite
the habitual trying, the actual Will that was weaker, the
Will within the Will was missing, as if the core of life the
centre had become trapped and was now slowly dying
itself.
So despite her protests she finally ‘gave in’ coming
home to face the fear, the fact that the One she’d
thought she’d defeated, the Disease that was another
name for Death, the one that had got her in the bowel
five years previous and she’d then seen off with her Will
magnificent in her no fuss around the colostomy bag
and other faff there still laughing, working to live, a
little quieter perhaps only those close to her noticing
250
her bright light was now tinged with something sad, but
yes now it, that, had, undeniably, come back.
Direct decompressive surgical resection in the treatment of spinal cord compression caused
by metastatic cancer: a randomised trial.
Patchell RA, Tibbs PA, Regine WF, Payne R, Saris S, Kryscio RJ, Mohiuddin M, Young B.
Department of Surgery (Neurosurgery), University of Kentucky Medical Center, Lexington, KY 40536,
USA. [email protected]
BACKGROUND: The standard treatment for spinal cord compression caused by metastatic cancer is
corticosteroids and radiotherapy. The role of surgery has not been established. We assessed the efficacy
of direct decompressive surgery. METHODS: In this randomised, multi-institutional, non-blinded trial, we
randomly assigned patients with spinal cord compression caused by metastatic cancer to either surgery
followed by radiotherapy (n=50) or radiotherapy alone (n=51). Radiotherapy for both treatment groups
was given in ten 3 Gy fractions. The primary endpoint was the ability to walk. Secondary endpoints were
urinary continence, muscle strength and functional status, the need for corticosteroids and opioid
analgesics, and survival time. All analyses were by intention to treat. FINDINGS: After an interim
analysis the study was stopped because the criterion of a predetermined early stopping rule was met.
Thus, 123 patients were assessed for eligibility before the study closed and 101 were randomised.
Significantly more patients in the surgery group (42/50, 84%) than in the radiotherapy group (29/51,
57%) were able to walk after treatment (odds ratio 6.2 [95% CI 2.0-19.8] p=0.001). Patients treated
with surgery also retained the ability to walk significantly longer than did those with radiotherapy alone
(median 122 days vs 13 days, p=0.003). 32 patients entered the study unable to walk; significantly
more patients in the surgery group regained the ability to walk than patients in the radiation group
(10/16 [62%] vs 3/16 [19%], p=0.01). The need for corticosteroids and opioid analgesics was
significantly reduced in the surgical group. INTERPRETATION: Direct decompressive surgery plus
postoperative radiotherapy is superior to treatment with radiotherapy alone for patients with spinal cord
compression caused by metastatic cancer.
SEARCH GOOGLE
In surfaced lumber, compression failures may appear as fine wrinkles across the
face of the piece. compression wood Abnormal wood formed on the lower side ...
www.woodlinks.com/USA/Careers/gloss/c.html - 9k - Cached - Similar pagesWhat is
Lumbar Spinal Canal Stenosis?
Lumbar Spinal Canal Stenosis results from the compression of the nerve roots in the spinal
canal. The condition develops as a result of a narrowing of the canal through which the
nerves pass. This occurs due to wear and tear. As the lumbar spinal canal shrinks, the
nerves that go through it are squeezed. This squeezing may cause back pain, leg pain, leg
weakness and pins and needles or numbness. A degree of spinal canal stenosis is common
in elderly individuals and may not be associated with any discomfort. Arthritis, falls,
accidents and wear and tear on the bones and joints in the spine may speed up the
degenerative process.
Planner / Moulder Set-up and Operation
Compression Fanures Are fractures across the grain in which the fibres are broken
... It would be nice to be able to feed any piece of rough lumber into a ...
www.mtc.com.my/publication/library/planner/pl345.htm - 16k - Cached - Similar pages
Lumber and Panel Strapping and Unitizing Machines, Equipment ...
The Z20-MP compression strapping machine integrates the Z-20 strapping system
into a modular design to facilitate easier maintenance and operation. ...
www.signode.com/na/industry_solutions/ lumber-panel/lbr-pnl_pss_machine.htm - 26k - Cached Similar pages
[ More results from www.signode.com ]
Settlement Cracks - Causes and Prevention
... frost heave, slippage, lumber and concrete shrinkage, and compression stress
... Even kiln dried lumber will shrink as it acclimates with the atmosphere ...
www.askthebuilder.com/288_Settlement_ Cracks_-_Causes
251
2. The First Operation
‘Lumber Compression it’s called the operation is
straightforward, 99.8% chance of survival’ the surgeon
sat there at 10 pm, the painkiller and the warmth of the
room removing the edge from what he was saying,
more talk and a feeling that other things were not being
said. And she lay there the Disease making her just a
body and now the body was about to be taken away to
another place, it seemed with her only in tow, only the
man in the corduroy suit sat by her feet and a select
few knowing what was what where there and the
patient just had to trust and let go even if they needed
to know, as she did, about what was ahead in order to
get the mind together to face it full on, the trauma to
come, already sensed but only known dimly as if seen
only through a glass at one remove further on.
And she sat there now barely able to move the pain
biting into the base of the spine, smiling gently making
it easier for the Doctor and Nurses. She was in the
center of the fuss she so hated but graciously receiving
the love of the others who had begun to hear about the
seriousness of her condition and gathering like seagulls
around her their caring soon becoming exhausting,
person after person, call after call, each answered with
the same loving as she repeated the same soothing
252
summary of the procedure, diagnosis and hope but
each time being forced back into herself, it felt like her
privacy being invaded and there was a slight draining of
her own inner resolve, the Will. But she had now to let
that go and although each day was faced as always, to
live to the full, she now had to let her Will dissolve into
the care of others and in doing so free herself to wholly
concentrate on holding onto her dignity and her own
sense of self.
The next morning after the Op the main consultant, a
grey flannel suited and big cuffs, came in and said
brightly ‘A couple of days and we’ll have you on your
feet again.’ He was the neurologist, taut and tall and
immaculately pinstriped. ‘Yes of course’ she said ‘Ill do
my best’ longing to get home and have some rest.
-----------------
Weather archive Feb 2005
9th to 12th
This period saw a more unsettled spell of weather with Capel Curig (Gwynedd) recording
33mm of rain during the day on the 9th and 63.2mm in the twenty four hours starting from
9am on the 11th.
Some exceptionally mild air on the night of the 11/12th gave southeast England one of its
mildest February nights on record, the temperature only falling to 11.9°C in London. With
the passage of a cold front during the 12th, however, cold air flooded across the area from
the north.
13th to 17th
Strong north-westerly winds on the 13th gave gusts of 50 to 60 knots, with Aberporth
(Ceredigion) recording the highest at 67 knots. Wintry showers started to affect eastern
counties of England but this petered out on the 15th as a ridge of high pressure build in
from the southwest. The temperature on the night of the 15th/16th fell to -6.4°C at
Redesdale Camp (Northumberland).
All living beings of the six realms undergo the experience of bardo states. The Sixth Bardo, that
between
birth
death, is the most important of these as it is our current state. In connection to
18th
toand
22nd
The
passage
of a the
coldBardo
front of
onthe
the Dream
18th saw
Arctic
airbardo
flood reflects
across the
bringing
snowwe
this we also experience
State.
This
the area
habitual
patterns
to many places, but more especially east counties of England. Fylingdales (North Yorkshire)
experience
in our
daily
life. Ordinary
people aren't
recognise
state when only
it arises.
The
reported
8cm
of snow
on the morning
of theable
21sttoand
daytimethis
temperatures
reached
0.8°C
at
Buxton
(Derbyshire)
on
the
22nd.
process which occurs at this time mimics the dissolution of the elements at the time of death. In
253
this state one has the ability to travel places in a dream body but it is still very much a deluded
23rd to 25th
state. Blizzard conditions occurred over eastern England bringing 20 to 30cm of snow over the
Pennines. By the morning of the 24th there was 37cm of lying snow at Boltshope Park
3. The First Convalescence - Recovery, Rest and
Recuperation
(It was the beginning of Feb)
It was unseasonably warm or perhaps predictably hot
and weird given the Global Warming and the World
turning over on itself, systems collapsing or becoming
even more extreme. Back home, once established the
routine became the same for a few days, everyone
wanting it to become stable again, to downgrade the
seriousness of the situation adopting a mindset that
that, the thing, (the Cancer) was now sorted and it was
just a question of recovery, rest and rehabilitation,
getting those damn legs to work again.
For a few days it was Lovely Darling, as she said, sitting
in the front room looking out of the long low window at
the February Sunshine, the light whitening the line of
the high willow beyond the hedge, branches twisting
upwards still stuck with a few blood-brown remnants of
last years leaves.
And it was those long afternoons which were the best,
just her and me the log fire burning the convalescent as
comfy as she was going to get, a semblance of lunch
eaten and outside dark almost purple cloud passing,
254
indigo she called it, another rainstorm moving over then
behind the clear light blue, azure as she said ‘It could
be sleet ..’ ‘Yes the winds changing from west to north’.
The willow trunks became yellow like bone, snowdrops
shivering in the sharp wind all out there beyond the
long low window while here inside it was peaceful and
warm. And we’d doze, wake, look at each other, Mother
and Child, heart to heart both knowing we two were as
always, without anything else being said.
She’d go through her affairs with me and the people
she needed to contact or respond to. Thank you notes
to those who’d sent cards or flowers to the hospital,
others she thought who needed to know and, breathing
deeply beforehand, the telephone calls she didn’t want
to but felt she had to make. And we’d talk plans in the
future, the India trip being postponed, ‘Well it’d better
in May high up in the Himalayas, Spring flowers and all
that’ ‘Lovely Darling’ we both agreed encouraging each
other in trying to sound hopeful. We’d been talking
about going for decades, since I’d gone as a man-boy
and had found some sort of freedom, the richness of life
there opening up my eyes surrounded by all that poor
and disease in the closeness to death.
It was there also that I saw for a first time what a
person my Mother was, before the divorce, drink and
disappointment, (including the death of her Lover) from
which we had only recently emerged and this year
feeling closer after all the talk we’d decided that we
definitely would go there together; India, the word had
become much more than the place, a mantra almost,
for a new beginning a new life. But then the Disease
had come along and changed everything, destroying
plans attacking our hope.
255
‘India’ she said ‘Yes Darling’ as she winced again ‘No oh
No No’ the pain beyond the bone getting suddenly
worse urgently rubbing the front of her legs, ‘It just
won’t go away’ she said almost angry each of us
knowing but not voicing the seriousness of the
situation, the condition, the disease as the consultant
studiously avoided calling it by its big ugly name. No it
was in and Yes it was going to have its way and she
was already weakened by the months of fighting pain,
the 5 year bag and that something else, deeper, that
sadness that only those who knew her closely had
noticed over the preceding year, her bright light was
now tinged with something sad, closing over like a leaf
curling into herself increasingly enmeshed into the
intimacy of her own secret pain.
The hidden colors of the leaf appear as the chlorophyl breaks down. The leaf may then show the yellow
color of the pigment xanthophyll or the orange-red tones of the carotene pigments. In addition, a group
of red and purple pigments called anthocyanins forms in the dying leaf. The color of the autumn leaf
depends on which of the pigments is most plentiful in the leaf.
The leaf dies. After the chlorophyll breaks down, the leaf can no longer make food. The tiny pipelines
between the leaf and the stem become plugged. These pipelines carried water to the leaf and food from
it. The cells in the abscission zone separate or dissolve, and the dying leaf hangs from the stem by only
a few strands. These strands dry and twist in the wind. When the strands break, the dead leaf floats to
the ground. After the leaf falls, a mark remains on the twig where the leafstalk had been attached. This
mark is called a leaf scar. The broken ends of the water and food pipelines can be seen within the leaf
scar. On the ground, the dead leaf becomes food for bacteria and fungi. They break the leaf down into
simple substances, which then sink into the soil. There, these substances will be absorbed by plant roots
and provide nourishment for new plant growth
In the 1950s it was discovered that larger tsunamis than previously believed possible could be caused by
landslides, explosive volcanic action and impact events. These phenomena rapidly displace large volumes of
water, as energy from falling debris or expansion is transferred to the water into which the debris falls.
Tsunamis caused by these mechanisms, unlike the ocean-wide tsunamis caused by some earthquakes,
generally dissipate quickly and rarely affect coastlines distant from the source due to the small area of sea
affected. These events can give rise to much larger local shock waves (solitons), such as the landslide at the
head of Lituya Bay which produced a water wave estimated at 50 – 150 m and reached 524 m up local
mountains. However, an extremely large landslide could generate a megatsunami that might have oceanwide impacts.2004 - Indian Ocean tsunami
Animation of the 2004 Indonesian Tsunami from NOAA/PMEL Tsunami Research Program
256
The 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake, that had a magnitude 9.0, triggered a series of lethal tsunamis on
4. The recovery period - Prognosis
(Two weeks later still in February)
And she tried, God she tried. The journeys to the
bathroom walking through barbed wire in lead, her
frame becoming bent outstretched hand to doorknob,
chair back and table-ledge and then the discomfort and
awkwardness of the bag, trying to get clean again. ‘I
can’t believe this is happening to me’ she’d say but the
feeling was going she couldn’t deny that any longer,
waist down and then she began to pee in bed
(although, as with most things she soon developed a
system, bowls and clothes and towels), no fuss, but
Sleep was beginning to disintegrate also day and night
meshing into one grappling, trying to maintain some
sort of hold on her Way, rather than the Disease
becoming all dictating.
But as the Disease would have that complication come
on top of complication, the thinness of the body
combined with the wetness of bed, bone on skin and
then to bed sores, another more intense type of pain,
the wince in the gasp or the deep wrench of whatever it
was gradually eating into her and she could hardly walk
now or hold up her towel stumbling naked through the
corridors, a holocaust victim in loose skin draped on a
257
skeleton balancing just on itself the arms outstretched
hands grasping for a hold swollen feet and on the back
an enormous deep purple bruise almost black,( indigo
she might of said if she could have seen it) the sore
strips of flesh exposed, flayed and wracked her Sleep
ruined and the Disease was determined to break her
down bit by bit try to deprive her of her very self, as it
gripped and twisted the nerve within the bone inside
her.
And we the carers for so long she had cared for,
fluttered around her like moths around a flickering bulb,
the central filament to our existence always there
reassuring, encouraging, reaffirming our lives, giving
utterly but utterly self dependent, self rejuvenating, no
fuss, this our centre was now under attack from all
sides and all around the Tsunami was being played out
24 hours a day there on the TV news, the tectonic flinch
devastating now a patch of the globe and here in the
cottage a cataclysmic turning was also happening, a
change beyond comprehension as our world was
turning into itself over to no-one knew where,
everything going topsy-turvy and upside down.
Denial in cancer patients.
Kreitler S.
Kreitler Memorial Unit of Psychooncology, Tel Aviv Sourasky Medical Center, Ichilov
Hospital, Israel. [email protected]
Denial is a basic mechanism for coping with stressful themes, common in healthy and sick
individuals. This article deals with the role and functions of denial in cancer, reviewing
empirical studies about the effects of denial on cancer prevention, screening, undergoing
tests for early detection, delay in seeking medical attention and getting treatment,
complying with medical instructions, and coping with the disease in different stages. Special
sections are devoted to the possible role of denial as a risk factor for cancer, the effects of
denial on disease course and survival, and the relation of denial to immunocompetence.
Major conclusions are that denial may have a positive effect when applied in the first phase
of coping, after diagnosis, because it reduces anxiety. This holds also for the terminal
stage. The negative effects of denial are that it may interfere with getting treatment (e.g.,
delay in going to the doctor, not showing up for follow-ups, noncompliance), may
disrupt
258
the process of assimilating the stressful event, may affect adversely interpersonal relations,
and constitutes a cumulative stressor depressing even immunocompetence. The use of
And there was that one afternoon towards the end of
this wretched two week recovery period walking the dog
in the field beyond the rustling willow trees, a brief
reprise from the waiting and the caring and then a
sound of geese, a pair coming together calling leading
each other on, the dog barking frantic finding a skeleton
in the frosted grass, a sheeps vertebrae almost foetal
and, slightly detached, the skull pushing upward, its jaw
open as if crying out for help.
‘I can’t believe this is happening to me’ she said quite
simply, back home, that one afternoon, rubbing the top
of her legs on the sofa by the long low window. But in
this struggle this change and not once did she let it pull
her away from her essential self. ‘Lovely Darling’ there
her cool and loving hand held out to the child standing
by the bedside, the girl too full of life looking forward to
understand this strange thing before her, this life
receding and the older girl let the dog lick her fingers,
smiling encouraging the Son and the Nurse in their
caring and thinking who else there was she needed to
contact, to respond to, to love still.
259
And sitting there together through the long afternoons
as on News 24 the Asian Tsunami unfolding the waters
coming in so slowly the scale of the Flood in a whole
other dimension beyond computation, the video footage
of amateurs clips emerging from the wreckage, the
excited tones of at last something interesting is
happening in my life a real event on holiday, voices
then rising as the giant wave crashed to the land
ripping building and trees out of the ground screams
and befuddlement all around engulfing. ‘This is it is it?’,
‘Where is Jason, Christ, Shit’. It wasn’t so much the
explosion of surf or even the rivers of wreckage, the
wood, cars, hooves of animals upturned, the weeping
wrecked families orphans and refugees, it was the
slowness of it all, the unstop ability being utterly
beyond anything, anyone’s control, there was almost no
reaction ready for it, pity perhaps, but the thing
seemed so ordained so inevitable one didn’t have the
words to explain, no words were big enough, it was like
crying about the cold outside.
‘We are all afraid of being dropped.’ she said later that
day suddenly out of the blue…‘Just think of what we do
to our babies, leaving them about everywhere
unattended.. Look at the babies in Indonesia, in India,
strapped to their mother tight and we are so afraid of
being lost here abandoned’, she said on that day when
the pain was less.
And after tea, barely touched, she lay there upstairs
looking out at the far off hill, Blackdown and Aldworth,
Tennysons house, the light and darkness of the topsyturvy weather fronts breaking over the Spur and she
thought of Him, her Lover being taken away and locked
260
up by his wife five years before, slowly dying unable to
see him just looking the through thinning of the trees
westwards towards him their great love trapped.
In Memorium, the Poet had finished it there, the lifelong
longing for that young man, Thy living voice to me was
as the voice of the dead, and all along the valley, by
rock and cave and tree, The voice of the dead was a
living voice to me.
‘He couldn’t eat in the end’ she said, ‘Had to have a
tube inserted. It wasn’t the stroke it was a nervous
thing he had always got, the epiglottis swelling blocking
the throat, he got it when he was frightened- Poor
man,’ she said that afternoon, about her Lovers yearago death and the next day as if enlarged by the
memory her own pain got worse still. And like a man in
wrath the heart stood up and answere’d ‘I have felt’.
And sitting there in the diapers she hated, she
remembered her own Mother lying there in piss and the
years she’d had dealing with the senility of that glorious
Roaring Twenties bitch, thinking of herself vowing never
to become like her, never wanting to loose the grip of
being fully herself the one she would have herself be,
was, and promising never to descend into that, the
Mother inside her, the critical and almost mean she had
endlessly suppressed for so long choosing to be also
perceptive but be forgiving rather than too cruel.
And she lay there upstairs looking out at the far-off hill,
In Memorium the birds feverish in the eves anxiously
waiting, wanting to rush towards the new life of Spring
261
and she thought of Her and thought of Him and thought
of the place beyond the pain within, the place she’d
built from the very beginning from that first time of
being abandoned not yet four by PawPaw and then by
Ma’s gallivanting and with her brother, almost orphans,
in the endless journeys from one place to the next, poor
relatives always beholden separate from the rest. and
all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree, The
voice of the dead was a living voice to me.
But she suddenly smiled, clouds passing away from the
sun and chuckled, forgiving again and seeking out now
those Others somewhere else to share this the big joke
of life..
-------------------
Tests and investigations
In order for the doctors to plan your treatment they need to find out as much as possible about the type,
position and size of the tumour. This is done by having a number of tests and investigations.
CT (computerised tomography) scan This is a sophisticated type of x-ray, which builds up a threedimensional picture of the inside of your spine. The scan is painless, but it will mean that you have to lie still
for about 10-30 minutes. It may be used to find the exact site and size of the tumour, and identify the exact
site of the tumour.
Before having the scan you may be given an injection of a substance to make the picture clearer. For a few
minutes this may make you feel hot all over. It is important to tell your doctor and the person doing this test
if you are allergic to iodine or have asthma before having the injection.
MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) scan
This test is similar to a CT scan, but uses a strong magnetic field instead of x-rays to build up cross-sectional
pictures of your spine.
During the test you will be asked to lie very still on a couch inside a long tube for up to an hour. It is painless
but can be slightly uncomfortable, and some people feel a bit claustrophobic during the scan. It is also noisy,
but you will be given earplugs or headphones. You can usually take someone with you into the room to keep
you company.
Before the test some people are given an injection of dye into a vein in the arm to improve the image, but
this usually does not cause any discomfort.
The cylinder is a very powerful magnet, so before entering the room you should remove any metal
262
belongings. People who have heart monitors, pacemakers or some types of surgical clips cannot have an MRI
scan because of the strong magnetic field.
5. The Consultation
(the day after St Valentines day)
And it wasn’t getting better. It wasn’t good. Her third
son was shell-shocked, her Nieces sounded faint, the
unimaginable of the perennially young Mother Aunt
being beaten was all too evident before them, and even
her hope, the smile, the twinkle in the eye of It will be
OK darlings was not enough to deny that this was
fucking serious and this was real, Life and Death was
near and if we were going to survive this we had all to
pull through together, stick close and wait.
People were ringing less; ‘She just needs some peace.
Please wait until she calls you’ I pleaded but wherever
they were they had already latched onto the next point
in the journey, a lassoo to the quayside, the
Consultation the look at the Results, the Prognosis, the
Assessment of the Op. It was as though we were using
it to damn up the worry and shore up the expectation,
the Hope, just a little longer suspend the reality
between Times, letting it out only bit by bit like a sluice,
the realisation growing that we were heading toward a
ground zero of our own life and our own dead..Oh no….
263
‘Oh dear, you don’t look well’, the Neurologist said at
the Consultation, looking down into her face there
beaming upward, encouraging already forgiving him for
whatever the outcome would be, as inside her the pain
turned a notch on the screw of the wrack and he could
see she knew that it hadn’t worked.
‘Oh dear a stone and a half lost in ten days’, like magic
as she’d eaten OK and the blood pressure was low,
‘You’re loosing blood and we don’t know where from;
we don’t know and we can’t tell’ he said pained at his
own limitation, despite the technology and the learning.
But deeper down, where the knowledge answers
without enquiry, the truth was becoming clear that she
probably wouldn’t walk again and her days were now
brightly numbered in the thickening dew.
‘ But we’ve got plenty of weapons left in the Arsenal’ he
said determined, and she smiled, joining his Hope with
her and in hope she was wheeled to the scan, escorted
personally by this the main man through the bowels of
the building for the first time in a bath-chair, fighting
the anger anger of hating it, her pride being squeezed
out bit by bit by the Disease as her spine twisted inside
its tightening i grip.
And the Neurologist knew it well, the Disease he didn’t
call by its name, the way it would have its Will
regardless conniving coming at her from all sides and
with the stomach giving way, the blood going, more
diversionary tactics weakening the strength to fight at
the core with his counter offensive, the steroids and the
rays making her only weaker and then worse still to
come, Chemo, ‘probably too heavy for her now’ and
264
with his brow tightening it looked like the Disease was
moving into a position of check-mate.
‘We haven’t got a bed for you but tomorrow come in’ he
said brightly ‘and we’ll see what we can do.
Radiotherapy straight away, hard.’ he said smiling
tightly, ‘There is still hope, there is always’ before
leaving her there in the wheelchair at the doorway for
the first time looking totally dependant, waiting to go
back home in the cold.
------------
WHO Definition of Palliative Care
Palliative care is an approach that improves the quality of life of patients and their families facing the problem
associated with life-threatening illness, through the prevention and relief of suffering by means of early
identification and impeccable assessment and treatment of pain and other problems, physical, psychosocial
and spiritual. Palliative care:provides relief from pain and other distressing symptoms;
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
affirms life and regards dying as a normal process;
intends neither to hasten or postpone death;
integrates the psychological and spiritual aspects of patient care;
offers a support system to help patients live as actively as possible until death;
offers a support system to help the family cope during the patients illness and in their own
bereavement;
uses a team approach to address the needs of patients and their families, including bereavement
counselling, if indicated;
will enhance quality of life, and may also positively influence the course of illness;
is applicable early in the course of illness, in conjunction with other therapies that are intended to
prolong life, such as chemotherapy or radiation therapy, and includes those investigations needed to
better understand and manage distressing clinical complications.
WHO Definition of Palliative Care for Children
Palliative care for children represents a special, albeit closely related field to adult palliative care. WHO’s
definition of palliative care appropriate for children and their families is as follows; the principles apply to other
paediatric chronic disorders (WHO; 1998a):
•
•
•
•
Palliative care for children is the active total care of the child's body, mind and spirit, and also
involves giving support to the family.
It begins when illness is diagnosed, and continues regardless of whether or not a child receives
265
treatment directed at the disease.
Health providers must evaluate and alleviate a child's physical, psychological, and social distress.
Effective palliative care requires a broad multidisciplinary approach that includes the family and
makes use of available community resources; it can be successfully implemented even if resources
PNI Psycho Neuro Immunology - mind really does matter
The Bristol Approach to cancer care is based on the science of Psycho neuro immunology (PNI),
that explores how changes in our thoughts and emotions can bring about changes in our physical
health and wellbeing. PNI is a relatively new branch of neurobiology that examine the workings of
a complex communications system within our bodies of chemical transmitters or messengers
called neuropeptides that affect the functioning of every cell in our body. The first neuropeptides
to be discovered were endorphins, the body’s own natural painkillers which are similar in structure
to morphine, and can not only kill pain but also create the physical sensation of pleasure. Other
neuropeptides are able to stimulate the creation of Natural Killer Cells that our bodies use to kill
off damaging cancer cells.
This is why the Bristol Approach uses a combination of complementary therapies such as
counselling, art therapy, spiritual healing, massage and shiatsu that enable people to express and
release feelings, and self help techniques that give them the tools and strategies to create
Mind/body approaches have been shown to improve the quality of life, reduce pain and reduce
disability with chronic illness. In addition PNI demonstrates that psychological factors may alter
the susceptibility to, or the progression of auto immune disease, infectious disease and cancer,
and may help control or reverse underlying disease processes.
[back to top]
Spiritual Healing
Healing is a general term which covers a wide range of applications. It does not, in this context,
specifically equate with the verb ‘to heal’. Rather, it is a method of conveying inner strength – or
spiritual strength – from one person to another. We all have an ability to help and heal each
other, from the comfort a mother gives a child when she ‘kisses it better’, to the support of a pat
on the back from a friend. These things make others feel better. Healers are people who have
chosen to develop and refine this skill and the best doctors and nurses and healthcare
6. Second Convalescence
professionals come into this category.
(Back home for a Day after the Consultation)
And they couldn’t be stopped now. After the
consultation calls flooded in from all over wanting to
know, hope struggling against the inevitable, the love
pushing to be heard. Her brother rang from Spain,
there filling himself up with drink to kill the dread of his
almost twin sister being taken away. The Ex and the in
law, the sons, the lonely friends waiting, all outside the
room waiting worrying for their own warmth and not
liking themselves for their selfishness, admitting how
266
much they took from her and their anger at their
potential loss, almost hounding her now for
reassurance, the thirsty seeking the very last drop.
And at a further distance less persistent, the tranquil
realism of those who had been through the same
things, Disease and Loss. ‘It’s a roller coaster’ one said,
‘it changes every day’. Further still was the almost
jovial lightness of the other Old busying themselves
with other things, Life to come knowing the other side
was there for them too soon too, while, at the edges,
the Young loitered awkwardly not quite sure what to do,
where to place themselves on the scale of hope and
inevitability, feeling the contradiction strongly, feeling
wrong being negative but false being positive but still
some believing in the miracle, like how it happened on
Buffy and the stuff at Sunday School.
Hope was for those closest to her vague now, for those
near the conjoining of the Mother and the Disease, the
commingling (a word the brother found later for the
eulogy, Shelley and the West wind), of Life meeting
Death, it was fading inside this last drama of Mother,
Love and Fear and Loss, this last play of big words
beyond the sloshing about amid the distractions and
desires. The inevitability of her going was now actually
becoming something tangible, they could sense it
pushing out the Life.
This huge fact only now was breaking through Hope and
its sick sister Denial, the Diseases bulk and momentum
creating an undeniable wave suddenly shattering the
window as my hand missed the frame, trying to close it
267
but the cold air rushing in exposing the great emptiness
inside.
Life was sliding away and we were being left standing
there on the hillside watching her going, abandoned and
my thin acceptance suddenly went, revealing the
uncontrollable gut-wrenching fear beneath, caught
there in traffic on the M25, finding myself there beyond
words breaking down crying behind the wheel.
--------------------------
Five Stages of Grief
Swiss-born psychiatrist Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross (Buy her book on Death and Dying)
has counseled hundreds of patients and their families through her research into death
and dying. She described the classic pattern of the coping strategies of patients who
know their diagnosis is terminal. This may be used at the end of the relationship, too.
The first stage is denial
Upon hearing the diagnosis, the patient reacts with a shocked, "No, not me."
According to Dr.Kubler-Ross, this is a healthy stage, and permits the patient and the
family to develop other defenses.
Next comes anger or resentment
"Why me?" is the question asked now. "Why my child?" Blame, directed against the
doctor, nurses and God often is a part of this stage. This outcry should be accepted,
unjudged.
The third stage is bargaining
"Yes me, but-" "If you'll just give me five years, God, I'll . . ." This Dr. Kubler-Ross
calls a period of temporary truce.
The fourth stage is depression
Now the person says, "Yes, me," with the courage to admit that it is happening; this
acknowledgment brings depression. (Note: The family often goes through all the
stages, along with the patient.)
Finally comes acceptance
A time of facing death calmly. This is often a difficult time for the family, since the
patient tends to withdraw, to be silent.
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6. The last Journey to Hospital
(a Day Later)
‘Come on lets prepare’ she said almost excited, back
just for a day by the log fire and the long low window
the wind now due north. It was cold the birds were
confined and subdued after the warm burst but still
continuing into the Spring. They had to once they’d
started, otherwise the whole cycle would be thrown
askew even though the bitter spell might kill their
brood. There were flurries of snow white dancers
around the forsythias yellow, the bare hedge shivering
before the willow tree, but even so still the skeleton of
the trees were taking on a stronger shape pushing
outwards forward stretching towards the Sun climbing
higher everyday now.
‘Lets get ready’ she said focused and as so many times
before other journeys she busied herself to tidy up her
house, writing cheques, settling debts, a few calls,
packing her bag, hand cream and lip balm, Lancôme
Invigorator, hair-brush, a novel to read the latest Philip
Roth, specs, italic pen and her little black sketchbook of
numbers, old watercolours and a diary of these odd
long months since it began, charting what was
269
happening to her, the Disease and the Treatment, who
was what and where there in this the enemy occupation
of her own time.
Another journey. The tortuous struggle began: numb
feet, the wrack of pain in the back, the bruised chest,
another journey down the potholed lane, each hole now
no longer charming the long pined ridge of Blackdown,
the setting Sun shining white behind the trees, thinning
in the dip in the middle letting through the sharp gold
rays, the first green corn shoots trying to break through
the frozen plough.
Dozy villages and the motorway to the City on the hill,
the redbrick Cathedral above the Supermarket playing
fields and the Hospital, the M25 baba-land and inbetween the business park sat the Cancer Clinics flat
squat wing. Another journey, after so many other
journey, an evacuee again, first from War then the
dead marriage of the theatre gal and sailor, to distant
relatives and those second rate schools, then sailing out
to America, an young actress among Larry Olivier’s
babies, then Yorkshire and the family, where each of
her four sons was itself a journey, a transformation,
before the marriage became the divorce after the Affair,
London and the rest, on and on.
----------------------
Radiotherapy in the form of high energy X-rays is used to damage or destroy tumour
cells. Radiation may delay tumour regrowth or cure the condition entirely.The exact
method of giving the radiotherapy varies a great deal, depending on the type of tumour
and the purpose of the treatment. For example, a single dose may be all that is
necessary to relieve pain, whereas multiple treatments on a daily basis may be necessary
to cure a tumour. Radiotherapy does not affect anyone other than the patient.
Common side effects of radiotherapy may include a temporary worsening of the
270
symptoms of the tumour and inflammation of the skin, which is rather like sunburn.The
effects on the skin gradually improve although it is best to avoid washing the affected
7. The radiotherapy
(5 days in the second half of Feb)
Before all her journeys she was ever hopeful, set fair,
always renewing herself through moving; but now it
was happening in reverse, as she was wheeled to
radiology by the big black nurse, the daily journey
curled up like a baby behind the indigo bruise, the open
wound and flayed skin of the sores the light of the laser
two sources combining to meet in the unseen place to
burn away the bad cells.
And to aid her in these journeys a tape had been
bought for her from the Womens Cancer Centre,
another actress of a certain age talking very clearly with
precisely enunciated consonants and vowels, taking you
through a Visualization Exercise to harmonize the body
and somehow ease the pain: ‘Going down the river now
imagine the water spreading out, warm and soft, slowly
gently flowing down opening into the wide plain…’ and
271
she’d listened to it and she lay there imagining it the
water flowing smoothly, long low sultry afternoons .
India, it was all easy for her the imagining, it was what
she did, the Holistic Approach to treating the Disease,
the positivity, affirmations, art, it was largely how she
had always lived as she lay there thinking of the
Ganges, seeing the women in saries babies strapped to
their side pots on head, Varanasi and the funeral pyres
smoke spiraling up into the chanting, as the fires
burned inside her after the wrack now subjected to the
lasers flames.
And she lay there and, at last almost surprising herself
she cried, quietly from the deepest down bit inside her
she cried and she didn’t say why sounding as though
she was puzzled and not sure if it was for the War child
the right thing to do as it was always No Fuss, self-pity
an anathema; but afterwards, it seemed something had
happened, something had changed, after the crying a
deeper gentleness came.
And that night they filled her with more Blood, another
transfusion, Medicines top trick which somehow
illustrated how basic the Science was. We made jokes
about her becoming a vampire and the sacrifice of
Surrey virgins to placate her need as three bags were
pushed into her system, replenishing, revitalizing, the
face gradually filling up turning red like a slow-mo
cartoon, the body now more a thing, only her eyes
outside the movie, still there brightly looking out and
loving you.
----------------
272
take it around the body to other tissues and organs. You will then have more energy and the
breathlessness will be eased.
back to top
Blood transfusions
There are different treatments for anaemia depending on what is causing it. Blood transfusions
are a simple way of correcting anaemia. The symptoms of anaemia are often relieved quickly
and you should notice a benefit within 24 hours of having the transfusion. Transfusions may be
used alone or together with other forms of treatment for anaemia. The beneficial effects of a
blood transfusion can be temporary and some people may need further transfusions.
back to top
Having a blood transfusion
Before a blood transfusion is given, the blood must be cross-matched to ensure that it is
compatible with your own blood. This involves taking a sample of your blood to identify your
blood group, and matching it with suitable donor blood. This procedure ensures that the blood
you are given will not make you unwell.
The transfusion itself involves a small tube, known as a cannula, being placed into a vein in
your hand or arm. This is then connected to a drip. The blood is then run through the drip.
Some people
have
given through
a larger
put into a veinmore
in the chest (a
And
soaittransfusion
went, each
day the
trip tube
to Radiology,
central line), or the crook of their arm (a PICC line).
rays more drugs, more non sleep the body became
Blood for transfusion is stored in small plastic bags. Each bag is called a unit of blood and is
more
and
more
just ausually
thinginvolve
now,giving
a chore
to order
in on how
about a pint
(half a
litre).
Transfusions
2–4 units
depending
anaemic you are. Each unit is given over a period of 1–2 hours. When the transfusion is finished
the drip isorder
taken down
and the cannula
can be
to reduce
the pain.
Aremoved
groggy doze,a bite to eat a
sip between cracked lips and, after all these years of
self restraint, a few spoonfuls of ice cream.
And lying there in front of another not very good
afternoon movie, Merle Oberon trapped in a bad
marriage thinking she was going mad, its dreadful
dreadful dreadful darling thinking she was being
rescued by a white knight who turned out to be a cad,
more flowers arriving from Secrets, the fancy store,
daffodils and yellow roses, more cards Get Well Soon
old friends from other lives, past journeys, Darling T..,
nieces, nephews, waifs and strays, each name then
recorded on her list, a note returned or a call to be
made.
No phone calls except sons was the rule the second son
set at the hospital, although there were four of them
273
and at home he sat by the fire fending off more of the
Concerned; ‘she’s getting better’, ‘be patient’, ‘she’ll call
you’, ‘she’s coming back then total rest’, some already
writing the obituary ‘she was such a wonderful person,
thinking of their own to come later on; ‘She was I
mean is a women of such dignity and poise’ a bumbling
actress said ‘send her my love’ saying it with such
meaning as only another actress could.
The great aunt Tante, the sister of Mother, rang every
day, wanting to know, to visit, wanting somehow to
confirm the special relationship she had always wanted
to have. She was, as we all were, trying to stake a
special claim on her , some sort of sisiter-substitute,
the conformist always dependable rather than
gallivanting, kind rather than cruel.
Only once had that voice, her Mothers come from the
daughter, lower, darker, flatter, critical rather than
encouraging, ‘Haven’t you got anything else to do than
fawn over me’ she had snapped at me, after then just
before another shot of pain, a sharp intake of breath
and a dissolving back into a soft and gentle light ‘Sorry
but its..Thank you darling, lovelee’ with a smile, clear
eyes she lay down only for a moment relieving the taut
lines of the wrack again.
The Message of Impermanence: What hope there is in Death
Think of a wave in the sea. Seen in one way, it seems to have a
distinct identity, and end and a beginning, a birth and a death.
Seen in another way, the wave itself doesn’t really exist bout is
just the behavior of water ‘empty’ of any separate identity but
‘full’ of water. SO when you really think about the wave, you
come to realize that it is something made temporarily possible
by wind and water, and that it is dependent on a set of
constantly changing circumstances. You also realize that every
wave is related to every other wave. Nothing has any inherent
existence of its own when you really look at it, and this absence
of independent existence is what we call ‘emptiness’. As the
Tibetan saint Milarepa said ‘Seeing emptiness, have
compassion’.
274
And the Brother rang, still in Spain trying not to worry,
drinking and getting News relayed but all the time like
the sound of the sea and echoes from the distant
Tsunami, full of worry and grief knowing secretly that
this was the end holding up Death close to his face, the
sister who’d always been there for him, seeking refuge
through the bombing raids trying to find their errant
mother their father gone, it then seemed forever, on his
battleship somewhere far away.
Another afternoon another bad movie: The Hallelujah
Trail, an awful Technicolor Western, 50s US humour
which was not funny at all. Debbie Reynolds, and
‘Lovely Burt’ she said in a tall tale of alcoholics trying to
get hold of whisky in the deserts of Arizona. Outside the
sky was a freezing azure and we chose to watch the
cranes massive chain swinging ever closer to our
window; ‘I’ve been wondering all morning when it was
going to crash into the room’ she said, chuckling at her
own indifference in-between her pangs of pain.‘Keep
the windows open, it’s so hot in here’ she said ‘Now,
let’s order the room a bit. That’s it, more like that, Pass
me my brush,’ a sip of water a dab of Lancôme
Invigorator on the lips ‘Oh I do hate my hair’ she said
as she always did, had done for almost seventy years.
Her face was beautifully young again still full of last
nights blood, cheeks still round above the skeletal
wreck so friendly, eyes gentle and soft.
‘Thank you darling, lovely yes’ going out to each of the
nurses trying to open them up so they could receive her
caring, offering appreciation of who they were and what
275
they were doing for her. And she called the Tante again,
soothed her and made her feel loved in her old
loneliness and thanked her for all the help the last week
but, without saying it sounded like for a lifetime before
and it tired her but she did it because there too love
could flow, to and fro, creating an opening through
which more to give....
A light a white light, the end of the tunnel, and she
thought of the Tantes husband sweet Rex who had gone
so peacefully after the years of self sacrifice at Shell
when all he wanted to do was paint. But he’d done the
decent thing though stuck at the job, loved his children
loved his wife, not knowing but in hope of having the
time left to paint, hoping that it would all turn out right.
And it did, he had twenty years at the end enough to
see the hearts desire requited and it did happen as the
death book said, a light passed over his blind eyes a joy
come apon him at the end on the deathbed a light
passing over his face of delight a joy beyond sight
looking at it through another window face to face..
The snow flurries came back dancing beyond the glass
and dark blue grey clouds, indigo, were passing over
the hospital building, while beyond the trees at the
border of the playing field the crucifix on top of the
cathedral shone bright gold in the end of day Suns rays.
----------------
Now when the bardo of dying dawns upon me,
I will abandon all grasping, yearning, and attachment,
Enter undistracted into clear awareness of the teaching,
And eject my consciousness into the space of unborn Rigpa;
As I leave this compound body of flesh and blood
I will know it to be a transitory illusion
276
Tibetan Book of the Dead
6. Post Radiotherapy Prognosis
(the Last week)
It was five days intensive radiotherapy in all, burning
her back that was already scarred, her skin already
flayed, the spine sawed already to free the central core,
each day another journey descending into the pit of
pain beyond imagination a Hell beyond the reach of all
the painkillers as the Disease, vicious, implacable,
unstoppable marched on towards its already predetermined end. ‘Obviously all treatment will be
palliative at this stage,’ had said the first surgeon only
three weeks ago, ‘ it could be a year or three months, ‘
he’d said, brutally frank but the Disease was not even
going to let the palliative period be so.
(Sunday)
At home more logs were ordered. The cold was still on
as the second son busily built his DIY clinic for rest and
recuperation, in hope the radiology had worked. The
sparrows were frantically busy building now in the eves,
the white light occasionally breaking through the low
cloud. The snowdrops were shivering and still it felt
extremely cruel the World, to open things up in this
false Spring, letting the warmth urge Life out from its
hole, then, with the sound of a jackdaws cackling slap it
back with the sharp wind full of frost and snow.
277
A new bed had been ordered, ‘a hospital bed for the
home’, the self adjusting air mattress hissing and
heaving the mechanicals going up and down. New
sheets and pillows, Egyptian cotton as she wanted,
organic avocadoes, yoghurts, both clotted and ice
cream from the fancy online supermarket. The answer
machine circa 1980 was finally discarded, although
she'd insisted that it be kept, her power already failing
at home as another cooker was ordered just in case this
one that only she could work through a complicated
fiddling of nobs went wrong again. ‘Cheapshit, Bin it’
said the youngest son newly arrived to help the second
in his DIY clinic, ready for her return to rest,
recuperate and, in hope still, of the miraculous recovery
to be so.
The birds were fed and flagstones cleaned, everything
to be just right for her homecoming, three weeks before
the next stage: Chemo. After the wrack and the fire this
was the attempt to poison the Disease, the consultant
hoping it would deliver the killer blow. But her oldest
friend had had it and in the end said No she’d rather
die, retain some semblance of whatever dignity she had
left.
So here in the hospital watching another rotten movie,
she’d now decided that all she did know was she didn’t
want that or to be a cripple, and she had to get home.
It was soon to be the last journey before the next and
she needed peace, she needed rest, to centre herself in
herself again to be inside her own Life again.
(Monday)
278
No Visitors No calls and despite the Sons edict people
were ringing to say they were coming to visit, even
though she was going home in a few days; that was the
plan but people just couldn’t be stopped getting over
the barricades put up to safeguard her peace. The
Sister in law, older by ten years and who had lost a
husband to the Disease who the bedridden woman had
loved thirty years before and before that her first child
had drowned at three and then, lastly she’d nursed her
own parents across to demented and angry deaths. So
she seemed part of this already and anyway she
couldn’t be stopped, she’d be here tomorrow
‘Remember she is probably frightened’ she‘d said on the
phone ‘Be gentle’ and it hadn’t occurred to me that she
my mother might be so. And then the Brother rang
again from Spain to say he would be arriving back
tomorrow and would come in the following day,
Wednesday, ‘No she’s coming home next week’ ‘No I’ve
got to come over now’ and all were in their own way
determined to, each with a sense that it had to be
there, they had to come, felt impelled to, by a force
beyond them, unseen.
At home more flurries of snow melting quickly beneath
the skys chiaroscuro, while inside her two sons busied
themselves trying to get the place ready for her return.
It looked like it would settle said the second son, it will
be gone by lunchtime said the youngest, ‘Its spring isn’t
it’ and by mid-morning the mist had cleared and like a
miracle it had gone. In Memorium Only up on
Blackdown it was still white, 1000ft and 2 degrees
difference like an alpine scene, another place another
time, the indigo cloud rising in the West glimpsed
through the thinning of the trees in the dip in the
middle, light rays burning bright in a fan from far
279
beyond it. Thy voice is on the rolling air, I hear these
where the waters run; thou standest in the rising sun,
and in the setting thou art fair...
(Tuesday)
Finally the radiotherapy was over, finally they could
dress her sores and finally she could lie after five
weeks, flat on her back again. ‘I can’t believe these;
they still hurt’ she said, surprised, rubbing the front of
her legs, ‘they have always been the worst’, the pain
actually being caused by a tear in the central nerve in
her spine. ‘I cant believe this is happening to me’ she
had said three weeks before on the sofa in front of the
fire by the low long window at home, but now she did
and now her I can’t believe it voice came from
somewhere else deeper down accepting, as if the pain
the wrack, the fire, the steroids, the poison wrestling
with her body’s life inside her had inadvertently set her
free, liberating her true self from the viscous squabbling
of the body’s fight with the Disease. Yes, something
had slipped away now, she was in another place
another time through the Pain to the Other side and still
intact, she was loving and hopeful. ‘All will be well’ she
said sat up again making lists, things to do, people to
contact wondering who now to respond to, to give.
---Tumors are called "malignant" because they have the ability to invade normal tissues (replacing
healthy cells with cancer cells) and to metastasize (spread) to other parts of the body. Death from
cancer often comes not from the primary site (where the cancer first began) but from the
metastases [also known as "mets"]. For example, a patient with stomach cancer may actually die
from liver failure after the cancer has spread to that organ.
When a certain type of cancer spreads to another part of the body, it does not change its type. For
example, if a person with a lymphoma develops a tumor in the lung which is a metastasis from this
lymphoma, the tumor growing in the lung has the same characteristics as the lymphoma. It does
not represent a new lung cancer of the type which would develop if the cancer was to start in, or to
be "primary" in the lung. It is important to understand this as the treatment that will be effective
against the metastasis will be the same treatment that will be used for the primary lymphoma. This
is why it is most important for the doctors treating a patient to be able to establish the primary site
at which any cancer originated.
Metastases takes place in many ways: through the lymphatic system, through the bloodstream, by
280
spreading through body spaces such as the bronchi or abdominal cavity, or through implantation.
The most common way for cancer to spread is through the lymphatic system. This process is called
"embolization". The lymph system has its own channels that circulate throughout the body, similar
(Wednesday)
The Sister in law came over a lunchtime in the Sun, and
they had talked, about sons and daughters nephews
nieces and then she was gone, moving in her own
particular time but still there, it seemed, somehow
connected her being so used to the dying and the dead.
And that afternoon the Consultant came and there was
quiet talk and she said she wanted to Go naturally, not
be resuscitated and other conversations were had and
she seemed particularly glad that day, the pain now
controlled, a catheter and a colostomy bag, dress
padding in the air bed and more fresh blood. She was
determined to be at her best for him, her fragile brother
arriving that afternoon from Spain, the one who’d run
from his own mothers death, who too had had a secret
lover die on him, his young black dancer in America,
the one he’d finally come out for from the closet and
left his family for, the one who had bought out his own
281
Angel, caring, fun, taking away his anger and ancient
self loathing and she the young Sister, had always been
there encouraging him on, to be who he was, is and will
be.
And wine was ordered, a half bottle of red and white
and she was cheerfully ready to laugh and listen to his
tales of the Children, Sea and Sun he’d bought. And as
if he too had had to somehow share her pain his face
had fallen off, burnt and peeling raw, after sitting in his
sons boat full of drink then feeling sick and having to
put back on the shore and go back to base by taxi ‘ Ye
old seadog eh?’ she chided and she laughed and he did
too again.
And they talked and laughed at each other at
themselves and others, he showed her letters her grand
nephews and nieces had made brightly-coloured red
and yellow blue Get Well Soon and all felt fine and he
rang afterward saying she was happy and glad her sons
were with her, that she was coming home the next day
and all felt well that evening, all well, Set Fair, but then
the next day, the day before the day before the
penultimate day, it all changed, again.
-----
282
Mycotic Pulmonary Artery Aneurysm as an Unusual Complication of
Thoracic Actinomycosis
Although pulmonary artery aneurysms are a rare vascular anomaly, they are
seen in a wide variety of conditions, such as congenital heart disease, infection,
trauma, pulmonary hypertension, cystic medial necrosis and generalized vasculitis. To our knowledge, mycotic aneurysms caused by pulmonary actinomycosis
have not been reported in the radiologic literature. Herein, a case of pulmonary
actinomycosis complicated by mycotic aneurysm is presented. On CT scans, this
case showed focal aneurysmal dilatation of a peripheral pulmonary artery within
necrotizing pneumonia of the right lower lobe, which was successfully treated
with transcatheter embolization using wire coils.
nfectious or mycotic aneurysms involving intrapulmonary arteries are a
rare vascular abnormality, which can occur in association with a variety
of microorganisms, such as bacteria, including Staphylococcus aureus and
Streptococcus species, Mycobacterium tuberculosis and Treponema pallidum, but
rarely with fungi (1 4). Radiologic manifestations of thoracic actinomycosis are
diverse, which include peripheral air-space consolidation, mass like opacity, cavitation,
hilar or mediastinal lymphadenopathy, empyema, osteomyelitis and a soft tissue mass
secondary to chest wall involvement, with eventual fistula formation (5). However, to
our knowledge, mycotic aneurysms associated with actinomycosis have not been
reported in the radiologic literature. Herein, a case of pulmonary mycotic aneurysm
associated with thoracic actinomycosis with imaging findings is presented, which was
successfully treated with transcatheter embolization using wire coils.
artery and aorta. Radiology 1975;116:291-298
8. The complication
(Thursday -the day before the day before the
penultimate day)
And it had snowed again and this time it stayed. ‘She
woke up with bad pain’ the youngest brother
breathlessly reporting from the hospital to the second
son at home ‘A new pain in her chest’ and the coffee
cup dropped from my hand, one she had made,
283
smashing to the floor and something clicked: She could
take no more he knew and I knew then it was over.
But the damn came up fast again holding back the
wave; Denials shoulder set against the inevitable
Endgame, the Son manically muttering she will get
better, hope yet she will she will feverishly busy again
getting his DIY clinic ready for the allotted period of rest
and recuperation he had decided that it was going to be
whatever because he’d decided it was in his plan.
At the Hospital a conflagration of wires were rapidly
attached again the new pain had struck hard and flat on
the chest, a new place the heart now and colour had
drained from her face as if Life itself had been
punctured somewhere internally broken ruptured and
her physicality was visibly evaporating fast.
The real morphine was now administered and the light
dimmed as from the gates of yesterdays light and
laughter she was dragged back into the labyrinth of
dark, back into the cell of her own particular pain neck
drawn straining mouth open, trying to get away from it
the inevitable irrevocable wrack, the Disease forcing her
to abandon herself and cry out bitter in blame the sick
tide of fear sullying the waters of her mercy, her gentle
loving kindness pushed back from the white light into
the self again.
And it turned again the Disease another notch tighter,
pushing outwards, inwards, searing away the cording of
the core, shredding the nerve ending in the base of her
spine.
284
The management of neuropathic pain in cancer: questionnaire on the
treatment choices of palliative medicine physicians in the UK.
Dr I. N. Back, MA MRCGP DA
Consultant in Palliative Medicine
Holme Tower Marie Curie Centre, Penarth and Y Bwthyn Palliative Care Unit, Pontypridd.
Correspondence to: Dr I. N. Back
Holme Tower Marie Curie Centre, Bridgeman Road, Penarth, South Glamorgan CF64 3YR
Tel: 029 2042 6000; Fax: 029 2042 6036; E-mail: [email protected]
Introduction
Neuropathic pain is common in advanced cancer, and often poses a difficult management
problem for palliative care. There are many therapeutic options open to the physician faced
with managing this pain, but little evidence on which to base treatment decisions. The use of
tricyclic antidepressants and anticonvulsants is well established and there is much evidence
from chronic benign pain supporting their efficacy.[1,2] Many other treatments have been
reported, including flecainide,[3] ketamine,[4] NSAIDs,[5] alternative strong opioids
(especially methadone,[6,7]) epidural or intrathecal analgesic techniques,[8] and
transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation (TENS).[9] However, most of these other
treatment options have little other than case reports or anecdotal evidence supporting their
use in malignant neuropathic pain. Even the place of strong opioids like morphine or
diamorphine in the treatment of neuropathic pain can be questioned. [10,11] In addition, the
efficacy of different treatments has not been compared in any controlled trials.
A questionnaire was designed to seek the opinion of senior doctors working in palliative care
to determine the value they place on different available treatments. Three pilot
questionnaires completed by consultants in palliative medicine in Wales demonstrated that
such a questionnaire needed to define quite specifically the clinical situation and limit the
treatment options available in order to return useful data.
(Thurs still)
And the whole of that day it didn’t get light. A stillness,
almost mist, the odd flurry of snow and the line of trees
before the playing fields were very black, it was deep
winter all over again. They were going to do another
operation tomorrow, investigatory they called it, to
285
understand her internal bleeding, ‘Worrying, we don’t
know where its coming from’ the neurologist had said,
to see what was there and in the meantime it was
becoming, this whole business, just about combating
the pain.
She lay there in her white cotton floating between the
shocks and the morphine she seemed reduced to just a
head still beautiful still cared for with the administering
of Lancôme cream inside her fraying lips in-between her
tiny desperate sips and occasionally surfacing another
front moving over and she’d smile like Sunshine
breaking up the indigo cloud suddenly lighting up the
room eyes warm and clear still seeing and loving You
there, another baptism emerging from the dark watersthen submerging back into the battle again head back
tendons taut with the pain.
And that’s when I first noticed it there, in a ruck in the
white cotton chest a pounding like a captured bird, the
heart thumping, Life beating furiously in its holding onto
and dealing with the Other thing now corrupting
destroying her internally, as she struggled somewhere
in between the two, for some sort of rest a bit of peace
at least at last.
But the Disease continued piling it on pressurising the
system from all angles: the immobility of legs, the
pounding of organs by the steroids and other chemicals,
the laser fire still eating away internally and something
had to give and it did, Pulmonary Aneurysm a blood clot
smashing into the heart and an ulcer bursting in the gut
then two then more, riddled the surgeon had whispered
and she began to bleed the blood beginning to pour out
of her into her piss and shit now two bags instead of
286
one and the smell a new smell, blood and dung mixed,
fear and death the dread stench of the age old
battlefield again.
-------------------
Multiple perforated ulcers of the small intestine associated with allergic granulomatous
angiitis: report of a case.
Nakamura Y, Sakurai Y, Matsubara T, Nagai T, Fukaya S, Imazu H, Hasegawa S, Ochiai M,
Funabiki T, Mizoguchi Y, Kuroda M.
Department of Surgery, Fujita Health University School of Medicine, Toyoake, Aichi, Japan.
Although allergic granulomatous angiitis (AGA) is occasionally associated with gastrointestinal
lesions, multiple perforated ulcers of the gastrointestinal tract are uncommon. We report herein a
case of AGA associated with multiple perforated ulcers that erupted in the small intestine during
corticosteroid therapy. A 31-year-old Japanese man was admitted to our hospital with epigastralgia,
edema of the bilateral lower extremities, and general malaise. He had a persistent high fever,
abdominal pain, and watery diarrhea. Laboratory data showed remarkable eosinophilia. The
abdominal pain became exacerbated after the administration of oral prednisolone. Physical
examination indicated positive signs of peritoneal irritation in the entire abdomen, and abdominal
computed tomography scanning showed intra-abdominal free air, suggesting generalized peritonitis
due to intestinal perforation. Laparotomy revealed multiple perforated ulcers in the jejunum and
ileum. Histological examination indicated remarkable eosinophilic infiltration in the surrounding area
of the small arteries and arterioles located in the submucosal layer, which was compatible with AGA.
Although the association of intestinal perforation with AGA is relatively infrequent, intensive
perioperative management is essential to ensure a favorable clinical outcome, particularly during the
period on corticosteroid therapy.
9. The Investigatory OP
(the Friday)
287
The next day at home red bars shot across the sky at
dawn wounds in the frost and above the willow a
buzzard was being chased by two crows. In the field the
sheep bones lay white on white as if sleeping, the mud
sucking in feet beneath the ice. The daffodils had frozen
in their budding and opening the long low window it was
wedged stiff in the cold and I missed the frame and that
was when my hand went right through the glass, the
same arm where I cut myself and almost lost my hand
when I was 12 years old.
Another urgent call for the glass man, then worry that
the bed man wouldn’t arrive with the controls and the
John Lewis van with the bed linen, Egyptian cotton as
she asked for, might not get through as it began to
snow again and the guy to fix the dodgy cooker dials
was late and for some reason the washing machine
wouldn’t work too. The whole thing felt so fragile and
any moment, like a house of cards it would fail. Just
one more day to keep it up and all will be well, it felt,
all would be all right if we could just for a day get her
home.
That afternoon before going to the hospital to see her
after she’d had the investigatory op, I went up
Blackdown to give the dog a walk. After the snow the
high firs were like a cathedral and the sharpness in the
air invigorated the dog rushing about and suddenly, as
the darkness began to fall it wasn’t there no more, the
dog that always was there was suddenly not. Perhaps
it’d ran off with the other dogs and calling out into the
forest, the low pink light through the mist and silent
trunks, there was no response and another notch in the
fear that the world was going to collapse and everything
was not as it seemed and a great despair, cold and dry
288
in the face flowed up from the slope beneath freezing
time and I stood for a moment and didn’t know whether
to scream or cry, then, suddenly there the dog as if it
knew all excited tail up in the air, came back happy
having run off the houses anxiety and everything felt
then alright again, hope restored.
-----Aims in last 48 hours of life
•
Controlling physical symptoms: adjustments (psychological or social) are impossible as long as
troublesome pain, nausea or
breathlessness are present.
•
Give explanations: lack of information is the commonest cause of problems. Like drugs, information must
titrated to the
individual. See the CLiP worksheets on Breaking Difficult News and Collusion and Denial
•
Anticipate changes: although it is not possible to anticipate every crisis, planning ahead is essential. For
example many patients
suffer from bronchial secretions at the end of life and having hyoscine hydrobromide available is sensible
• Individualise care: drugs, like information, need to be titrated to the individual.
• Stop unnecessary drugs: it is often possible to simplify drug regimes as a patient deteriorates (see
below).
• Continue other drugs by the appropriate route: the subcutaneous and buccal routes are useful and kind
alternatives.
• Give and take adequate support: duty demands we provide support, but clinical governance insists we
also accept help, advice
and support when we are unsure of the situation.
• Set realistic goals: goals change as a patient deteriorates, but can still foster hope even if that is now
about comfort.
Resuscitation issues may need to be discussed- see the CLiP worksheet on Issues Around Resuscitation.
Working to a clear
plan can be helpful- a good example is the Liverpool Care of the Dying Pathway (Ellershaw and Ward,
2003)
• Explain changes to the partner and family: they also need as much (or as little) information as they
need.
• Help partner and family understand the changes: changes are frightening, but it is often comforting to
explain the natural course
of a death and how gentle it is for most people.
•
Ensure the environment is appropriate: comfortable and as quiet (or noisy) as they want.
•
Ensure that religious care is offered if wanted: ask the patient, partner or family if they would like to talk
to a chaplain or other
spiritual advisor about death and dying.
•
Hydration and feeding: this has no advantages in the last hours. Very few dying patients want to eat,
while most only want sips
of water. Encouraging feeding may cause vomiting. Dehydration causing thirst can be helped by hydration,
but too much
hydration risks increasing bronchial secretions.
Helping the partner or relative to adjust
• Adjusting to loss is never easy.
• It is common to cope by shuttling back and forth between denial and realism, but this is unsettling for
many people.
• The road of life has its potholes and its distant views- looking only at the potholes avoids tripping but
lacks interest, whilst looking
only at the views means we miss the potholes. Most people need to do both!
• Denial can seem inappropriate at the end of life, but careful listening reveals that most are people being
intermittently realistic
(eg. “I do hope he can get well enough for that holiday, but he does look an awful lot worse.”).
• People need to adjust at their own pace and forcing the pace is unhelpful.
•
If you, as the professional, feel at a loss, contact your local palliative care team for help and advice.
289
Nobody has a library of the
right things to say. Don’t punish yourself for not making things ‘better’. Being there, listening and giving
explanations when
asked will be the most help. Making a difference is what counts.
For an hour suspended, back at the hospital they were
gathered in the room. But the bed wasn’t there, she
wasn’t back from having the investigatory op to look
into her bleeding gut and the room felt large and
somewhat desolate.
Three brothers were there now. The eldest loud and
excited wanting to see the consultant the man who his
credit card was paying for , he wanted to know the
Actions and Outcomes as if Mother had turned into yet
another Project Plan, profit, loss, milestones schedule
and end. He only had one day, his own Project was
opening on Sunday then the skiing trip needed to gone
on as planned and..
From his corner the youngest brother eyed him
suspiciously and the second son worked out ways to
quieten him down, make him retreat as Mother was his
project now, his alone almost, at last he was the first.
And the third wasn’t even there yet, said he might go
play some golf first and ‘go get the supper on’. And
there they were again, just them waiting for Mama, not
quite together without her not quite complete, waiting
for her to come back again.
The consultant then came in, pinstriped and intensely
scheduled. Ten minutes for this one: diagnosis, family,
awkward, quick, alert the Sister to come in soon after.
It was really when all was said and done, all about pain
management, now for the family as well as the patient,
the staff, although he didn’t want to admit it to them or
even to himself.
‘I’m sorry but.. the cancers spread, the pelvis as well as
spine, the bowel is riddled with ulcers perforating plus a
290
Pulmonary Aneurysm, the chest, I don’t know what the
pain is, the Heart I suppose, it’s a mystery for sure but
well, its just all too much for her now you see, she…’ He
didn’t tell them then that she wanted to die, he didn’t
say that they’d talked and she’d told him that she was
decided she’d rather go than stay here crippled, a half
life she had called it, and perhaps they hadn’t talked
really perhaps it had been all in the unsaid, between
the smiles and her encouraging him but telling it
straight directly, to him as a person not just at his
invisible white coat.
‘Juggling’ he’d called it before, keeping the different
sets of different ailments and their different treatments
working well in cooperation, ‘Balls in the air’ but they
were working against each other now, the radiology
against the bed sores, the steroids versus the
collapsing insides and in the end they had to collide
inevitably and collapse in on themselves. And he stood
there looking hang dog the clown who’d let them fall;
but the fact was he had had to, it was over game set
and match and she told him she’d rather go than be
kept going and he had to make himself let her go
because you can keep people working for ages now.
‘I’m sorry’ he said again but he was dammed if he was
to give the Disease the satisfaction of making her cry
out, make her bitter in her pain, loosing herself to the
indignity of its darkness. ‘No dammit we’ll get her home
OK. We’ve put her on diamorphine, we’ll pump her full
of blood and be sure’, he said, ‘we’ll get her home OK?
That’s what she wants, to be with her boys she said’ a
gritted smile, brittle handshakes and then he was gone
onto his list of next ones in his brief.
291
A silence. It fizzed in the room fizzed like a stun gun. All
stood separate. Then, almost instinctually the second
son moved to hug the eldest one, standing alone there
suddenly reduced from Ruler of the Universe, all
projects and business plans, to abandoned boy wanting
his Mum, waiting. And he collapsed crying then the
youngest rushing in arms around both and like a
writhing, pulsating creature the three men-boys cried a
relief and happiness between them in the grief tensions
falling away in them between and outside.
There was a knock on the door and they backed off and
the Sister in the dark blue indigo uniform walked in.
‘How long did the Doctor say?’ she asked straight ‘Well,
I’m not sure about a week, we’re having difficulty
getting her blood pressure up, she might not even last
the night’ and everything changed again, a gear- shift,
it was a short enough period in which to concentrate,
this was it then the time was here and now we were
here and we had to take it in turns this time, back
together again waiting for Her to come back before
going off again somewhere else.
Absence Seizures (Petit Mal Seizures)
What Is It?
Treatment
Symptoms
When To Call A Professional
Diagnosis
Prognosis
Expected Duration
Additional Info
Prevention
What Is It?
The brain's nerve cells (neurons) communicate with one another by firing tiny
electric signals. When someone suffers a seizure, the firing pattern of the brain's
electric signals suddenly becomes abnormal and unusually intense. This seizure can
affect only an isolated area of the brain, or it can involve the whole brain. If the
whole brain is involved, the electrical disturbance is called a generalized seizure.
The two most common forms of generalized seizures are tonic-clonic seizures
(often called grand mal seizures) and absence seizures (also called petit mal
seizures). Although both forms of generalized seizures cause the patient to lose
consciousness temporarily, only the grand mal form produces symptoms of a true
convulsion, in which the person stiffens falls to the ground, with clenching of the
teeth and rhythmic muscle contractions that may last two minutes or longer.
292
10. The Night Watch
(the Last Night in Hospital)
And the World fell into a different place, the night
becoming a new day, now the darkness had begun and
the boys stood around stunned at the edges of the
empty room, as if listening into another conversation
with someone else whisperings full of questions
unanswered; Why was she going to go now? Wasn’t she
going to say goodbye? Their Mother was somewhere
else now on the edge of existence being pumped up
with one more day of life.
And finally her third boy arrived with papers prepared
for a session of well meaning healing care, then told the
smile and eyes opening wider becoming set, glazed,
outstretched hands in the dark reaching out for
something none of them knew was there, the unknown
descending apon them, Death, Mother almost no more
and…
The room was suddenly full of blue women, machines,
tubes, a sort of wedding procession through the doubledoors flung open as she came in, a head in the white
surf of pillows smiling, then being plugged in, attached,
connected, a boat being docked to the quay, the
focused urgency of the nurses indicating the sea out
there was rough, or was going get so soon.
293
And the four sons took their position around her,
hesitant almost, not quite believing the love coming
from her, trying to be strong as she was there still
smiling, eyes bright, warmth, heartstrings holding
‘They’ve told you then, the…’ she asked softly and
quickly all said Yes, not wanting to hear the details
again the Truth completely and..
So back to the routine again the second and fourth son
had done it so many times now; the hair, the Lancôme
lip balm, a sip, the birds heart pounding. ‘I love you
Mama’ the youngest whispered, ‘I love you, Darling' she
replied and the other two the relatively new arrivals,
now stood at a distance not quite sure sensing being
outside the bubble and the intimacy of knowing and the
accepting and they stood staring, blankly looking on
trying to compute the incomputable, too worried to get
too close as their universe might unravel within them
where there stood.
So they were to take shifts it was decided, the Watch,
one after the other through the night. But they didn’t;
instead the first and the third got their beds organized,
talked about their Projects and Programs and slept.
They sensed but did not let themselves admit it, that
they were desperately trying to hold onto the Normal
threatened now by the tectonic turning beneath them,
their worlds centre even if they did not want to admit it,
was melting and their denial was gripping the axis tight.
It was the second and last son who spent the whole
night beside her. They had to, wanted to, they had no
other choice, they were now both inside it , that time,
with her, this last journey and getting out of the boat
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made them fear they might disappear completely now
into a darkness out of sight.
So it was settled almost, her sea, the bay calm and
somewhere near far away the home of He she could
never quite care for enough, who’d gone before her, the
One that had been taken away without saying goodbye
still holding onto so much of her Love… For I loved him,
and love him for ever, the dead are not dead but alive..
The substance (or lack of) of angels has been much debated through history. Some suggest that angels
are naturally occurring energies and that if they seem to us to be visible and have form, then it is because we
are ‘ seeing ‘ them with the inner eye, and projecting onto them a visible form that is entirely subjective.
Saint Thomas Aquinas declared that angels are intellect without substance. They are pure throughtforms.
However they take on a physical body idf they wish and if it makes their jobs easier.
Swedish mystic Emmanuel Swedenborg , in the eighteenth centry, discovered that angels can only be
seen if they take on a body temporarily, or by being perceived through the inner eye, or third eye.
‘You’ll like this’ she said, before the night began, drugmouthed to the second son, knowing it would please
him to be asked. ‘Draw a picture of a starling, with an S
crossed out and D in front instead’ and he followed her
instructions a series of picture letters written to her
great nieces and nephews in Spain. ‘Draw a hen for
‘then’ then cross out an H and put T’, ‘It looks more like
an ostrich’ he joked and she laughed, a chocolate
chuckle eyes shining and then rolled back again another
task done, another love loved and then to rest.
The last transfusion. ‘Ze Blood of a Guildford Vampire’
another joke this time in Ham German and she smiled
295
back. Plugged in, another three bags, it would take
most of the night, fresh and clean as at the same time
underneath the bed unseen, her own blood bled into the
piss and the shit, drop by drop, seeping out from her
collapsing insides as her body dissolved out of the bed.
(the Watch)
And the youngest son sat in the corner as he had done
for days, immovable, the second son at the end of the
bed, then, exhausted, lying on the floor as the darkness
became very quiet all subordinate to the click-click-click
of the blood machine going up into her mashed up arm,
deeply bruised now from all the injections with no
healing, plus the whirr of the heart monitor showing her
blood pressure with its waves, a Life in 4 numbers up
on the screen and the definitive clunk of another shot of
heroin from the hidden dia-morphine clock clunk-click
on each hour again.
And the Disease was biting hard into her midriff taking
her apart on the wrack, sulking that her pain was less
but recompensing by its rampancy pushing against each
of her organs notch by notch working to make her
crack, forcing her Spirit to be squeezed out homeless
again. But she lay back, mouth open slightly twisted
now neck taut tendons straining as her Will still
stiffened against it despite the Disease determined: Yes
she was going home, it was decided, it was clear in her
mind what was going to happen. And then I noticed, for
the first time in the face, becoming pinker younger as
the new blood filled it up, a dent appearing in the left
cheek, slightly sunken and the mouth twisting turning it
almost into a snarl. It was a new face, another face,
forming, as if the Dark was solidifying inside the Light.
296
The Night Nurse came in every half hour to check the
machine robot- like and each time the face would
emerge again and she’d smile, saying thank you trying
to remember the nurses name, determined to connect
and gradually through the night the old nurse
weakened, bit by bit allowing herself to be seen and to
see her, the person who was the patient, fully, and the
courage and the love and it was from about 3o’clock
that the tough Night Sister started to permit herself to
care.
‘I love you without reservation’ the second son said in
the middle of the darkness; he had been wanting to say
it from the beginning of the Watch, from the beginning
of the whole thing in January but just had not been
able, it had sounded too final then. But now, in saying
it, he realised it was what he had always done despite
the disappointment, duplicity and blame, the divorce
and their art abandoned, because each of them had
stayed true had just been trying to find their own way.
And it was OK. It was as it always had been, at last it
was as it will be and always is, her smiling light
beaming eye to eye face to face together always,
burning brightly in the night.
The Watch continued and the up and down of pain and
smiling, he knew she wasn’t going to go then, she
wasn’t going to die. It was as if a new mode of thought
had opened there, the Truth was now been lived in, the
Real creating another sort of hope beneath the spin. It
was a gut understood acceptance of it, she and it, the
Disease and her were, now despite their differences,
One. The agreement was that she was going to get
through this night, she was going to go home, the
297
Disease was going to wait a day, so let time be still as it
ever could be and it to appreciate the Life still flickering
on.
‘So what’s your proposition?’ she suddenly said out of
the whiteness, ‘Are you still here?’ at half past three,
appearing reinvigorated as if his dozing presence was a
contradiction to her Life. She needed them to be alert
tomorrow and it was silly to be here now. ‘Just waiting
to go home Mama’ I said and she smiled and she lay
back settling down again, to the click click click of the
transfusion the whirr of the heart machine and
definitive clunk of the dia-morphine gun.
And it happened an hour later. I’d been sleeping on the
floor, curled up like a dog by the fire, at the end of her
bed. I heard a groaning and she was hurting eyes
closed and I quickly moved to hold her hand and prayed
and willed the pain to be taken away to go, inside me if
need be, wanting only to lighten her load and down her
arm came something into me a mist becoming liquid
moving around my organs, internal viscous and I
suddenly felt sick behind the stomach as it wrapped
itself around my insides then squeezing it felt my very
Life inside outside me and I tried to hold on myself, but
not let go of her hand the heat then rushing away
sweat breaking out in the freezing my balance
beginning to go and the thing was inside me pulling me
down and darkness I was holding onto the knees
buckling and I felt the darkness coming on inside me,
the very Life draining away and I had to let go my hand
almost falling collapsing in a heap in a chair shot down
dead and staggering into the forensic light of the toilet
white tiles on my knees trying to but unable to vomit
and sitting there on the loo back and forward an
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enormous emptying and wondering what was it, a
demon? an infection? a final gift?
a hope painful and sick, another birth a change, new life
through her love essential strong and raw, only sweet in
dilution in the distillation of her own dying heart.
And as he slept at her feet like a dog by a fire he
dreamt being dragged along a snowy road winding up
and down undulating through an unknown forest his
useless boots scrapping the face to the gravel and
turning upwards to the deep light blue Heaven, a
presence covering the sky enveloping him in a lovers
total embrace a polar bear and with his neck pushed up
tendons straining to be a sacrifice giving all letting it
happen almost willing Death to bite.
--------------------
Advice on preventing rebirth at death
All substances are my own mind, and this mind is emptiness, unarisen and
unobstructed. Thinking this, keep your mind natural and undiluted, self contained
in its own nature like water poured into water, just as it is, loose, open and
relaxed. By letting it rest naturally and loosely, you can be sure that the womb
entrance to all the different kinds of birth will certainly be closed.
Tibetan Book of the Dead
11. The Discharge
(the Dawn Penultimate)
More nurses in blue another blood check, the last bag
almost empty her face bright pink smiling suddenly
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totally there and we are in the room, all together
suddenly from sleep, without sleep we all stare at our
lovely Mothers face. Occasionally opening she is there,
smiling, right there spirit in all, in Love, willing love
from all of us so rarely joined, a redemptive Love,
forgiving bringing together again her four boys.
And the blue women then unhooked her from the blood
machine, another line loosened from the harbour-side
and her smiling so relieved to be free as the dawns light
came over the playing fields, a sound of a crows and
then geese calling, two mates flying over and she
smiled; it was a new day she had as she knew she
would, made it through and the second and the fourth
sons went finally to sleep and the big black nurse
turned off the blood machine and the heart monitor, the
screen suddenly went blank, going bleep.
The working party has begun investigating the key issues raised in the report such as
inspection arrangements, Controlled Drug Registers and the destruction of unused
Controlled Drugs. This work is ongoing but a summary of the RPSGB’s position on key
recommendations is below.
KEY RECOMMENDATIONS AFFECTING PHARMACY PRACTICE
Although the Fourth Report of the Shipman Inquiry clearly acknowledges that there are no
foolproof ways to deter a doctor who is determined to obtain illicit supplies of a Controlled
Drug, it includes a number of broad wide-ranging recommendations.
Recommendation:
The Fourth Report of the Shipman Inquiry calls for the establishment of a Controlled Drugs
inspectorate operating regionally but co-ordinated nationally.
RPSGB view:
The RPSGB welcomes the recommendation that dispensing doctors, premises and GPs’
surgeries should be inspected as pharmacies are at present. The multi-disciplinary nature of
the proposed new inspectorate, with the combined expertise of pharmacists, doctors,
inspectors and investigators, would be a key strength. The RPSGB endorses the need for
such an inspectorate to be co-ordinated nationally.
The RPSGB inspectorate has the professional expertise required to inspect and monitor
Controlled Drugs and should be involved in the development of multi-disciplinary Controlled
Drug inspection.
With appropriate resources and powers, the RPSGB’s own inspectorate could extend the
scope of its enforcement activity to undertake the new roles both within registered
pharmacies and other establishments. Extensive scoping and a detailed cost analysis would
be needed as a preliminary to any such considerati..
300
(the Last Morning before the Last Day)
Waiting and waiting and preparing in this day, the last
day before the last day. It was the getting hold of some
diamorphine from the outside world, like a fuel for the
leaving, that was holding everything back. But she sat
there propped up her face contented, pink and fresh
from the new blood smiling, tidying up her room,
tidying herself up: hair, mascara, and the Lancôme lip
balm, tissue in hand to wipe the dryness of the drugs
and then the clamminess from her hands. Checking for
her specs there, a book and the black notepad in which
everything vital was collated, ready for when she had to
move on.
It was, at home, the same grey white day outside
everything in stasis the snow still lingering on the
frozen ground. The daffodils buds closed still, the
sparrows chattering in the eves more in panic than
celebration and there still predominant in the sky the
crows flapping in their own time. Blackdown was alpine
still, visible when the mist cleared and inside the house
waited, warm and prepared waiting to be peaceful for
her.
----------
301
1: J Adv Nurs. 1984 Jul;9(4):357-62.
Related Articles,
Links
Inducing a definition of 'hope' through the use of grounded theory methodology.
Hinds PS.
Nurse researchers have become increasingly concerned with the development, testing and
continued refinement of reliable and valid instruments which can index phenomena of interest
to nursing. A primary step in the measurement of such phenomena is the systematic initiation
of conceptualization processes which yield adequate construct definitions. Adequate construct
definitions facilitate efforts toward precise measurement. Presented in this article is a
description of how grounded theory methodology guided conceptualization processes to induce
a construct definition of 'hope'. The data-based example is from a study of 25 adolescents (both
well and hospitalized adolescents) who participated in defining 'hope'. Results include a
definition of hope consisting of four categories which seem to form a continuum of degree. The
induced definition is used to demonstrate rules which have been put forth in the social science
literature to guide the formulation of construct definitions. The relationship between processes
of conceptualization and measurement is further demonstrated by examples of scale items to
index hopefulness in adolescents. The scale items reflect the four categories of the induced
definition of hope and comprise the inductively developed 'Hopefulness Scale for Adolescents'.
(the last afternoon before the last day)
And in the hospital finally they unhooked her from the
last tubes, except for the morphine and the bags, and
she felt that sense of being let out again of yet another
institution, others always pushing in against you making
it difficult to forget oneself enough to be free to give.
And they came to say goodbye although they didn’t
need to, they never did before, small pale blue figures
moving among the sons the indigo Sister kissing the
youngest son hard, all circling around the tiny lady in
the middle still smiling encouraging them on.
Carried in the car of the Oldest, each old pothole of the
farm track sending a searing shock down her broken
back but now not caring laughing at the Landlord being
so mean and not getting the road fixed, looking at how
everything had come on in the last twelve days.
Carried into the house by the youngest boy into the
front room, the fire burning and finally laid down comfy
bed back raised to look out of the long low window as
the grey cloud descended into the frozen mist creating
night.
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And then organising the room again, the mirror, the
Lancôme for the lips, the tissues, specs and book, little
sips of water to ease the drugged dryness of the
parched mouth, the morphine gradually moving toward
the Disease, in a marriage for which there could only be
one outcome.
‘Thank you darling, Its lovely’ she said, for the flowers,
the new sheets the bed sighing undulations as it rippled
around the dying flesh and a hot water bottle was
placed beneath her frozen swollen toes, ‘that’s nice’ she
said rubbing them, pretending she could feel. Then
having given each of her boys thanks and reassurances,
the special thanks for each, encouraging each to be
themselves and loving, she lowered the back of the bed
to rest.
And feeling everyone was settled after letting the dog,
her last boy, lick her hand, comforting him as he barked
at the click of the 24 hour diamorphine gun, the
curtains were drawn across the dark blue window and
she smiled gently. It was the time at last, after all the
broken nights of pain and hospitalization, to move back
into her own individual peace and she could at last
before the final journey, her last performance the first
day of the last, sleep.
-----------
303
O child of noble family, listen carefully without distraction. There are six bardo states: the bardo
of birth, the bardo of dreams, the bardo of Samadhi-meditation, of the moment before death,
the bardo if dharmata and the bardo of becoming O child of the noble family, you will
experience three bardo states: of the moment before death, the bardo if dharmata and the
bardo of becoming. O f these three the luminosity of dharmata in the bardo of the moment
before death shone until yesterday, but you did not recognize it, and so you had to wander
here. Now you will experience the bardo of dharmata and the bardo of becoming so recognize
what I show you without distraction.
O child now what is called death has arrived. You are not alone in leaving this world, it happens
to everyone, so do not feel desire and yearning for this life. Even if you feel desire and yearning
you cannot stay, you can only wander in samsara. Do not desire, do not yearn. Remember the
Three Jewels O child of noble family, whatever terrifying projections appear in the bardo of
dharmata do not forget these words, but go forward remembering their meaning; the essential
point is to recognize them:
Now when the bardo of dharmata dawns apon me,
I will abandon all\ thoughts of fear and terror,
I will recognize whatever appears as my projection
And know it to be a vision of the bardo:
Now that I have reached this crucial point
I will not fear the peaceful and wrathful ones, my own projections.
12. The third and last Convalescence
(The Last Night)
And she snored, loudly, her mouth open, ‘Not the
mouth open’, she’d asked the second son quietly
earlier, but she was referring to something else later on
he knew without it being said.
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She snored her neck outstretched looking up the fireflame light flickering against her fresh blood chest, the
ruffles in her white nighty fluttering with the heart
beating hard behind.
The youngest sat as he had for a week staring at her
face feeling each twist and turn of her being, flinching
when the disease took another bite and his whole large
body tightening against the pang of new pain, cursing
the inevitable as he did when the frost killed off his
gardens new growth
The second son had curled up by the fire to sleep
exhausted, feeling somehow he too could rest now. She
was at home now and although it wasn’t India or the
journey to recovery and recuperation in his DIY clinic of
holistic health, it felt a journey completed and somehow
a triumph had been reached.
Yes, she could go now to the next place, rest first then
move on the next day and he felt full of light and
confidence, blessed was the new word that came into
his head. It held a strange and novel sense of faith. If
he just went along with what was happening it would be
alright in the end, and there balanced on the edge of
nothingness, the feeling felt very new to him but also
infinitely old.
The Eldest came into the room as always feeling outside
the others, apart from those three who came later
separate from him. He was tense, despite wanting to
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his mind was unable to come away from his Project, the
Plan and the Money, now serving as the currency for
the emotion struggling to articulate itself from beneath.
The Third, the quiet one had, as usual, faded away
gone to bed retreating into the safety of his own room,
free from feeling squeezed every which way in between.
But all had seen her face now imprinted, the face
straining then smiling the face that had always been
there, warm, holding, reassuring, shining eyes
encouraging each to be themselves individual, that face
there now young in its pinkness, moving between being
pained, sleeping or drugged then staring at the fire and
inside each of the boys without telling each other, the
face was crying themselves awake.
---------------
The Method The Meaning Withdraw Treatment Medication Stopped. Active management
stopped Withdraw Nutrition No feeding decreased nursing support, no intravenous access. Use
of Diamorphine for “pain”. Can be written as PRN (as often as you like) This drug is indicated in
the end stage of cancer patients and for relief of heart attack pain. It is also a common drug
given to the elderly, which may, in some cases, shorten life.
You must check and question why diamorphine is being given and whether your relative is truly
“in pain”. Dehydration Death due to kidney failure Cocktail of drugs It is very common for
doctors to place elderly patients with multiple problems on many drugs.
Drugs for heart failure, particularly, may not be monitored. If levels of ions in the blood are not
regularly measured, this can be dangerous. A common ion is potassium, the levels of which are
3.5
Those who are suffering under extreme difficulty of disease or depression are most sold short
by the Assisted Dying for the Terminally Ill Bill. By giving them the option of death, we are
essentially giving up on them. In response to the immense problems they face, we tell them to
'F*** off and die'.
306
(the Last Morning)
It was almost dawn a new day, the last day and the
first day of the next journey and she opened her eyes
and smiled again at her youngest still sat there staring,
‘ I love you Mama’ he said, ‘ I love you too’ she said
opening his heart like a flower.
‘Hello Darling’ she said as her second son came beside
her straight from bed, straight to the routine of the
wiping of her mouth, the tissue for the sticky stuff,
administering the Lancôme balm, a sip of water, hair
patted down, (she had always hated it) and now settled
she asked for the curtains to be drawn.
The sky was an indigo blue but clear, the spindelly
outline of the willow trees etched fine only last year’s
leaves still clinging onto each, breaking the line. A crow
croaked. Higher notes began. The Light grew. ‘Beautiful’
she said looking, her eyes wide letting in all before
closing again back into the agony of the diamorphines
dueling with the pain, then she opened them up again.
The sky gradually brightens from Indigo to Azure and
the Sun strikes the willow trunks white. Where’d two
days before a buzzard had been chased by crows now a
plane burns bright in the blue above the wooded hill,
like a comet, there then gone, invisible again.
And the snow had suddenly melted and the hedgerow
stretches upward towards the Sun, the first green tinge
happening as red bullfinches and a bevy of sparrows
collected. Then two flycatchers appeared as if from
307
twenty summers ago at the home where she’d brought
up her boys- they’d come every year with their urgent
little loops from the maple to the midges then back
again to the branch - but these can’t have been the
same ones and in the distance a cuckoo cooed or is it a
dove?
‘Lovely darling’ she said, as the window was opened
rustling tulips and daffodils on the sill, ruffling the
Egyptian cotton sheets like surf on the sea her leaning
back letting the breeze sooth her.
‘Lovely darling’ she said again as her youngest bought
the bouquet of Lilies, (‘Mothering Sunday’ he’d
muttered yesterday when they’d arrived ‘Lets hope
she’s still here’), ‘Thank you darling. You are the best
lover ‘she said and his heart then flows all through him
to her and back again. ‘I love you Mama’.. but she’s
already sunk back into the half sleeping at the
beginning of the new place she is going to and those
other people now taking the place of these around her
but not quite yet, as she wasn’t quite ready to go yet to
let go, she hasn’t yet given the rest of what she has left
to her sons.
The Sun came out further and the leaf of the hedge
burst through the sparrows chattering at last able to get
on at giving birth and her now cloudening eyes opened
wider ‘Extraordinary’ she said pointing towards
something in the unseen, ‘I don’t know I don’t know I
don’t know’ she said a third time not anxious just
accepting, knowing that perhaps she would know soon.
‘Look’ she said thumb and fore finger shaped like a port
hole, the hand that had worked hard, thick skinned
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gentle and cool. ‘Look there’ she said peering through
the circle, its aperture to where she is going, or back to,
the Life that is, a window now telescoping down but
even so her hope is only growing brighter still it
seemed. ‘Thank you darling’ the Lancôme on the lips,
the tissue now in the weaker grip, moving very slowly,
the book and specs discarded. ‘My anchor?’ she asks
and there the bronze charm on the silver chain and
seeing it she smiles and wraps it around her dying
fingers lies back again still flickering fluctuating
between her pain and her peace.
At eleven the nurses came to wash her and reload the
diamorphine gun and she smiles and loved them and
she suddenly said, as if it was a sign looking at one
standing by the window ‘Blue’ she said pointing as if it
was some secret affirmation boding well for the new
journey coming towards her as she slips further into her
eyes failing now, the seen dissolving into the unseen
soon.
And the boys wound around her and around themselves
in ever decreasing circles each trying to get away from
the bed for a while. The dog is let out running frantic
along the lane, trying to race off the impulses inside
him never settled since it began always wanting to go
outside then to come back inside again and the bones
of trees stretch towards the Sun even leafless taking on
new life in the Spring their own shape revitalising and
turning my face to the Sun in the clear sky seeing her
in squinting eyes there a cross made of white light
shining; ‘All will be well’ she said he thought, then a
freezing gust rushed up my spine and turning round
hurrying back home afraid.
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‘Quick Quick come quick’ the youngest said 'the
painkillers' and the second dispensed it with a teaspoon
as if into a child’s mouth and she urgently swallowed
falling back as again the pain subsided smiling back into
the depths. ‘I can’t see her hurt anymore’ the youngest
said ‘Everything will be all right Darling’ she said to him
suddenly there again and she smiled. ‘Keep at it’ she
said to the second giving each receiving a private
reassurance to ease their pain.
And then soon after around noon, when everyone all
four were around her it seemed for the first time around
her in that day and an age, she suddenly rallied sitting
up in bed voice clear within the morphine slur, ‘ No No
No I don’t know I don’t know’ she was saying… ‘he’d
said, or didn’t he on his deathbed, deathbed said,
there?’ she wonders looking outwards at something
there, mumberling words inside words inaudible and it
may have been Tower Bridge she’d said then repeated
back to her, ‘ Why Tower Bridge?’ she asks ‘ Its opens?’
I said ‘Oh to let the coffin through’ and she laughs out
loud then subsides chuckling and again she says quieter
now, ‘It will be alright in the end, you know’ though
suddenly doubtful ‘ I don’t know… I don’t know No No
No’ ‘Yes Yes Yes’ I say and then she says so too ‘Yes
Yes yes’ again smiling lightly, joyous almost now in her
faithful confirmation that all would be well, and still she
looks at you smiling, giving right through onwards to
the other place.
‘YOU’ she suddenly calls out the name, after another
dozing suddenly ‘YOU’. It was another one to care for to
know is OK. ‘She’s well…the baby’s doing fine, she’s
happy’ I tell her and she smiles...Love and Hope and..
‘It was the words, his way with words that I loved him
310
for you see’ she’d said about the Lover near the
beginning of this, back in Jan, ‘He made me laugh’ she
said then ‘You have to be able to laugh at yourself’ and
now here reduced inside herself the words are growing,
at last like gifts she is illuminating their meaning, those
great words, Faith, Hope, Love and the greatest of
these is….
‘Don’t look now’ she suddenly says pointing again
looking out past the second and fourth sat near, beyond
the first sitting behind them and out to the third son
standing there arms crossed by the fire. ‘Look there, an
angels wing behind his head’ smiling she says as if it is
and was and will be and she falls back again into the
pillows back into herself curling up an autumn leaf just
before the first frost.
‘Quick Quick come quick’ the youngest says again and
the second dispenses more morphine with a teaspoon
as if into a child’s mouth, and she’s urgently
swallowing, ‘I can’t bear the hurt’ her last baby says
crying and then the second one I push it in thinking
This will kill her and she is falling back as again the pain
is subsiding back this time further back into the depths
into the pillows sinking back further this time.
And this time in her dozing the head is bent slightly in
on itself, uncomfy looking and her eyes are going, the
filament of the seen fading into the unseen, happening
there inside the stillness of her pupil, going, gone.
The room clears. Time passes. A second at a time. Her
heads side flat propped up against the pillow and she is
chuckling in another conversation, ‘Oh Mother’ she says
perhaps at last forgiving that contrary woman she’d run
311
away from and deep down now she was meeting those
others and then another, an odd one appears, the joker
father of her seconds sons wife, Tony the one who’d
died twice, the first time three years before just for a
moment the heart giving way, dead, and then reviving
returning to recount as if fresh back from an exotic
shoreline, telling the tale of sailing down a fast river
drifting along seeing old faces in others boats, then
realizing where he is going rowing frantically back
against the current to finish what he had to do on this
side first, urgently redeeming himself before, thinking
himself almost immortal finally going one Saturday
afternoon shopping in M&S the January before last..…
And she is chuckling again talking in her odd tongue
opiate thick, Was it to him? the Lover who’d been gone
almost a year settled into there the somewhere else,
the one who had been taken from her, the one she
could only love at a distance always then gone without
her able to mourn properly, a trapped love of grief
curdled the flow broken damned, the back then cracked
the very sad part on a wrack and now, finally, through
the pain the pain gone the wrong somehow righted her
love pushing outwards the fear dissolving down the
river towards the estuary, the white light shining
beyond the blueness brightening evening out to just a
breathing, the tide turning the mouth moving gasping,
the hand around the crumpled tissue not reaching now
the lips dryness and then, oddly she let go of my hand,
definitely, with a purpose, letting go of my hold
releasing herself from my grip reclaiming herself and
staring outward blind eyes now totally blown and the
breathing stops, the face utterly still but for the chin
going up and down, the up and down, up and down, up
and down. Stop…..Still. And first a dribble of clean
312
water and then comes a white foam between the lips
surf breaking the final wave leaving and she is gone,
now completely, dead.
-------------
4.44. She’s gone’ he said, the second confirming. Gone.
And he did not feel bad. She’d gone, slipped away from
the quay towards the sea finally through that last
difficult journey, the peace allowing it to find the
opening the fit to slip through cleanly; perhaps or, in
faith her letting enough go to allow it to happen as it is,
was and will be, perhaps but she was definitely gone
now and she did so in hope, a hope without
expectation, through a love without boundary and even
then just before the end she’d said in between the I
don’t knows and the Yeses, ‘YOU’ she’d said the name
of someone else she loved she knew and this woman
was told and this poem came back by email as it was
meant to, it felt. She gave, she had given all the Life
and it came back to her as they say it will; Life giving
Life, Love Giving Love and there somewhere is the
reason why the poem she had chosen for her own
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Mothers parting was Don’t be sad, Be glad. Darlings…
Don’t be sad, Be glad…….
-------All you have to do is believe and love.
But why is it so difficult?
-------------
Darling You
(This was what she’d sent a month before)
Lovely to get your email and another beautiful baby!
Sounds as if you’ve had a lot on your plate!
The boys are being absolutely wonderful and I am
hoping that time will restore nerve end but won’t know
much till next week, but it’s a bloody old debacle being
legless and numb!
No excuses now for not being better educated through
the Internet!
Keep happy and Possative. Will keep in touch..
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Tons of Love
T
March 6th
Darling T
You’ve been in my thoughts recently. I just want to
send you heaps of love. I’ve been reading some poetry
by this wonderful Irish mystic poet- ex priest, His name
is John O’Donohue. I thought maybe you would like one
of his poems. Its called Beannacht
( And I read the poem to her an hour after she was
dead)
One day when
The weight deadens
On your shoulders
And you stumble
May the clay dance
To balance you
And when your eyes
Freeze behind
The grey window
And the ghost of loss
Gets in with you
May a flock of colours
Indigo, Red, green
And azure blue
Come to awaken you
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A meadow of delight
When the canvas frays
In the curach of thought
And a stain of ocean
Blackens beneath you
May there come across the waters
A path of yellow moonlight
To bring you safely home
May the nourishment of the earth be yours
May the clarity of light be yours
May the fluency of the ocean be yours
May the protection of the ancestors be yours
And so may a slow
Wind work these words
Of love around you
An invisible cloak
To mind your life.
-------------
(the Evening after the Death)
And it was night now and the candle had been lit, the
flowers just so and she lay there her mouth closed by
both the second and the last as she had wanted and
now stone cold the pain of the lines dissolving from her
face beautiful, luminous alabaster. ‘Lovely’ she would
have said, Lovely darling she’d have said as we each
read our poem, doing as she’d perhaps have done, as it
was a gift each a gift and exhausted we all sort of slept,
foetal and expectant. It was over and at peace her
warmth filled the house and we the boys, each realising
she was gone now and we didn’t really know each
316
other, our togetherness had been only through her, in
her, with her and she was gone now and it was up to us
to try to find our own reconciliatory love.
And the Dog lay there feet up in the air legs open on his
back, head lolling over the sofas edge like all her boys,
spoilt, loved, content expecting to be fed and we were
strangely happy without meaning to be, laughing
without judgment knowing that she was in fact now in a
better place, in hope and leaving a hope in which we all
felt safe still.
------------------
(the Day after the Death)
And the next day when she’d gone or the body had,
that wretched thing had been removed and the funeral
process began, I sat staring at the empty bed the fire
low and knew that we had been to India after all, the
India I had visited as a boy almost man where my eyes
had been opened and my own heart first felt, ‘Lovely’
and she had taken me there again in this her last
journey revitalizing time, renewing life and I cried
gratefulness staring at the face no longer there no tears
left inside me, happy bereft, staring at the little dash of
mascara on the pillow she had left.
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Hope.
--------------
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318
13. The Arrangements
(the three days following the Death)
The next day the weather turned again, into the north
from west, the light becoming thinner, the cloud
thicker the air colder but it couldn’t stop the birds now
the Spring was unleashed and the eaves were full of
sparrows, the presences of the crows fast receding.
The brothers split up stunned in their differences
knowing a new life was calling, real grown ups
supposedly now, with each in their own fumbling,
awkward way trying to be there for each other as they
knew she would have been for them. But the first and
the third went as soon as they could, back to their
Projects and Programs and we, the second and the
fourth didn’t want to go, both wanting to see the thing
through the journey started so long ago it seemed now.
And then I wanted my brother to leave, I wanted to
finish as I’d begun, alone but the youngest didn’t want
to leave her as he hadn’t done as a child having to be
dragged off to school by his brothers in floods.
But he did leave eventually, his wife, the new mum
commanding and I was left there, arranging the funeral
using all the energy I had stored for the get-well rest
and recuperation period, for the DIY clinic that had
never opened at all. And she was still there still it felt,
sitting by the fire telling me what best things to do,
although she was I think laughing about it all amused
by me and her relations jostling for control, although
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not particularly concerned about the rig-more-roll and
palaver of the ritual; remembering her and no fuss.
And for me it was like being in a detective story
because it became increasingly clear, as I talked to the
friends in her filofax telling them the news and the time
of the service, and heard how each had and not so long
ago, had a lovely time with her, as if it had been meant
to be final, so special and individual had been the love
she’d shown, it was as if she had planned it this way
after all.
And each mentioned the loss of her Lover, how his
death had taken something out of her, how He was so
much part of her life her happiness but he’d got ill and
was taken away and from then on she had seemed
somehow depleted, less so..
‘He couldn’t swallow at the end, it was always a nervous
thing with him’ she’d said in the hospital in Wimbledon
at the beginning, in Jan. ‘He had to take food in a tube’
and it was then five years ago when he had the first
stroke, that her first cancer had started, the second
then beginning soon after, or perhaps at exactly the
same time as when, at the end of last summer, he’d
been declared dead.
Her Brother had taken the call from the Lovers eldest
son, the one who’d driven him there that day to tell her,
the Lover there propped up like a puppet, She had to
stay away that She could never see him again. The son
had the same name as her own eldest and the Brother
taking the call only saying ‘Oh no. Sorry. Jolly good,
lovely man. Awfully sad’ the usual Times Classified
320
society niceties and his unthinkingness hadn’t allowed
her to talk to the caller, to the talk to Him through his
son, to be just a little closer, to her Love to make it a
little more real, the Love that had been taken away
from her, the rope through the hole with a knot tied in
it that had then split creating the tectonic shift breaking
her rivers flow causing an irreversible rift. And it had
started then the second one, the one that had killed
her, this one that just would not be quelled, the cancer
that had set up the diversionary tactics fast and
conniving in order to slip inside her and dig in there
behind her back for good.
And Ray, the farmer next door, was burning hedge, her
neighbour and friend and he said that something went
out of her that day five years ago, a light in her eyes
dimmed as he stood there in his field the Sun coming
out between showers, the indigo cloud heavy over
Blackdown burning away the brambles to get at the
scrap metal beneath. ‘Need to clear it now, tidy up, I’m
same age as your mum and..’ and soon he was talking
about the broken relations in his own family, the sister
not spoken to, the father who’s sold the farm behind his
back and ‘you see we talked we did’ he said, ‘ me and
your mum’ and tears came round his eyes rim as the
smoke billowed around us shot through with the low
Sun, ‘She and Him were always laughing, you could see
how happy he made her like’ A pause; nothing said.
Then the gamekeeper had arrived and wiping away his
eyes with a ‘bloody smoke’ he went back inside and I
walked on with the dog.
The ground had thawed completely now wet through
and the daffodils were finally out, looking back from
Blackdown at the red brick farm in the Oh forever
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patchwork of green, the mist drifting in over the Downs
from the sea I sensed a big Spirit was moving, the
Spring coming and her going she who was in so many
hearts, so much part of others lives there constant,
encouraging the good in others that which made others
feel alive, the special bit, the light in the middle shining,
her chuckle the laughter opening up their insides.
That evening the organist was finally booked, the
flowers had been done the last people rung and the
weather turned colder still with flurries of snow and
suddenly the wind got up, a chill and the house felt
angry the dog barking at nothing in the corner of the
garden, gusts lifting up the corrugated iron on stable
roof and it felt as if she was saying.. ‘Alright, go now, I
need some peac,e time to tidy up, collect myself for the
going, tidy my house before the next journey’ and I
knew I had too to go back home now.
------------
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AFTER FOUR AND HALF DAYS… from the Tibetan Book of the Dead
O child of noble family after being unconscious for four and a half days you will move on, and
awakening from you faint you will wonder what has happened to you so recognise it as a
bardo state. At that time, samsara is reversed and everything you see appears as lights and
images.
The whole of space will shine with a blue light and Blessed Vairocana will appear before you
from the central Realm, All –pervading circle. His body is white in colour, he sits on a lion
throne, holding an eight spoked wheel in his hand and embracing his consort the Queen of
Vajra Space. The Blue light of the skanda of consciousness in its basic purity, the wisdom of
the dharmadhatu, luminous, clear, sharp and brilliant, will come towards you from the heart
of vairocana and his consort, and pierce you so that your eyes cannot bear it. At the same
time, together with it, the soft white light of the gods will also come towards you and pierce
you. AT that time, under the influence of bad karma, you will be terrified and escape from the
wisdom of the dharmadhatu with its bright blue light, but you will feel an emotion of pleasure
towards the soft white light of the gods. At that moment do not be frightened or bewildered
by the luminous, brilliant, very sharp and clear blue light of supreme wisdom, for it is the
light ray of the Buddha, which is called the wisdom of dharmadhatu. Be drawn to it with faith
and devotion, and supplicate it, thinking, ‘It is the light ray of Blessed Vairocana compassion,
I take refuge in it’. It is Blessed Vairocana coming to invite you in the dangerous pathway of
the bardo; it is the light ray of Vairocana compassion.
Do not take pleasure in the soft white light of the gods, do not be attracted to it or yearn for
it. If you are attracted to it you will wander into the realm of the gods and circle among the
six kinds of existence. It is an obstacle blocking the path of liberation, so do not look at it, but
feel longing for the bright blue light, and repeat this inspiration-prayer after me with intense
concentration on Blessed Vairocana:
When through intense ignorance I wander in samsara,
On the luminous light-path of the dharmdhatu wisdom,
May Blessed vairocana go before me,
His consort the queen of Vajra Space behind me:
Help me to cross the bardos dangerous pathway
And bring me to the perfect Buddha state
(the Funeral)
And as I thought it would the Sun did come out,
gloriously, on the day of the Service. And in the
loveliness of the day people smiled and laughed and
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each somewhere cried feeling her there in the garden
just around the corner coming back from somewhere
else and though they did not know it, it was her hope
pulling each back away from their despair, urging life in
its essence to be lived fully, in the giving of, almost to
nothing near death, life, so sweet, so sad, in not being
there forever, so all that is left for us all is only the day.
Its funny I kept calling it without thinking it just came
out, the Wedding, Mamas Wedding, Wedding not
Funeral and I wasn’t sure why.
------------------------
More than that, we rejoice in our suffering knowing that
suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces
character, and character produces hope, and hope does not
disappoint us, because Gods love has been poured into our
hearts
Romans 5.5
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ODE TO THE WEST WIND
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I
O wild West Wind; thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odors plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear! II
Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aery surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear! III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear! IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O, Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind!
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Easter
The sound of a child crying today
As he was yesterday only today
It is raining and drips on the window pane
Like tears
I sit here with fears unexplained
Hiding behind other things peeping out
As though they wanted to join in
But couldn’t
The Marathon run today
People streaming through wet steam
Each in bloody water willing themselves
To redemption
A man with a crippled wife sits at home
Waiting for me to repay him for the dent
In his car door before Easter.
Somehow somewhere all this
Will be joined.
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AND SHE COMES BACK
And she comes back, clippetty clop, a long day at work, then
meal and drink at the Hackney City Farm, a leaving do for
another stalwart and the end of another three-day week.
Nobody was about, and she was glad, a bit of space for her,
god she needed it, all day listening to others problems, well
only one other counselor turned up, but it was the thinking
that was exhausting, not thinking about oneself. That’s what
she needed to do, Dad dead , gone, even though she thought
she’d processed it long ago, after all he’d always been going
wasn’t there, sitting by the Saturday afternoon window
feeling Mum getting increasingly huffy rattling around the
kitchen, and she’d though about where he was, his other life,
children trying to find excuses, hold onto the moment of
delight, when he actually came picking her up in his arms , all
warm and French tobacco, but it needed concentration, the
thinking, not letting yourself start thinking bad thoughts,
getting angry, sullen, just upset; it spoilt the whole of the
weekend, and into he next week, making you feel all small,
ignored, crap at school.,.. And now, she needed the time
again, the time to think, almost go back to the beginning
think her way through that minefield of self and the other,
love held, and love opened, exposed, she needed to let him
go, without feeling angry…
Things were a mess in the kitchen, clothes lying around and,
almost automatically, she started gathering up the bits going
upstairs to put into the wicker basket, He was in bed reading
a magazine. She’d forgotten about him, it was odd, just
thinking about herself and the other, and looking, she just
saw him there, like a growth in the bed. He was like Dad,
something separate, something she couldn’t think about, not
getting hurt, control in a way. She went to get her dope, it
helped thinking and went to go downstairs again. He had
been at home all day, not being able to think. Canceled
Interview, for a job he didn’t want to do.
327
He didn’t like her going out, still after 11 years, but hadn’t
spent much time thinking of her, stirring up paranoia he was
too unsettled, messed up himself, lying in front of the tele,
but agitated, he just wanted the day to be over. In the back
of his mind he’d had the thought of getting it together, of
love making being the part of the day, that made it somehow
solid, an arrow through the floating nothing really happened
feeling. But it wasn’t that important, really. He just needed a
good nights sleep. Even so, he couldn’t stop himself
checking, if she was walking back with anyone, he couldn’t
stop himself checking, the sound of music and diesel engine
parking up outside, thinking of some wild black nightclub, the
bike shed been seeing, finally, now … He couldn’t rest and
went downstairs to see her, to try and get something going,
so the end of day union go assure..
Sitting at table, her going on, him just wanting to go, the cat
on lap, him jealous just wanting to go back to bed, with her,
in hope of; no, not yet.
Sitting at the table, he looked at her; She had those hard
eyes of not really connecting with him/. She was going
through her routine of smoking, cup of tea, talking the day
through. He looked at her, as she had looked at her patients,
assessing where she was at, and she did the same. Agitated,
no doubt by the cancelled interviews, being at home. Jobless,
she’d tell him of her day, give him then something to talk
about. He had a puff of the spliff, He wasn’t meant to, He
didn’t like how it clouded his thoughts, but he was tired of
just the negative maybe just go somewhere else for a while,
get lost in the sex, there physically evened out being
somewhere else for a while. She sensed something
happening but didn’t want that she wanted to keep the Mum
feeling, the professional amongst others like at the work do,
the status of helping others less fortunate than you… He
listened to her go on about the party, the dancing and
thought she should be in a good mood, have something to
give back, but that was him thinking. She was thinking, I feel
328
goods now, why risk it, opening up to him, I can feel settled,
secure, not abandoned, He looked at the cat, splayed on the
floor at her feet, She been purring for her all day, and now
was happy just for her. Sometimes he thought she preferred
the cat, controllable, not demanding in that all encompassing
way..
Come one lets go to bed, he said. I need a lie in tomorrow,
she said, I need sex he said, Quid Quo Prop, he added and
she smiled, but she felt som3ehting shift in her thought, Part
of the reason he wanted that lovemaking was to put back his
back; maybe it was the lack of it that made it stiff in the first
place. In the bedroom, she came in, still in that working
stride, ‘ I hate that smell’ she said, he’d quickly covered
himself with smelly oil and thought why doesn’t she do the
same. He got into bed thinking how small he felt under the
sheets. They were new sheets, and it was all puffed up, and
he felt like someone disappearing in snow. She dived in,
naked and snuggled up. His mouth was dry form the dope,
and he just wanted to get on down her and drink. ‘I don’t feel
sexual at all’ she suddenly announced, he stiffened. Oh God,
here we go, ‘Why didn’t you say?’, ‘I don’t know; ‘I thought I
should, Now I don’t’ and he went off in one. He could see it
now, the disrespect, the lack of willing, live and let live, and
he did quick calculations n his head, the effort he’d put into
this, and now she suddenly didn’t feel obliged to give back, it
was the little hurt, not thinking of his feelings just hers, not
wanting to was bad enough but not caring what effect was
worse, not seeing this as the most important thing, the
relationship, what was the point if being together it cost him
too much.
She looked at him. and again saw him as a client, the
agitation, and she felt cosy there, and the fact was she didn’t
have to be empathetic here, it wasn’t part of the job, ‘I don’t
want to open up’ and soon she was asleep. He went on a bit,
about his theory of relationship, feeling like Barry in East
enders, and wondering if she had someone else, but gave up
329
in the end, because in the end he had given up on her, It
wouldn’t change, the basic set up, the dynamic, and now with
Dad gone, and him having given her the space to occupy his
grief, he sensed it was fixed, the need for thought of herself
to the point of not having to open up, share, the Dad never
had been redeemed, so why should he, the shadow, the
doppelganger, if he didn’t want to so there, And really he
didn’t know if he ( or she) really cared, Her wanted more
time to think for thinking about himself, thinking about them
and herm just left him feeling exposed.
Wives
In the end they dictate the life, supercede
The ego, in the end, if you are not
Careful, they become part of you, or you of
Them, you find the phrases they say come out
Of your mouth, then, in talking of others,
Or talking to yourself, your Life, you
Start seeing things through their eyes and
Wonder where your original vision went, just
A sad depression comes apon you, a stasis, a
Not quite going anyway feeling and you begin
To think of the Life as something separate, gone.
It all comes back to the argument, that
Argument in the mind, that always resurfaces,
As it must in the bricks and mortar brain,
Known as home, the one housing the two;
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Perhaps the structure was set up as only the home
For the children, the other mind subsided in the
maternal, the man on the outside, perhaps.
Evenso, beware the submission of your mind,
In the end it is a form of suicide, your birthright
Denied.
Mummy
And he suddenly realized, that was how it was
Had always been, since being torn from mummys
breast
How it always had been, with women.
Who’d always been there
He just pushed, in, hussle, set an expectancy
Expecting a disappointment, believing someone else
Was there, having to fight and a thirst unquenchable
Making sure she gave passive, as he drew as much
As could be, and then, sated withdraw,
Grumpy, resentful at having to wait, to ask for,
Then go off and perform, prove himself somehow
Always having to prove himself, to earn it
Somehow, exhausting himself,
going beyond the god given self sufficient,
feeding the cycle to having to go back
In again, to rough feast, find himself, complete
In the abandonment to her and
331
the breast between the legs.
The Invisible Line
The boxer talked about the invisible line
Crossing over into the place where his control
His effort his faith was no more
Where the drink took over and tied him up
The invisible line, what about the one where
You abandon your passion, your love, sell out for
Money, status for another
What about the invisible line where you leave
Home, step away from the familiar and
Are traveling with a new compass
The invisible line where your love for another
Become a thirst for comfort
The line where a friend becomes an alley, or someone
You once knew quite well
The line where the past becomes heavier than the
future
And the present shallow of meaning, the line
Where hope fades into a stillborn frame
Invisible lines everywhere, waiting sneaking around you
Something somewhere,
Be aware because Im not sure you can step back to
You have to go right around and start again
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I COULDN’T STOP MYSELF
There’s one thing worse than unrequited love and that’s no
love at all
Stendhal
A boy's best friend is his mother………
…..Well, a son is a poor substitute for a lover.
Norman Bates - In Psycho
333
I couldn’t stop myself I couldn’t go another week
without at least speaking to her some sort of
connection, something to make headway inthe fantasy,
the cardboard cut-out I’d constructed to take the
projection of my giant jigsaw scream.
It had been almost 2 years since I’d first sen her come
into the room. Well she was already there but relatively
new, she was most discreet hiding almost, there behind
the others in the front row seats. I couldn’t stop myself
partly because I knew it was going, the picture I’d been
building for so long sliding away like Time did back in
one of those drink-sodden days. I knew the young man
fantasy was beginning to exhaust itself now arriving
into the mid life and if I didn’t do something soon it, the
what if would putter out to nothing, the what is only
remaining; the unsatisfactory relationship with a wife
who wasn’t quite enough, the longing where the Other
One was meant to be and a recently dead Mum. No
wonder I was in a bit of a state.
And she had always been there in the corner of my eye,
the Other one and it worked again today, the stomach
turning expectation over hope and now I sensed a
touch of envy sitting there looking again at the back of
her head that thick hair recently dyed studiously
unkempt, stopping myself looking at the side of her
face that delicious profile pale fine features so delicate
matching the singularity of her voice, reticent but
strongly unique, wise despite the fragility and she’d
really been somewhere and it felt, I told myself, pretty
much the same sort of place I’d been too. In fact I had
come to be convinced that we were, not just because
334
she was the most beautiful woman I’d seen, in my
eyes, for too long to recount, genuine soul mates, and
so, therefore, it was meant to be, fated, that we should
meet. It was taking a long time though, going to the
meeting in that room week after week but always me
being too shy to speak.
This time I couldn’t stop myself, this time I just couldn’t
let it go. It was ridiculous, each week going to the room
as to a filling station, for a top-up of a little bit of
expectation and hope, that little sickening around the
stomach, a little illusionary bait to keep me going for
another seven days in this illusionary state, drip by drip
feeding a whole shoal of possibilities in the evertomorrow undertow of the if only. Oh no, not again,
Time was running short and even I, past master of
invented dialogues and the secret dramas of the unsaid,
even I knew if something didn’t happen soon then our
wonderful relationship to be, would, effectively, be
dead.
There was the real one of course, this relationship that
is between me and her, the one that would happen
anyway just by being there together in the same room
every Sunday week after week. Something would
happen eventually I knew without my interference, a
relationship would come about even if it turned out to
be no relationship at all so to speak. But the fact is I
couldn’t stop myself interfering with it all the time,
working through the hows whats and wheres and
somehow it was becoming the catch-all solution for
resolving all the opposites, contradictions and tensions
that my existence actually was. Rather than working
through these, the difficult relationship, the awkward
home and uncomfortable job, rather than try and
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resolve these in the excruciatingly slow and tortuous
way they call Life, this one, her, was to be the answer,
the quick-fix the instant hit the becoming of how it
should be now today.
And I couldn’t stop myself the waiting for it, the desire,
the longing for it, it had become almost unbearable
since Mother had gone only a few weeks previous, now
dead and I knew it was wrong the severity of the
longing that I had for her, the unrequited. I sensed she
the Mother, was the original cause for this tri partite
dynamic that was pulling my insides to bits, the trinity
of Mother, Wife and Would Be, the unrequited love and
now with her, the Mother finally gone only the last two
were remaining, taking the whole load of me, making
the tension too extreme the tort too tight between the
bitch wife and the angel would be and I’d have to walk
away from both, to remain sane I knew, be alone in the
nothingness of the neither, empty again in order to,
after the mourning, move on.
But I couldn’t stop myself, I almost did, leave, but I
didn’t, I couldn’t stop myself unable to let go I wanted
to go further with her the unrequited, get taken up in
the new and so I resolved or it felt now like it was being
resolved by something else, to make, at last, the first
move. I’d invite her to a film, I resolved, choosing the
one about Hitler, Downfall, the last days in the Bunker,
him maniacally deluded pushing around armies that no
longer existed. ‘An unparalleled essay on demonical
fantasy’ the art house reviews raved, ‘a study of
necrophilia more like’ said my mate, ‘just right that
should do the trick’ I couldn’t stop me telling myself.
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So this morning at the meeting out of the corner of my
eye I tracked her, what she did, how she was, who she
talked to, what was that bloke doing talking to her? But
we didn’t speak, I couldn’t say hello I was too shy and
she looked too stern faced, as if knowing she
disapproved of my longing, could see it all too clearly
and frightened of being seen I talked to someone else
and then she was going she was gone and I couldn’t
stop myself following, I just had the urge at least to say
hello, maybe ask her to the café I’d never been to or
something anything or I’d have nothing to go on for, to
feed me for the next week, no smile, no hello not even
an almost, nothing, again I’d be left with just the
longing the asking the possibility of and that’s what felt
so awkward, making the tension almost unbearable
being just left there with that longing, the longing which
was effectively for nothing apart from itself but still, I
couldn’t stop myself thinking, that perhaps it was a
feeling not too far away from the thing called love. I
dreaded the foreboding that if I left today without
anything from her, it would leave me feeling like I was
waking up again dead.
So I chased her, I couldn’t stop myself; by chance I
could bump into her by the bikes, talk about getting
them nicked, or the differences in lock sizes, expound
on the prison of our addictive conditions blind like
bunkers, oh yes like Hitler, and as if by chance a
coincidence why don’t we? how about going to that
film? But then I saw her through the round window as
she rode off oh so poised and elegant and I ran to my
bike riding off with a maybe she’d be round the corner
there somewhere, it would happen fortuitously, like
fate, it was meant to be so, fated, it wasn’t like I was
being obvious my longing being declared, I wouldn’t
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have to make a CALL or anything so revealing as crass
as that.
But I was becoming desperate to break out of this
feeling, blowing up larger and larger inside me like
having a giant internal balloon and I knew it was
dangerous as something would have to done with the
air. So the more I chased her the more I was getting
closer to having to do something mad. But I couldn’t
stop myself, there had to be a change I had to break
the knot of the same old too neat triumpherate and
anyway now with the First One gone, Mother dead there
was the two left not workable with the love of one
canceling out the love of the other leaving nothing,
unsustainable with no alternative but for me to make up
the circle in the middle static, my need, my fear, my
love held too tight internal dying in the too bright light.
No, now I had to do something or go into the
nothingness with neither, the black hole my Mother had
said, I knew it had to change now and I couldn’t stop
myself and as I chased her as I resolved to make the
CALL now.
I was almost falling off the bike as I got her number up
in Contacts, the number I’d wheedled out of her before,
giving her my story about breaking up with my wife in
New Zealand, her homeland to read, Any comments
gratefully received Do call and she did and I’d got the
number, saved it another objective in my plan
accomplished, as if it was a little skirmish won before
the main campaign and there at the bottom of the
screen in came up again- CALL an instruction, a
command or was it perhaps a question over which my
thumb was now poised? But I didn’t. Leave it a little
longer I told myself, it didn’t feel quite right and there I
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went, breaking away from the chase, the 40-something
teenager clutching my mobile in one hand the other
gripping the bars of my bike in the hope of wobbling off
my fear.
-------------------
And I remember it so clearly, in between the pillars in
the church at the nativity play. She was standing there
the same dark hair, slim, smaller with even features
looking straight on at me, no side, all there, just looking
at me clearly not shying away. It had been the same
the first time 40 years before, that first time and even
then the same thing happened, a ballooning up of
discomfort, wanting to but being unable and then she
was gone left there with the same emptiness where
she’d previously been and me with the awareness of the
fear that her light had for the first time made clear. It
was new then, the fear and the desire and me not sure
what to do, the same tension leaving me lost double
minded and unstable in between them, go on go
towards her I told myself and don’t mind being stupid,
or do nothing and be even more angry with yourself
later left with a what might have been. She was stood
there alone, her aloneness reflecting mine accept I
thought she was happy, content in the solitude,
indivisible, serene.
That’s was the other thing, the same as now, Envy,
wanting that completeness, from the Other One,
wanting to have a bit of what she possessed, even
though I know it wouldn’t solve anything in me, I
couldn’t stop myself believing that it might be so. Envy,
Greed, Anger, the being separate, Alone and then Fear,
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afraid. It must have started at the beginning with the
First One, Mother the Original One, my always wanting
more but not being able to because of the others, the
brothers in between other boys leaving me so full of
the want so angry that I had to seek so much approval
from her. It was almost the point of everything, that
wanting of, the milk, the warmth, the smell, it made me
feel so good but never being able to have it , it being
taken away making me feel so bad. I couldn’t stop
myself and perhaps all my life has been devoted,
despite the rest, to manipulating the situation to get
whatever I could before the others, before it all went.
And she was standing there again, and I knew she
knew but still was gentle and I did not know her name
and suddenly she was gone and I never saw her again.
All I was left with was the awareness of the space she’d
created and the emptiness, there waiting the wanting
that she’d left behind and I sensed then that it always
was going to happen if I didn’t hold on tight.
I cant let this one go too, left by a giant pillar in the
warm glow of a Church at Christmas staring at the
empty space she’d created inside me, I cant let her
leave, I couldn’t stop myself thinking, I’m getting too
old now, to old to lie too old to woo, this might be the
last one I thought as I raced on the bike over speed
humps hoping the sickening urge would recede and I
would not have to make the CALL after all and so
expose myself to the exposure of my own desperate
need.
Fear, dissolving me, contours falling away into the next
one, that teenage tsunami, in Fish Hatchery, hundreds
of little trout swimming around our embrace
340
disappearing behind weed. There in the darkness
fumbling with another dark haired girl considerably
smaller than me. The body swelling with prerogative
and a million hours of speculation now bought to the
fore under the shouting to surmount the virginal wall
But my Dad’ll kill me if I get pregnant, Fear, frozen
paralyzed between the biology and the theology the
base desire and imagined ideal, left as a rabbit in the
headlights and after just sore balls waddling around the
school dodging the laughter ricocheting off the walls, he
couldn’t do it, fallen at the first hurdle, he can’t get it
up the tool, the oh so delicate bridge already fallen into,
between fear and love, ruined by that yes but no for
years.
No, Yes No I can I can I can I cried as I furiously cycled
now at last, the trumpet call of mortality I can I can I
can, I told myself cycling along the mobile and number
at the ready still in my hand, now I can I can I can
proactively answer my own need before that too
disappears inside me and the years of not quite being
me. I had too before she too began slipping away, my
fantasy failing, furiously running away the fear of there
being nothing left, to be left finally face to face with my
own void, my frightened knuckles now turned white
gripping too tightly my mobile phone.
But here I am unable to stop myself cycling furiously
through red traffic lights knowing I’m being carried
along in an obsession for this unrequited that I had
began longing for almost two years ago now needing to
reconcile the real and the fantasy before the whole play
corrupts into the Time wasting and self hate that makes
any sort of hope impossible to sustain.
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It had happened before. The existing woman, the
Mother replacement, becoming too much of a mirror to
me, too much of a witness to the mothers son being
corrupted, her light becoming sullied and shifting to
somewhere else and the possibility of another life.
Another woman then would miraculously appear to
reflect another approximation of the Mother, balancing
out the lack in the actual wife and life. It now seems
like cooking, each women becoming a flavour in my
mind exaggeratedly spiced as I attempted to replicate
that vague taste of the mothers presence; warm,
sweet, milky, earthly, ethereal, a complexity that like a
chimera can never actually be created, to be held, seen
or smelt, only a brief illusion, the white feather floating
down in curves alluding my baby hands grasping from
the cot.
I’d seen her there, between other shoulders sunk into
her chair, one bit of too much hair dyed hiding her face,
I heard talk about her love that had died, the ex who
had told her to go away ‘even though I looked a million
dollars, and I’d seen her begin to smile again, the hair
cut and pulled back her throat going red when she
spoke of trying to break free of the yoke of self disgust
and pain, I’d seen her care for others even in the soft
uneasiness of being who she was, trying so hard
succeeding finally in laughing at herself and I heard her
talk of doing things I did too, of going to places I had
gone to also, of her life echoing mine.
I couldn’t stop myself, even though I knew it slightly
pervy looking her up on the Internet, I needed to find
out who she was. I became a Stalker to my own
longing, trying every which way to keep it from failing,
without bringing it into the light. So in the basement,
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my own particular bunker with my own failing
cartography, I found her CV online and tried to
manipulate the dates, so that we’d share times here
and there, imagining meeting her at parties and moving
countries and I even saw our kids, twin boys running
down hills wind through their unkempt hair. And I
prayed that somewhere we would and we did,
eventually say hello and I did show her my story and
inevitably through my story she’d shown some of hers
and I had even got a hug off of her once before, though
it was as impersonal as all those you get at Self Help.
So, I just waited, told myself if it was meant to be so it
would happen, eventually; so I waited turning up at the
room almost religiously week after week in hope of just
once to talk to her more, to see if my imagination was
perhaps not too far from hers, fantasies colliding
making it real if we could just talk, nothing else, be
intimate for a moment, just one chance to be actually
who I was with her.
But who was I? What was I doing vacillating between
her and the Mother and She the wife? To accept things I
cannot change..? still stuck in the nitty gritty of the
marriage and its constant bargaining over love, the
battle between good and bad, the life that was mired in
the not quite good enough.. To change the things we
can..? the undeniable fact that this was actually what it
was like, a life I couldn’t accept, or wouldn’t break, but
would I if there wasn’t the possibility of another one?
Give me the wisdom to know the difference… and where
was God, hiding behind the uncertainty of what was
really real in that crowded place of actors where my
heart once was.
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And now turning up into the Park, determined to make
that CALL I’d thought about making so many times
before, to bring that longing out of the unsaid into the
undeniable profession of desire. I want you, I want you,
I want you, desperate to stop the whole consequence of
my fantasy, the tent, collapsing, tent also meaning a
material to tend a wound, and its definitely needed
now, what with the mess I’m caught in between the
horrific NO and the almost as horrific possibility of a
YES, the actual declaring of my desire and the
consequent dread of actually having to try to live fully
again. I’m sure now this is all something to do with
death, actually trying to move towards the light rather
than continuing to mope in the spongy grey absorbing
the disappointments of the days, the used waters of the
imagined becoming almost instantly drained away.
Carpe Diem was the call, Seize the Day, the man
married 5 times said, that adolescent intention now
appropriated by encroaching Middle Age that the book
was actually written for, that last CALL which was
happening to me, it now felt like.
Now I know the unrequited has always been there,
since that Nativity Play a succession of possibilities
unlived and now I know that I have to break the chain,
end the preciousness of the love it creates, the potential
the unrequited supposedly holds pure and
unadulterated and too much to risk going into. Now I
wonder if the unrequited is only there invented to
collect the unconditional Mother light and I knew that
once I’d made the CALL, she would almost immediately
develop the blemishes of my disappointment, fright,
and rage.
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As I raced towards the CALL I couldn’t stop that
bewildering confusion, the fear and humiliation of being
jilted, back at the school after the failure of the Fish
Hatchery where everyone knew, my little ego forced to
hide before my self belief had even reached sixteen.
Now kamikaze like unable to stop myself aiming to end
the unrequited-ness of the unrequited , the CALL to kill
the very thing protecting my ultimate pain, the thing
that shields me, allows me to live in only the possibility
of the good without the complexities of the real, and
the talk I was aiming to have with her, would make the
‘un’ then become requited leaving the former forever
dead.
------I’d killed them all in the end, you see in the end all the
unrequited had betrayed me, in the end my longing
turns to viscous hate, the purpose becoming only to
rescue my precious Ego from its playground fate, the
little me in the middle of the Trinity, where even with
original One has let you down by going, leaving you
without the teat.
First there was Helga, the actress, going off with a
Director killing her four months later when she rang
from Austria at Christmas with a piss off and a three
grand cheque. Then Meredith, another abortion five
months late, and her doing it with a Mexican just before
I joined her to spend her money and body on Mescal
the worm turning evil dumping her half dead.
Then Portia, left in the back of Van on a Spanish trip
she’d paid for, unable to stop myself dissolving into
345
brandy and coffee for breakfast and with it great slurps
of self-hate. I wasn’t really good enough to live, let
alone love. So Marie Anne, the French girl in Brooklyn,
so pretty and so sophisticated, lovely chit chat de
Cannes, too good for me I had only wanted to hold her
hand untouched and so unadulterated by me, another
longed for unrequited allowing you to live one step
away from your self.
They mustn’t get too close, mustn’t make you do the
same, because it’s back inside then again. Like Ellen a
night under the moon talking about the Art about what
we’d do unencumbered with our unsuitable spouse and
by the fire the open bottle between us feeling that
teenage excitement moving up the throat and then No,
it just didn’t feel right as she began to open herself
feeling your own bad soul rising eager to exploit the
gap and so fill in the same in you.
Its not the point of the unrequited, they’re there to hold
things in stasis, not to actually do anything but to allow
one only to imagine the virtual good and so hold the
actual bad back. She the Unrequited serves to be the
last lifeline as the self contorts into itself the anger that
prevents love for anyone else. As the Frenchman said
one thing worse than the unrequited is no love at all,
the ultimate nothingness that we are avoiding at all
cost.
-----------------And towards her, this one, I now cycle, past the babies
in the Park swerving around their concerned Mums
rushing to evade me to find the suitable seat, in the
346
middle facing East and the two tower blocks remaining
after the other three I’d witnessed being blown up not
so long ago; the new school behind me and on one side
a line of grand houses that had once been squats and
in the sky blue above skidding cloud and a distant
possibility of rain.
Its spring now and my mother has gone and this is it, a
life my life and I cannot anymore bear that fear of being
not quite good enough, of the what if and if only and
the knowing that my unrequited is fading, the picture is
draining away as the Original Light has gone now, Mum
dead and its down to the what is, this the One and that
is the Other, living in the split world of the black and
white, the wife and the old life of disappointment and
disease and the new one of forgiveness and possibility
and now in the middle it is nowhere, the lynchpin isn’t
there now, the Original One gone and with her the get
out clause, the safety net, the place of the
unconditional, where love always has been, the warmth
of the ultimate sanctuary. Its gone and now between
the imagined and the actual there is the dread of going
forever into nowhere, into the abyss only dimly
perceived in the half light at dawn, the black hole that
Mother talked about her dreaming me falling into not
long before the end, that pit of endless impossibility,
infinite negativity, when each day is a becoming in the
beginning of a long slow death.
But I must live now, now I must live before I die too, I
couldn’t stop myself saying to me as again I was
scrolling the name down in Contacts to E, I couldn’t
stop myself I must see if it’s true, the imagining of me
and her, that we are in fact living already in the other
world together, me and her in the picture revealed by
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the one that had faded. Can this one, the one with the
perfect smile that lit up the damp grey of that Sunday
Morning, renew the hope of love and a life entwined, a
voice calling out for comfort that only I could provide,
the notes of life emanating from her half heard
conversations, the work hates, the trawling around the
world in search of something, the broken heart already,
almost willing the proof that I too know that wound and
around each other we could entwine helping each other
to heal..
In the Park a group of cricketers all in different shades
of white were running around in a half hearted sort of
way, the lush grass still wet and surging upward toward
the promise of hot lazy day, and the mobile is moving
around in my hand begging to be called, the name
there, the number, the question or command, CALL.
The welling balloon of possibility squeezed up the larynx
knowing that either way soon I was going to feel awful,
left with the fear crumpling into humiliation or in that
awkward somewhere in between suspended, not quite
sure as even an affirmation would be scary, being
swept away with it relieving me of the responsibility of
living or even trying to love again.
It wants admitting that the love with the spouse was no
longer there and there was no hope. It wasn’t suddenly
going to reappear and we’d suddenly be together again
in loving intimacy we once had. We couldn’t even talk
now. In different positions we were now drifting so far
apart that being carried away down the river I’m now
looking for an island, another place to attach to and in
so doing admit that I didn’t know where the fuck I was.
Nowhere perhaps but frightened for sure.
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You said you liked film, you said you were a black
sheep, you said you were jealous you said, you said,
you said and each thing you said was adding another
bit to the picture Id built of what it could be like with
you the Unrequited. And ringing now was a risk, making
that CALL could destroy it, the picture, saying yes yes
yes I want to be with you meant entering into it, that
delicate figmentation of images and feelings I’d created
which now so easily could collapse into a mess.
Fuck it, and I did, press the button, CALL….The whole
world rushing in towards you your little face, hearing
you’re not quite sure who it is, that odd aching in the
voice. Should I be shy or frank? Then the how are you?
the yes or no hovering there unsaid and not quite sure
if this was the right thing to do, but I couldn’t stop
myself and was continuing blundering on towards the
will you come to a film, about Hitler? and then the
doubt coming into her voice. What does this mean, is
this a date or what?, and people in the background and
the I’m not sure and the laughter in the air around me,
how does he presume this the little man, I think you
think about me the one who failed in the Hatchery, he
couldn’t do it, fallen at the first hurdle, he can’t get it
up the tool, the one whose now past it, the what might
have been and then hearing the I’m not sure, (how can
I get him off the phone) she was thinking I was thinking
and then the I’m really sorry but I cant this
time….saying sorry her voice fading like a fish in the
weed disappearing and me then left there with my own
emptiness again in between the trees, trying to come
into leaf, the park now a stadium and me, the I in the
middle a toothless gladiator getting the thumbs down
from the invisible crowd infront of the skidding cloud,
snide giggling loudly russling through the plane trees
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leaves no no no negative announcements scrawled out
in the sky by planes and suddenly I am back having to
listen to the here and now, left with me and the reality
that You love another who doesn’t exist, your love is
broken with the one you’re with, and the original, the
always yes, is now dead.
And what’s worse is no love at all.
And going, leaving the arena I’d knew I’d have to tell
her now, the one at home still clung onto, like the one
before, before she came along, knowing now I couldn’t
cheat it, that change, the change I longed for, it
necessitated truth. The picture can no longer be
sustained, the cardboard cut out to take my pain, the
unrequited is gone now and I want to tear my whole
fantasy apart get back to zero where my first love
starts. The unrequited is no more, just another
rejection, just a woman who you vaguely knew who is
not particularly interested in the relationship, which you
know didn’t even exist in the first place, further. Blah
de blah de fucking Blah… Mummy where are you?
Perhaps it will come later. It’s the waiting that’s
difficult. Perhaps over the years in the room week after
week we will become friends or a circumstance may
throw us together as if it was meant to be so. But life
actually doesn’t work as simply as stepping from one to
another. I knew now really the chasm has to be
crossed, the emptiness has to be lived in first. If you
choose to leave the loves that’s there; there has to be a
nothingness before the next, you have to only hope,
and wait for the inevitability that always comes along.
350
It’s the waiting that’s difficult; the fear that love is not
there for you, ever again, before death. There will never
be anything for your love to be with. But the empty
park told me and the humiliation of the tent collapsing
around my feet is telling me clearly that love is only
inside us and it is first there and rather than running
after the Other the unrequited, it has to be there for
everyone and that’s how it was, will be, and is.
It’s a new era, I couldn’t stop myself telling myself,
cycling towards home, and it felt like in saying goodbye
to the unrequited, saying goodbye to my Mother yet
again, saying goodbye to the light between the would
be and the what is. It felt like the picture that had been
my life was over now, the actual now no longer
suppressed by the longing for the love unconditional
and I couldn’t stop myself hearing the sky tell me, it is
now all in the being able to just here and now and the
continual striving for the capacity to do so, for others
and for yourself, and in this, the new era it is becoming
horribly clear that without this change the black hole,
that nothingness she dreamed of and I am all too
strenuously avoiding can all too easily exist for you to
fall into, the yes into no.
351
Young Couple
The dog was going frantic
And the two were bickering
You take the dog out. No
Why don’t you- Stop it Now
Don’t talk to me like that
I wasn’t was talking to the dog
Put him out, I bought him in
It is cold Well settle it
Down, and the manboy drank
More wine, and she texted friends
And the dog, finally quiet
For a moment, busily sat
Eating his lead….
War March
The children are all getting it, tightened
Heads and chests, not wanting to take their
Medicine, or settled, down to bed; men in
Fine shirts, hunch over megaphones, crack jokes
And debate whether to pursue the course of
Love or hate, and all we can do is
Tramp the street, wonder why what for
And whether our now so little world will
Cope, or like a body blow wonder which
Other bit will feel the pain, take the strain
Or indeed, like a smoker feeling aches
Shift around his chest or back, whether
It will in fact destroy the very essence of life;
The child calls out for her mother,
Unable to get up from bed, sensing a
Far off echo of dread, as Dad watches
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Others sit and debate around the table
Whether to go down the course of
Love or hate and getting tense because
All Democratic eunuchs in the end
We can do is sit around and wait…
AT WAR
And it’s the mind narrowing, as the self pushes
itself into a focus, a self contained unit, of besieged
maxim, constrained personality, awkwardly stated
aims. Closing off the other voices, pushing oneself
forward- and then you realize that all of a sudden there
isn’t the room to listen, listen to the fully self, the whole
world, and that which is beyond, a veil, a shroud,
covers that, the light, and the tinker bell points which
corresponds to that within one.
Be wary to bury the darkness, to muffle it too
completely, for that, the bad you are so shy of, is in
fact the point to the light in which the full self, the
bright side can be.
The war is almost here, the deadline had almost
come, and people were staying in their homes. Just a
few young men, doing things around cars, as if
preparing for something.
The listening too has stopped. The plan is in place,
the squaddies are in tents, though, even there you
cansense the doubt. Doubt is everywhere; not good for
such a thing, in the ultimate focus of war.
In Baghdad, the streets are deserted, the
merchants have hid their goods, again for them, and it
is real. And in America too, the fear blows through the
street, blown by the media, and the proactive
barometer of the amber alert.
It is just a bomb, after five people in a street, then
Saddam scurrying between bunkers, apparently. It
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missed, or so the old looking man said later in the
evening, as the sun rose there over the flat desert.
The next morning it is a lovely day here, a blue
sky, and two vapour trails across it. And in a window
stands a young girl in her white t-shirt, just staring out
of the window, at the garden almost coming out.
THE FISHING TRIP
If any of you is lacking wisdom ask God, who gave all
generously and ungrudgingly, and it will be given to you, But
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ask in faith never doubting for the one who doubts is like a
wave of the sea, driven and tossed by the wind, for the
doubter, being double minded and unstable in everyway must
not expect to receive anything from the Lord
James 1/8
He was there on the Quay, as I’d had predicted. She’
given him a glimmer last night at the bar, and seeing us
walking down he stopped, just for a moment, shifting
the fish crate onto the lorry, and grinned, looking at
her. ‘What’s his name? Your friend’ I said, as a
precursor to a sentence’ I don’t know’ she replied,
moving slightly closer to me, ‘I can’t remember’ she
added slightly embarrassed. ‘Thought you wouldn’t’ I
said moving away from her, waving hello to him, ‘You
were too drunk, weren’t you, you always pick up the
drunk in the bar’.
It was true, she always did. They gravitated to her,
when she was drunk, desperados, sensing another
member of the last drink crew, and she told them her
life story, and listened to theirs. Really interested,
nosey she called it, but they, usually awful lonely,
feeling her warm side warmer with each new drink, let
themselves, their vision beginning to blur, just for a
moment, hope, it might be something else, as though
she’d thrown out a line to them as they drifted out to
sea with the current, a land line of understanding that
could stop them disappearing all together. I should
know, I was the one who’d got permanently attached,
metamorphosing into her anchor, the one they didn’t
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see below the surface, of the laughter, the grins and
the drink.
We’d all been at the bar up at the Mill last night, Anna
and Tina my wife, two old mates, they were drinking
companions hitting the margaritas, and me sitting there
like some sort of chaperone, making sure she got back
alright getting cold in the Antarctic breeze, my bladder
tightening drinking all that water. Anna had been
organizing the fishing trip at short notice with Steve the
fisherman and the drunk had been with him. Drinking
cocktails, Hawaiian shirt half undone, bright red
grinning with wide watery eyes. Steve was drinking tea,
like me he’d given up and didn’t say much. ‘You know
mate’ had said the drunk as we’d set off the bar closing,
‘I think Ill come along tomorrow on the trip ‘ he’d said
cheerily checking Tina, as she grinned widely lost in the
Mexicana of drink. The only thing I’d heard him say
amid the hubbub was that he’d sold his boat recently,
for 250 thousand bux, which had foolishly made me
worried. I was jobless at the time ‘ Are you alright to
walk darling’ Id heard his voice say, as Tina lost her
footing in the darkness towards the car park and I went
to guide her wondering what would happen, here the
other side of the globe in a Kiwi fishing village, pissed
getting too close to the drunken sailor. It just made me
feel uptight.
I looked up at the stars, so bright in the Southern
Hemisphere sky, the too straight line of 3 somewhere in
the Southern Cross, walking in the middle of the road
ahead of the two now drunk women holding each other
up, me trying hard not to go down the paranoid path,
thinking about what Tim, Anna’s husband had said,
looking up at the same sky last night, ‘the thing is those
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stars may not be in that alignment, one star may be
much further back than the others, only brighter, so
they seem to be next door to each other but aren’t,
from a different angle, they are not aligned at all’ I cut
down off the road across the grass by the Church. I just
had to keep my mind from the nasty thoughts, of
desertion, flirtation, my own weakness, excluded by the
drink, and look up and marvel at the stars, the strewn
mist of the Milky Way, wondering if that was a galaxy or
a vagrant cloud. I just had to stick to my own mind, my
own train of thought. Tim had gone back early taking
the kids. I’d offered to but he’d said he could see Anna
had that drinking look in her eye which meant she
wouldn’t stop, and I should have gone with him, just
left them to their own alcoholic bonding, but I didn’t
want to I didn’t want to let it go, the tightness with
Tina, the ‘we had a wonderful time together in New
Zealand’, I didn’t want something bad to happen to
spoil it, even thought I’d have to sacrifice my own state
of mind to make sure.
I cut down on the grass by the Church, a little wooden
toy of a building over the road from our house, Let
them stumble on themselves; although for a moment I
pictured them being picked up by the drunk in the car,
‘Want to come to a party mate?’ and loosing them
forever, I’d promised myself Id leave her if she went off
in a drunkenness again, it just cost me too much. Fuck
‘em I thought, and looked up at the church imagining
Dickson, crouched on the roof, all in black with his black
wings Mum Anna had given him for Christmas. He’d
suggested it and it made me laugh, the adolescent boy
constantly testing boundaries, imagining rebellion,
though his ex rock star parent s didn’t give him much to
rebel against. Boundaries. I still didn’t know mine, or at
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least didn’t live in them, otherwise why would I be here
cold stone sober escorting drunk women home, when
really I just wanted to be reading a book in bed.
Just before the entrance to Tim and Anna’s Batch, the
beach house, apparently every New Zealander had, I
turned and saw Tina and Anna, holding each other on
the crest of the hill, leaning into each other, Anna
pointing stars in the sky out to Tina, and I smiled at the
friendship, the old intimacy from touring the world
together in the band and shivering I felt a lump in my
chest pushing upward a ball of grief at the loss of that
warmth which, since Id stopped drinking, Tina and I
had never really had. I felt cold and lonely walking into
the batch where everyone else was sleeping, my mind
moving away from that expanse to get to bed despite
them.
Even so I made tea for everyone, the impulse to
control, to redeem too strong to resist, They stumbled
in laughing, saying Shh, ‘Fuck teas Where’s the
tequila?’, said Anna, though Tina came to hold me, ‘Ill
have a cuppa’ a sign, coming over to my side. I
stiffened but was glad of it. ‘Lets go to bed soon, I
whispered, but before she could reply Anna had three
glasses and plonked the bottle in the middle of the
round table. ‘Right let’s drink to us’ and it started, the
drunken autobiography, the drunkography talking about
her life. ‘ Its what Tina in her cups also did, and I never
really understood, The drinking was an affirmation of
self, a statement of being alive, who they were, my
drinking had always been a mistake, and I’m sure I
made up stories when I was drunk about myself, but
Anna was telling the truth, ina did too; it was like the
drink gave them the courage to do so. Tina belched into
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herself, and I sensed sick. She’d couldn’t do it anymore
really, the open ended drinking neither head nor
stomach, but she still knew when to go to bed, she
never lost it entirely. Mission achieved I wanted to go
also but Anna needed a companion for the final drinks.
Beautiful, bright blond hair, emboldened with spirit she
sat straight up, her face wide blooming, pregnant with
drink.
‘ Listen to the Moocow’ she said a bird in the bush, shrill
in the dark silence. Moocow, Moocow it sang, followed
by a croak of a frog, in harmony, I said. But she wasn’t
listening and went to have a pee and get a cigarette.
Eluctable harmonies, Stings new album, Tim had said
as we’d listened to his Bach’s Brandenburgs in his
Cherokee Jeep. Anna had a thing about blokes cars and
girls cars, each to their own. As she was so strongly
woman she wanted men to be strongly men although
Tim was the most unblokish bloke, vegetarian guru
devotee musician, only very rarely raising his voice
exasperated by Dickson’s antics. And in the blokes car
we’d listened to Bachs harmonies, played on a
synthesizer by a Californian called Virginia who’d used
to be called Victor, and driving along Tim’d taught me
how the harmonies had worked, one line leading to
another, out of each other, and showed me how it was
the gaps in between the lines which were magical, and
on one particular track, a death piece, where Bach’d
hidden other bits of music which added up to a grieving
for his dead wife, and since then Id bee thinking of the
harmonies surrounding us, in this empty land with
nature still so strong where the harmonies were so
clear, loud , and …
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‘Ah my cantina’ Anna said returning, adequately
flushed, ‘ I feel a Mexican vibe coming on’ and she sat
to have a swig of tequila. It was just me and her now
sitting there the sea breeze making the array of plastic
chandeliers sway under the canopy their candle light
making everything move, gently. ‘ Yeah, when I came
back after all the popstar stuff, I knew I had to use my
obsession, my facility for obsession’ She sat proudly the
top of her chest glowing red with the sun and her own
voice, like the Moocow bird, in a way, repeating the
autobiography renewed just telling me she was there. ‘
I looked at glassworks, Nah, Opening up a shop, Nah,
Recording producing, Nah, and then the GM thing,
fighting the bastards, it fitted it felt right, RAGE,
something I could put everything into, my obsession
could be best used, it felt….’. I just looked at the
others, looked at them then dismissed them’ and she
made a swathing motion with her hand putting out the
candle in the middle of the table, which I relit. It was
something for us and something between us, as I sat
there and received the hot feminine energy glowing like
embers from the other side.
The powerful clarity of Anna dealing with her own mid
life crisis, obviously cushioned by the popstar riches but
still a crisis of identity all the same, hadn’t quite been
like that I remembered. Returning to England once 5
years ago, by herself, slightly overdressed, not quite
right, her talking energetically about blowing glass, but
you could sense then that the talk the expansiveness
didn’t quite match the quietness and privacy of the
task, she was applying popstar hype to something that
didn’t really need to be talked about at all, the end
result should explain it and her descriptive speeches but
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it would always tail off, deflate exhausted by self
expression she’d put inside them unnecessarily.
And the last party New Years Eve, a year or so back,
hadn’t quite worked, far too much food, not enough
people, just close friends expectation didnt quite make
it and it was obvious that she no longer had the cache
anymore, the queen bee she had been as people
queued to get into her old parties was gone and
although her mind could accept it, her energy again was
not quite requited, left hanging there, But the thing was
the energy was her, not the words, the glow, the
openness and with RAGE, Righteous Women Against
Genetic Engineering, she’d found the channel, it was
open-ended, global, touched everything, it was hers,
her seed, now she was a star, as well as a mother. ‘
We’re going to fuck the fuckers’, she said, and she
reeled out the facts again, the Agrochemical.. who
patented and planted…
And it was making a speech again the Moocow bird
released from her vocal constraint suddenly articulate,
telling the world what for, ‘ and there was this farmer in
Canada, Saskatchewan, her tongue Mexciana getting
caught up in the S’ss ‘ Fuck it, Canada, and fuckin
Monsanto in the next farm patented this apple that took
over his field, and they said they owned the crop, there
was nothing he could do about it, farming for 30 years,
lovely apples suddenly gone, and she was angry, but
like a gust suddenly dropping she said ‘but nature will
fuck it, eventually we’ll mutate fuck up the planet all die
and nature will take over regenerate’ and she sighed ,
heaving into a cough, sucking in another lungful of
Dunhill Gold to placate the itch ‘Yeah its bad.’ I said I
couldn’t think of anything to say ‘. Do you like Frieda
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Kahla?,’ I asked, my over watered brain grasping for
something back onto the Architecture, as the drink
pushed the anger and the love around her frame, ‘ I
love her yes Frieda, we should go and see that film
when we get back to Auckland’, and she looked across
her pad, the Batch chuckling, ‘ the Lesbian Healing
Center…its odd that the Gina person was the mother of
Sheila’ (a hairdresser back in London, they all knew in
the eighties), ‘ Tim’s says Gina was a Charlatan, what
was it, Sisterhood of self revelation, ‘ and she laughed
that big mouthed laugh all there for a moment. It had
happened before here in New Zealand, links odd
synergies popping up lines wrapped around the globe,
miniscule fishing lines aping air routes, ‘ Impaled on a
railing wasn’t she Freida’ I said, asking but really
knowing as Wanda, my old girlfriend, had also
venerated her; it seemed all female artists did ‘ Yeah.. I
was really into her, was going to buy some of her work
till I found out Madonna had got there before’ she said
with a scowl, hating fitting into someone else’s passion,
she needed her own and then she went back to it ‘…
they’re trying to get hold of the Mexican corn patent,
take it over it’s the original source the basis of all the
DNA, it means they’ve won if they get hold of it, then
nobody will have any choice….’ And she suddenly
stopped, looking down at the half full glass ‘Fishing
tomorrow, 12, what fun’ she said standing, just
touching the edge of the table before making off to bed,
‘Night’ she said her hair moving out of the shadow into
the porch light, shining gold as she moved off to her
room. ‘Don’t forget to switch of the light’, she said, her
voice coming out of the darkness.
I sat there, looking at the candle wide awake, a chill
coming on me again now her glow had gone, looking
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out beyond the soft light to the slither of night above
the roof, listening to the banana tree flapping seeing if I
could hear the sea beyond. I’d swim there in the
morning, a little bay cut into the headland at the end of
the street you got to down a steep path. Facing East
the sun was low over the horizon but hard as the South
wind, warming the bone burning the skin breaking out
from behind cloud. I tried to listen to the waves as I
stretched out before it. The bay was rocky with an islet
in front, a break to the ocean beyond. High up on the
cliff to one side a flag was flying, a hint of a colonial
villa. I breathed deeply, trying to soak up the scene,
capture it, file it away. A big white bird streamlined
glided into the bay cove, its yellow head checking. A
gannet it wheeled around the islet then it’s flight jigged
slightly, its wings tucked in and it dived, straight and
fast, disappearing, appearing again flapping something
in its mouth ungainly climbing regaining its composure
elegant again to repeat the circle. Just me and him in
the bay, my insides opened by the sure dynamism of
the birds actions, my breathing deeper all the same. I
had picked my way onto the rocks the hard chill
makings its way up my legs then disappearing as I
plunged in, swimming rapidly against the wave. There
were other beings down there, secrets, beings moving
in the salty blur, and as I swam, I hovered between
wanting to be part of and retracting afraid. I lay in the
beach warming in the sun, occasionally opening my
eyes to see if the Gannet was still there, fishing, and
gradually the photograph collapsed and I was actually
in the bay rather than looking at the scene, my breath
subsuming to the sound of waves.
New Zealand, Waitoria, here at the bottom of the world
was now, for me, becoming the center of the world,
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looking outward towards things collapsing corrupted
and listening to Anna, her clear voice, it seemed we
were already those of the last remaining, saved, saved
from the third world war Bush fire spreading across the
sands, black smoke smoldering from wrong battles the
air sick with spores plants mutating, the view clouded
with the crowd. Here, the breeze through the eaves,
muted tingles of plastic chandeliers, the view was
clearer, the voice louder, nature pulling man back
towards it, not a battle but a harmony or at least a
possibility of one again.
‘ Make sure we got the booze handy, eh,’ and the drunk
nudged Tina coming down the wharf steps, his watery
eyes loose above his tight grin. She smiled, gentle
eyelashes flickering, moving a little closer to me as I
handed over one of the children to a big Polynesian on
the boat. The drunk bypassed me treading straight onto
the edge of the boat barefooted then jumped down onto
the.. ‘Wayho,’ slipping onto his back. For a moment
totally still, his arms folded across his chest clutching
his bottles, the ships dog, a little terrier sniffing him as
if wondering what it was..’ You alright mate’ said the
big Polynesian , ‘Yeah’ the drunk said, a corpse
reanimated …….. ‘ No worries, saved the most
important thing’ he said holding the two bottles aloft,
‘Chardinay’s alright’ then got busy again, putting the
bottles into the dustbin of ice..
Anna was looking concerned on the dockside. It wasn’t
quite the cosy family fishing trip on a sunny sea she’d
imagined; it was slightly overcast her mind laden with
stewing tequila. There was a chill in the wind and she
huddled in her black afghan holding he straw hat down
on her head. She was smiling seeing the humour in the
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drunk slipping, who the fuck was he? and the Big Moari,
then Skipper Steve and old Patrick, the patriarch of the
family who owned the Mill bar, his son in law Mike, a
club owner form Auckland, and it was a bit bloke heavy.
She had imagined Dickson’s day, his fishing and being
blokish, but she felt things slipping out of control, the
women were outnumbered, only her and Tina, who was
in that grinning hangover flush that they used to laugh
about when on tour. The men were busy washing away
everything on the deck, tidying up, moving from
business to leisure, a lot of banter and laughter, as they
got ready for bringing on the kids and children on
board. It was Saturday, they were going fishing, then
there was a gig on up the Mill tonight, Everything was
alright, Mate.
A huge cruiser passed us on the port side. Well it wasn’t
that big, the same length as our boat, 50ft the drunk
had said, but it had a tower in the middle, all black
glass, and above that in the driving seat a man, in dark
glasses, smiling, waving, looking down at us.
Our engine revved and the boat started shaking the
children and women instinctively moved to the sides, to
hold on. I looked over the side into the shallows to see
if there were any fish to look at, a couple of days ago
I’d seen a ray, an eight-foot wingspan as it flapped
gliding between the wharf posts. Dickson got all excited
‘ Arm going to jump on that rays back, go for a ride’.
He’d said that the tails had been cut off, the stinging
bit, by Japanese fisherman, so they were safe, but the
men had chaffed making it out to be an old wife’s tale,
or just for a laugh, to put him the young lad man down.
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‘ Hi’ Anna was waving up to the wharf. Tim was there
with his guests; the family from London of his friends
Steven a recent émigré to NZ who Tim was doing music
with. Grandad, Stevens father, was an old music
photographer who’d apparently done the Beatles, and
he stood tall in his shorts, an oldish woman plump with
wavy hair by his side, and then the daughter equally
tall holding a baby on her hips. It was a picture
postcard scene, the nuclear family, staying at home
waving from the wharf, as the engines gunned up and
our boat moved away from land. We all waved back,
over the broadening wake, the wind pushing our backs
as the speed got up and I suppose it was an intimation
of war that added to the chill air, evacuation, a mission,
refugees, going away from the safety of the shore,
leaving the bay for the broad ocean.
I was feeling lonely, little sleep, the sobriety among the
drunks of last night had chilled to cold overnight, with
Tina my sort of wife over there somewhere in alcohol
Land. Even so I couldn’t help but feel the excitement as
the shore opened up and we began to see where we
were. Having been ferried from one beach to the next
since arriving we only had a vague topographic idea
how they related, but now you could see them, coves
and headlands, beaches and bays, It seemed so large
the land, while at the same time you had a sense it was
small in the world; New Zealand, so few people made
the land larger, and time slower too…
Determined to talk, not to be stuck in my loneliness. I
said Hi to the Maori, turning my back on Tina. He was
Samoan infact, working as a DJ up at the Mill. His big
fat face was all smiles, giggling occasionally, and we
talked about the music scene in Auckland, how there
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were some really hot bands, Shamso, was going to be
big, a rap artist who was becoming a bit of a cult, and
Yeah Hexagon, the band playing up at the Mill tonight
were good awesome mate, awesome. The boat roared
out towards the Little Barrier Island, beginning to gain
contours through the misty air, and the sun was to get
through the low cloud. I turned the conversation round
to America, and War threatening, encouraging him to
protest, ‘Fuckin Yanks, mess things up they will’ he
said, and I said again how I felt that New Zealand had
to protect itself otherwise it was going to get taken
over, polluted, fucked. He looked a bit shocked, and I
heard a voice through the engines and wind, ‘ Anyone
lost their soul here, Anyone lost their soul?’ It was the
drunk, holding up the wet sole of a shoe, shouting high
up grinning. I looked at his feet, he was shoeless and
you could see a festering sore between his big toe and
the rest a gash, still open with a bruise around it. No
one was responding, apart from light smiles, so he
marched over slipping a bit to the cabin, ‘Hey Steve
mate. Lost your sole mate,’ and Steve turned in his seat
thumbs up, grinning, but you could see he was just
trying to be nice, hoping to stop the drunk shouting.
The Sun suddenly broke through, the sea lighting up
white foam brilliantly, the wake a mass of celebrating
surf and in front of the boat a flock of gulls, or were
they Guillemots, fat bellies with small wings, like
penguins, flying around a spot, splashing in the water
feeding; I turned and Tina had come up to my side
grinning and I suddenly felt good, happy to be here the
sun sea and wind in my face, breathing in the goodness
around us hugging her, kissing her on the check,
wanting to forgive her. I wanted it to feel right. Stop
being angry feeling hurt about last night.
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The Island loomed up in front of us, pink cliffs, and we
suddenly slowed, the drunk was busying about with
something, getting a pole with a big hook on it, and
shouting instructions to Steve. The boat had slowed
almost to a standstill, and we were swaying up and
down, a thin little craft at the base of the cliffs of the
uninhabited island. ‘Back Right Right, that’s right Mate’
Steve and the drunk were trying to get along side a
buoy, bobbling about in the water, using the engine,
then cutting out, hoping the current would take them in
there, The drunk tried once to hook it but then a wave
lifted the boat up and across pushing the buoy
underneath the hull. The engine pushed the boat away,
then back, getting some distance away from the buoy,
then again silent, accept for a gull high up, and the
banter of children, coming to see what was going to
happen. The drunk had the buoy rope hooked and
Steve ran down from the wheel, pulled the rope onto a
winch, and started to haul in. They were like two boys
giggling, and sweating, pushing each other on, one
holding the rope away from the side of the boat, the
other frantic wheeling in the winch. Looking over the
side you could see a red cage coming our of the depths,
old and rusty, and.. and empty. ‘Fuck it, lets do the
next one’, and they let go the winch handle spinning
round as the cage plummeted to the depths, red fading
into green.
We chugged round the island to the next buoy, At the
top of the pink cliffs, a tree or two were flaying around
in the wind. Little Barrier Island was a bird sanctuary.
Nobody lives there, except a warden and maybe his
wife, as with everyone in New Zealand, somebody else
knows him, so we could have gone onto it, but we
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hadn’t organized it in time. It was empty. One of the
Mill family, a son of old Patrick on board, told how at his
stag night not so long again they’d all taken acid and
gone out to the island, anchoring by a beach swimming,
having an awesome laugh. Apparently at the top is
piece of string, that’s how he described it, going up into
the clouds, and at its base rainwater is collected. So
you could walk up to the top, one and a half hours,
have a drink of water, the purest water in the world,
and come down again. ‘Brilliant mate’ .
We stopped again, the same procedure, but this time
the drunk running down the deck slipped on his arse
again, lying there all limbs spread out again, but this
time there wasn’t a stop for a laugh, and he was back
on the job, hauling up the cage. This time there was
something in the cage; two crayfish and an octopus.
Hauled up onto the rail, the creature looked horribly
exposed, blinking you could see their eyes in the light,
beings which were part of the ocean, now not, and us,
having been for a time part of it too, suddenly weren’t
we were intruders ripping out what we could get. It
reminded me of the Puni tree. Tim had made an
excursion to show me, with its own special park. Huge
almost branchless, thick glorious trunk and a small top
caopy, masters of the forest they were the trees the
early settlers went for, hacking through the bush
valleys, virgin terrain, to get their hands on this perfect
shipbuilding material. Now there were roads where the
buffalo tracks had been, but no Puni trees. Except this
one, with its own special park.
‘Grabs a hold of that mate’, it was the drunk holding out
the crayfish, tentacles flaying about, and the octopus,
trying blindly to get a hold of something, to move back
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to the sea. The two little girls screamed and backed
away, and the drunk purposely dropped it in the deck,
splat, the octopus’s elephant man head bobbling about.
The dog rushing out, scampered on little legs around it,
Dickson grabbing hold of its collar before it got hold of
its head. The drunk shouldered him away, ‘Come on let
Jack get at it. Go on boy’ and the dog, snout sniffing,
scurried about sniffing its sides, as the octopus’s
tentacles in a frantic slow motion tried to get a hold. ‘
No, not the dog’ Anna screamed and Steve moved in
and picked the dog up. The drunk moved up to the
focsle for his wine coffee cup. And the octopus was left
on the deck, nobody claiming it, slithering about on the
white plastic.
The engine gunned up and the wind rose as we pushed
ahead following the course of the island shoreline.
Dickson was telling Tina how the octopus mainly lived
by night, ‘and they have a little mouth, almost hidden
under its head, which bites of you’re not careful’. I
followed the octopus, moving out of the water, as it
heaved itself to the back corner of the deck, behind the
dustbin of ice. There was a hole in the side where the
water was let out, and I wondered of it was instinctively
making for an escape. I would have welcomed its return
to the waters, as the women and I think Dickson would,
but we didn’t make a move; it wasn’t our boat, it was
the fisherman’s catch, maybe we just didn’t want to
appear as pansies, soft in some way. We were trapped
for the duration, this was the fishing trip. It was catch
so we had to let it be…
We came round to a cleft in the cliff, a cove with views
of the high valley of forest up above. In the cliff to one
side were holes, like man made shelters. ‘ Where the
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Maori buried their dead.’ said old Patrick. ‘ Did they
make them’ I asked him,’ No, the wind mate’, and I
knew it had been a silly question in the first place.
Engine cut, it was suddenly quiet, the boat small under
the towering cliffs. Lines curved down across the face of
the cliff, scars of ancient pressures, mirroring the waves
shapes out in the ocean. ‘500,000 years old’ said Anna,
looking more cheerful away from the rough. ‘ Mike’s a
geologist’, and she put her arm round the man with
wraparound shades and a pigtail. Patricks son in law.
He smiled broadly, his big hands bringing in the little
girl and boy round his knees.
The drunk and Steve were preparing rods, aped by
Dickson who was almost frantic to get his line out to
sea. The crayfish were in the pot ‘Lunch mate’ and
Steve beamed. The octopus wasn’t around anymore.
The two fair-haired girls, Megan and Goa, Tina and
Anna’s pair, were scampering around the deck trying to
get in on the act. ‘Can we have a go, Can we have ago?’
‘ You want to hook a bastard fish’ the drunk suddenly
bending down to them making a stupid face, his finger
hooked inside his cheek pulling it up, goggle eyed
mimicking a dead fish. He was trying to be funny but it
wasn’t succeeding, it just scared them and they backed
off into the legs of Tina’s, who was leaning against the
side of the boat smoking. Maybe he was trying to
impress her, but the drunk wouldn’t give up, moving
towards them starting the Jaws music, ‘Da da dada
dadadada dadadadada…’ yellow teeth bared. He had a
sore on his lip as well as his foot; I couldn’t remember
it yesterday – maybe he’d got into a fight, after we’d
left him at the bar, or maybe he’d just fallen over.
Giving up suddenly, changing track, he sidled up to
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Tina, the woman who’d been nice to him yesterday,
who’d encouraged him to come. ‘ Fancy a drink darling,
nice bit of chardinnay, cold’ holding up his coffee cup. ‘
Not at the moment’ she said smiling, feeling culpable
for his disturbing presence ‘Alright, no worries’ but the
drunk looked really disappointed the smiling bonhomie
passing off his face a shadow of a fish, leaving an angry
face, a bruised fist. He’d be drinking alone again. ‘ Hey
Clint help Dickson here with the line will you’ called out
Steve, ‘Yeah sure’ and the drunks face lit up again, ‘
Yeah lets get some bait for the fucking fish’, he said
turning, putting on the caught fish face on again to the
girls chuckling, a punch drunk still in the fight, taking
another rejection full on in the face; he was damned if
he was going to stop fighting and he was damned if he
was going to stop drinking..
I turned out towards the sea again, again feeling the
hurt by Tina drinking, the sadness of being alone, of a
beauty not quite achieved again.
I had touched something, the day before at Tivulayam,
a surf beach where this island, Little Barrier, was out
there full square to the sand, shimmering. A shining
brilliant day perfect lines coming into the bay, like
animals, breaking into friendly surf. I’d just got in with
the boogie board, waiting for that perfect wave catching
the crest putting everything into getting the right time,
and yes, a moment releasing, letting down the guard,
letting the wave take you letting you stay on top
suddenly gliding flying in bubbles, heaved up on shore,
deposited in the waves jetsam, the oceans offering,
almost part of…and Anna there is jumping up and down
screaming something the girls beside her, and I thought
it was me they were cheering, the perfect surf and then
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I heard it, dolphins, and standing turning toward the
open sea there out beyond the surf, the sleek black
curves of their backs, forms, definites within the water
and in my small heroic leap outside the safety net the
habit of security and reticence I swam out toward them
joining a trail of awkward unco-ordiated human
swimmers. ‘You can hear them, you can hear them’, an
Asian woman in a swimsuit looking more aquatic than
my fleshy flapping, and you could, head under the
water, the clicking heard on tele, but something else a
high frequency, radio waves, another intelligence and
there we were bobbing in the waves, the fins and slick
back cutting through the waves around us, two fins
looping through the water, with an ease not seen before
ignoring us in a way about their own business and
looking down into the water a darkened shape zooming
along and then up turning inadvertently one jumping
high out of the water into the sunlight twisting crashing
back… I’d touched something there not just a time
suspended, inhibiting safety suspended, in another
place, and in a new position, things turned topsy turvy,
the ocean being the place, the main place, and us just
awkward forms in the water, the waters the dolphins
owned, our place being on the edge of it… And here,
bobbing on the ocean, lap sighs against the hull by the
virgin island, the sanctuary of birds, shearwaters gliding
within the contours of the waves, swallow ribbons
around the native graves, the earth, time itself
engraved and me running from the humiliation,
dropping down into the anger, thinking of the other
hole, my hole between her legs, the other ocean
pushing punishing her inside assaulting having some
sort of control..
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A banging started, hammering, it was Clint the drunk, a
big knife, hacking at the Octopus still alive, cutting off
each arm flailing twisting in on itself, a horrific burning
death, silent, or the scream beyond us, a silent movie
of a saint at the stake. ‘ Take that you bastard’ Clint
was joking again, the Samoan and Mike looking on half
grinning, and Dickson, to his side flustered, with a
smaller knife wanting the bait, but there was something
about his manner, the blush in his face, in the way he
held the amputated arm that showed he was holding it
as a live thing, sentient, not just meat to abuse, like
Clint. The boy was joining in, he was a fisherman, one
of the blokes, separate from the women hiding in the
galley. There was something else almost instinctual,
that made him different, an adolescent still with nature,
but brutishness beckoning, after all he got drunk a lot,
puking, setting himself alight in Jackass stunts. He was
on the cusp, and Anna, was looking at him, half smiling
with serious eyes, less certain that the trip was a good
idea, the caring mother wanting to protect him from the
callous dumb fuck alcoholic trying to trust her son that
he wouldn’t go that way, but having to let him go, let
him find his own course.
‘Here mate’, the Samoan thrust the rod into my hand,
an octopus arm for bait, and I saw it drop into the
green blue water wriggling away, down towards the
ocean floor, a place animated by celluloid memories of
nature programs seen before. The soft tones of David
Attenborough edging mollusks along the ocean floor
brightly lit, colourful; it wasn’t like that, down there the
octopus arm playing alive in a dark world, senses
beyond our ken. But we thought we were in touch,
nature programs packaging up the wild, every sequence
with a health warning, ‘these creatures are threatened
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by the destruction of their habitat over fishing, and the
upset of the ecological balance’. Nobody knows its
down there it is beyond us, or we beyond it, the ocean,
we’d left it and are just skimming the surface, grabbing,
intruding, speculating ‘ Grubs up’ Steve was holding the
boiled crayfish blood red wrapped in a dirty cloth,
plonking them down on the cutting board in the middle
of the deck. Hack, hack hack the knife almost echoing
on the funeral cliffs, I just didn’t fancy it, it was now
somehow inapproprariate.
I reeled up my line, slowly, one thumb against the
plastic thread, waiting for a tug but not really bothered
if I caught something. I just wanted to look into the
water, create my own world, moving from the pull and
push of my feelings about Tina, her going off getting
drunk, the sloppy sloth bringing out my lust, stepping
out of the world where there was possibility of the
beauty I knew it held. She came up beside me, ‘ Caught
anything yet? ‘ No’ I replied flatly, and she backed off,
‘Its still a bit chilly I’m going inside’. She wasn’t really
interested in it the nature She was inside her own world
entirely, like an animal, cold, hunger, just fulfilling the
basics. Wanda, she’d loved Nature, David Atenborough
was a god, and like me she was in endless quest to get
close to it experience it fully what was there. I
remembered a scene by her camper, frost sharp bright
morning, Cornwall, seals popping up from the surf. She
had a thing about Iceland, the hot springs, and I’d
thought of her at Roturua, the geysers and bubbling
pools south of Auckland The trip the previous week with
Tina had descended into an amateur porno movie, the
motel, and cable TV, Tina tasting of sulphur after the
spa bath. The mud was basic and it bought out the
base, the primeval, and Tina was the place where I
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explored it, or tried to find it, again seeking the heroic
but slightly outside the self…
‘ Hey Tina, Come on’ it was Anna beckoning Tina up to
the roof of the boat, where most of the men had gone.
No one had asked me, and I interpreted it as another
diss, abandonment by my supposed mate. Was there
something going on? Stupid paranoid thoughts, Why did
I feel so lonely?. I wedged the rod through some
cabling on the boat edge and moved through to the
cabin. E- man, Dickson’s friend was sitting at the
controls, pretending to drive the boat, ‘ Hey man, why
aren’t you going up with the others?’ ‘ Why?’ I asked,
still paranoid, what was it about, did he know
something I didn’t, ‘ You know Man’ he said in the mock
American drawl the Kiwi youth talked in ‘ doing
something illegal’. They were smoking dope, big deal,
so did Eman, but I suppose it was because the big
blokes were doing it, somewhere different, that made
the teenager excited; the fact that he was excluded
added a frisson. Among the children I moved. The two
girls sharing a rod, Dickson urgently casting his line and
reeling it in, moving at a faster pace than the rest of
the boat, really wanting to get that fish. ‘ Any luck?’ I
asked, ‘Naw, I dunno what’s wrong, its meant to be
thick with fish,’ he said, let down, ‘ Well, Steve did say
that morning and evening was the best time’ I said,
‘Yeah fuck that, I want it now’ and he cast out again the
hook narrowly missing the head of his little sister.
The crowd came down from the top of the boat
beaming, reanimated, stoned moving back to the
controls and the rods, and Clint went straight back to
the ice bucket to get a Chardinay top up. I imagined the
inside of his head. Still drunk in the morning, moving
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quickly to stop the alcohol congealing and pulling you
down, then timing that first drink right, it so easily
could go the wrong way, quickening the pace then
onwards to the friendly plateau, still moving but in a
haze, the world there, over there, but friendly
sparkling, not crowding in on you; the dope was a risk,
particularly the heavy Kiwi gear, it could pull your mind
apart, let in the heeby jeebies, thoughts forming out of
the abyss into the uncontrollable shallows. ‘He took a
big slug out of the coffee cup, and you could see he
didn’t have a choice now but to carry on and move on
to the next more dangerous level.
I didn’t want any dope, I feared Id lose contact the
mind asserting itself over what it saw, and the ocean
was compelling me into it, to look carefully and
constant get a sense of it as a whole. That spliff on the
beach with Tina a couple of days ago had been alright.
Going wistful first, trying to get rid of the tension inside
my body, the aching tightness from the heart through
the throat to the back of the shoulder blades. Id
sprawled there on the beach going through vaguely
yogic exercises, imagining it, the pain, as a ball, a
demon, a cholic humour that had to be expelled. I
arched my back as far as I could, seeing the ball, angry
fist balanced on my sternum and then pushed on up,
forced it into the throat, then, using all my force pushed
to expel it out into the air. I don’t know what happened
but it seemed to work. I opened my eyes and it seemed
for the first time in a long time I saw the sky in its
entirety, the whole fan of cloud coming out of the
ocean, a sheep bird display. Three layers, the high
curvic whisps at the borders of space, then the great
mounds of fluffed out cloud, and below, nearest, little
tuffs floating free, each moving at their own speed own
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portions of the world, but each with each other, in
harmony and I laughed seeing a single cotton ball float
by straight in the beach breeze, not far from my face.
I propped myself up and looked over to the rocks where
Tina had gone collecting oysters, but she wasn’t there,
and for a moment I panicked, she’d gone. Then her
head popped up, intent like an animal to the foodgathering task and it was OK, she was there and I was
here, and we were doing different things, different
missions but we were still here, together, on the edge
of the ocean, on the edge of the world, on holiday.
I looked back up at the cloud, resettling into the
broadness of view and I saw a dolphin leap through the
cloud, and it made me happy that the vision was not
intended. Then I saw another face, hooked nose,
toothless gaping mouth, no lips and hair piled up on the
top of itself, anger, it said and I didn’t know if it was an
old picture or not, all I knew is that for too long now I
had been full of it, and there, in the closing oval of
bone, a pure face of a child, like me, an eye, a cheek,
smiling knowing, receding itself into the cloud, gone.
I was almost disappointed when she came back, but I
couldn’t stop myself asking where my oyster was, ‘God
I was looking forward to that’, the salty softness
slipping down my smoky throat,’ You can’t get them off
the rocks, they’re too small to bring over, you’ll see’
She crouched beside me, looking out and I saw the
feathery lids flicker over the rich green water of her
eyes shining, I could smell her, close by, earthy fishy
oceanic, I just wanted to dive in, but I didn’t want to go
there, the contraction of everything coming down to
that end, and I lay back looking up at the sky ‘ Is that
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Goat Island?’ she asked, and opening one eye I
laughed, ‘Goat Island has grown a lot overnight’ Goat
was the tiny island just off the coast around the corner
we’d been to the first day here. This island was huge by
comparison I0 miles offshore, hay in the distance. ‘ You
really should get your eyes tested’ I said’ Yeah’ she said
slightly embarrassed.’ We were both looking at the
same thing, but seeing something totally different and I
laughed, it was OK.
‘Alright mates, Rods out, we’re going fishing’ the
engines started, the boat juddering as we backed out of
the bay, ‘ Get that bait out fast’. The men moved to the
rods Clint furiously cutting into more bait, and lines let
out beyond the wake, as the boat backtracked the way
we came.’We’ll go up to the rock off the south side,
might be a shoal there’ said Steve, but you could see he
didn’t really care. This was kids stuff, just playing
around; the serious fishing was done far out at night.
We had all the lines set out at the back of the boat,
their handles stuck in slots, so they were upright,
bending slightly with the pull of the water against the
boat. It looked like we had something on the other end,
but we hadn’t, apart from the lure bait. The sun was out
again the pink cliffs shining, and the men stood, each
behind their rod, Dickson intent with a finger taking
some strain on the line, the Samoan leaning heavily
against the gun rail, and Mike just standing four square
pigtail windblown, blank behind his wraparound shades.
The women had receded deeper into the boat, the
focsle or what ever the very front of the boat is called.
Anna had gradually shrunk over the course of the trip
with Tina hiding under her wing. Clint, the drunk was
with Steve at the controls, coffee cup in hand, elbows
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leaning against the navigation screen, like a bar. And
old Patrick, as he had been pretty much the entire trip,
was under cover, leaning on the giant spindle of rope at
the back of the deck under the canopy.
‘This is the life’ smiled Mike to me, turning a big hand to
the sea ‘the sky the sun, Awesome’. He had workman
hands and a weather-beaten face but was trendy, hip.
I’d been disconcerted the night before, when Tina,
already on the Margarita trip, had made a beeline for
him at the bar. I thought she’d just want to hang with a
real man, a young man, rather than me the weak
teetotaler, it was part of the syndrome I was in. The
Box I called it, walls of repetitive thought: we are not
compatible, her drinking, me not drinking, stopping me
working properly, the creation of distrust, me going on
at her, more drinking, more distrust. It was a box I
knew I had to break out of, either by doing something
about it, leave, or just let it go somehow, forgive. The
long journey, the tipsy turvy flipover of the double time
shift, night to day winter summer, definitely felt like a
chance to move into a different dimension, a new
possibility, On the first day here Tim had taken me to a
little art opening, a younger painter, one of those
women plumpish but with wide open eyes, shining,
alight, that know something else, and one painting,
green washes of different shades, with a dark bit, then
open canvas and scrawled across it FORGIVE. The word
had drawn me to it, like a message. I said Id buy it
even though I knew there wasnt the money, and I
wondered if it was again the compulsion to acquire, to
grab what was here, somehow possess the quality I
loved, yearned for, but had lost, inside myself.
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‘ Dickson, hold on’ the rod was really bent juddering
and Dickson face brightening, he must have something.
Eman was by his side, goading him on, ‘Go on, Dicks,
wind it in’ which Dickson was furiously doing. Giant
bluefish, a squid, stingray, anything was possible in
these deep waters. Clint came skidding sliding on the
wet floor, ‘ Alright steady, got something, slow down,
Steve, slow down’ The engine shifted down gears slow
revs back into the ebb of the wave and Dickson rod
bend softened ‘ Go on mate, quick, wind it in ‘ said
Clint, helping him by taking the slack of the line in his
hand. You could see it was going to cut his palm but he
was grinning, aping pain, his coffee cup of Chardinnay
slithering about on the cutting board with the spike.
Suddenly the line came away in Clints hand, the rod
flipped up straight, and Dickson flew back hitting Eman,
both falling onto the deck. Clint, wanting to join in
feigned a slip and landed down beside them on his back
and the dog came scurrying in sniffing the new giggling
catch. Anna emerged onto the deck, hearing the
screams and seeing Dickson lying on the floor rushed
over going into a skid one hand on her head keeping
her straw hat on the other outstretched black afghan
wings in the wind sliding down to the bottom of the
deck into the cutting board, just stooping herself before
impaling herself on the giant spike. ‘Are you alright
Darling’, she said but Dickson was still focused on the
rod, reeling it in on his belly and there you could see
the line, lure less, wriggling in the wind, ‘Snapped
mate, gone, must have been a big one’ Clint said
grabbing his coffee cup and going back to the cabin, ‘
Nothing mate, Orca, bastard did a runner, lets get
going’, and the engine gunned up again, the deck
slanting upward, the hull banging as it hit each wave.
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Obviously feeling a bit queasy, the lightness of Mexico
turning into a Day of the Death hangover, Anna
clutched hold of the spike and took deep breathes, a
half smile on her face trying to drink in the ocean
behind her. Mother of the Earth, defender of her land
against the dark forces manipulating nature, she tried
to feel refreshed by the still clean waters but something
was bothering her, beyond the mouth dryness impeding
thought, a smell, and looking down she saw the fish
guts, the tip of an octopus arm, and an eye, there,
sliding in blood, and it hit her in the stomach, thinking
she’d vomit but instead suddenly scared, she turned
battling against the wind making back to the cabin,
muttering, ‘Where are the children, Where are the
children…’ She looked a bit mad, bent staggering
broken as though the brightness and optimism she
projected had collapsed and I thought about what she’d
said one day on the beach about the fear of Mad Cows
Disease getting her as it had her sister, a darkness
hidden but ready to get her and that why she was
fighting, not only Monsanto, but her fear the beast,
Death was near her, the finality she apprehended the
end in the end of the end, End. That’s why life as so
precious, why they the stupid fuckers, didn’t they
understand.
Where was Tina, she’d been there a long time, Was she
up to something with Clint?. I went to the cabin, and
there she was, with Megan, lying on the bunk asleep.
Why do I worry why do I make these dramas up, where
does this insecurity come from, and again felt a deep
sadness shackled inside my Box, staring out into the
sea, the distant silhouette of other Islands the Hen and
Chickens, and nearer shearwaters weaving in and out
following the contours of the waves. Forgive, I knew
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there was something in the word. Forgive it wasn’t just
excusing the misdemeanors Id given her, the drinking,
the broken promises, it meant something else
I knew I had to go through it the question but I couldn’t
face the feeling and went back to my rod, determined
to talk to Mike. I wanted to know how he’d made the
move, married a Kiwi, two kids, a life a new life the
other side of the globe. The normal smile, the big
shades, trying to look through them, he told me he’d
been working on an oil rig, come out here on holiday,
and loved it, had to come back, with a girl, you know
and started to laugh, as though he couldn’t believe his
luck. It was a long way from Brighton, just another
ehead proto surfer, getting stoned on the pebbles
wishing it wasn’t so cold, now sorted. He ran a club in
Auckland, only needed to go there couple of days a
week, and I bought up the stuff in the paper about
speed, which seemed rampant. Even in Rotorua an
Amphetamine factory raided, all over the headlines it
just didn’t fit the vibe, the star time in all this space,
nature so close dictating, ‘Yeah suppose it just jazzes
up the place, you gotta create your own time here’. And
he didn’t have much trouble with the gangs, it wasn’t
too big a problem, it was Ok, and he was a big man
here, was the same guy as back there but bigger, there
was more space.’ In the end you choose mate’ Mike
suddenly said ‘ There is a choice’.
‘ Shark’ someone shouted, and suddenly the decked
filled up ‘Where?’ and off to the side a fin, black, cutting
through the water, The boat slowed and the children
came out, shepherded by a bleary Anna, even Tina was
there, Dickson and Eman dropping their rod and going
up top, ‘ What is it Dickson’ shouted Anna, ‘
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Hammerhead, Man Eater’ and then everyone was quiet
just looking at the waves waiting for the fin to
reappear. There, and Steve hit the throttle and we kept
up with it, no up and down cavorting like the dolphins,
just slicing through just below the surface, a dark
presence just below the surface, something dark,
dangerous, wild, something beyond us, and there it
was, gone, everyone looking but it was gone.
Tina and Megan were beside me looking and without
thinking I put my arm around them all staring at the
waves trying to catch another glimpse. Tina and I
looked at each other, me with my pain, her watching
waiting for me, and I was suddenly very glad she was
there, warm, and with me, in front of the huge water,
‘I’m cold I’ve got to go inside’. and this time I didn’t
mind she was breaking away, the waves were still
there, and I wasn’t moving and she’d be back.
‘We’ll just check Gull Rock, and then go home.
Weathers turning’ announced Steve and everyone
retook their positions, the women and children holed up
in the focsle, Dickson and Eman back on the rods, Old
Patrick and the Samoan by the big spindle, Clint and his
Chardninnay by the wheel with Stev, and Mike and I at
the back standing by our lines.
Mike and I stood beside each other but we didn’t have a
lot more to say, ourselves, but here it didn’t matter so
much, we were all too far away from home to matter,
we’d both made the choice to come here, And I
wondered if I should make the leap and move.
CHOICE…. the word hung over the island, a line of
string, a drop of purest water at the other end. It was
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like the painting, Forgive, the word struck a chord, a
cliché being plucked, and I was frozen for a moment.
That was it, but it was difficult.
I wondered why Little Barrier hadn’t been settled. It
was a big lump of high rock, and here there was a lot of
land to choose from, but even so after the long voyage
you’d have thought someone would have stopped, fuck
it Ill have this, someone would have been attracted by
being King. Governor Gray and his menagery in the
island by the surf beach, a Dr Doolittle, letting himself
go off on a tangent in a far-flung bit of the empire. And
here I was, at the end of the world, looking out at
Choice, wondering. Anna had told of her ancestors, a
scullery maid from Ireland, who said fuck it and got on
the boat. She didn’t have any other option to change’
had said Anna. 30 years old, no children, just working
herself to the bone. Free passage but then they the
Empire made you work for 2 years, for nothing in some
factory, then you got a little bit of land. Anna’s Gran
she was called. Married an Irishman, 10 kids and so the
Rice family was born. Anna too had run away, but in
reverse, knowing she had to leave the island to be what
she was going to be, New Zealand was too small. She
did an insurance job on a car with a bent boyfriend,
driving into Auckland Harbour, got the fare to Sydney
dumped the boyfriend then back to the so called mother
country, to become a popstar; but still she’d returned
after 17 years, to then be who she was really who she
was going to be. ‘Nah not that’, the arms casting away
options almost blowing out the candle on the table, at
the cantina. ‘Nah Not that, or that’, splattering those
choices away, until that was it RAGE was born.
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Could I choose? Rain clouds were moving in from the
wide horizon and I thought of the war again. What was
going to happen? and we were going back to sit in
London target number 2. The cloud of gas, would that
move? , slide around the globe, the world we could see
so clearly now connected here at its base, would it be
blown here by the global winds, with the seed of mutant
weeds, the ecology collapsing, could this land escape?
And the fucking recession. It didn’t seem that great a
choice going back and suddenly it felt very precious,
very small here , the ruination of the world encroaching
and again I felt intrusive, a consumer, pornographic, a
capitalist acquirer, wanting to get a bit of it, like the
Americans buying up 9/11 palliatives down the coast.
The engines were slowing, then cut out, ‘ Alright mates
one more go, bait up and get out your rods’ Like
autonamans the men aided by drunk Clint handing out
bait, got their tackle ready and let the lines out, as the
boat drifted above the hidden rock. My heart wasn’t in it
any more, the shark, the cage.bought up, and the
disgust at the treatment of the octopus had shifted
something. The repulsion of the women and children
and their subsequent retreat made it sad, the intrusion
of the fishing line, the act of grabbing for grabbing
sake, rather than taking our appropriate place, made it
ugly. ‘Why have we stopped’ Anna was propping herself
in the doorway to the cabin. ‘ Aren’t we going home
now’ She was bleary eyed, just woken, which gave her
the openness of a child’ ‘No Mum. Wait on. We gotta
catch something’ said Dickson flanked by the man
trying not to obviously to look at her. She paid for the
charter, she was supposedly in charge, but you could
see that the men knew they were on the fishing trip and
it went on till it finished, it was a blokes thing. ‘Go on
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darling, give the boy a go’ it was Clint, red eyed, tongue
hanging out the side of his mouth, Anna’s eyes
hardened looking away from him, then at Dickson. And
for a moment everything was still. Then she drooped
and moved back inside, exhausted. ‘Women heh?’ said
Clint, and winked at Dickson, handing him a fish head,
a gormless eye and fish gut hanging out the amputated
end, The boy man looked awkward, something going on
in his head, brow furrowed as he put the hook in under
the eye rim. I’d did the same and the eyes came away,
the flesh having been bruised and molested just
disintegrating so there was nothing left except blood
and bits of silvery scale on my hand. Fuck it, let it be,
and just dropped the hook back in the water, just
pretending to fish, an excuse to look out on the scene.
It was so precious now, I’d done the shooting and
fishing growing up, that’s what you did, had always
done, in the country, forever I supposed, but everything
was so fragile now, no cod left in the North Sea,
abundancy was gone. Only here did you get a sense of
what it had been, now going forever.
‘Got one here go one’ it was Dickson again, his rod
jiggling about’ Maybe it’s the shark’ the drunk leered,
‘Reel it in mate, reel fast’ trying to stir up the beat, get
the blood lust going. ‘ There it is’ shouted Eman. A flash
of pink and silver, and up it came, flapping, a little
snapper six inches long’ ‘ Huge eh Mate’ laughed Clint,
telling the empty auditorium ‘ Three cheers for Dickson,
eh Steve 3 cheers’, but Steve wasn’t really listening,
just hoping the trip had gone OK, despite of Clint and
the drink. Dickson was carefully extracting the hook
from the fishes mouth, ‘I’ll hook the fucker up and get
you a blue fish’ the purple faced goblin urged but
holding it now, Dickson looked at the ruined man and
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then threw the fish over the side, ‘ Its too small’ he said
and started dismantling the rod. Rods in’ shouted
Steve, and we all reeled in as he gunned up the
engines. The islands tip was now covered in mist, the
rain clouds almost with us, the sea moving to an oily
gray. It was over the fishing, for the day, and the first
drops of rain, fat and warm, hit the deck. The sea
beginning to fizz. The boat reared up, and we all pulled
ourselves up the deck by the side rail, moving from grip
to grip careful not to fall over. Only Clint was left
standing about around the cutting board and its stake,
scrapping off the guts, clearing up in his masochistic
frenzy.
I stood to the side, under the canopy, looking out to the
ocean, the occasional spray coming from the prow as it
hit a wave. In the heavy figure slipping around by
himself I saw the wasted days I’d had in drink, the
decisions to say fuck it and avoid the horrible
contractions of the hangover, head and gut aching,
stale sweat of rising guilt of what had gone on the night
before, deciding to put it off, keep light, put fresh fuel
in to stop the pollutant always aware it was there,
couldn’t be avoided, would get you in the end. I looked
out to see the shearwater again, gliding between the
peaks and troughs, and I wondered what it fed on, what
it was actually doing, and envied the ease of its
harmony. Clint was struggling, I knew there was a point
where the drunk just hit a brick wall, the liquid started
solidifying, the world contracted just to you, the awful
feeling of being there sick, but actually not being part of
anything, the sight becoming narrow, looking out but
only a void, intangible, dead, no mans land, wanting to
cry but all the water sucked out, the alcohol too thick
for the ducts. Only a few times had I managed to get
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through those days without something horrible
happening, the void becoming actual, the blackout
when time faded then stopped, waking bruised not
knowing if you had killed someone, or died. The last
time was with Tina on holiday not long after we met.
Love in the afternoon, morning, night. Long meals.
Somewhere to push out all the tangled self loathing,
someone to refute it, then a moment of rest, before the
race started again, real time against alcohol time.
That’s why Clint had been drawn towards her, like all
the drunks, a safe haven, full of drink herself, a
possibility of union with another, bringing along the
bottle of self disgust, a possibility of rest. All afternoon
I’d been stopping it, the coming together, laid down the
teetotal law, and shut her out. I was jealous of her,
She’d drink and got away with it, and I was angry with
her for not coming with me, sharing my awkward
feelings, and I was telling her that I might not be there
again. It was like living with me sober when I was
drunk, but without the escape. Leaving me just with the
self-disgust. I was sick of the smallness of my life, this
tooing and froing from lust to disgust with Tina,
crouched in a mire of not quite good enough one and
the world, avoiding riding the wave just watching. I
needed to be free from these tensions so I could see
again, feel the ocean, rather than yesterdays
frustrations. I needed to forgive, I needed to choose
another place to live.
I went inside the cabin to find Tina. Dickson and Eman
were down in the sleeping quarters lying in the bunk,
mast nights long island teas stretched out hopefully to
flow away. Mike and the Samoan talking, Steve at the
wheel, and the girls asleep around the table, Tinas head
lying on her daughters lap. Clint came in to wash his
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hands of blood, Hawaiian shirt sodden, his brow now
furrowed, brooding. Only old Patrick was left on the
deck, by the big reel, where’d he’d been most of the
trip. Anna sat upright her hat still on, either in deep
thought or mindless daze, looking straight in front of
her. I sat down by Tina, gently moving her along to
give me space. ‘ Why do they do it’ said Anna softly,
almost a whisper. ‘ Hurt the animals so, where’s it come
from, this need to destroy’. She was almost crying, and
it was odd sitting there between the men and the
women, slightly mad, questioning the fishing on the
fishing trip, ‘ that poor octopus, why abuse it, so
beautiful’ I assumed the roar of the engines prevented
the others hearing, and I sensed they were being quiet
themselves, on best behaviour, knowing they hadn’t
been quite good boys. The trip wasn’t a great success,
she was the boss, and they hoped they still would get
paid. I felt drawn to her. I knew she was right, she was
talking about the awkwardness I had about the fishing,
the change I didn’t like, from being part of the ocean, a
rounded absorption, appreciating, careful, then turning
to the line, the narrow focus going out and grabbing,
grasping for a bit of, as a palliative, a fucked up way of
being part of, but only by gobbling up what was there,
asserting the dominance, over the dumb, small and
wild. I’d had the same feeling on the consumerist binge
downtown before Christmas. The urge for forgiveness of
Tina was turning into something else before Anna, the
world she was, defending her land against the mutant
assault; it was accepting the feminine as the
preeminent, the denial of which I’d sometimes thought
was the driving force behind so much of mans urges, to
take, dominate, fuck. The acquisitiveness had now
made the world a very complicated, intertwined fragile
place, as if it was at a point of balance where if upset
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the result could be irredeemable destruction. ‘From the
beginning Men have been blaming women for the
mistakes’ Tim had said it back at the batch, one
evening. It seemed a bit heavy, the way Tom said it,
guru speak, as Dickson had only been going on about
Courtney Love being the reason for Cobains death,
some shit about everyone she went out with getting the
Courtney curse, probably recycled MTV. It had hit me
more that Dickson; ‘Oh Dad don’t go the fuck on’, as I
knew I was blaming Tina for so much of my fuck up.
Blaming her, for getting drunk was a continual go at my
alcoholism, perhaps why man was fucking up the earth,
blaming it for his continual lack of success in the pursuit
of happiness. The boat hit a wave full on, a great splash
of water hitting the glass. Anna jolted straight up, and
for a moment I thought she was going to be sick. Her
eyes closed and she leaned over her daughter then
wrapped her arms around her resting her head on her
back. They were like one, curled up together, water and
gasoline exploding around them. I stroked Tina, and my
daughters head, ‘ Are we here yet’ she murmured, ‘ Not
yet, sleep, it’ll be soon’ and I felt better already. I could
even forgive, feel sorry for Clint. ‘ Alright mate’ ‘ Yeah’
he said, recognizing some sort of truce, and Steve also
felt better for my conviviality, He wasn’t really looking
at the controls, even though it seemed quite rough,
‘only a nine knootter, mate. Where we go out 50 miles
out, Waves 30- 40 ft high, that’s the real Ocean mate’,
and he explained that where they fished it was at the
edge of the continental plate and the ocean came in
hitting it creating the waves. It made the surf sound
quite puny there, was so much more out there… the
world was bigger than telly you just had to get out
there…
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I went outside and took my position looking out to the
waves wanting only to see the killer waves, a dolphin,
something wild, but it was still the shearwater floating
following the curves of the waves. Me, the shearwater
the waves, the sun lost behind rain cloud. I felt
something warm beside me, Tina, blinking in the spray.
I smiled she smiled and I put my arm around her. No
talk, just happy for a moment to be with her, here now
free of the tension, the anger, and fears of the
uncertain future. I realized I was lucky.
Another wave was caught awkward and the spray as if
achieving its relentless intent came round the edge and
inside showering us, ‘I’ll think I’ll go inside ‘she said,
slipping away from, and again I felt it, but didn’t let it
take me over, the grasping, wanting the certainty,
inside.
It was wet though, and I went to stand with Patrick by
the big reel in the middle. He nodded and resumed
looking out at the wake and the barely discernable
island, receding. ‘ Good day?’ he asked bluntly, ‘ Yeah
Good’ I said, and left it that. The boat suddenly
flattened, calmer waters, wooded premonitories
appearing either side, we were coming into harbour. On
one side was the graveyard, high up, a big broad tree
under which were tombs for the Shakespear family. I’d
seem it on one of my morning trips to the cove. The
graves were covered in the red flowers of the tree,
occasionally blown about by the wind.
The boat slowed, chugging between other boats. Clint
came out to get the ropes ready. Patrick asked him how
he was and Clint was now sober, the place where today
had finally met yesterday, still waters, surrounded by
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storms, ‘ Yeah she left me, ‘ he said defiantly, ‘ with the
kids, its always the women who leave nowadays, don’t
realize marriage is work, not all hunky dory,’ an angry
scowl enveloping his face, as he rapidly unwrapped the
rope ‘ I keep meeting men who been left by their wives,
12 men,’ he said emphatically to Patrick listening
patiently; ‘ 12 fuckin men’ and I wondered if he’d met
the men on jury service or at AA. ‘Sorry to hear that
anyway’ said Patrick preparing to disembark, ‘ Yeah
Fuck it, you gotta carry on, haven’t you’, Clint said as
though repeating something heard someone else say ‘
Meet each day as it comes’ ‘ That’s right’ said Patrick’
See you up at the Mill tonight’ asked Clint, a thirsty grin
beginning ‘I don’t think so, need my kip’ ‘Alright mate’
he asked me, defiantly, with a wink, and I smiled,
feeling sorry for him, the wounded man.
Anna and the girls emerged, relieved the rough journey
was over, and soon we were back on land, everyone
happy that they’d soon be dry and warm again inside.
We went up to the batch to get ready for the event
tonight. The gannet was back again, weaving between
the boats, then with a cock of the yellow eye suddenly
folding into a dive and splosh, ‘ Hey look’ and there
below on the pier a huge flapping ray maneuvered
between the wooden posts in the shallows, then faded
into the depths again. Exhausted, we all struggled up
the hill back to the batch ‘ I knew it would turn out
weird ‘ Anna suddenly said, as if waking from a dream,
‘what with that picture postcard nuclear family waving
us goodbye from the quay’.
We were back at the Mill later, a big night, Saturday
with Hexagon, the happening band from Auckland
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performing. Tim and Gelda, the aupair, were already
there with the nuclear family having supper.
It turned out the nuclear family had exploded and this
was more of a reunion. Steven,the son, the friend of
Tim, lanky, Christ like, except for the sheen of his long
hair, sat next to Mum the plump little women, rosy
cheeked with moonglasses, and then the daughter, very
tall, with big teeth, who had a baby in her arms, and a
young girl all excited. The Patriarch, the one who had
apparently photographed the Beatles for Sergeant
Pepper, sat huge faced next to Tim. I was put between
them, Tim seemed quite keen. It turned out, so Big
Daddy explained, that the plump woman was his first
wife (out of 3) and the daughters husband had just
abandoned her, not very nice, ‘ Never Mind, we’re all
there, still alive,’ said big Daddy, then bending over to
me with a leer ‘ and I’ve got a mistress, younger than
my daughter, Sri Lankan, gorgeous,’ sitting up saying
louder, ‘Credit Card takes care of them all’. I laughed;
all I could do was laugh. Before I’d have been jealous,
angry, the battleground of my disappointments with
Tina dredged up, but hey fuck it, that’s his life this is
mine and I loved Tina tonight.
Clint turned up, all shaved, with a clean shirt, and sat
next to Tina. Ok I was a bit weary, but I saw her, all
embarrassed, still smiling at him, she couldn’t help
being warm, nice, and really you had to laugh, her
getting into trouble ‘So that’s the motherfucker stalker’
Gelda said, flicking her hand back at Clint, and even I
thought that was a bit harsh; the guy was just fucked
up, give him a break, although later, within the crowd
waiting for Hexagon I sensed a darkness behind me,
the doppelganger effect. It was Clint trying not to be
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lonely and I’d been there too and Id been him, and I
made myself turn to him, say how yer doing, good night
tonight? ‘Yeah hope itll kick off soon’ And I knew what
he meant, he might be able to get out of it, the prison,
the box, loose himself in the happiness of others, and I
was happy I’d escaped his cage, for now.
‘Hey nobody’s going to get my soul, nobody get my soul
my soul my soul nobody’s…’ Hexagons rapping away on
stage, Tina before me, the stars out, Anna tucked up by
the bar it was alright we were together, everyone out to
have a good time. Annas white wine battle against the
margaritas was succeeding, justping up her fragility so
she acquired the elegance of a lady combined with that
contented bloom of alcoholic pregnancy, very beautiful.
Tina was being good, not keeping up with her but
Dickson and Eman were on the Long Island Teas; it
took them 10 seconds to drink and soon both had their
foreheads on the table. I wandered out into the night,
the vast panaplay of stars strung out falling in the cloud
burst of the Milky Way and hey it was alright here, the
place I’d choose to be, a place where you forgave not
criticised, constantly felt attached, the place where you
saw the goodness out there, the laughter, the links, and
for the first time in a long time I felt happy.
We all got back Ok. Tim and James, the girls already in
bed and even Anna didn’t try and keep the party going.
In bed I moved closer to Tina and again for the first
time in a long time I didn’t feel the compulsion to fuck
her possess her, supplant the isolation I felt with the
physical act of bonding. I just lay there, and soon
drifting off, swimming in warm waters, animals
coalescing, moving around me and I woke hard against
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her, my little ocean of love, Steven Wonder, bedtime,
Kiwi..
Next morning I stumbled out Tim and Stephen awake,
lying there under the canopy having tea. My routine
was out. I’d usually tried to get up before the others,
time to think, get my head straight but I just sat there
absorbing the sunlight breaking through the banana
tree and soon, I cant remember why but I was laughing
with them, at me, a story which hade landed flat, ‘
Don’t worry we’ll get back to you’ said Tim giggling, and
it was alright, I was out there there in the open smile of
Anna, the surf of the wave…
The little beach in the cove below the graveyard was
not empty. No naked swim this morning. A couple
sitting on the rock, reading, a women collecting shells,
2 toddlers in wetsuits, led out by their dad, scuba diving
around the gannet rock. The sun was low, and this
time, rather than feeling crowded, I felt glad the others
were there, fellow creatures coming down to the oceans
edge.The ducks, gannet, stingray, pod of dolphins were
still there somewhere, the owners of the ocean. Me and
my fellow humans were on the edge always to be
confined, but enjoying what was there on offer. We
were all together on this, gratefully, and I sensed, for a
moment, a perfect harmony.
It was only later, I found out batch was actually spelt
Bach. But by that time I was more worried about
chemical warfare in London and the state of my bank
balance. Then again perhaps there’s a harmony there
too, if you listen hard enough..
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Fear
And the Fear still loiters around the goiter
As the Spirit skips beyond my grasp,
A great fear that my life has fallen away
With that day when I stepped aside
From the possibility of Love…
Trust
To think and talk Money is to project
Need, to deflect to destruct
The challenge of the trust is
To live it, not to think it and to
Live by the consequences
‘and in the middle of my life
I became lost in a dark wood
And did not know the way’
Constantly compromising the trust inside
One, constant putting it on hold and
Then gone, a sense of it, just an
Awkward feeling of not quite being fully
There, alive, I am, me…
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In others, lie the trust, by
Listening to theirs you can have your own,
The force the pushing of self into the non
Self, in the listening to Other, the birdsong, inside
It rather than out,
In the same way willingness to let self go,
And let God, that which said that, take
You there.
To live by the light, the love, in a half
Hearted way is to feel let down.
And the Fear still loiters around the goiter
As the Spirit skips beyond my grasp,
A great fear that my life has fallen away
With that day when I stepped aside
From the possibility of Love…
But it is in the stillness, I think, where we are happy,
The almost stationary, the equilibrium of the
In between, that thing called Love, You and Me
And the something beyond it the something else
between
The rock, the sea and the Wind that allows
Our heart to beat, it is something else
Between It and Him and the Spirit which
Allows us to carry on, that
Is, always, the power to the Life
The Sun and behind it: the Mystery of Faith.
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Again I come back into the place of judgement,
the place of duality, questioning the reality
half is away from here, the other half is in,
not fully engaged in life as is,
as alive as it will be,
has been,
is.
COUNTING SHEEP LEAPING
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The low level yearning of the operative voice bumbled
above the road, whizzing into the outside fast. Jack had
accepted now that the car was a bubble and the thing
was to put the foot down and Zap; wait until you were
there, get out and then come back into yourself
connecting the inside together with the outside again.
It was a new form of pilgrimage of sorts, the Mum of
Jeanine in the back going back to where her Dad had
lived, the daughter beside her melding, it seemed to
Jack in the mirror, into her, noticing Jeanines hair was
turning from grey to cream and she too had gone there
as a child and then in her prime, working on the famous
film directors film, whose garden and beach-hut there
Jack was sort of interested in, as the almost lover he’d
recently left behind had been too.
---‘Oh there it is’, she said in the little old port, now quite
away away, (because of the constantly depositing of silt
over time), from the sea. ‘That’s it I’m sure’, she said,
‘Granddads house’. ‘Oh yes’ said Jeanine having been
400
there as a kid, knocked knees cold and grit blowing into
their eyes on the front. A square house, almost well to
do, ‘That’s it. Err……The err…Something Something
house’. Mum couldn’t remember the name, but it was
the one, just by the military canal, a road in-between.
‘Not so busy then’ ‘Thirty years’ ‘Yes’ she said, finally.
----The car manoeuvred around the coast road, Mum
mindful of her incontinence and Jeanine wondering
about lunch, passing MOD rifle ranges and ‘nasty little
bungalows’, set down edging the large expanse of
reclaimed marsh. ‘He wanted to live with us. I said no,
so he came down here. He sort of expected it, it was
usual then, but we couldn’t have him in the house. Him
and Johnny, they would have driven each other up the
wall’. There was silence, and everyone considered the
fact that Johnny had left soon after anyway and then it
had been usually her alone with the three kids under
five that made the pilgrimage before. ‘Come to think of
it its forty not thirty years since we were here’. The
operative voice of the new Volvo engine carried on
humming below.
‘No; it really is not very nice is it’ Mum went on,
‘horrible holiday camps, no planning, it’s as if no one
cared anymore’, ‘Yeah – but we should be keeping an
eye out for the Pub shouldn’t we mum’ Jeanine
declared, and Jack drove on wondering if it was so
brilliant his idea of doing this good deed of taking Mum
on a day trip down memory lane. Really it was just
another circuitous route trying to get into Jeanine’s
good books and away from all the trouble with the
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unrequited as he called her, in order, in the end, to get
his end away safe with Jeanine again.
On the desolate road, mean huts-like houses facing the
sea, shingle, undesirable rubbish and there, stuck in the
stone, a St Georges Flag fluttering in the chilly North
Sea wind. ‘At least we’ve got the World Cup heh?’ said
Jack out loud in what he imagined the accent was down
here, Estuary-English all mangled up and dry. ‘At least
we’ve got something to look forward to heh, the footie
heh?’ he said acting up again looking at Mum in the
back. ‘Oh God yes and so much of it to come’ she
responded ‘Look there’s a pub’ said Jeanine but Jack
drove on as if deaf ‘Lets get to the Point, it is the point
of this trip isn’t it eh after all isn’t it’ he said again
reasserting the point: it was their destination, the great
lump of Nuclear Power Station emerging out of the
mist.
-----It was a whole other place going onto the Point. The
shingle beach extended right back to the road, littered
with boat, and beach huts, black wood and sharply
painted windows. It did look a mess though. The huge
boxes of the nuclear station, a scattering of bungalow
structures below , shingle stone and two light houses,
both black and white painted, one the echo of the
other, the question why somewhere in-between. ‘Why
two?’ Mum finally said.
The car wheeled around in front of a big bungalow
calling itself a pub. ‘It’s not very nice, I think there
another one in the village, better food’ said Jeanine
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imagining gourmet, but Jack and Mum weren’t
bothered; it was here and it looked OK. Bog standard
would do.
Huss and chips, plaice and chips, Prawn Cocktail,
almost everything breaded and battered and the
quirkiness of the English still there, away from the
ubiquitous High Street and Sunday Supplements life
Style. The old man with one black leather driving glove
on his right hand, the shaven head at the bar, fat rollie
with a chaser scotch and on the table beside them, a
father and a son, the father, dry hair cut like a wig,
looking very much like a divorcee, so obviously
interested leaning forward to the boy, then, when his
son had gone off for a pee, letting his head fall into his
hands, flicking his dry skin off the false mahogany and
staring out of the window not seeing the sea.
‘I’m going for a walk ‘said Jack, wanting to stretch his
legs, get out under the wide sky after the time travel
capsule of the car. Just a turn, and it was up towards
the Power Station, to a hut, The Gallery- Photographic
Prints, a collection of rescued buoys outside and a
multicoloured heap outside the back door. The hut was
smoking and for some reason Jack imagined a dwarf
sitting in one dark corner drawing, not really wanting
anyone to come inside.
---‘600,000 visitors’ Jeanine said, reading the Birdwatcher
newsletter. ‘I really don’t see why’ said Mum, ‘Its not
very nice’ ‘I don’t know; it grows on you’ said Jeanine, ‘
Yeah, its odd’ said Jack coming back, ‘ Nicely Weird’ ‘It
must have been nicer with just the fishing huts and the
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lighthouse, before the power station and the mess
and…’ Mum trailed off and Jack then realised that he’d
in fact organised for her to come back to an old
memory that was in fact not very nice, in fact bad. But
despite this the negativity she did seem to be enjoying
it; perhaps it was the war spirit coming through or in
fact it was good to have a confirmation affirming what
she already thought was true.
Mum was ill, Leukemia she suspected and Jeanine had
been very worried as Mum had refused to go for more
tests. She’d been a nurse and she knew the score, the
time when the care just becomes a source of new
complications, new pain. No, it was the fact and as
she’d said always, Euthanasia was what she was going
to do, as soon as she lost her self sufficiency, as soon
as it was a bind, as soon as she became a chore for
others to do. It was the not knowing that made Jeanine
upset, nervous, wanting to have another course even if
she was full. ‘No, I have everything in place, my genes
are taken care of, two grandsons and of course your
little girl; my affairs are in order, and really I am quite
happy to go now’ she had said to Jack a few weeks back
and although Jeanine had always known about Mums
thing, it was still something she found very frightening,
like an earthquake that you knew was going to happen
sometime, soon, but not knowing exactly when.
‘I’ve got to go next door’ said Jeanine, with her fag,
‘fucking ban, what a pain’ and after she’s gone, her
Mum sighed. ‘Perhaps sometime she’ll decide to give
up....’ ‘I’m afraid she’s got too much pride’ said Jack
sizing up Mum for another attack on his spouses’
addiction. He’d struggled with his own and now
‘recovered’ he had been trying for the last few weeks to
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have a go at Jeanine. She was always more of a
drinker, drugger and smoker than him but she could
handle it. Live and let live, one of his group therapy
slogans read and he knew he shouldn’t really be on
anyone’s else’s case, particularly his spouse, but he just
couldn’t resist a little manipulation now and then and
again.
‘Pride, from her father said of course. Oh Johnny kept
at it even if he lost a foot and eye’ ‘ Yes Yes’ said Mum ‘
always did what he wanted’, and despite a lifetime of
trying to be free of all it she couldn’t stop the shadow
crossing over her face now like a bird passing, the
memory of the failed marriage, only six years lasting,
coming back. Fear loitering around the goiter; she’d had
it for forty years, half a life, kept down by hard work at
the hospital and the bringing up of three kids single
handedly by herself. ‘Oh yes, he could never stop
himself- at anything’ she added with the semblance of a
smirk. No, yes it had got better gone almost entirely,
the weight had just lifted when he’d died a couple of
years back, but still a flicker came up now and again,
particularly any mention of sex, the bete noir of his
navy habits, making a tingle even now crawl up her
back.
‘She will when she gets ill’; Jack was still going on
about smoking, ‘when she can’t breathe in anymore’
and then he stopped himself going on. Maybe he
shouldn’t bring up bad health, after all it was meant to
be a day out and he needed to keep it nice; his desire
was in sore search of relief, secretly hoping for a pay off
for his seaside ‘good work’. ‘It really is not a nice place
is it, I don’t know why everyone comes here?’ she
asked looking out of the packed out pub. ‘Somewhere
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to go to isn’t it’ said Jack, ‘a trip-different, it has a
railway after all’. ‘Yes, I suppose so. And the fishing
huts are nice’.
Outside the window behind Mums head the glory of the
Point, like a Mechano set on some abandoned
scrubland; the nuclear power station, huge containers,
holding its nasty secret deep down within it, anonymous
but huge, smiling gently at them, the two lighthouses,
oddly replicating each other, scattered huts in the
shingle and another odd structure, like an airport
control tower, ‘Bird Watchers but why two lighthouses’
Jack murmured to himself. ‘What’ twitched Mum? Her
hearing aid had been playing up. ‘They had to build
another one because the old one, was obscured by the
power station, I think that true', Jeanine said, glad
she’d been able to remember that stray fact. ‘Obviously’
said Mum, ‘but it looks a bit stupid don’t you think’ and
she looked over at Jack allowing herself to be
expansive; after all this was her day out and really she
had to allow herself some pleasure, before she left for
good.
She looked at the man opposite and couldn’t stop
herself seeing Johnny, laughing with that mischievous
grin. Johnny was a nicer person but sex obsessed,
selfish sometimes surly just like all the other men in her
life. But at least Jack had enabled Jeanine to get on
with what she needed to do, looking after children and
getting herself a good caring job. He had done his bit
and he did the driving too. But he was always going on
retreats, lost in books and like Jeanine she could not
stop herself wondering why, what was the point? It
wasn’t doing any good for anyone, was he? He wasn’t
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pulling his weight: no job, living off inheritance and
savings, what was the point of it all? Art, Painting,
Theatre that was for others to do. Called himself an
intellectual, well Mum was going to allow herself to
herself that too. She would have been, (she still read
the Guardian), if it wasn’t for the way things were then,
the children, Johnny leaving, she would have been a
journalist if she had been born the same time as
Jeanine.
‘They say it’s the worst addiction, smoking, don’t they’
she said to Jack ‘Yes but all the addictions are the
same’ offered Jack seeing himself as a bit of an expert
in the field, ‘Your only chance is asking for help. But
that then breaks the self sufficiency and Jeanine cant
let that happen can she’ said Jack with a little twang in
the back of his throat, the anger he still felt at its
source, which, without wanting too, Live and Let Live
and all that, he also saw sitting in front of him now. ‘Oh
Yes, self sufficient, she is, isn’t she’ said her Mum
proudly. ‘You see I mean unlike you, I don’t believe in a
God, so really it follows you have to be sufficient unto
yourself, as there is nothing else, isn’t there, who else
can you rely on eh?’ ‘True, maybe ‘ said Jack, ‘true to
yourself that is, but only through an affirming power
other than you…’ he was going on now and his Mum in
law decided she too was going to discourse; isn’t that
what they called it, discourse, or disclose, because she
had been thinking a lot about it too recently, what with
the heart and the thing happening inside her blood.
‘You see I just cant believe in the God you are told
about, the oppressive God, punishing you the
earthquakes, car crashes and all that, I refuse to
believe that. Really it’s the moral, the judgment, which
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is in you. Your conscience, that’s all’ she pronounced as
if at the end of a long deliberation, ‘So you do believe,
you believe in that, that’s your God the one you just
said,’ urged Jack, trying to affirm his own belief, with an
urgency that belied the fact that really, what with the
shenanigans going on in the relationship he was finding
it hard to hold on to his. ‘You believe in the Good don’t
you and isn’t God just a movement to the Good as you
perceive it?’ Mum was a little frustrated; she was all
prepared to argue with a believer, about God, but Jack
was agreeing with her saying they both believed and
yes she did, as he put it, except she didn’t belief in God,
it was one her things. Belief is a form of self hypnosis to
make yourself feel better, was a line she was
particularly proud of.
So in the habit of now an almost complete lifetime she
went on ignoring the distractions now irritating her
already made up mind and carried on with her already
completed argument. ‘ My friend Jo's friend, Ronald,
he’s a scientist , worked in the Labs at Kodak, he goes
on that it is all rational, Creation is evolution,
everything explainable so there’s no need for God the
Big Bang and all that explaining everything, but I say,
but Ronald where did the Big Bang come from? It
makes him mad. So yes I accept that there is
something else, but I just cant believe its there for me,
I cant belief in the what do you call it, a Benevolent
force’ she said matter of factly, ‘I enjoy the
conversation though, the discussing around it, but in
the end I don’t believe in God, silly man with a beard
and I don’t see that either, the good judge ’ ‘So, you
do belief in Him not being’ and Jack smiled, another
charming clever man talking cleverly, but in the end,
after all the words, it’s the practical help that’s needed
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and practically she didn’t get anything from the so
called Creative force, ‘ But it’s a mystery, isn’t it, you
cant wait for proof‘ said Jack, ‘ it’s the leap of faith into
the unknown, the thing beyond the Big Bang and that it
is how it works’ ‘Yes yes Jack I know but you see…’
‘Food come yet?’ it was Jeanine, back from her
momentary reprieve, another one done. ‘Talking about
God, with Jack’ said Mum up to her ‘Oh God, not God’
said Jeanine smirking. They’d obviously talked about it
before and both agreed that yes its all very well for
others but not for you and me. It is as it is, now isn’t it,
really we have too much to do, part of which was
tidying up after bloody men spending too much of their
time, talking about God?
‘Cod and Chips, Huss, the Plaice?’ a spotty teenager
came with the food, great slabs of battered fish, treacle
brown and ‘Nice big chips’ said Mum. ‘Wonder if they
had any hollandaise?’ asked Jeanine, still clinging onto
the hope she might be approaching something slightly
gourmet. ‘Err sorry..’, said the girl, looking afraid, not
knowing what Hollandaise meant. ‘I don’t know. Is it
the wrong order?’ her pimples becoming more red,
looking back over her shoulder for help. Jack sensed
there was a satanic boss somewhere in the bowels of
the bungalow pub. ‘Sorry I’ll ask’ ‘Never mind’ and the
girl smiled at Jeanines smile, going quickly to get
another order in the bussling pub. ‘ At least she’s
willing’ said Mum’ ‘Nice’ she said assuming a Buddha
like contentment, as she dipped another fat chip into
the tomato sauce. Willing, that’s what they had said to
Jack at the last retreat – Conversations with God, and
it’s the willingness to believe, that allows Him to be
they said and he’d felt it- and he remembered that
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moment looking into the priests eyes seeing that they
just went on and on inside and that he too was
acceptable he wasn’t all bad, that in fact he could be
loved and finally, after hearing it all his life, that judge,
continually condemning, there in that oasis of trees
between motorways he had finally understood what
forgiveness meant.
There was silence at the table for a few moments as
they chomped through the brittle crust of batter, the
women, Daughter as Mum very intent on the food they
ate. It was their sacrament thought Jack, their
particular communion, and really they were holy,
mother and daughter, both whole, separate, devoted to
the good, they just didn’t know it, which made them
more holy somehow. For him food had always been
difficult too much and he got depressed, going into
himself, it made him afraid and in fact he didn’t want
the food now there, distinctly ungourmet before him.
He wanted to get outside and walk and feel the sun and
look and see he wanted…What? Behind the wisps of
white hair of Mums head he saw his silver car, a streak
of intermittent sun catching its side and inside the
darkened glass, (it really was a too flash model), the
silhouette of the dog almost human apart from the
ears, just looking out wanting to go too, waiting
patiently. He needed a walk, and he knew the other two
would complain about the cold.
‘Far too much- here you have it’ he said passing his
hunk of huss to Jeanine plate and he broke away out
into the outside, hoping to clear his mind, to come
across something different something new, to get some
sort of answer to the questions in his head, that had got
to the point where it really hurt. For months since he’d
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told the Other One, the unrequited, to leave, a vacuum
bubble of fear had been stuck in his throat and he was
not quite believing what he thought or felt. In fact he
was beginning to feel doomed, that perpetual negative
thought that had bought him on his knees to find God in
the first place. And he had, or thought he had, but the
thing with Other One, the dishonesty, the split, had left
him bereft, lost as if he had broken some sort of
internal bond. Perhaps it was his Word with himself.
She’d been here. The Point. The Power Station. The
Other One, also. They’d talked about it before she’d
gone, their separate lives, edges overlapping, seeking
confirmation for the way they had both felt. Jack tried
to see the scene now, all of it together in that sense of
wholeness he’d felt before, embrace it all, the distant
ships, smudged shapes on the horizon, the grey blue
melding with the sky building into great billowing cloud
and then behind him inland the Marsh reclaimed, a
darker shade of blue that could easily have been more
water. Eerily the huge boxes of the Power Station cut
out a third of the world, the view in-between, almost
noiselessly, more sound coming from the crunch of his
feet on shingle and the breezes rattling the beach huts
awning either side.
He walked onto the broad walk, a plank walkway across
the stones, feeling a bit weak. He’d told himself he
should have been in Mongolia by now and he felt the
energy congealing inside his legs, the wanting to, and
that other woman there lingering somewhere beyond
the horizon in the haze, the one he’d told to go because
he wasn’t ready to move yet, from Jeanine and the rest
of the arrangement of people, places and things, he had
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to admit was what he called his Life. To be with his God
he’d said to her, but he didn’t know now, had it been or
was it just fear? Failed to follow his heart, so used he
was living in the ‘perhaps’, the ‘over there’, ‘later
maybe then, when..’ the sort of life he lived for years,
and now he wondered if his dream had just come and
he had let it go hadn’t grasped it for what his life was
worth, that was the phrase they used wasn’t it, he
hadn’t struggled at all. The dream would make the life
disappear it had felt. It had been all there, and he’d
pushed it away until it was gone, totally. Because of his
God he’d said, but now he sensed it had been, was all
wrong?
He felt very heavy, lead shoes in the planks his head all
confused but he had to make himself smile at the little
kiddies coming up the walkway before him. ‘Doggie,
nice doggy, look there Mum’ ‘Yes, Nice Doggy’, the
mother said happily overcome with her caring, pushing
the buggy along and Jack got off the boardwalk to let
her through, standing a foot shorter now, feeling like
another one of her kids, and liking it too. ‘No prob’ he
muttered at the woman ‘thanks,’ he said clenching his
teeth at the jealousy that then suddenly came
irritatingly on like an expected wave, to the point that
made it clear to him then that his marriage was almost
certainly doomed. All those miscarriages. It was the
smoking, it was the food, it was his fault. No money.
Anxiousness. It was… The last one was seven years ago
now; and he looked up into the sky still blue but muted
as if behind gauze, it had left them both so full of
doubt, a sense that he didn’t know if it was meant their
life together, he didn’t want to go there, O God…Alone.
Of God. Where was the Dog? The shingle bare the sea
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too bright to look at and he turned and Jeanine and her
Mum were talking to the kiddies and the Mom, laughing
but mute in the wind, the dog busy around their thighs.
He felt the Dog had run away from the despair he felt?
‘Alone, always going off. Jack just cant keep still now,
always going away from me’, Jeanine was saying to her
mum, it had gone on for years now, since he’d lost his
job, no even before that, ‘the endless fucking walks in
the country’ and Jeanine sighed, uneasy, irritated,
wanting another fag even if she had just had one. ‘Why
is he always going off, ‘ she said again to Mum and for
both it bought back niggles of those Sunday afternoons
waiting for Dad, that prehistoric memory of gritted
teeth and now, there was something else, even more
primordial she must have been a toddler when Dad had
done it to Mum, and now the widening of the horizon
that made her even more afraid, suspicious that facking
bitch whoever she, was lurking somewhere about
unseen.
Jeanine turned, finding her self looking at the blank
stare of a child in the buggy and it happened then,
again, like a balloon rapidly expanding under the full
and heavy stomach and she had to swallow to keep the
piece of Huss down and without thinking she moved
slightly closer to her Mum who was engrossed in a
conversation about the benefits of Nuclear against Oil
and the young Mother who was covered in green and
was apparently campaigning for a wind farm to be
erected on the Marsh. ‘What’s her name?’ asked
Jeanine interrupting the conversation wanting to be
included somehow pointing at the child, ‘He, is, Louis
and he’s surprisingly placid today. Oh Yes’ and she
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laughed proudly ‘Boys, a total different kettle of fish’
and the others joined in ‘Oh Yes’ said Mum and Jeanine
grinned ‘ Yes’ but underneath she felt like crying. If
only…Would it have been different, would Jack have
always been walking away then, would...No, she had
been too afraid. How could she trust him, take that
leap? God she had tried but she’d learnt early on, too
early on, that it was just her against the world, the god
given dollop of trust had gone before it had begun. She
had seen her Mum weep with fatigue in the Kitchen,
day on day, always at it and she had tried to believe
everything would be OK, she had tried but her body
would not allow it and the things, they just wouldn’t
take hold. ‘Have faith, I tell you it will be Ok’. Jack had
kept saying ‘ in the end it will be OK’ but…
A whistle blew, ‘Hey look everybody’. Jack was pointing
to something behind them a plume of white smoke
coming through the blueness, the day tripper train from
up the coast, the reason the people came here at all
mostly and for some reason it made all the little group
smile and for a moment forget themselves and their
own particular wounds. ‘Quick Come on Minty’ said the
Young Mother, ‘Got to go and get the train... Forgot
what time it was but it seems to have turned out alright
anyway. Just.’ she said pushing off toward the station,
the gaggle of kids trailing around her knees. ‘Here Dog'
said Jack, pulling it back from following the nice little
family back to their home.
----‘It’s a bit chilly isn’t it’ said Jeanine, longing to find
somewhere to lie down in the sun. ‘Yes. You two
lovebirds go for a walk after we’ve had a look at the
414
Garden and I’ll have a little snooze in the car’. Jeanine
didn’t say what she thought and said ‘Yeah we’d better
get a move on if we are going to get back in time for
the Child to come home’. She wanted a cigarette, she
felt all stiff again. It was the thought of going for a walk
with Jack with its sickly semblance of romance. No she
wasn’t going to give anything away to him. He was the
one that had been away and she suspected with more
than just the legs, and she was damned if she was
going to pretend she was happy sitting there waiting for
him to come home. She didn’t know but it reminded
her of her Mum pacing the Kitchen, the sound of the
baby wailing upstairs, ‘where is he where is he’ that
time ‘don’t worry dear, its jus the onions’ and she did
remember those teenage Sundays her too waiting for
Dad to come and take them out and it was that same
anger she felt now thickening her blood although she
had long since denied it effected still. She turned and
looked over at Jack staring up in the Sky and felt the
emptiness pass through her, down to the bottom of her
stomach and back up to her throat and it made her
weak, nauseous, anxious but deadened at the same
time. Was it despair? Despair at him staring up at the
sky again, somewhere else, never here, never engaged
and a little line passed over her and around the back of
her central sick emotion, a little voice suggesting
perhaps she felt safer more comfortable being there. At
least it meant she didn’t have to engage with him so as
to possibly get caught unaware.
----It looked very neat. Black tar-painted wood and neatly
painted window frames, mustard yellow. Jack had never
seen the movie set here, shot just before she and he
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had first met, but he still had the photo of her smiling,
all big blowy, seaside good humour, full of willing and
excitement which even now, when he came apon it
suddenly in some drawer, made him want more of her,
her givingness and, perhaps the fact that she was part
of it, the film, the making of it while he still wasn’t, still
on the edge looking on. Just the faintest of cries Now
she was shouting at him, from the car, but he couldn’t
hear her, what with the wind and the crunch of boots
on the shingle, and he stopped what she was saying
becoming coherent as she walked with her Mum
towards her, ‘We’d better be quick, we haven’t got long,
out time almost up’…
The Garden was made up of lots of planks and bushes
coming straight out of the shingle, discreet little
arrangements of shrubs and pile of stones, reclaimed
driftwood, bits of ship then stuck up like totem poles.
One was set as a square of planks, edged with bushes
and in the middle two bits of rusting metal facing each
other and Jack wondered if the Director, the creator of
the Garden, was buried there but he didn’t ask Jeanine.
Someone was inside, the young lover that the Auteur
had left the cottage to perhaps and Jack wondered why
Jeanine wasn’t going to say hello, she’d brushed his
balls with talcum powder after all for one of the
Directors signature gay angel scenes. ‘He wasn’t very
popular ‘was all Jeanine said when Jack egged her on. ‘I
like that. Isn’t it a…err?’ said Mum stroking one bush
shaped a bit like the dog. And where was the dog?
‘Stop it No’. The dog was pissing on one of the totem
poles and the two women laughed, as if they shared the
same joke and Jack for no reason felt somehow it was
on him. ‘Come on, let’s go to the sea we haven’t got
416
long’ he said to Jeanine and the Dog, ‘Right ho, you go.
Ill have my little snooze in the car, said Mum.
---
‘Look you can see the white cliffs of Dover’ said Jack,
‘there are not a lot of them really’ he added, those
Black and White War films suggesting they went on
forever. But Jeanine was well ahead of him along the
path and it upset Jack that she wasn’t waiting for him.
Why couldn’t it be like it was before, or was it ever like
that? And he imagined himself making a puppet show
out of old cut out photographs of themselves 15 years
before, walking on the shingle here, happy as it was
meant to be, he imagined it back then and in a way he
had never ever let go of the picture at all but it seemed
it was always a little ahead of him and his little voice
this time shouted out from the back, ‘at least it means
you don’t need to deal with the here and now’... He
stared up at the Sky again seeking solace in the blue,
hoping to see shapes in the cloud that would somehow
confirm it wasn’t just him, the world and his mind was
somehow in partnership even though down here
amongst people and most of all by his supposed nearest
and dearest, he felt totally alone.
The Shingle beach went out quite a bit, you couldn’t see
the shoreline, only the calm slate blue sea beyond. The
shingle was littered with huts roughly built all quite
separate although no fences in between and there were
boats in a wide range of repair sitting on, lying
sideways or falling apart among the stones. It looked
like a shanty town rapidly abandoned a long time ago,
or perhaps the aftermath of a recent tsunami them two
417
seen as distant figures picking amongst the ruins of
what was once their home.
‘Stop’ he shouted out to Jeanine in front of him’; ‘There.
Id like a photo’ He wanted to get one of those funny
snaps, Jeanine leaning against the leaning hut at the
same angle. It was something he was trying to do now,
just go with the flow, just take up ideas on his head,
not question, just do. Non-Judgmental he called it
‘allowing the creative flow’ his Californian life coach had
it labeled, which made him twinge but he knew it
worked. Just do it the slogan went, move on don’t stop
to analyze, decide it’s not good enough, do something
else. ‘Get a proper job’, he’d overheard the women’s
voices saying when Mum came round last week, despite
her condition and it had hit him as a body blow;
because it bought back the argument that had been
going on in his head most of his life, be himself or the
person he was supposed to be according to someone
else. And now with the mourning it seemed more
urgent still.
‘Hurry up’ said Jeanine, smiling at him, her mad
spouse, off on some trip in himself. It maddened her,
him not knowing what to do, dithering about with half
finished projects, Art and God, when really she
suspected he was just another lazy sod. ‘I worked like a
dog’ he’d been saying for the last four years since the
redundancy and his so-called Change, but even then
he’d always been talking about not doing it, doing
something else, never just accepting he had to do a 9-5
like everyone else. ‘Move a little more to the right,
that’s it ‘Yeah, like you are leaning, that’s it and to the
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right, Yes. ‘Oh come on Jack, hurry up’. He was
irritating her again; fucking fantasist, him and his little
films, she wasn’t some sort of doll in his puppets show
was she?
----The colours, blue into white grey melded like loose dye
working into each other, streaks parallel lined with gold.
Is that what they meant, the Glory, the Sun? They said
it would be white light, there at the end of the tunnel.
Didn’t they say that? And all will be well.
Mum was speculating about death in the car. Her death.
She was determined to control that too, as she had,
had to, with everything else, from the start. She didn’t
want to fall apart, be looked after, be a burden. No,
she’d seen enough of that, they weren’t going to say
that about her, she’d proved she could stand on her two
feet by herself, without men, before Divorce had
become the fashionable thing to do. It had started well
before then anyway, sent home to school from HK at 5
and then parents POW Singapore the War the family
non existent, and no she’d be damned if she was to go
under now, after all the struggle and she sat up, pulling
her old body up from her snooze and carefully wiped
away the fluid that had collected in her upturned eye,
as if it was in a cup. 4.15. Needed to get back. Feed the
cat. Her mantra. Stick to the routine only attend to
what needed to be done.
She squinted for the others through the slightly tinted
window, out there, and saw them, two, the dog ahead
of them like a scout, walking down the winding path
through the huts and abandoned boats towards the sea.
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And her whole body had to breathe in, then out. No, it
hadn’t happened to her, again, despite the odd suitor,
courtesy of the NHS; there hadn’t been time and really
she knew, like Jeanine’s Dad, the gentleman caller
would soon turn into a monster or at least a pest,
disrupting her own hard wrought world functional and
calm. She looked again at the middle aged couple and
tried to make herself hope it would come through the
difficulties stillbirth, redundancy and death had bought,
knocking back the loud thought that that too was an
illusion, true romance, marriage, it just isn’t true either,
in the end, like God, it’s just something to belief in to
make the harshness of life more bearable, more
palliative care she thought.
There had been one though, she was rather irritatingly
reminded as she watched a fly crawl up the darkened
glass, another friend of Cousin Jo. She had felt
something, after the years of hurt cemented over with
No, a Yes had almost arrived, the calling that had
begun to take over her body and mind. But she had
said No, in the end and now she remembered the look
of his blue eyes like needles into her chest. No, she
couldn’t go with him, it had been the wrong time what
with the job and the children moving school. But should
have she? She allowed herself to ask now. No: children
first. But.. what about the heart desire, the truth, being
honest that virtue she had always gone about to
Jeanine .No, it was too big a leap, duty first and besides
everything was up in the air, out of control, so
potentially devastating, another hurt would be and she
didn’t think she could take it again. No, better off it
was. The same. More manageable. Yes. No. It doesn’t
matter now anyway, it was almost over and for Mum at
that moment again it felt a great relief.
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4.25. They’d better be here by 5. Half an hour. Goody,
more napping time, and she squeezed her eyes tight
shut, pulled her coat around her, luxuriating in the Sun
like her overweight cat Tom, as it heated up the car
through the
slightly tinted glass.
---The middle aged children sat in the lee of the blue and
white boat. ‘Its out of the wind’ said Jack inviting, he
then pulled Jeanine down onto the shingle to be beside
him, all romantic like Burt on the sand in the surf sort
of rather than stone and the harsh breeze ‘You ricked
me fuckin neck’ she said and he stiffened. It would be
nice to cancoddle up together, talk of life and love, as
if…. In the almost affair that’s what they did, or would
have done, in his head, always seeking more intimacy,
but it felt now that they hardly knew each other now,
him and his almost wife; 15 years and they were less
familiar than the brochure for his could have been
holiday fling. It didn’t seem right to Jack that, after all
these years, they didn’t even hold hands; ‘We’re not
kids anymore’ Jeanine always said, feeling his big arm
holding her more a chain than support ‘Only if we don’t
want to be’ said Jack. Isn’t that the point? Being safe
enough to be the child with somebody else’. But he said
nothing and slumped back into the shingle and
mindlessly began to load his pockets with stones. The
bright blue sky suddenly felt heavy and threatening and
he looked out at the bay sweeping around the darker
blue, smudging on the horizon, noting the procession of
ships following the demarcated channel unseen but
there.
421
The dog obviously sensed there was a stick to be
caught and ran down the slope to the breaking surf.
‘Don’t let him go in- the current are really bad here’
called out Jeanine as Jack went to find something to
throw. ‘Don’t worry- he knows about it’, he said, not
totally convinced but wanting to believe that the
animals instinct would guide him through. Always
afraid, thought Jack again, always worried, won’t even
let me kiss her, she was always holding back, never
letting things just go, the flow and all that. No wonder
he was always looking elsewhere for solace and he
picked up a piece of bleached branch and threw it as far
as he could, then, suddenly panicked shouting
frantically at the dog to come back. ‘Come here now
quick’, as it jumped up and down in the surf surprised
by the salt but determined to retrieve. ‘Now, here quick’. But it was OK and the dog stick in mouth was
back on the beach panting expectant and soaking, a
shower of diamonds as it was shaking itself out, then
looking up hoping the stick would be thrown again.
But Jack was marching off the other way inland away
from Jeanine, lying there having another fag or non
doubt a spliff, determined not to think of her, or the
other one, but to make himself enjoy the scene, take
photos, think, make poetry in his head. There was a
sound of a saw, somewhere someone repairing a boat
and he wondered how many of the stranded boats were
actually used; there weren’t any people there, apart
from the person using the saw. Aside from the boats
and the huts, leaning or falling apart, there were
containers and a back of a removal van, the entrance
422
facing out to sea. Pieces of rope, old netting, tangled up
in heaps, bits of wood and one abandoned black high
heeled shoe. It was a place but a non place, like a set,
for the film Jeanine had helped make so many years
ago. ALWAYS LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE. It was a
container and Jack walked towards the slogan for some
reason thinking it was for Condoms; rubber was
mentioned in the smaller script beneath. But it was for
INVICTA VAC THE BEST VACUMMS PLATERS, whatever
that meant; another mystery, thought Jack, probably
never to be answered now.
Oh God, should he go? Just up and leave. Go and see
that possibility, the other one on the other side of the
world, just leave this life his life and all the memories
attached. He had to follow to heart didn’t he, the
longing, that yearning he still so strongly felt? Or should
he just let it go mouldy and die frustrated and sad. Oh
God. He was, he was, he was bored of his own words
and more and more and more he felt drained of the
conviction that this was the Life to be had? But was that
happiness, the joy and loving he had felt during that
time apart from Jeanine, with his God he’d called it, his
retreat, after the death and then the time with the
Other One who told him that they were the real thing,
soul mates. Or was it just another self manufactured
high, self hypnosis as Mum said or in Jeanine parlance,
was he just being a selfish cunt?
The nuclear power station sat fuming in the distance,
blocking out the western horizon, filling up with the
light of mid-afternoon, sat there as if it was posing a
question, self reverential all about itself. It had been all
over the News again, the Nuclear Option, to handle the
Global Warming Crisis. But what about the waste? What
423
about the potential for disaster? Wasn’t it against
nature, breaking some sort of internal law which could
result in the bad? Wasn’t it Man playing God? Oh God,
there was too much to worry about. Oh God.
A whistle, sudden, like a scream the little steam engine
was going back again, the end of another day trip and
Jack knew he had to go back to the car, get a move on
back home and the Child. So was it the end now he
thought, or the end of the beginning at least, or the end
of the beginning of the end, to be or not to be with
Jeanine or not? Was he going to go away, to take that
step, into what ever it was the Mystery of…Unseen?
The car looked hot with Women and chat. It was
difficult for Jack to tell the difference between the
silhouettes in the back, both specs and short sharp
haircuts. The business women look. The curly hair look,
Jeanine had called the photograph of her here years
ago, on the beach making the film, goodwill and
happiness just wanting to. Now the echoing heads black
behind the tinted glass, the shiny car, parked before the
museum of the dead film director and his garden of
dedication to old lovers, that now was his life, the one
he was stepping back into, that was the life he was now
going to drive back into after the day trip to this weird
place.
He turned to look at the boats on the shingle and the
smudges of ships on the horizon heading out to ocean,
his eyes following their line westwards past the light
house, echoed by the old one dwarfed there by the
rectangular mass of the nuclear PowerStation steaming
gently, and then turning his head further still, round to
424
the false blue of the flatness of the reclaimed Marsh.
Great white clouds like a cloth were poised to cover the
toy-town scene making all miniscule, one gap in
between where a whiter white gathered around the
burning shaft, where the sun was beginning to go
down. A whistle in the wind, the plume of smoke of the
train, the last train this day, the day of the day trip, at
the end of the peninsula to the Point, now following the
coast back around toward the white cliffs. It was over,
thought Jack, he had to go; it was over not quite sure
to what scale of life he was referring to.
----‘Taste nice?’ asked Jeanine to her Mum. ‘What?’ ‘The
sheep. Romney Sheep?’ ‘Yes I think so. Slightly salty
perhaps’. Her mind had already gone on towards the
next meal thought Jack, the sun getting in his eyes.
‘Slow down’ said Jeanine thinking it’s not a bloody race,
Prick; men, he always went too fast, never considering
the potential cost. ‘My higher power innit’ he always
say, ‘Protects me, the sixth sense’ ‘Bollocks, a total lack
of personal responsibility more like git’. ‘Oh shit’, the
car veered slightly avoiding a bicycle almost invisible
pale in the harsh low sunlight. ‘Sorry- bit too zooped up
this motor’ said Jack. ‘We’re going to have a crash, if
you keep this up’ Jeanine said, trying not to loose her
cool in front of her Mum. Remember Jeanine, don’t get
upset, its just men being silly, Mum’d been saying for
God knows how long. ‘Have faith, Baby’ Jack said
surprised by his own confident tone, ‘We haven’t had
one yet and I’ve been cabbing you for the last fifteen
years’ ‘Bollocks’ his sort of wife replied. At least she
could tell Cabbies what to do and she turned to her
Mum for affirmation but Mum was already asleep, her
425
pale washed out face, drained with past worry and
present chemo and it persuaded Jeanine that to leave
the quarreling and try to be calm was probably best
thing to do. Shut it all out. She needed another spliff
she decided but she couldn’t in the car, and anyway her
Mum didn’t know she did even now.
---425, 426, 427… Mum was counting sheep, and laughing
to herself, feeling like a child. She was happy; she
didn’t have to worry anymore, each little leap was a
bonus now and really she was ready to go. Everything
settled; genes taken care of as she liked to say, two
boys and a lovely granddaughter, affairs sorted and all
good, well and done. Nobody was going to say she left
a mess behind and all in all, all was well and all manner
of things was well and although she had spent a lifetime
denying the existence of God she now felt a warm glow
envelop her and lift her up into a new place, a feeling of
being part of a much larger world. Perhaps it was true?
But should she have allowed herself to share with
someone else..? Had she been too afraid to fully live?
Had she? SSHHHHH.. 428, 429,
She opened her eyes. They were now between high
ridges either side, lots of shiny metal, traffic, motorway
signs. ‘A horrible place to live’ Mum suddenly said, then
fell back again, trying to avoid the bad memories
coming up: Dad, Johnny, the difficult time with the kids
and she gathered them up and pushed them behind the
door and made herself go back to those blue
remembered, the quilt of forever England the myth of
her expat childhood (the place that really she’d never
426
fully enjoyed) and s she started to count sheep
again…430 431.
----Jack eyelids were very heavy. His whole body was
growing in weight, the sea air, the memory, the
mourning, the loss, the... He didn’t know, but he had
to keep his eyes open; at 95 miles per hour you can’t
afford to be too lax. But it seemed that he had no sense
anymore of going anywhere anyway. The ships, the
Other one, the old life of the how it could have been
with Jeanine, if only, the trying to recapture that Curly
Haired smile, seemed to have been replaced now the
permanent scowl of the too low sun through the glass
darkly and anything different seemed altogether an
impossibility now. The chance to jump had gone too,
that chance to follow his hearts desire, that longing, an
urge to madness was now closed and it felt if once
offered the possibility of change, it wouldn’t come back
again and now life was to be defined by the existing
set, the scenery store was closed, it would be always be
the same.
In the mirror the Mother and Daughter, both heads
back mouth slightly open, almost identical, except
Jeanine slightly darker, grey cream hair rather than
brilliant white but, oddly, her face was more heavily
lined than Mums, by all that smoking just like Dad did,
her frown drawn with the same mental intensity of
Johnny and perhaps the ashtray of tension that his
departure and lack of parenting had left.
---
427
The chrome registration plate came up very fast, and
Jack only just managed to break soon enough to avoid
the car in front, a jolt and too big skid disturbing his
passengers behind. Shit, he needed to keep his eye on
the ball. ‘Be careful’, urged Jeanine trying not to loose
her drowsy calm.
‘Is that Lieder’ asked Mum not afraid at all, ‘That’s the
word isn’t it?’ she asked about the singing on the radio.
‘It’s Sir Thomas Allen’, the deep baritone coming out
with Alive Alive Oh… Singing Cockle s and Muscles Alive
alive oh’ ‘No, Its Irish songs stupid Jack was thinking,
Lieder were the songs of longing and love, German,
expressing Versucht, the yearning that he had always
felt. But he said instead ‘Yeah they are sort of, but
Irish, not foreign’.
But what if you got it, he found himself wondering, as
the traffic began to speed up again after the works, that
which you longed for, the dream he asked behind the
heavy lids lashes now shot through with the gold and
silver coming off the cars around his. What if you get
that which you longed for? What if the spirit comes and
gives you all you desire and you refuse it? What then?
He asked, silently, into the mirror, the two women and
a dogs head them between, waiting for another walk.
What happens then?
And this time he didn’t see the registration plate coming
quickly towards him, this time, inside his existential
ponderings, the sixth sense failed him and the back end
of the articulated lorry filled the whole window with
black, as a darkness enveloped all that there was in
front of it and behind.
428
Indivisible
But isn’t it, is it, only One, You and Me where I can live,
the clarity of light that then the relationship refracts
there, in the half light of images distorted
lies the shame creating again the crime perpetual
No, Yes
You are all ,
time unlimited
and in that can
I live
I love.
Indivisible.
429
EAST COKER.
The sound of horse hooves, a cackling conversation of
jackdaws juxtaposed with the cooing of pigeons and the bell
tower tolls seven. East Coker, a poets village, Elliot’s ashes
scattered under the yew and on the rise there the Church sits
by the hill; the valley spreads out around which geese
circumnavigate wailing; everything in place accorded
appropriate time and space that balance that only history can
create.
I sit and listen… Dawn points. Another Day…Dawn; a slither
of pink in rain cloud being dragged across the sky from the
north, an opening illuminating, in a hazy peach, distant
valleys the crack like a gracious benediction of peace.
Bullocks munch towards me and small birds burst open their
days song another day after the summer long chorus
reaching the point where the season is almost turning. A time
for living and generation and A time for the wind to break the
loosened pain and to shake the tattered arras woven with a
silent motto. In my end is my beginning...Like the tide it is
suddenly apon us, the end, and each wave reaching a little
further as if seeking as much as possible until itself is
reclaimed and we all move upwards, bit by bit, balancing
effort against need up the beach, calculating mostly the
hours and the tide turning, something to do with the moon
isn’t it, said someone else, again.
The next day the mist had swept in, only one brave soul in
the surf, black wet suited, like a seal, mother and child
looking on…Out at sea the dawn wind wrinkles and slides. I
am here. Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning. The clouds
430
cast dark spells on the horizons sea, shadows, like islands,
further lands where there is really only ocean and a low
beacon echoes through the dullness, the light house fog horn
a longing, mournful in the grey…still with the intolerable
wrestle with words and meaning.. a raid on the inarticulate,
the sea made up of many seas gainst rock, undisplined
squads of emotion…and I look on, think of her leaving, 12342
miles away from Lands End the chart says… And where you
are is where you are not and I hold hands like children with
my wife who lives 338 miles away in Hackney and by the sign
marked Danger High Cliffs I try and tell her it is at an end,
us, this, but self consciousness prevents me and again, our
lives the living of is smudged in the fog of fear, aloneness,
money, trying to get out of a life which is the only one there
is, without having jump off into.. .
Each telescope has a different story the tourist sign says on
each of the black iron stands dotted along the cliff edge. I
stare out into mist mostly through wet tearful glass and see,
very little accept the lighthouse staccato moaning,and in
front low rock called something or other, because its make
the water boil in high sea, and there is another rock out there
somewhere called Wolf, because it screams in the high wind
sbeing squeezed between crevices The wave cry the wind cry,
the vast waters, Of petrel and porpoise, In the end is my
beginning….and we move on, around about each other not
speaking as we have done so many times before, me thinking
of going on the John O Groats walk 800 miles in 30 days but
now knowing I probably wont, forever, and her not
understanding, trying to stop herself screaming, Why would
you do that rather than work against the not quite secure...
And we drive through the rain, the cliff top theatre closed, for
the scenes to be changed, her now despondent, as I have
changed, again, with the season, hot and cold, as I try and
find my true hearts desire, again. At Lamorna another middle
aged couple struggles up the hill in the rain and a school of
431
divers like animated buoys float around the quay; ‘ it was not
having more children’ she said, ‘You left ages ago’ she said, ‘I
just worry about being old and poor’ and after the talk the
rain lifts, or seems to, and we are still here, together, and I
again I cant quite believe I will leave.. the wisdom only the
knowledge of dead secrets, Their fear of fear and frenzy,
their fear of possession…in my end is my beginning ..humility
is endless.. the houses are all gone under the sea…
7.15 the horse returns, the riders face redder, the birds have
settled down and the cars start; the shower has ended, men
move behind dark windows, and an almost September
Saturday starts.
‘What’s that’s’ she had jumped up my daughter the night
before as the bell rang eleven sitting in the graveyard with
me after supper talking of ghosts, listening to groans in the
night. The bat low flying, restless jackdaws, the last calls of
geese, and the eyes closed something behind above, wings
creating a deep lane in the darkening air.. a hollow rumble of
wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness, a white
gravestone the shade of a person as the eyes open, ‘what
would you do if you someone walking towards you there’ she
says, and walking back under the yew at the gravestone
entrance I couldn’t help but feel the chill. Was he here was he
there there still ?
…in the tube, stops too long between stations, and the
conversation slowly rises and slowly fades into silence and
you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen,
…’Percipient detachment allowing the change for the optimum
growth’, that’s what the disciple said of the Monk who had
quoted East Coker in his book Word and Silence.. leaving
only the growing terror of nothing to think about And he too
had said the same Waiting without thought, for you are not
ready for thought, So the darkness shall be the light and the
432
stillness the dancing..and I see her now landing on the other
side of the world and with the distance the yearning folds and
it is turning into winter, Love is mostly itself where here and
now cease to matter, and the possibility is nowthat was and
I wonder if my world is dying too, is this end a beginning
then .. but all I can do is not think of you and know you know
that too, and We must be still and still moving into another
intensity for a further union, a deeper communion through
the dark cold and empty desolation.. In the end is my
beginning.
And I hope even though I know I am not supposed to, I hope
when I know I am only supposed to wait.
East Coker. Hackney 8/06
433
NOTES FOR A STORY –
First Day
Night flight. The air steward didn’t smile. No dreams.
No sleep. Out of mind out of sight? Is she? Three hours
lost. So not quite.
The passport woman looks hard, types mysteriously
into a computer.. A Canadian missionary given a bed by
the barman at the airport.
A long low smudge of red dawn, shattered buildings,
huge sky,
the bird forest reminiscent of a Dosteveskian youth.
A beginning or an end. Here for a week.
What was the Russian for miles? …. going on and on as
they did from Moscow to their estates, in all those
novels read too early on, years ago..
Dogs rule the dawn streets, everyone with a bent car.
Red Square- echoes of Brezhnev now muted but there,
another bit of mind reduced to reality, the Kremlin,
edifice within citadel, within a fortress one little door in
the whole wall.
434
Soldiers and big hatted police, as if they have been in
manholes all night, emerge on corners, below the
peeling buildings from another age now prone for
redevelopment. Cars, old soviet style with blackened
windows swerve to the side of the road as if to mow
you down. Need help, stick out a hand; I have money.
Nothing. What happened to them - the taxis?
And one by one they stop outside the cathedral and
cross themselves in an elaborate crucifix, as if they are
tying themselves in a knot. Inside,
old women in scarves and icons everywhere, kissing
and crossing, young women stroke little intimacies at
the corners of the frame reading text and whispering
sweet nothings at it and Him.
In another church they stand there too but with a choir
beyond, shielded by a wall of icons, song and the
vibrating intoning of a hidden priest, as if sounding
everywhere, the smell of myrrh coming from
somewhere else.
Outside, Hindu dogs in the careless street, yawn and
stretch themselves
as if they own the whole place.
In the Red Square again, the Lenin Mausoleum stands
an embarrassed relic and a dog, perhaps dead, lies in
the centre of the cobbled stones while tourists from the
country, at a safe distance, take photographs and at the
far end St Basils, cornetto pirouetted towers twizzle
multicoloured into the grey sky between the blocks.
Outside the Kremlin anxious Statues, the Bear hitting
the fox
435
the Stork poking the pleading dog and ornamental
Cabbages in the flower bed denote, suddenly, a totally
different mindset. It’s the Alphabet Cyrillic cunningly
soon making you insane, almost understanding
something
but infact it’s totally back to front almost, again.
Old women with little bits and pieces at the edge of
streets trying to sell
and you begin to wonder if the uniforms the men are
wearing actually mean anything at all.
A place is like a person; a mind,
History, Attitude, Mood, Shape, Age
The rest, character, Personality
In fact everything is, like a
Person, including the need and sometimes
Self conscious unavoidability of trying to be
Profound.
You
And the thought
of her comes in again
Spoiling the view,
like a shout from the wings
Ruining the flow and although wanting
To ignore it, in fact, I can’t:
It happened, it is and now is.
You now and your forgiving,
Responding to nothing
I can say
And you have, almost, we talk
Now again are opening up the house
We spent so long building together although
436
Never again will it be the same;
Not worse, just different, less new
Despite another lick of paint, or even colour
Alterations, it’s almost impossible to change
Its essential shape. Ours.
Days, years, ever, the tinnitus
Ringing in my ears and my idea
Of freedom now only responding to You
Be it less comfort and satisfaction
Less roller coaster illusion of the flying grace
It is as it is
Anything Ill do now for You
Just to get some peace,
no interruption
And a clear view
of You and Me.
It happened, it is; don’t be afraid,
Accept and Start again from the beginning
After the storm clear away the rubbish,
Be in the love not fear
I hear You say
It’s the only way
For you
(and Her)…
To
accept to clear
Away the self, the conflict and
Expectation, recover enough peace
To create a room to wait in,
For you, enough space to hope in
For us an open-endedness
Thinking of you the Other
And all the Others
437
That make up
You
(and You)
Tues
8 on a Moscow morning, bells continue well past the
hour.
Full leaved birch between tired blocks
of people very slowly attending to the day.
A cascade of silence falls through the streets
Shimmering green variegating in and out,
And like footsteps coming through the woods
Grouped like wildernesses before the brick
Giving an illusion, all of a sudden, of someone hidden
Shaking the trunks, a game of children under
The birch leaf Canopy, laughter, breathe moulded
Like the complication of the cats purring as she tries
To raise the master to play, lying there on the mattress
Open mouthed breathing heavily Baudelaire pawing on
his lap;
‘And I suddenly realised I could choose’ he’d said last
night
Laughing as he received yet another woman’s text,
‘Meet you in the bike, I think you look better than the
Gorilla’
Momentarily lost in the blank spot of meaning
Widening like a yawn between Russia and the UK;
‘Thank God for email’ he had joked checking the
reference
From the previous mail: ‘Choice’, a choosing, and
I suddenly realised I could be free too, if I choose
438
To say ‘I am’ rather than ‘would be’, by choice.
I could change my life too I think here
Go to the Other place become another with
The other you if I choose to change
And the whiteness of the dawn now blowing in from the
East
Over the City whose Sky is so large as to
See beyond the television mast more whiteness
On the horizon like the second coming of the day
And the branches of leaves reach out creating the
Individual shapes in its becoming
In it’s choosing so to be.
-----
Russian Style
Girls in pencil skirts, handbags, done hair; girls in bling,
policewomen in stilettos,‘ They just like themselves,
that’s who they do it for’ said the Englishman,’ Russian
women like Men, ‘grinning he said, a discovery he did
not expect to make in his lifetime and, even more
surprisingly, they like him too.
In the Ukraine they say of men’ If he’s not like potato
he’s handsome’ and he showed the picture of Natasha,
a model and Lawyer combined blonde and... Well,
tongue tied is the English’s expression that springs to
mind..
ROLEX, a horses head, at the side of the new building
outside the Kremlin. Lexus, the same hugeness
439
overlooking Pushkinskaya, the same, on a new building.
‘What would they look like without the huge pictures?
The adverts and garish come-ons ‘I wondered. ‘Grim’
came the reply.
Seven houses, fairy tale towers, Stalins legacy. ‘After
the Germans it Stalin got to work and did the real
damage, that what the Russians say.’
Down the main street, Tverskaya, a little shop for
Yogurt. A picture matrix, like noughts and crosses filled
with fruit, with two spoons like a clock in the middle,
like some I Ching thing in the middle, Danone, the first
capitalist shop in Russia... a pilgrimage it felt like.
Over the post office door a glass globe stuck into the
wall, the communist star over it on the north pole.
Some panes were shattered and people seen walking
inside it. Were they looking at us? Politburo and the
Cheka secret police are they there still?
‘It was a question of wills’ the poet said, ‘like American,
making it the biggest’ marvelling at the huge buildings
and suddenly around the corner, down a side street
another statue, thin and pale, Chekhov musing opposite
the entrance to the Arts Theatre. What would he think
now of the middle aged man parked in the black
windowed Chrysler sedan with a brutish chrome fender
inside watching a video screen of a violent film DVD, ‘I
don’t have any light shining in the distance I no longer
expect anything for myself, I don’t really like people, I
haven’t cared for anyone for years.’ said the doctor in
Uncle Vanya in his mid life crisis in one of the pieces I
was meant to be performing at the end of the week.
440
And Pushkin in the huge Square named after him, a
grand hand stuck in his waistcoat, in front of him a Jimi
Hendrix cover band playing an impromptu set, ‘ He was
a half caste apparently, his mother was an African
slave’.
The Poet's dead! - a slave to honor He fell, by rumour slandered,
Lead in his breast and thirsting for revenge,
Hanging his proud head!...
The Poet's soul could not endure
Petty insult's disgrace.
Against society he rose,
Alone, as always...and was slain!
Slain!...What use is weeping now,
Blah llah di blah
That’s all I can remember said my friend, Lermantov
wrote it when Pushkin died in a duel a few years before
he said the same. ‘Divine Justice, you intimates of
corruption- is poets justice' but as I said ‘Russians yawn
at death and they always have’
‘Moscow is one city, Kremlin in the centre, all roads lead
to it and then out beyond, and then it just goes on, and
on outwards, all the same, no pockets like London’
‘Did you know that Bolshoi mean big’ he said pointing to
a jewellery advert.
441
Another square, another statue, another name.
Mayakovsky, the poet of the people, in a suit striding
out. ‘He killed himself over a woman not politics as they
said’. Another one, medieval on the horse ‘he was the
one who founded Moscow, 800 years ago’.
Each statue is unto itself, has character, their own
style, angry, grand sad.
Like the people on the street, each there own
caricature, each has their own, anything goes, the bloke
in the funny suit, white with little black arrows, then the
bling, all too much logo and gold, then the academic,
grey non descript; yes anything goes, but the main
thing is THEY DON’T LOOK AT EACH OTHER, ever, not
even the foreigner with the too big bag.
I HAVE MONEY; it doesn’t matter. It’s about knowing
the system sticking your hand out here and any car
becomes a taxi.
I wonder if there were shops in the old regime. My
friends remembers the joke that was there were lots of
Aubergines available, blue chickens that is, chickens
that have gone off the only thing to eat in the shop.
The thing the friend said, after 70 years of oppression
people are just delighted to be able to choose...
----
Don’t forget.
Flats: with Mothers,
442
Fags on balconies,
Glass enclosed, costumes hanging
Shop Windows to the Winter and
Don’t forget, don’t let yourself go too much, relax,
Winter is coming which is where they mostly live,
And the swaying birch, like a ballet
Dancer shaken by an invisible hand part of
The hugeness of the forest from which
Moscow emerges: it takes eight hours flying
just to get to Siberia
And you are still in the same country
Don’t forget.
----
Evening and my friend goes through his email, more
would be Russian brides and missives from England. I
moan that I can’t decide whether to take the job back
there going back, or whether the marriage is able to
endure this slack to the point of not existing and my
whole life having to change.
Change ah Yes. My friends exs, the Internet date that
got him out here in the first place, then dumped him,
her father had been a big bod in the science academy,
but with the soviet collapse he lost everything- ‘now
he’s a taxi driver but there’s no complaint- In Russia
there is no self pity’ my friend grandly declared ‘After all
there no gulag now is there’.. And the same woman’s
husband died after she left him; apparently he willed
himself to death, ‘that’s how it is’ she had shrugged.
443
‘So?’ she’d said’ he said, adding ‘Women run the place
here’
---Firecrackers booming around the tenements
Late at night; intimation of gunfire,
Terrorists, gangsters, a fight over allocation
Of flats; murder, fear?
with a history of violence
Anything can happen here.
---The same Night again
The nightmare of being stuck
In the mirror, an endless echo
the memory of the loss again
and trying harder to gain,
again, regain, again but
stuck in the choice but
lost to the open ended ness
Of You, only
Becoming nothing, again
To be or not to be
The same question
To choose to change
Or to not
The same question
again
There is
No other
Way..
Again
Forever
444
Only
Prayer
Maybe
Perhaps.
Weds
The next day it rained, all day. In the morning
wondering what to wear, pleased to at least have a use
for the raincoat bought especially, in my too big bag,
but then eight hours of soggy summer feet later wishing
that summer wasn’t over yet and Id bought the extra
shoes I said I would before I’d left.
The retraction of autumn starts. First, the periphery.
The old woman, scarf and second world war face looses
it with a young one at the Metro then berating me by
mistake as the father, for something, finger jabbing,
the anxiety of the long cold time coming out. Drunks
begin to gather in the underpass and the army of
labourers, after the months tidying up the cigarettes
and bottles, get ready to defeat the leaves, brushes and
brooms, before the daily battle with the snow, and
frost.
Autumn, a time to reconsider, gather up stuff from the
summer, prepare for the cold time. Who with? Where?
Enough? Here Time accelerates, October pushes into
August and my anxiety appears in the old peoples face,
the odd shiver rushing suddenly down the back.
445
But still the leaves are there, fluttering sol y sobre in
the noon sun, the browning, the shrivel and the fall
must be quick, like most things here, decisive, clear
cut, blunt.
At the All Russia Exhibition Centre, a sort of Festival of
Britain park, 50s but with Russia still having its empire
intact, and the poet and sort of actor are in
conversation still.
‘Theatre is production, the metaphor is factory, the art
is a purpose, it is how it is. You’re given a job for life,
some people have had the same part for thirty years’,
the poet points out ‘Function over form, Society over
self, admirable really, if it wasn’t quite how humans
are. God in man, Man in Man, Who says? Eh. Close your
eyes’ he said steering his friend blind around a corner.
‘OK you can open your eyes now. There.
Power; a giant ejaculatory rocket statue on top of a
huge metal plated pedestal, some man, a revolutionary
hero, at the base, boxed inside temporary wood, bird
shit smeared on his face.
It was the moment to the glory of technology Soviet
style; now boys scrabble up its spine to write their
name then slide down; one being made probably drunk
sick, his vomit, vodka bottle and MacDonald carton
collecting in the corner at the base.
Fences are erected around the monument and soldiers
loiter. I stiffen as my friend indicates that they may
check us out and extort a bribe. ‘Their Wages’ he says
446
An old woman grim-faced sifts through the waste bin
carrying a plastic bag of what she has collected with a
big I LOVE YOU printed on its side.
The so called funfair is behind the triumphal arch a
bronze couple on top, equal size, carrying a sheaf of
wheat, mutually.
‘Women are women and men are men’ the poet says
again.
Donkey and Pony put side the arches. Disney puppet
men slouching about inside ‘Most of them are on crack’
my friend laughs. ‘There just isn’t a concept of
customer service, what happens when status is
removed, the false hierarchy based on money, rather
than age, experience, merit...’
We went up the Ferris wheel, MOSCVA 850, built for the
celebrations a few years ago, stuck in an open chair like
meat up on top the wind making the metal shake and
the views glimpsed at without looking down was of
tower block on tower block disappearing into mist.
Thank God. Back down walking past little stalls under
the trees then back to the regimental gardens and
Lenin again, outside the Pavilion of Russia Republic,
stern faced. What would he have thought now?
Was the extremity of idealism just a product of the
extremity of inequality? I ask, really wouldn’t he be
447
pleased to see that now most were fed most were
educated; most were pretty much the same. Would that
have been enough for him? In fact in less than a
century wouldn’t it be beyond his wildest dreams?
As if hiding by the Corinthian columns in the side of the
Pavilion, Shrek the green faced ogre stood waiting, his
gormless smile blank eyed. Was it a puppet or a statue?
It was difficult to tell, it didn’t move, just stood if it was
enough to do so..
In the fountain in front, boys swam looking for larger
denominations amongst the coins on the floor while
others poised before the circle of golden statues sheafs
of corn, some brightness under the grey sky.
Power corrupts Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
We’d talked about Mummys boys being hell bent on
power, Hitler and Stalin with drunken violent dads and
smothering mothers. ‘Its two sided though. Scorched
earth policy. Collectivisation. Control of Mother Earth.
They hated their mothers too’ he said ‘Perhaps because
they could never fuck em’ he mumbled afterwards as
the rain got heavier.
I tried to imagine absolute power and absolute
corruption. It made me feel unwell and unsteady on my
increasingly wet feet. Apparently they had killed
Gagarin, even though they had his rocket in the park.
‘He had become too popular so they shot him’.
I wanted a pee, I was wet and needed a cup of tea...
‘No toilets, it’s another Soviet trick of control, and a
little dose of Puritanical edge’ my friend said. But really
it was the constant bad Pop music I realised now that
448
was getting me down, coming out of the lampposts,
speakers on their mushroom tops, it was enough to
make you sick. ‘The Propaganda machine’ my friend
muttered morose as we made our way to the bunker
toilet under the trees. ‘It sucks out the meaning, killing
the thought wearing down the mind’, ‘I wouldn’t have
lasted long’ my friend said ‘in the resistance. Ok I love
communism, just turn the fucking music off’ ‘Neither
would I’ I agreed.
Just getting on was the name of the game; in youth
there wasn’t time to challenge the whole life one was
in, it was all about proving oneself, surviving. Perhaps it
would have only been now, at this time, in middle age
that one would have resisted. Having done the system,
succeeded at any rate in surviving, then now would be
the time when, having realised that beyond the status
and the sex there is death, that only then , now , the
job and marriage exhausted, that dissidence would
have set in. Revolution. And I now know that is a
revolution which is facing me, to choose to change
means loosing what is, and then as now would I cower
under the Oppressive truth that there might be
something else beyond even more difficult to bear than
what it is now.
‘What about Love?’ My friend was still going on about
his Russian bride, the impossibility of love, with the
parents and expectations ‘What about your real estate?’
The text from the Black sea had arrived asking how he
was fixed and now he was, as if by reflex opting for the
ending of the relationship, going back to the old role of
the useless man with nothing to give, a part he had
played well for 42 years.
449
Responsibility, Acceptance, Respect he knows he is a
new place, another place, and now is the test of his
recovery – Can he believe he is OK. Eleven years of
recovery he said, and Yes I have changed. Change,
addicts hate it, the one I had flown away from, the
Other one had said just before I left. Change means
end, the ruination, the self immolation, of the life that is
now. Perestroika is that the same? Can a whole society
do it? But revolution is never nice, is it- war, blood,
carnage, the end of what is.
‘And there he is at last’ said my friend, as if meeting an
old friend, later, in the rain, Karl Marx staring at the
Bolshoi Ballet, his wet back, like the thought of sweat
still prevalent from the recent heat, and behind him in
front of the Kremlin the new Sheraton was being built,
‘Another deal being done by the mayors wife’. What
would have Karl thought about that?
By the GUM department store, my friend pointed out
the Old Maritime Exchange. On its former trading floor
there had been a fashion show that he’d been to with
the Model Lawyer from the Ukraine ‘It was then that Id
suddenly realised that it was alright here- beats therapy
in Hackney for sure’
He went to have an audition for Russian Advertisementsome agent, who was also his landlord, from Armenia,
had sorted it out for him ‘It’s good for them to have a
new, different type of face’.
450
It was for In-Car DVD players. The audition was full of
more beautiful models. The catchphrase of the ad was
‘Its time to throw out the old and get a new model’ the
old model was represented by a fat bird ‘he said’ She
still had big knockers though. Don’t want your product
associated with anything crap.’ Said my friend, an
expert on advertising, here at least.
While he did that I sat in the Lenin Library, another 50s
building behind a statue of Dostoevsky sitting down
looking tortured. To get in an old prim woman got a
card, copied my passport number and other details then
stamped it, ‘Go Control’, she said; another women in a
glass box at the foot of the stairs and gave me a new
piece of paper which got stamped as well.
Inside the atmosphere was Soviet, quiet and a heavy
prevalence of rules. People eying each other in the
silence.
Hostility and Silence = Menace I scribbled down, trying
to look industrious with my notebook and guidebook,
but in fact falling asleep.
The bell went at a quarter to eight, to get everyone out.
It kept ringing. Very loudly. Brutal.
My stamped paper was collected by a girl in uniform. I
wondered if it would be checked as it was before, cross
referencing with the other one. Here they still had the
cards for books, and I wondered where they stored the
cards for millions of people.
Had it really changed?
451
Putin was KGB, and people liked him. He got things
done. He was decisive and in the cold you can’t hang
around, discussing it with others, just act.
Putin was going to take over the Oil industry after he
stepped down, Roman Abromavich was supporting him,
so he’d still be the most important man in Russia if not
the world.
People meet in metro stations, the platform, it’s
tradition, but don’t be late. My friend had to give his
girlfriends friend some concert tickets. Eric Clapton in
Red Square. Apparently 15 mins either side was the
maximum wait. ‘Watch your language’ his loved one
had texted him from the Black sea beforehand. ‘To
swear is to be an animal here.’ my friend explained
‘That’s what they think, although its OK to kill the
babies of Chechens isn’t it’
That evening at the English Club it was busy and
English speakers were popular. They talked a lot at you.
I spoke to a pretty interpreter and an older man with
bad English, who also wrote and delivered technical
speeches at Toastmaster International, another club. He
was the first Russian I heard say Perestroika by name.
PEEREESTRYKAR. He said he was going to send his
speeches by email. I tried to look glad.
My friend had his eye on Helen the coordinator. A big
strapping blonde. ‘She’s looking for a husband’ said his
Russian philosopher friend. The Philosopher suggested
that in regard to the real estate problem of the beloved
at the Black Sea it would be better to say one is useless
at the beginning, so everything , anything after that is a
452
bonus. It was a Hegelian Antipathetic or something
philosophical.
And before he went down into the Metro he said,
grinning broadly to my Friend seeing him staring at his
mobile waiting for another Black Sea text- ‘Don’t forget
you become what you meditate on.’
The others went home and we went to Bulgakovs
House, officially bohemian near Mayakovsky Square,
open 24 hours. There were pictures of the man, his cats
and black and whites of smiling men and intelligentsia
groupings. The great author had lived there with
Kandinsky, amongst others. But almost his whole life
was thwarted, creatively, only redeemed after his
death. Desperately he had read his masterpiece Master
and Marguerita secretly to friends here, who were so
frightened they didn’t know what to say about it, so he
hadn’t even got a proper audience then. Maybe he
knew it was a classic. Was that enough for him to die
with? Or did he yawn too?
Next door at the Starlight Diner, had a burger and
chips. More bad pop blaring on the tannoy, It was good
to sit out, although I had to listen to the sweetheart chit
chat between my friend and the Black Sea.
Afterwards my freind said that for the first time in his
life his sex was biophiliac rather than necrophilia, and
he explained that his bride to be thing was the first
relationship that he had treated creatively, might
confirm that things grow rather than end.
453
Thursday
Morning- again
The Sky is white, blank,
Only a snippet between blocks
Of the vastness known but unseen
Beyond Winter coming, birds
Seen in the first flock, starlings
Racing in the up and downness
Somesort of economy of flight
And in the trees laced with light
Arms outstretched sway together towards
The Block as is it seeking something
Concrete. The first blown leaf,
floating up on a thermal in an individual flight
Soon to be swept up in its inevitable
Plight and Winter it’s coming and
Like the Mother country around Moscow
We know it’s huge.
More leaves rise suddenly as a new gust
Blows down the street and I go back
inside to get a Jacket and
Wonder how long my trousers
will last .
Everyone gets a flat free in Russia and they murder
people in the suburbs for flats. The further you move
from the centre the worse it gets. Abandoned to
themselves, beyond being even a serf, my friend went
on
454
And I read somewhere someone ate someone elses
liver because he stole a radio cassette.
-Breakfast with Eric the lawyer, Swedish and Young.
Takes an age to take the shell from his egg, bit by bit,
it drove us sloppy Brits crazy. One of the legions of
lawyers, documenting the Change. Development agency
working in Kyrcazhstan, 6 million people. Above the
Hindu Kush. Lots of Aid. Empire by Care and Cure says
the friend again.
Eric has a copy of Roman Abrovanich biography.
Pictures of him as the Student, the blonde wife, the
football team, and poor province that is his, ‘He held up
a trainload of diesel to make his first million’ my friend
said, and behind the vacant slightly nerdy look you
wonder about the coldness of his brain.
The flat Eric lives in, Russia Style, very secure, big gate
to the flat’s another to his door, a hallway for two flats
then the last, big and metal. It cost 50 dollar a night
and he hasn’t had any hot water for a week. He moving
again and tries to off load a new pair of shoes.
--The clouds with light behind them
Summer departing from the centre
Before the great mother contracts
-----
455
Down Arbat the centre, the famous artists street, like
Soho but nothing much, except stalls of Fox furs and
tourists. Above the car park a place to get a cheap
quick registration Eric the lawyer says, the
documentation that proves you’ve been where your visa
said, or something; but it costs and my friend paid
5000 last time.
The Midland group is above car park, smart, western
and a beautiful woman in brown suit comes out, sharp
bra and stilettos came from the shiny office. 600
roubles done, How does it work? I think of little Ken off
Bayswater road dispensing dodgy Russian visas.
At the doorway going out a bald strong man tanned
broad pinstriped and frightening, one of the Capitalist
Red Army, one of those in the Hummers and Mercedes
and quickly I get out of the way. Later that day, a big
BMW screeched to a halt at a corner in a back street,
four men on suits get out quickly and go to the back.
They look like nerds not gangsters close to.
-----
On the street all walk straight, after work most of the
men with a can and soon you realise that in fact they
see everything although with the hours they work you
wonder if its all geared towards dealing with a
hangover.
At Christmas they adopted it as a lover’s day in
communist times keeping the New Year and the
456
Orthodox Christian and basically got, from Dec 12th on,
pissed. ‘They like to get over the formalities s quickly as
possible and get zonked.’
In the old days they had some industrial glue a you put
a drill into it and swizzle it round and the liquid left after
the glue was wrapped around the bit you drunk like evo
stick and mixed with Vodka it made you hallucinate,
and die.
Imagine a whole city pissed. Imagine a whole city
hungover. Imagine a whole city having enough and
having to either fight, fuck or sleep
------------------------
Today my friend sent 25 texts all to Anna about the
difficulty of love. Igor the Philosopher had told him to
just not to care, so Reality will dictate,
and he tried to, not to, although he rang her for an hour
at ten.
He’s just finding it difficult to accept that the Russian
family is actually considering him seriously as a
prospect, and secretly I’m not sure if he wants to be
either.
Friday –
457
Last Night, outside in the tenement blocks in the quiet a
dog howled like a wolf.
Another dull day. They say it will be clear later. Three
street cleaners, with brush and brooms, meet at the 7
o’clock corner.
Claxons boom out from the city, here the polices siren,
at the same time old fashioned but futuristic, like Back
to the Future or Batman.
In the underground the metal gates remained open as if
waiting for me to go through and then shut viciously as
if to take off your keens for not paying the ticket.
Tired faces in the tube. Nobody looks at you. 123
traffics accidents this week. No driving test required. A
license is something to paid for. Driving on the
pavement is not uncommon. What’s the problem it’s the
straight line from A to B and so what, we Russians
Yawn at Death.
In the Metro there is a man with no body just a chest,
arms on a skateboard, head down sleeping. Another
Chechen casualty perhaps. ‘There is no state care here
mate’.
More Babushkas shifts through rubbish dressed as of it
is already winter. A beautiful young woman, bright
blonde 6ft tall, walking in very straight line through the
crowd, challenging you to get out of the way. People,
ones and twos, waiting for others, suspiciously.
458
Back under the heavy endless cloud, unresolved affairs
brood. Shall I shant I ? Change or not to. Need to get
away but nowhere to go, only Dachas and you need to
know someone too? Everywhere else is 2 days train
away. The Black Sea is three nights.
We go to see paintings in the Tretiakov
The same scenes as everywhere but with a Russian
additional twist seen in the extremity of the Christ
Scenes, Pontius Pilate asking what the truth is, Christ
eyes shining out of the shadows at him; Jesus prostrate
in Gethsemane full of anguish and despair; Pompous
aristocrats riding for a fall; Silence – two monks fishing
on a lake back to front like a cartoon; Birch tree
burning white in the snow; in the endless Madonna the
Child with Two fingers - what does it mean?; The mad
Boyar woman pointing up to the sky, as she hauled off
to the monastry, the holy fool looking on shoeless and
wide-eyed.
Street Style back in the metro; the Russian bling, THIS
IS FUCKING FASHION across the back of a t-shirt, big
studded belt noisy jeans, and patent leather boots,
shiny or perhaps it PVC
Meeting Katerina, who works for an Energy think tank
telling me her father too had to get any old job, in
Perestroika, after being a professor, working as a
gardener, in a cab. She too had to get jobs, quickly, hairdresser, secretary, anything the whole family did as
459
she tried to get her university degree. Now she is
spending Saturday buying a new kitchen.
We are at the Café Nation, by the Conservatory and
Tchaikovsky is almost in repose, as are the smart set
scene. Big cars, on the pavement, blokes in white
shirts looking mean, Neuvi Ruski, others in the café,
cigar and Tashkent hat, each to their own here, their
own style.
My friend is writing about Russia Brides, his search on
the Internet; he’d saved all the replies, his search for
love neatly archived. ‘You are the presence in my heart,
I am becoming you are there’. Love emails not so
different from mine.
‘Communication by technology- narcissism in action’ he
says as part of his Play he is writing. Some people love
it because it’s a means by which to control the
relationship, and I think of the other one I left behind.
My friend, as if a counterbalance to his angel at the
Black Sea, also has a stalker, a Russian called Al who
keeps sending him weird texts ' Have you got a can
opener? 'at 3 o’clock in the morning. I want to kill him,
my friend says, violently as if he’s the one thing spoiling
the view.
Thinking about leaving; I need to get out of town. The
wet feet and thick fumes have given me a cold, and
Moscow is not a place to be when you are feeling weak.
Byelorussia station, looking for an exit, we see trains
for Warsaw and the Berlin express but there is no office
for international departures. A young man tells us in
460
schoolboy English where to find the information office,
but finds it difficult to look at us in the eyes. We try to
find it walking many corridors but fail, giving up when
some women official sound likes she’s just telling us not
to be so impertinent just for asking.
I realise later that my contemporaries, 40 somethings,
are the ones on the cusp, the crux of Perestroika, inbetween socialism and the capitalist madness and the
same change and perhaps divisions I suppose could
apply to us, formed between the ideal and the
pragmatic; its my Friends, Russian brides, the 25ish
who are the children of Perestroika, girls just going for
it without foibles.
Glasnost, opening up, Perestroika, the changing, the
falling apart, the dissolution of a system after the belief
fades, the old ideal proven useless, chaos and
retraction ensuing with Yeltsin firing at the White house,
the man in the tank seen now in todays The Moscow
Times the English language paper, a picture of him in
Ireland where 10 years earlier as President he was so
drunk he couldn’t get off the plane. So, Revolution,
after the Fatalist the Drunk and now the Pragmatist,
Gorbachov, Yeltsin and Putin, the Agents of Change.
We walk around the centre, where Id been that first
dawn. The big church which I’m told is the Church of
Christ the Redeemer, and was rebuilt at the millennium
after being knocked down by Stalin. Perhaps because it
offended his view from the Kremlin, making it an
orphanage instead and then Khrushchev turned it into a
municipal swimming pool. It must have been nice then
461
and you wonder which was more holy, the now artificial
and garish repro cathedral, or the provider of shelter for
children and citizen play.
But in a little chapel down a street falling down but now
being rebuilt two blocks away, just down from the big
jazz club complex, we found a real chapel in the odd
quiet of mid afternoon.
An old woman in a black scarf nods in prayer, greets
you at the door, almost genuflecting inviting you to go
inside. There are more women in scarves, walls covered
in icons, high stands with very thin candle offerings
burning, one of the women gathering up these that are
spent and a priest in the middle reading a book as more
women, younger, and men stand in a short queue in
the doorway.
The Priest stops reading suddenly and talks, completely
at ease, to the women tending to the candles, asks
them some questions and they are very pleased and I
wonder if he is in fact the only other man in their lives
The average of death for a man is 53 in Russia,
The Moscow Times reports
23 people were murdered last week
63 found dead
50 million people died under Stalin and the War.
462
‘Russian yawn at death’ my friend says
Asha, my friends first Russian would be bride, the one
that had go him here then dropped him, because her
mum said so, was non plussed when he accused her of
being cruel, intractable, was another word he used,
which he says seemed to please her more.
Another old woman seen on the street collecting cans
from the rubbish bin as we look for somewhere to eat.
‘50 million dollars spent in the refurbishment of
restaurant recently’ he says ‘There’s one where you can
pick out the pig you want to eat. Slaughtered before
your eyes. In Moscow you can eat like a Tsar’
The Mafia built a huge statue of Peter the Great on the
river you can see behind the golden dome of the
church. Everyone wanted them not to, so ugly and out
of place, but they did anyway because they could and
some favour had passed hands which made it a deal
done. ‘After all how come Romans daughter
represented Russia in the Eurovision song contest
recently?’. He knew someone too.
Another Neuvi Ruski joke: There is a Golden Fish, a
lucky myth, who can make your dreams come true, and
a New Russian goes to see it and asks, ‘ So what can I
do for you?’.
John who worked at the US embassy cable TV wire kept
getting cut by the people who were on the roof to clear
463
the snow, and yesterday when it rained all the pigeon
shit came through the air-conditioning pipes.
Eric the lawyer rings to see about the shoes, and tells
us he has bought a new boiler just so he can get a hot
shower
It’s Friday Night; drink happening, 11 o’clock brewing
up. A drunk lying dead happy in the car park, an old
woman throwing water on the young womans face
slumped in a plastic chair outside the 24 hour kiosk
supermarket. A crucifix glints in the air.
------You invade my prayer, flatten my dream
Slipping into me like treacle in capillaries;
You won’t let go like a snake in reverse
And I feel sick at even the mention of your name.
Please let go, let me be, let me be alive fully
Not dropping the past and dreading the future,
Let me be, let me see, let me find
Solace beyond You,
Who are, let’s face it Nothing
But a projection of Me.
Saturday
The sun is out and the birch trees leaves glitter again.
464
Glad horses race in the northern sky and a half moon
Is hanging in the clear again.
A dog howls, high-pitched somewhere
Among the blocks. It is quiet. Saturday.
Swallows still in the air.
What is happening behind each block
That look all the same?
The bell tolls and those beyond
The trees sway in the Autumn breeze
Sun shining its September and
I sense the tempo they still
Call here Soul
The wind has changed direction, bringing warmth
And blue skies from West to East.
Summer is departing and the leaves
in Red Square are tinged with brown.
Dogs bark between tenements
In the patches of green known as parks
And it is Saturday, and another
Even slower, after the excesses of,
Friday, another slow start.
‘The Russian Soul, we have always sought a meaning, a
mission’ says the Philosopher as we walk down
Trevaskaya for his tour;’ Lenin, Putin always they have
exploited that need. We are caught between East and
West like Peter the Great, half love him half hate. What
is democracy’ the liberal continued, ‘I am not sure it’s
such a good idea, - not very real maybe once in Rome
perhaps, but not like you or America have, now we
want to protect ourselves, not all foreigners like you
465
have, We Russians want to be Russian’ he pronounces
as we walk together by the shop window full of models
for diamante bikinis and a giant poster of Dior.
Outside red square on the new Sheraton the ROLEX
poster had changed- now it is a yacht, not a horse and
the clouds in the sky the same shape as the sails.
Oyster, the watch is called. And I wonder how many
Russians have seen the sea?
Neavi ruski- new Russians emerge from big new cars
with blackened windows 4x4 ignoring pedestrians ‘You
hear the one about Neuvi Rooski?’ The philosopher
asks, buying a t-shirt for $200, and his friend came up
and told him You fool, I found the same shirt in a
different shop for $500’
Red Square full of tourists and Lenin, Stalin, Marx lookalikes hanging around charging for having their
photographs took, the CZAR around the corner having a
cheap fag. Groups of Soldiers, boys and many brides,
they are so young, queue to stand on the paving
marked as the very centre of Moscow, throwing coins
over their shoulders for luck the Gates of the
Resurrection behind them housing ‘the most holy icon in
Russia from a monastery in Mount Athos’, the
philosopher going on about some legend, it being lost at
sea but not sinking, then turning up 200 years later
here in a birch tree.
‘The Mother of God of Kazakhstan’, a church just a little
further into the square- ‘the most holy church in Russia’
466
the Philosopher continues his narrative religiously learnt
from some guide book. Inside suddenly very quiet, the
same scarved women, tending to the thin candles. Then
the icon, the child, three fingers, and I ask him ‘what is
this thing with the finger two or three. ‘ The trinity or
not’, the Old Believers’, the man said, they believe in
two fingers, not three,’ that was the mad woman being
taken away on the sledge in the gallery ‘and they split
off the main church in 1600, believe in the simple life,
were persecuted but there are a few left now.’
Playing the tourist, I have a red caviar blini in Red
Square looking at the multi coloured domes of St Basils
Cathedral and she rings from hackney, the One and I
love her for who she is and her still being there and
then I think of my obsession, the Other one I ran away
from and St Basil was a holy fool, he who heard and
talked the word of God and to whom Ivan the Terrible
built the Cathedral. You become what you meditate on
the Philosopher says
.
Mad capped multi coloured domes, 8 all together, the
eight days to paradise, 7 to build the world and then
the coming of Heaven the Philosopher says.
It’s difficult to compute, and inside its tiny, another
warren, eight separate churches high vaulted, and
narrow corridors, like being inside a skull, inside ones
own head. My obsession. It was, the Philosopher says,
the whole church, used as an Icon, the altar to the
congregation standing in the Red Square.
Ivan the Terrible put the eyes out of the Builder so he
couldn’t build anything else. The monster dedicated the
church to the holy fool, seen in the picture shoeless in
467
the snow staring at the protesting women holding two
fingers in the air being dragged off to the nunnery , his
eyes wide open seeing so much else , a cross made of
lead hanging around the neck in rags.
And my friend sits in the church with the icons in St
Basil, a copy of another Andrei Rublev and texts again
his loved one on the Black Sea. ‘Seen Putin painted on
a plate, in the gift shop You wouldn’t get Tony Blair on
a plate in St Paul would you like’ he says
Outside more brides swirl around in the weekend
sunshine getting their picture taken in front of the
famous statue, of the defeat of the Mongols more
slaughter in which to invest our pride, the church
domes behind.
And along one side of the Square the Kremlin looms.
Only a tiny door at the base of one of the towers, The
Gate of our Saviour, our philosopher guide says, ‘It
used to ring the national anthem, the clock of the top,
then the Internationale, and now the anthem again,
every quarter of an hour’, but at the top of the spire it
still has the communist star, rather than the Imperial
Eagle that has been re-fitted to the other towers around
the Square.
‘The dead dog in the Square, you saw’ the Philosopher
laughs,’ my friends did not believe it at first, then they
spent much time making their, err… what do you say
yes conspiracy theory about. It is a propaganda act’
and I beginning to doubt I actually saw it, there in front
of Lenins Mausoleum four or is it five days ago.
468
‘Marseeleeom, Moorsaleeom’ the Philosopher tries to
get the pronunciation right ‘The shape’, our guide says,
remembering the book, ‘represents Eternity. First it was
in wood, then they built it in granite, when they found
that the new embalming fluid actually worked. And
Stalin wanted to go in the Mausoleum but the professor
who’d invented it had died and they couldn’t remake
the formula correctly and Stalins flesh quickly decayed
and so in the end he ended up just another bust along
the wall of the Kremlin with all the other apparatchiks
lined up at the base of the huge red brick walls of the
Kremlin with everyone else, even though Vladimir was
probably the better communist.
The Heirs of Stalin, my friend muttered, another poem
by Yevtushenko
No Stalin did not die.
He thinks death can be fixed
We removed him for the mausoleum
But how do we removed Stalin from Stalins Hiers
‘Perestroika is not only our spiritual revolution it is our
second Great Patriotic War. We do not have the right
not to Win it – didn’t mince his words our Yevvy’ my
friend jokes, jealous how seriously they take their poets
here.
‘Its amazing though ‘ he suddenly said, ‘ Red Square we
are actually here’ there GUM the massive temple to
consumerism with an icon of the Madonna above its
door, and dead opposite the Communist star still on top
the Kremlins gatehouse tower and the Disney domes of
St Basil sitting at the end, while below runs the river
Moscva, forever, like Stalins ghost, a big fat grey snake.
469
‘Four metres high is the man made elevation of the Red
Square..’ ‘Its so much bigger when full of people’ I
declared ‘it seemed so much smaller that first empty
morning.
More Nevi Ruski cars- Hummers, Audi, and the ugly
Chrysler with a huge grill like platinum teeth, ‘where
you have to be vetted for your importance before you
can buy’; the Philosopher seemed interested but said
‘But I don’t need, I have everything I need. I only buy if
I have a million dollars, otherwise it is too complicated
in my life; I don’t want to have to think about it, so I
have to have enough Money not to care’ he said smiling
at the joke of it.
His friend had become a real estate magnet, and from
living in a flat with 5 people now owned lots of flats,
was always talking with important people and with lots
of money, but the trouble was all the money was
‘rented’ as the Philosopher put it, and the man was very
unhappy now.
It is all bribes the economy, he said, you must know the
right people, but it is not cheating, ‘they want to help
you so you make more money, so they do you service’.
It was how it was. It was the same as the West but it
just hasn’t been institutionalised yet that’s all, not all
that law and councils and little bodies that are meant to
help you but really are there just to vet you for the tax,
so it not people helping people out anymore like here.
470
In the Park. Goths and Rockers, all drinking. It’s the
same but just drink outside even in winter, cash and
carry and a bench, no hassle they all you need, let’s
have a party. And men gather for some reason to talk
outside the urinal, laughing, as the young man, collect
10 roubles a shot.
‘What about investing here?’, I ask an expat who was
extradited out of Canada for ‘extreme moral torpitude’
before he reformed he said and he is now working for
the CIA biological weapons research based in Moscow.
‘Well if you know that even the Govt is investing outside
the country you know things aren’t that stable’
The Beloved by the Black Sea worked for a while for
Yevtushenko the great poet. She was 24 him 72 and he
tried to seduce her. She refused. He apologised and he
dedicated a poem to her. My friend the would be poet
couldn’t believe it, the fact he was with the same
woman now.
Half measures can kill when chafing at the bit in terror,
We twitch our ears,
All lathered in foam,
On the brink of precipices,
Because we can’t jump halfway across..
Always worried that Russia would be bold enough in
Perestroika the Philosopher said, and I wonder if I am
bold enough in my life- is it just fear that stops me
jumping from my old life, and will I end up stranded in
no mans land.
‘Like a man trying to cross a precipice in two leaps ,
was what Churchill had said about Khrushchev’ my
friend said grinning madly ‘ Hey look at this’ She had
471
just sent him another text ‘I have just had a swim, I
am hot and salty. I want to be with you and entwine my
hair with yours’. He couldn’t believe his luck. 10 years
before in a Bradford he was lying in a mattress on the
floor of a sick squat wondering how he was going to get
his next drink.
His last performance had been at Bulgarovs house,
where his Beloved had fallen for him, the crazy so
sophisticated Englishman, dressed up as Lady Di
ranting in Diamante and Bra in rhyming couplets which
watching on DVD even I couldn’t quite understand, but
the Russians loved his over the top delivery, all Passion
and Truth.
Red Square at night. GUM lit up as Harrods, St Basils
like a cake, Disney land as Garden of Eden.
In the Winter they have huge trucks take the snow out
of the City and dump it. The same with the leaves.
Armies of People are employed.
My friend puts out a hand in Trevskaya, and a car stops
in 5 secs. Drive us home for 100 roubles.
At home. Quiet. Dogs.
Another text from the Stalker, and my Friend wants to
kill him.
472
The Utilities are brilliant here: Water Pressure, Heating,
(costs only 200 roubles £20 a month) Gas, Petrol; and
in the end it will be the Utilities that count.
Sunday
The next day, the blocks in sunlight, all pale ochres, flat
and uniform.
In Holland each window, each balcony would be
different colour my friend says, Here nothing but a
bright red towel in the middle of a blocks face defiantly
drying towards the sun.
The sun rises the other side of the city, whiteness and
the vast hinterland imagined then, going on and on and
on.
And still the swift races over the city, the last flies rises
to the sun and a bird feather like a daisy floats up and
down as the crows loop from block to block lacing
preparation for the approaching cold.
Under the tree, there intermittently white as if
demarcating code, a hooded crow, large grey back,
picks in the dirt and a boy delivers a single red rose to a
flat in the anonymous block.
Sunday, not particularly different, just slower, that’s
how it is here and I think of the dark haired woman
back home, full of flu and Olga the Russian girl met last
night, smiles and red cheeks shining hair, like a
cornfield ready to be reaped.
They seem more innocent, he said,
473
but when a girl asked how,
I couldn’t back it up he said.
A purple balloon in the tunnel
Of the metro carried by the girl
Below, almost as big as her
And I followed her, almost
Chasing in order to catch her
On my camera- boy with a
Balloon, the title of
Another film, the Red one
Seen in childhood and used
In other fictions beating
Inside my head.
The eyes yes here
There is clarity
Is it a lack of fear?
An unclutterness in the
Universe of one, your family
Society and God, or the
Lack of Avarice, a closeness
To death, or a sad projection
Of my own super 8 movies
Of times thought to be
Innocent, the sixties
Before 1963 and the
Invention of sex.
-----And the Russian Bride sent another text asking him
‘Will we be happy forever’, and that smile she has in the
snapshot the Englishman plays over and over on his
Laptop as a screensaver, looks open-ended in the
expectation of how her life will be. ‘Will you leave
poetry and theatre to support me ‘ she asks, prompted
474
by her parents by the Black Sea and he said ‘Yes’ and
really he knew he didn’t mean it.
It’s not like that back home; it’s a negotiation where
the game is always to keep a bit back, just in case.
Whole heartedness, innocence the soul, all past their
sell by date, I’m afraid, mate.
And the white feather floats up on a last thermal as the
birch tree spindly trunk pokes out of the greenery like a
skeleton waiting to become so in the snow.
The Stalker, Al, more westernised than most, lurks
somewhere behind the Englishman my friend, like an
lie, the lonely nerd trying to get in with the in crowd,
but essentially always to be alone, and in the new
universe of the Englishman he is like a piece of dirt.
Olga, the cornfield, turns out to be a sky diver, my
friends show me a picture of her wide open screaming
at 20 000 feet and she obviously is a whole world to go
into, and men float around her like flies around the last
honey.
My friends’ cat tries to catch the flies on the pane,
clawing on the hot glass before it turns to ice, and it
seems the basis for some old Russian proverb, about
Autumn and the last of things, cats honey and flies.
-----
Drinking on the Moscva as we cruise down the river; big
men in suits brandy and beer as we pass the Mafias
huge statue of Peter the Great and the Fifties fun fair of
475
Gorky Park. We go as far as the University and from a
stadium across the river a huge chant comes, and I
think of the millions who cried out in battle and died,
while Russians walk along the river by a bit of Forest
whose leaves are now getting crisp.
At the English Club later a California real estate agent
married to a Russian came to talk about the Creationist
crusade in the American education system, talking
about the Universal Intelligence.
The Russian Professor goes through to be or not to beto be or not to be as the next speaker, me, an English
actor goes through Hamlet. He says it very loudly
whether tis nobler in the mind - whether tis nobler in
the mind and drives - to suffer the slings and arrows to suffer the slings and arrows- the actor almost crazy,
like an echo in his head, all the cruel Russian yawning
as he dies on stage.
Afterwards The Philosopher says it went OK, people like
it, and the profuse sweat from the flu, made it look very
passionate, and you know, all Russian professors are
mad; all speak 7 languages and are all totally socially
illiterate.
The Professor then talks to the actor at length about his
own professors theory that the DNA of the cells of the
weaker males in society are pre programmed to destroy
themselves if they become unisexual to the whole, they
don’t produce anything, they are beyond reproduction,
and the unemployed actor begins to feel slightly suicidal
476
despite his brief triumph, after the pastiche Chekhov
and fluffed Hamlet, of reciting Pinter, the Russian
favourite.
A young man dressed in a US air force uniform follows
the beautiful Olga around, and she laughs in the English
that he doesn’t understand ‘Have you met my
bodyguard. He will not go away’ but you can tell she
likes it.
A newly arrived English teacher catches up with my
friends and asks him he wants to go out searching for
date. He’s just in from Bangkok; ‘Thai girls are no
good’. My friend declines explaining that he is in love.
He spends a lot of time looking at his phone.
‘You become what you meditate on’ had said the
Philosopher at some point, which keeps going around
my head
Last Day, a Monday
A grind of traffic, claxons, washing machines in the
warren of flats; old women cleaners control the blocks,
sharp eyed young march about on the make, middle
aged suits saunter not sure whether to be a capitalist or
not, soviet still, the little stalls suffer under the trees ,
an old woman with 5 garlic cloves, two green peppers
and beaker of seeds. Thick traffic of vehicles and the
people travel in straight lines like the Russian Fly seen
this morning, zigzagging on one horizontal plane under
the ceiling lamp in a secret geometry, then down a level
and doing it again as if following an electrocet of flight.
477
By the station an ancient Babushka holds a bunch of
flowers asking commuters for a kopeck; others
pensioners sift through the rubbish bins or simply hold
out a hand. ‘20 roubles is a loaf of bread’ my friend say
doling out some ‘they only get 1000 roubles a month’
and I remember the Moscow Times table - 223 bodies
found in Moscow last week, bodies found stiff with
malnutrition. But Russians yawn at death. A shaven
headed thug marches through the crowd; ‘Wouldn’t
want to meet him on a dark night’ said my friend and a
frisson of Chechen fear ripples around him, Spezchai,
Special Forces, and the street cleaning lorry comes
implacable and impersonally sweeps around the station
front spraying water ‘I hate them’ said the Philosopher,
as he wipes the disinfectant from his past their sell date
shoes.
Glasnost is not created in a test tube, Yevvy wrote, it is
the child our country was pregnant with even in the
most terrible times and even the brute if the Cheka (
secret police0 could not kick that child out of the womb,
the way they did the child of the pregnant Leningrad
poet Olga somethingotherski in 1938...
The Metro turnstiles seem even more vicious today, the
two desultory guards as always looking on and outside
the station people wear billboards ‘SECOND HAND in
English and along the alleyway of flower shops,
cigarettes, CDs, telephones, foreigners, Chinese, and
almost Pakistani, others countries from within the old
empire try and find a way around the Big Town: ‘To
know Moscow is to know Russia’ someone once said,
but everyone else said it wasn’t true. ‘Cannibals live out
478
there’, my friends say ‘Russia is hell barbarians outside
of here ’.
L’ Ermitage, a fancy complex, a pleasure garden by the
Opera. ‘A nightclub for the Nevi Ruski, it’s for the Bling,
Bling You and I wouldn’t get in’. There was a stage,
restaurants, trees, sparrows making little excursions
among themselves up for more flies, and more scarved
women this time cleaning the windows, ‘ Roman
Abromvarich started out by holding up a diesel train’
and my friend recalls the brief time when there was for
a few months no law, nothing, the whole system broken
down and anarchy ruled OK. Perestroika, it means
restructuring, Glasnost means openness and I wonder if
I’m ever going to change, or will my mid life crisis just
dry and curl up into itself like the leaves.
‘Better to die of Vodka than boredom’ said Mayakovsky,
in a poem to a dead friend. Apparently the Great Man
killed himself because of a love affair not Stalin, so his
alcoholic translator had said who had once taught my
friend at school. He points out again how surly I am
with the waiter and when he comes with our order, says
thanks and asks the guys first name. A thought crosses
my mind that he is not paying for it, so he can afford to
be kind.
By the Restaurant door is a cage of straw, with
chickens, and chicks, and a rabbit. Is this the place
where you can point out the animals you want to eat.
We leave. A pair of waiters stand in a doorway of the
Nightclub, in white shirts and black trousers, the
479
uniform of the Neuvi Ruski, like IT salesman really back
home. ‘Guess who that is?’ say my friends suddenly
pointing to a small bust, in the middle of garden of
roses surrounded by a gravel path. The head had a cap,
the face blank almost sleeping, skeletally thin.
‘Err...Don’t know’ ‘Dante, innit ‘he said ‘Oh Yes’, the
man who needed a woman to go through hell to heaven
Id read in my book, a novel about obsession the Zaire,
Id been given by my big brother type friend just before
I’d left, and I wondered if my unrequited or my wife
was the Zahir, I was supposedly on a journey to free
myself from my personal history as the book said and
find her again.
In the black shade of the bandstand a cleaner and a
pensioner slump in the gathering heat. People sit in the
shade of the trees, around the smartest nightclub in
Moscow and it feels sort of free.
On the way back I see a bag lady making a call from a
public telephone box, and other middle aged women, all
clean, muttering prayers to himself. I say one also- I
wish my cold would go away.
We walk through the park. A man in a suit loiters trying
to cover up he may be lost, from out of town. Soldiers
gather around a doorway talking to the guards. Two
bouncers look out from a garish canopy, checking the
foreigners, the casino Shangri LA, a hideous lotus
flower light looking ugly in the bright sunlight. Young
Russian girls, same uniform as the west, mobiles and
belly top, but more garish, chains and patent leather
boots, and on the bench a big man perhaps drunk
sleeps in a woman’s lap. Motherland. The Woman.
480
Mother of God. And should I let the woman look after
me like that?
As we prepared for the train I asked the Philosopher if
he had travelled, if he needed a whole load of
paperwork to get out of the city as I had had to get in.
No, he wasn’t allowed to leave, or rather he wasn’t
allowed to enter UK or the other western States, ‘I need
real estate, or some sort of position’, otherwise the
authorities there are afraid that I might stay, cost
money, cause trouble. ‘I agree with them’ he said’ Many
Russians go before and do crazy things’. So in fact the
system had turned the other way around. We, the
supposed democracies, are the ones controlling
everyone, preventing movement, paranoid our system
might fail if we let too many out from their supposed
totalitarian jail.
So we set off early to the airport. The metro, then the
bus from the outskirt, a secret way no foreigner could
find. Hot Sun, huge blocks being built. Boys swinging
from a rope into the river below the bridge. The big
blue and yellow building seen on the way in seven days
before, called Metro, ‘ No it’s a shop’ just copying the
style of IKEA. I flick through the Philosophers
guidebook, the one he’d been learning from heart. The
Great Moscow it is called, published on the 850th
anniversary, the same year the Ferris wheel was built.
There are old buildings I have never even seen, like the
little chapel Id found in the broken street on the first
morning, very important history tucked away between
blocks now being renovated by heritage foundations
backed by big US brands trying to look.
481
We talk of Olga, again, the beautiful girl, who wants the
good things from being a rich wife, but wants to
dominate men too, the philosopher jokes. She said she
liked Meesha, the Man at the club dressed in US air
force gear following her, he went on laughing, it made
her feel important. She’s an odd mix, this nice racist
said, Ukrainian and Tartar, Moody and Angry, she gets,
you know Rarge’ ‘Oh, you mean rage’ ‘Yes’
We are out of the city at last and there is the forest,
and the Philosopher is happy, the trip in the
overcrowded bus is like an excursion, it was two
months since he had been out. It was very flat the
countryside and it didn’t take a lot to understand that it
went on and on forever.
Versts- that’s what they were called, I finally
remember, the Russian miles 30 years ago read in
those Dostoevsky novels, nihilists gamblers, suicidals
and the rest, somewhere now under the surface. Read
too early; only now am I getting an idea what soul
might mean and should read them again really.
Before leaving the flat for the last time, I’d read the last
paragraph of a book my friend had, by Isaiah Berlin,
about Tolstoy, and it said how even at the end , as the
war to end all wars began the great man by then
revered as almost God like, was wracked with doubt,
about God, Man and himself. In the gallery there was a
picture of him, the boy blue eyes looking out still asking
from within his beard and craggy face. Very human.
Soul apparent, open, was that it? Glasnost.
And my perestroika?
482
---It takes a minute to fall in love with you and a lifetime
to forget.
It was the last text my friend had received before we’d
left.
483
A Life in the Day of…
The Sunday Times
This week: Tina Well
Counsellor and CEO of AWOL the charity for those
suffering for amnesia related brain disorder. Tina 39,
lives with her partner Toby Tickle, and their eighteen
month daughter Roshun in Stoke Newington, London.
Tickle suffers from a rare disease, ASP, a combination
of amnesia, schizophrenia and psychosis. Their life
together was subject to a recent series, Living in No
Mans Land on MUD 1 TV.
My day starts when the others days start, either Roshun
or Tickle, calling me at six. I treat them as a pair really
and, when Tickles medication is working, the system
works fine. Roshun is breast-fed and I take her up into
Tickles garret for tea. It’s a totally glass room, his
condition demands constant light. Tickle spends a lot of
his time making bunting and stuff to stop the birds
flying into the mirrored windows. Roshun and him
spend time feeding the birds and play about with bricks
on the floor while I tidy up a bit. We all have oats and
fruit for breakfast and I give Tickle his first medication..
Generally he is very happy nowadays. The total lack of
memory can be frustrating, but he remembers me and
he remembers that we are married. He can only live
moment to moment because his hippocampus, the area
of the brain where time lays downs memory, has been
completely destroyed. So he is genuinely pleased and
484
surprised to see me, to be alive in fact at all, all the
time.
The book is based on the diary he kept when he was
trying to recover his mental function reads: 4.23.
Awake. Fully alive, now. 534. Eyes flicker open. Now
more Death, alive, NOW. 643 Fully fully Awake. All
senses working. 7.18 NOW, Here life. Brilliant. It is
infectious the excitement he has and Roshun loves
being with him but it tires her and me out. Generally we
get along fine and as a family the morning is our
happiest time.
At 9am one of the nurses, from UCL comes in to look
after Tickle. He always greets them as if it is the first
person he’s ever seen and assumes that they are very
important, the Queen, the Prime Minster or Pope. They
make sure his medication is OK; He has 22 different
tablets throughout the day in order to keep him stable,
and conduct a series of neuron psychological tests. At
10 our child minder comes in, Elena, a lovely Polish
woman next door who has known us for a long time,
and then I go into the cupboard of an office by the
kitchen to make calls and deal with correspondence for
the AWOL.
I have no staff, except family of ASP sufferers who help
on campaigns, so my work covers alot of areas.
Membership is growing exponentially as our Bookkeeper
Ernie calls it, and more and more people are coming
forward with whole range unexplained mental and
emotional disorders beyond ASP, which Professor Karl
at UCL calls Enforced Infantile Confabulating Amnesia
EICA; memory loss and childlike dependence work
485
together to prevent sufferers working and leading
normal lives. I spend a lot of time arguing with medical
professionals who see it as another form of yuppie flu
for skivers, which also took a long time to be
recognized as ME. Others compare it to the Gulf War
syndrome. Professor Karl is very supportive and is
working on developing an alternative to the
hippocampus, with stem cells and software, which is all
a bit beyond me.
I go up to town two or three times a week for lunch and
PR events. I don’t like being away from Tickle and
Roshun too long. AWOL has had a lot of support from
Media organizations, as many from there are affected.
Lord Bartone is our President but Simon Froth is the
leading light in the fundraising. His company produced
No Mans Land which has helped raise the profile of the
disease to international level, and the spin off series he
has devised, Memory Lane which will benefit AWOL
enormously. Ironically, part of the condition of sufferers
is that they are allergic to any form of tele visual
screen, so Tickle has no idea that he is a star both in
the US where the show having a cult following on
Freedom TV.
In fact since the illness he acts all the time, bursting
into spontaneous performances. He will suddenly recite
old parts or go into an improvisation, the words just
carrying him along. Sometimes he acts out parts of the
plays I don’t think he’s been in or even read.
Confabulation is the neurological term for it but my
mum calls it speaking in tongues. He is wonderfully
entertaining but unfortunately can never remember
what he’s said or perform to order so he can’t do it for
Money. Waiting for the wave he calls it, the feeling
486
before the words come. It made the TV show a hit
though.
Things were pretty tough for us, after the Infinity Fraud
trial, it seemed to go on for an age, then the loss of the
house and everything. Being blamed for the collapse of
Infinity was totally unfair, they’d kept his name on the
old documents. When it hit the headlines he was in
Cornwall finishing his screenplay Twenty First Century
Hamlet, such a shock, I think it was what pushed him
over the top. Stress, it’s a killer, although no one even
now doesn’t really know what it is and the effects it has
on the whole person. It was lucky he was still alive
when we found him lying on the beach, he may have
forgotten to get up before the tide came in.
In the afternoon from 3-5 I do my regular counseling
clients, in a same room off Old Compton street. There
are now many enquiries from people who think they
have ASP. Alot work in advertising but they are usually
suffering from neurotic rather than neurological
problems. Tickles disease broke out when his herpes
simplex 1 virus, instead of becoming a cold sore,
attacked his brain through the spinal column causing
encephalitis or inflammation of the brain. He was given
20% chance of survival, slept for three months and was
in hospital for the next two years. I am fairly blunt with
people who say the disease is one big act.
Toby fought so hard to recover, to find his memory
again but the day came when I found him sobbing
totally distraught, and all he could say was Forgive me.
The memory of his courage and the hope of getting
better keeps me going. He seems to accept it now, Just
for the Day he says. After his moods were stabilised
487
and Id been through a bit of a wobble when I tried to
build a separate life, we married and had Roshun, and
everything now feel OK.
I try and get back by seven, let Florry the cat out and
read a good night story to Roshun. I prepare a light
supper, soup and homemade bread, and a special diet
for Tickle because of his condition. Then I go to the
glass garret as we call it, its good for looking at stars.
He is always so pleased to see me. I love you I love, I
love you with all my my heart he says as though he
hasn’t seen me for a lifetime, which in a way he hasn’t.
For me it’s been a process of accepting who he is now,
his limitations, and accepting that this is what our life
is, and will be, forever.
I just want a regular life really. It may be odd now but I
realise that there is something precious in the way
Tickle sees me, new all the time, some wives would die
for that. Although people say he is not Tickle anymore,
his identity has gone, he’s been de-souled they say, it
feels more like he is more of who he is at essence, the
essential Tickle the one I fell in love with before life got
in the way. We sit in his room and hold hands and
watch old films again, the same over and over, odd
foreign films like Stalker and more recently Downfal, he
really likes that, although I usually fall doze off
straightaway.
We go to bed about 10. We don’t sleep in the same
room because he is always up and down. I sometimes
work on writing about about our life together and how
its changed. Memory and Oblivion, was the working title
of my book, Mnemosyne and Lethe, as the ancients
488
called it. WHO I AM AM I WHO? My book is finished and
it’s coming out next week. It’s for a general audience,
people who’ve experienced loss and change, as well as
the therapeutic community. And sometimes I read,
usually half a page of Trauma and Recovery, my
favourite before drifting off, and I often hear Tickle
singing in his Frank Sinatra sort of way I love you I love
you I love you with all my heart softly through the wall.
-------------
Tina Wall book WHO I AM AM I WHO? Is publishing by
MUD PRESS next week. www.AWOL.org.uk give advice
to other ASP sufferers and families. Tina will be online
at ww.sundaytimes.com/health/forum between 4-6pm
today.
489
Endpiece
A scrumpled mosquito wrapped up without a body bag
on yesterdays page, burnt matches a few bits of wax
and I search for a new sheet.
An owl hoots, a dog barks, a motorway grinds and
nearby the stream continues as if always has like the
fizz at the edge of my mind..
Sounds at the edge of things: a scratching behind the
skirting, the odd screech in the night, rustling, change
in the little things denoting life..
The moon is a crescent a slither now lower toward the
West, and the Plough has been upended overnight now
balanced on its handle end, moving from its place in
other memories, set like a frame above the house
A fire is still burning from yesterday, no sparks, but in
the centre in a crater reluctant fabric gives off an exotic
blue flame, a secret revealing in its going.
The books are the most reluctant to surrender, stamps
of people immortalised but now each leaf is lovingly
unfurled and individually consumed by the flame
490
Old linen and photos finally gone, the end of the house
and its clearing finally conjuring the ruthlessness
required to purge the contents of her life,
I remember, I remember , I remember, the weight of
reminding, too down the scales until urgently the
unused calls to be accounted for, even though its
weight is in an expectation the wise are expected to
repress
In the moment the leaves flutters, giving itself up in a
graceful helix of death, the trees laugh in daily changes
colours graduating loss, almost in celebration
As each innards dissolve revealing its shape of branches
the essential again after the growth...
Outwards each turns towards itself and in the becoming
compacts into a statsis, only for a beat, before turning
towards the sun again and reaching towards the new
again
Inwards, time dies into itself, freeing itself gathering all
to itself , that growth becoming compacted , the leaves
trampled underfoot into mud, reduced sun, water, light
to the raw being, energy, root, the give from which the
new emerges..
But where’s the spark?
White light gathers over the horizon, distance lengthens
as longing increases and in that the forming of
acceptance, it has to go now all has to move on .
Our existence is as transient as the changing of autumn
clouds...
The point...
Her love, mine, one love always moving, on outward
not inwards concurrently by, through, with, to allow…
A lark there in the field between the woods, shy
hovering above the grass, seven months previous
urgently high in the sky producing,
The skeleton is no longer there, in the same field on
frosted grass the sheep skull set ajar from spine calling
out mute, gone not a speck, of white, reclaimed,
dissolved, thrown away by only one animal..
491
The jackdaw chases the buzzard still, and pink smudged
the sky beyond Blackdown
The sun hardly rises above the two trees at the end of
the garden, the shadows longs fingers deadening the
white of the arm chairs, conversations all together
fading in the damp air.
Quickly after the longeur of August the leaves become
brittle, curled at the edges, each rainstorm and never
drying wrecking its form, making it hard.
And the breeze in the trees is now across shingle rather
than sand presaging frost and storm.
And we flick rapidly through a century of other
summers,
black and whites of children now not there,
as the old man laughs at his new ability not to
remember names,
a shiver of apprehension down the spine,
as he fingers a letter from Mother reprimanding him,
‘debauched;
and see himself fearful in front of Father and saying
only now
how he thought he’d never lived up to Him;
Had his life been a reaction rather than a following?
he asks himself, then after his two little daughters
staring out at him, forgiving, and he laughs again.
So many summers and the occasional Christmas,
marriages come and gone and he talks of her Lover ,
and dead she is really
and as the mist seeps under the now closed door
and another bar of fire is lit,
we know a few years happiness with him was enough,
the cold had to follow,
it always does..
And after the hottest October day on record, which
nobody celebrates anymore, it becomes permanently
damp, the grass now never drying and the suns never
high and the laughter is almost gone from outside.
And by the fire where the summers are being burnt, we
push in embers and rearrange the difficult burners of
clothes and books, compensated by their exotic
coloured flames and the new lover sends a new text
saying she can’t talk now, but keep breathing, and I
again remember the quote I’d sent... Why does love
have wings if not to fly away again...?
492
And the songbirds gather together in parties now, for
survival rather than to mate, the pigeons are in
gluttonous flocks and the black cock skulks about the
hedges avoiding being shot.
And in the damp balm there is at least a chance to
breathe in the year, the age the era before the
hardening of winter comes and things inevitably
break...
And a pair of midges walk across the page and one,
after the other, flies up towards the bulb burning to die,
Curled up falling back onto the table by the spent
matchbox, Burning Man 2004, and Thank You on its
back upside down
And out of the mist forms a bird, light air water life,
urgently flying to God know where..
Diddlesfold 31st oct 2005
Nothing in this world is lasting
493
And everything in this life is uncertain,
Troubling to the Spirit
Eccles 14 2
494