“There you go, Dad.” Gabriel puts a mug of tea on the table beside Geoffrey’s armchair.
“Ah, bless you.” Geoffrey opens his eyes.
“I see you’ve got a cleaner in at last, then.” Gabriel has been gently nudging his father in this direction for some time.
“A cleaner?" Geoffrey laughs. "Dear me no! What made you think that?”
“Well, the place is looking a bit more…well, I just thought the place was looking nice and cosy.”
“Well I haven’t done anything to it.” Says Geoffrey. “And I haven’t had a cleaner in, either. They’re more trouble than their worth. Your mother and I tried it once, couldn’t find a bloody thing.” He chuckles at the memory.
It is true that Gabriel’s mother, the actress Sophie Masson, was just as ‘free-spirited’ in the domestic sphere as her husband and Gabriel himself grew up quite happily amongst a chaos of books and papers and dogs. But under his mother’s reign the house was at least clean if not tidy. But now his Mum is gone. His Dad’s mobility isn’t what it was, and his eyesight isn’t brilliant these days either, even with his glasses on. It isn’t that Gabriel cares about the dirty loo per se, but it makes him anxious about how much longer his Dad will be able to live independently. On his last visit, he noticed mould growing on the bathroom towels. Which is why this time he’s noticed that the towels have been washed. And the toilet brush holder replaced by one almost identical. And the toilet looks as though it has had a bit of a bleaching. So who is secretly cleaning his father’s house?
“What have you been up to this week then?” Gabriel asks, thinking this might shed some light on the matter.
“Oh, not much. Too cold to go out. They’ve had a very nice play on the radio this week, though. You should write for radio. It’s such a lovely intimate medium.”
“It’s a thought. Had any visitors?”
“No, not really. How’s your play coming along?”
“Oh God, I don’t know.” Gabriel slumps back into his armchair with a sigh. “I had this idea. Well, you know, the one I told you about. Which I really liked. Only when I came to write it… I don’t know. It would be impossible to stage, really. Maybe it should be a novel. Or maybe I should just start again.” Gabriel rubs his right eye and looks slightly beleaguered. “What about Eric. Has he been up lately?”
“Not recently, no. So what is all this with the writing anyway?”
Gabriel gets to his feet and walks over to the mantelpiece. “Oh I don’t know Dad. Something different. Thought I’d give it a go.” He picks up his graduation photograph. “Good Lord. Who’s this handsome young beast?”
They both laugh.
“Well, you were.” Geoffrey says. “And still are.”
“Jesus, Dad, how does it happen?”
“What?”
“Age.”
“You’re not old.”
“I’m nearly 50.”
“You’re 45.” Corrects Geoffrey sensibly.
“I’m as near to 50 as I am to 40.”
“You should try being nearly 80” Geoffrey says.
Gabriel picks up the painting of the two horses. “This is very sweet.” He turns it over. On the back in a child’s handwriting it says ‘Dear Geoffrey, thank you so much for my beautiful astrolabe. With lots of love from your friend Basil.’
“Is this from Eleanor’s boy?” Gabriel asks.
“Ah yes.” Says Geoffrey affectionatley and is about to add something but thinks better of it.
“Does Eleanor ever come up with Basil?” Gabriel can just imagine Eleanor sneaking up to the bathroom with a phial of bleach and a j-cloth.
“Not usually.” says Geoffrey, reading the question quite
differently. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about Dad.” Gabriel says, smiling broadly.
“No, of course not Gabe.”
“Another cuppa?”
“That would be lovely.”
Saturday, July 22, 2006
TT -27 Len in Love
Winter has finally set in. The trees are black and bare. It is dark when the villagers get up in the morning and dark when they come home from work. And it is cold. The whispering North Sea breeze that wafts gently up the estuary in the summer has become a continual icy drone. Up in his loft, Len Magma lays blinking in the darkness. It was a lock-in the night before at The Railway and his clammy rumpled bed, so gratefully received when he’d stumbled back at nearly 2 O’clock that morning, is now a vast and inhospitable plain of loneliness and self-loathing.
Len didn’t used to drink this much. He’s always ‘liked a drop or two’ as Douglas puts it, but he would make a gradual descent into a boozy blur each evening and still be up for work the next morning with a reasonable degree of spring in his step. It is Len’s job to go around the village with a sack and a stick and pick up bits of rubbish. This might seem a lowly profession to some but for Len it is something of a vocation. Urban Bushman, Human Fox, One Man Recycling System, see it how you will, Len finds beauty and meaning in that which others carelessly discard. He is particularly fond of rubber and plastics, particularly if they have a vaguely clinical look about them - his most treasured item is the prosthetic leg he found a skip behind the old folks home.
In fact, up until now, Len’s life has been like a scruffy old item of clothing, the kind of thing that anyone might lounge around in when no-one is looking, only in Len's solipsistic world, no-one is ever looking. Now it has all gone wrong because Len is in love. Mrs Carduggan has knocked on the door to Len’s heart and Len has had to answer it in a gravy-stained vest. “How’s the barn?” “Busy again I see.” And if that weren’t enough provocation, there she is, wherever he looks, disporting herself before him in a dizzying array of saucy rubber hand-wear: pink, yellow, dimpled, lined, reinforced, until, by some strange process of transference, he has fallen in love with her. Now she is unhappy with him, but try as he might, Len can’t understand why. He pulls the turmeric stained quilt more tightly around him. Clearly Alison Carduggan is a sex tease.
He must make her a gift, he decides, to win back her affections. Len uses this thought to pull himself, hand over hand, out of his love-sick inertia. Very soon he is able to lever himself from the dank hollow of the collapsed mattress and pull on some wear-sodden clothes. They smell like a dish-cloth that has been left in sprout water but continuous usage has imprinted into the fibres the memory of every possible position of his knees, arse and elbows, making them sumptuously comfortable. He must be especially vigilant for new materials today, he thinks as he descends the stairs, and by the time he arrives at the front door he is whistling in joyful anticipation of a morning well spent.
Len didn’t used to drink this much. He’s always ‘liked a drop or two’ as Douglas puts it, but he would make a gradual descent into a boozy blur each evening and still be up for work the next morning with a reasonable degree of spring in his step. It is Len’s job to go around the village with a sack and a stick and pick up bits of rubbish. This might seem a lowly profession to some but for Len it is something of a vocation. Urban Bushman, Human Fox, One Man Recycling System, see it how you will, Len finds beauty and meaning in that which others carelessly discard. He is particularly fond of rubber and plastics, particularly if they have a vaguely clinical look about them - his most treasured item is the prosthetic leg he found a skip behind the old folks home.
In fact, up until now, Len’s life has been like a scruffy old item of clothing, the kind of thing that anyone might lounge around in when no-one is looking, only in Len's solipsistic world, no-one is ever looking. Now it has all gone wrong because Len is in love. Mrs Carduggan has knocked on the door to Len’s heart and Len has had to answer it in a gravy-stained vest. “How’s the barn?” “Busy again I see.” And if that weren’t enough provocation, there she is, wherever he looks, disporting herself before him in a dizzying array of saucy rubber hand-wear: pink, yellow, dimpled, lined, reinforced, until, by some strange process of transference, he has fallen in love with her. Now she is unhappy with him, but try as he might, Len can’t understand why. He pulls the turmeric stained quilt more tightly around him. Clearly Alison Carduggan is a sex tease.
He must make her a gift, he decides, to win back her affections. Len uses this thought to pull himself, hand over hand, out of his love-sick inertia. Very soon he is able to lever himself from the dank hollow of the collapsed mattress and pull on some wear-sodden clothes. They smell like a dish-cloth that has been left in sprout water but continuous usage has imprinted into the fibres the memory of every possible position of his knees, arse and elbows, making them sumptuously comfortable. He must be especially vigilant for new materials today, he thinks as he descends the stairs, and by the time he arrives at the front door he is whistling in joyful anticipation of a morning well spent.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
TT - 26 An Entertaining Evening
Tony Styles, Editor, Reporter and Photographer for the Tendringhoe and Chasmundham News knows the rules when it comes to reviewing amateur productions: just enough criticism to make it credible then unadulterated praise from there on in. So it is that Eric Briding, as he stands at the makeshift bar in the foyer of the Reginald Spurgeon Hall, is still glowing from “Captures Perry’s pomposity perfectly”, “a decent first attempt at a principal part…” and “ a wholly entertaining evening.” Having taken a dreadful bollocking from Meg on the opening night for saying “Sorry Ann, I didn’t quite catch that” to the prompt, he feels quite exonerated. Alison too is pleased with “Alison Carduggan, as the vapid, twittering Felicity, provided some unexpected comic moments.”
It is true that they are both slightly niggled by the totally disproportionate amount of praise that has been heaped onto ‘undoubtedly the star of the show’ Gordon Green. In their opinion, Gordon’s was a rather clownish performance, based principally on much ad libbed ‘business’ with his trousers, that did nothing to enhance the development of the plot and a great deal to upstage the rest of the cast. Nonetheless, in the general after-show buzz they are all the best of friends and are certainly more interested in each other than they are in the friends and relatives who have turned up to give their support.
“Did you like the way I stood in front of Perry when talking to Hugh at the cocktail party.” Alison asks Douglas.
“Hmmm, very good, dear.”
“Yes, I thought that was quite a telling moment. Quite poignant.”
“Absolutely.” Douglas has no idea what she is talking about. Like everyone else, his attention at that moment had been on Gordon who had thrown himself onto the couch with such force that he had tipped it over backwards, ending up sprawled beneath it. What had made this even more hilarious was that, judging from the look of surprise on Gordon's face as he flipped backwards, it had been entirely unintended. His impromptu decision to deliver his next line comically from within the upturned piece of furniture had met with a foot-stamping cheer.
Alison, realising that she has milked all the praise that she is going to get out of her husband, wants to gravitate back towards the other cast members who still glow with self-congratulatory excitement. Douglas is trying to move in precisely the opposite direction. He is still extremely perturbed by Cleanth’s accusation. He is particularly anxious that Eric, once he realises that Douglas is being excluded from the Festival plans, will go digging around to try and find out why and, in the process, excavate the extraordinary slander. Douglas knows that for a man in his position any suggestion of sexual impropriety, particularly that kind of sexual impropriety, is a serious matter. The less people that come into contact with it the better, which means the longer he can put off discussing the festival with Eric the better. He is about to manoeuvre Alison just a little further away when feels a large hand clamp down on his shoulder.
“Reverend Carduggan!” It’s Gordon Green. “Enjoy the evening?”
“Oh Hello Gordon." Douglas lets out a little laugh. "Yes, yes, very much.” He leans back on his haunches and prepares to deliver a generous verdict.
“Good-good!” Gordon, who has already received more than enough love from the hilarified villagers, turns his attention to ‘his leading lady’.
“You were marvellous!” He says to Alison.
“Oh well, you were the star of the show” Alison says, and is annoyed to see that Gordon believes her.
“Oh darling! That’s so sweet of you! Bless you!”
“Gordon!” Val Green approaches closely enough to be within Gordon’s earshot, but not close enough to be drawn into the group.
“Hello Val.” Alison calls over.
“Oh hello Alison, hello Reverend.” Val, realising who Gordon is talking to, arranges her face into a more amenable expression and comes closer. She smiles at them obsequiously, “You were very good, Alison!”
“Oh, well, thank you!” Alison is delighted.
Val squeezes out another little smile in response then takes Gordon by the elbow and says more quietly “Are you getting me a drink or not...darling?
Gordon moves away with His Lovely Wife. There’s plenty more sharing of himself to be done at the bar and he can get Val off his back with a G&T at the same time. He propels Val in front of him . “Anything you desire sweet love of my life!” he proclaims, beaming, and without changing his facial expression adds, sotto voce, "And here's hoping you choke on the slice!"
It is true that they are both slightly niggled by the totally disproportionate amount of praise that has been heaped onto ‘undoubtedly the star of the show’ Gordon Green. In their opinion, Gordon’s was a rather clownish performance, based principally on much ad libbed ‘business’ with his trousers, that did nothing to enhance the development of the plot and a great deal to upstage the rest of the cast. Nonetheless, in the general after-show buzz they are all the best of friends and are certainly more interested in each other than they are in the friends and relatives who have turned up to give their support.
“Did you like the way I stood in front of Perry when talking to Hugh at the cocktail party.” Alison asks Douglas.
“Hmmm, very good, dear.”
“Yes, I thought that was quite a telling moment. Quite poignant.”
“Absolutely.” Douglas has no idea what she is talking about. Like everyone else, his attention at that moment had been on Gordon who had thrown himself onto the couch with such force that he had tipped it over backwards, ending up sprawled beneath it. What had made this even more hilarious was that, judging from the look of surprise on Gordon's face as he flipped backwards, it had been entirely unintended. His impromptu decision to deliver his next line comically from within the upturned piece of furniture had met with a foot-stamping cheer.
Alison, realising that she has milked all the praise that she is going to get out of her husband, wants to gravitate back towards the other cast members who still glow with self-congratulatory excitement. Douglas is trying to move in precisely the opposite direction. He is still extremely perturbed by Cleanth’s accusation. He is particularly anxious that Eric, once he realises that Douglas is being excluded from the Festival plans, will go digging around to try and find out why and, in the process, excavate the extraordinary slander. Douglas knows that for a man in his position any suggestion of sexual impropriety, particularly that kind of sexual impropriety, is a serious matter. The less people that come into contact with it the better, which means the longer he can put off discussing the festival with Eric the better. He is about to manoeuvre Alison just a little further away when feels a large hand clamp down on his shoulder.
“Reverend Carduggan!” It’s Gordon Green. “Enjoy the evening?”
“Oh Hello Gordon." Douglas lets out a little laugh. "Yes, yes, very much.” He leans back on his haunches and prepares to deliver a generous verdict.
“Good-good!” Gordon, who has already received more than enough love from the hilarified villagers, turns his attention to ‘his leading lady’.
“You were marvellous!” He says to Alison.
“Oh well, you were the star of the show” Alison says, and is annoyed to see that Gordon believes her.
“Oh darling! That’s so sweet of you! Bless you!”
“Gordon!” Val Green approaches closely enough to be within Gordon’s earshot, but not close enough to be drawn into the group.
“Hello Val.” Alison calls over.
“Oh hello Alison, hello Reverend.” Val, realising who Gordon is talking to, arranges her face into a more amenable expression and comes closer. She smiles at them obsequiously, “You were very good, Alison!”
“Oh, well, thank you!” Alison is delighted.
Val squeezes out another little smile in response then takes Gordon by the elbow and says more quietly “Are you getting me a drink or not...darling?
Gordon moves away with His Lovely Wife. There’s plenty more sharing of himself to be done at the bar and he can get Val off his back with a G&T at the same time. He propels Val in front of him . “Anything you desire sweet love of my life!” he proclaims, beaming, and without changing his facial expression adds, sotto voce, "And here's hoping you choke on the slice!"
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
TT - 25 Douglas Takes Michael by Surprise
Michael Glebe steps out into the cold November air and thinks about gloves for the first time in seven months. It seems so long since he's had to think about dressing his hands before leaving the house that he recalls the old routine as though it were some some strange and forgotten ritual from his distant past, like the annual letting down of his school blazer cuffs. He slings his bag across his body, courier style, and decides to brave it manually naked. He has already spent more time than seems possible in a hamster wheel of self-defeating tasks that morning and he can’t face going back into his flat above the cafe for another round of re-losing his keys whilst looking for his gloves which he knows he had right before he started looking for his library card...
Michael passes down the narrow side-passage between the cafe and the Morgan’s house and opens the gate into the little courtyard garden where Sal lets him keep his bike . Roz is standing outside the loo which has been tacked onto the back of the cafe. Her wild, aubergine hair is in two bunches today.
“Not planning on going in there, are you?” She says, nodding her head towards the lav door and dipping into a packet of Revels
“Hmm? Oh no - just getting my bike.” Michael says with a brief smile and takes hold of the handle bars.
“Good. I’m waiting to do a second flush.” She takes another handful of brown shiny nuggets and pops them into her mouth.
Michael is now in a bind. His flat is an existential horror scene of overdue library books, belching bins, and unopened mail. Beyond the passage is the High Street with its endless stream of beaming villagers looming up at him like manikins in a ghost ride "So?! How did it go? Should we call you Doctor Glebe? Not yet? Oh well, never mind. Chin up!" And between the rock and the hard place: Roz, hand dipping rhythmically into the Revels, waiting to go back in for a second flush.
Michael decides to make a dash straight across the High Street and into the church yard. Then it’s just a short stretch up Blythe Lane before escaping onto the footpath. This will take him across the railway tracks and out through the new housing development where he doesn't know anyone - where nobody knows anyone - and bring him back onto the University road a safe quarter of a mile beyond the village. He wheels his bike back up the passage, checks for oncoming pedestrians in both directions, then darts across the road and through the wrought iron gates of St Maggie’s churchyard. It’s a clear bright morning and the large trees cast strong shadows across the grass and the old tombs. One or two leaves still spin on invisible threads beneath the branches. The air smells of cold.
As Michael approaches the small gate that opens onto Blythe Lane he realises he is not yet ready to leave the tranquility of the churchyard. He leans his bike against a bench and sits down. Emboldened by the quietness of the village, he starts to fantasise about making it to the Village Deli unaccosted for a capuccino and a still-warm pecan slice. He’s already been through the ‘failed my viva, oh dear, how sad, never mind’ routine with the exuberantly camp proprietor, Jason (“never mind lovey, the examiner was probably just jealous of your biceps.”), and the shop should be quiet at this time of the morning.
Michael leaves his bike unlocked, not because Tendringhoe is idyllically free of crime, but because he has faith in its inbuilt anti-theft device, which is to say, only he knows that the handlebars have to be directed 6ยบ east of the actual direction in which the rider intends to travel. The Deli dash is successful. The bike is still there when he returns. The Capuccino keeps his hands warm. It’s too good, of course, and sure enough, just as Michael has dabbed the last remaining dob of maple syrup from the paper wrapper he hears the vestry door open. Looking up he sees Douglas Carduggan swishing towards him in his Church of England frock, his crisp white surplus as beautifully shadowed as sculpted marble, and an oversized green and gold book-mark hanging round his neck.
Of all the silhouettes that currently threaten to pop up at windows, spring out of doorways, or lever up from the ground like a Western-themed target practice, Douglas’s is the most dreaded. Although he has never articulated it to himself explicitly, Michael intuitively understands that Douglas relishes a role; whether it be liberal vicar, godly gastronome, or Post-Bultmannian centre-forward, and he understands perfectly the bit-part that he is expected to play. Indeed, this is his own particular area of expertise. But how can Michael be Phaedrus to Douglas’s Socrates when he comes from the house of Lysias not with an exquisitely crafted speech but with a big fat turkey of a fail.
“Well if it isn’t young Mr Glebe!” Douglas sits beside him on the bench. Michael feels the wooden slats bow slightly beneath him.
“Hello Douglas, and before you ask - No - not good news I’m afraid.” Michael says with a grim smile.
“Oh dear.” Douglas replies, then adds quizzically “In what sense ‘not good news’?”
“The viva.”
Douglas looks lost for a moment, then he takes a sharp little breath of recognition. “Ah, yes. You’ve had that already, have you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh dear. Sounds like it didn’t go too well.”
“Referred. Six months.”
“But you were expecting that you’d have to make some changes.”
“Well, minor corrections yes. But another six months! It was a bit of a blow to be honest with you Reverend.” Michael screws up the sticky cake wrapper and squeezes it inside his cardboard cup.
Douglas sits back on the bench and pretends to admire the day for a few moments. He has noted Michael's untypical use of his title and he guesses correctly that it is an implicit request for professional counsel. “Hmmm.” He says, after a while. “Suppose I were to ask you this - who are the people in your life whom you most admire? You don’t have to tell me, just make a little list in your mind.”
Michael thinks for a while. His grandfather comes instantly to mind, then he has to cast around a little further. He realises that there is something to admire in most of the people he loves, but his thoughts keeps coming back to his friend David, still fighting back from a devastating car accident.
“What do you admire about these people?”
“Oh God. Lots of things.” Michael sighs. “I suppose…I suppose I admire their dignity. And courage! And perseverence.” He stops talking and looks at Douglas. “Ah - I think I see your point.” He gives a little laugh but it unexpectedly catches on a tiny sob and he has to squeeze his eyes tightly shut for a moment.
Douglas puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Sometimes God allows us to fail one test so that we can pass another.”
Michael thinks it has nothing to do with God, but he’s comforted by the general gist. "Thank you." Michael smiles at Douglas appreciatively. "That helps, actually."
"Of course, of course." Douglas stands up with a grunt of effort. “I'm afraid I do have to dash off. Hospital Day today. But pop over later if you feel like a chat.”
“I might, actually, if that’s OK.”
“Of course.”
Michael gets up and throws his cup into the waste-paper bin then wheels his bike round onto the path.
“No cycling till you’re out of the gate!” Douglas says jokingly, as he walks away.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Vicar!” Michael says, rather camply. His spirits are quite improved.
Douglas continues across the churchyard. “Poor old Michael.” He thinks. He can see that he his young friend has had a bit of a blow to the old self-esteem. He rather imagines that this is Michael’s first brush with academic failure.
As Douglas strides through the church gates he is spotted by Cleanth Morgan, who is staring idly from an upstairs window with his extra strong cup of early morning decaff. The sight of the vicar, a billowing pillar of black and white, still fills Cleanth with the unpleasant memory of a situation left unconfronted - unconfronted because of his own impotence and cowardice. As Douglas turns into the High Street, Cleanth suddenly puts down his cup and flings open the window, sending a pigeon flapping into the air. Douglas looks up, startled.
“I KNOW EVERYTHING!” Cleanth announces.
Douglas can only assume that Cleanth is enjoying some kind of obscure joke. “Surely only The Lord knows everything, Cleanth” He replies, adopting the usual embouchure.
The Vicar's smug jocularity only enflames Cleanth further. “Pervert!” He shouts, his Canadian ‘r’s’ almost entirely swallowing the consonants, but although he forces his head agressively forwards his shoulders are already retreating and his arms have begun to pull the windows closed behind him.
Douglas stands in the street below, stunned. What does Cleanth think he knows? What riduculous conclusions has his nasty little mind drawn from what he's just seen? Was it because he put his hand on Michael's shoulder?! Douglas consciously directs his mind to the thought that Cleanth must have gone quite insane, either that, or he's projecting his own fears and desires, but another voice says ‘How could Cleanth know? How could Cleanth possibly know!"
Michael passes down the narrow side-passage between the cafe and the Morgan’s house and opens the gate into the little courtyard garden where Sal lets him keep his bike . Roz is standing outside the loo which has been tacked onto the back of the cafe. Her wild, aubergine hair is in two bunches today.
“Not planning on going in there, are you?” She says, nodding her head towards the lav door and dipping into a packet of Revels
“Hmm? Oh no - just getting my bike.” Michael says with a brief smile and takes hold of the handle bars.
“Good. I’m waiting to do a second flush.” She takes another handful of brown shiny nuggets and pops them into her mouth.
Michael is now in a bind. His flat is an existential horror scene of overdue library books, belching bins, and unopened mail. Beyond the passage is the High Street with its endless stream of beaming villagers looming up at him like manikins in a ghost ride "So?! How did it go? Should we call you Doctor Glebe? Not yet? Oh well, never mind. Chin up!" And between the rock and the hard place: Roz, hand dipping rhythmically into the Revels, waiting to go back in for a second flush.
Michael decides to make a dash straight across the High Street and into the church yard. Then it’s just a short stretch up Blythe Lane before escaping onto the footpath. This will take him across the railway tracks and out through the new housing development where he doesn't know anyone - where nobody knows anyone - and bring him back onto the University road a safe quarter of a mile beyond the village. He wheels his bike back up the passage, checks for oncoming pedestrians in both directions, then darts across the road and through the wrought iron gates of St Maggie’s churchyard. It’s a clear bright morning and the large trees cast strong shadows across the grass and the old tombs. One or two leaves still spin on invisible threads beneath the branches. The air smells of cold.
As Michael approaches the small gate that opens onto Blythe Lane he realises he is not yet ready to leave the tranquility of the churchyard. He leans his bike against a bench and sits down. Emboldened by the quietness of the village, he starts to fantasise about making it to the Village Deli unaccosted for a capuccino and a still-warm pecan slice. He’s already been through the ‘failed my viva, oh dear, how sad, never mind’ routine with the exuberantly camp proprietor, Jason (“never mind lovey, the examiner was probably just jealous of your biceps.”), and the shop should be quiet at this time of the morning.
Michael leaves his bike unlocked, not because Tendringhoe is idyllically free of crime, but because he has faith in its inbuilt anti-theft device, which is to say, only he knows that the handlebars have to be directed 6ยบ east of the actual direction in which the rider intends to travel. The Deli dash is successful. The bike is still there when he returns. The Capuccino keeps his hands warm. It’s too good, of course, and sure enough, just as Michael has dabbed the last remaining dob of maple syrup from the paper wrapper he hears the vestry door open. Looking up he sees Douglas Carduggan swishing towards him in his Church of England frock, his crisp white surplus as beautifully shadowed as sculpted marble, and an oversized green and gold book-mark hanging round his neck.
Of all the silhouettes that currently threaten to pop up at windows, spring out of doorways, or lever up from the ground like a Western-themed target practice, Douglas’s is the most dreaded. Although he has never articulated it to himself explicitly, Michael intuitively understands that Douglas relishes a role; whether it be liberal vicar, godly gastronome, or Post-Bultmannian centre-forward, and he understands perfectly the bit-part that he is expected to play. Indeed, this is his own particular area of expertise. But how can Michael be Phaedrus to Douglas’s Socrates when he comes from the house of Lysias not with an exquisitely crafted speech but with a big fat turkey of a fail.
“Well if it isn’t young Mr Glebe!” Douglas sits beside him on the bench. Michael feels the wooden slats bow slightly beneath him.
“Hello Douglas, and before you ask - No - not good news I’m afraid.” Michael says with a grim smile.
“Oh dear.” Douglas replies, then adds quizzically “In what sense ‘not good news’?”
“The viva.”
Douglas looks lost for a moment, then he takes a sharp little breath of recognition. “Ah, yes. You’ve had that already, have you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh dear. Sounds like it didn’t go too well.”
“Referred. Six months.”
“But you were expecting that you’d have to make some changes.”
“Well, minor corrections yes. But another six months! It was a bit of a blow to be honest with you Reverend.” Michael screws up the sticky cake wrapper and squeezes it inside his cardboard cup.
Douglas sits back on the bench and pretends to admire the day for a few moments. He has noted Michael's untypical use of his title and he guesses correctly that it is an implicit request for professional counsel. “Hmmm.” He says, after a while. “Suppose I were to ask you this - who are the people in your life whom you most admire? You don’t have to tell me, just make a little list in your mind.”
Michael thinks for a while. His grandfather comes instantly to mind, then he has to cast around a little further. He realises that there is something to admire in most of the people he loves, but his thoughts keeps coming back to his friend David, still fighting back from a devastating car accident.
“What do you admire about these people?”
“Oh God. Lots of things.” Michael sighs. “I suppose…I suppose I admire their dignity. And courage! And perseverence.” He stops talking and looks at Douglas. “Ah - I think I see your point.” He gives a little laugh but it unexpectedly catches on a tiny sob and he has to squeeze his eyes tightly shut for a moment.
Douglas puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Sometimes God allows us to fail one test so that we can pass another.”
Michael thinks it has nothing to do with God, but he’s comforted by the general gist. "Thank you." Michael smiles at Douglas appreciatively. "That helps, actually."
"Of course, of course." Douglas stands up with a grunt of effort. “I'm afraid I do have to dash off. Hospital Day today. But pop over later if you feel like a chat.”
“I might, actually, if that’s OK.”
“Of course.”
Michael gets up and throws his cup into the waste-paper bin then wheels his bike round onto the path.
“No cycling till you’re out of the gate!” Douglas says jokingly, as he walks away.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Vicar!” Michael says, rather camply. His spirits are quite improved.
Douglas continues across the churchyard. “Poor old Michael.” He thinks. He can see that he his young friend has had a bit of a blow to the old self-esteem. He rather imagines that this is Michael’s first brush with academic failure.
As Douglas strides through the church gates he is spotted by Cleanth Morgan, who is staring idly from an upstairs window with his extra strong cup of early morning decaff. The sight of the vicar, a billowing pillar of black and white, still fills Cleanth with the unpleasant memory of a situation left unconfronted - unconfronted because of his own impotence and cowardice. As Douglas turns into the High Street, Cleanth suddenly puts down his cup and flings open the window, sending a pigeon flapping into the air. Douglas looks up, startled.
“I KNOW EVERYTHING!” Cleanth announces.
Douglas can only assume that Cleanth is enjoying some kind of obscure joke. “Surely only The Lord knows everything, Cleanth” He replies, adopting the usual embouchure.
The Vicar's smug jocularity only enflames Cleanth further. “Pervert!” He shouts, his Canadian ‘r’s’ almost entirely swallowing the consonants, but although he forces his head agressively forwards his shoulders are already retreating and his arms have begun to pull the windows closed behind him.
Douglas stands in the street below, stunned. What does Cleanth think he knows? What riduculous conclusions has his nasty little mind drawn from what he's just seen? Was it because he put his hand on Michael's shoulder?! Douglas consciously directs his mind to the thought that Cleanth must have gone quite insane, either that, or he's projecting his own fears and desires, but another voice says ‘How could Cleanth know? How could Cleanth possibly know!"
Saturday, July 15, 2006
TT 24 - Douglas Has an Unexpected Pleasure.
When Douglas hears the side-gate open he is convinced that it is Michael Glebe, and he adopts the attitude of a man deeply immersed in thought.
"Alright Vic!"
It's not Michael at all, but St Maggie's newest parishioner.
"Don't mind if I join you, do you?" Dave Gill plops down onto the bench beside Douglas and lets out a sigh of effort. 30 years of Cocaine, alcohol and blonde model-actresses have taken their toll on his ticker. "What a fantastic bloody day, eh Vic?!" Dave clasps his hands beneath his grey pony tail and stretches out his drain-pipe legs.
"Ah, Mr Gill, an unexpected pleasure."
Whilst the Reverend Carduggan is not immune to the celebrity status of the former lead-guitarist of Crimfish, nor uncognizant of the fact that he could pay for the much needed repairs to the church organ with a single flourish of his cheque-book, he feels somewhat perturbed by Dave's bullish familiarity. Since leaving school, Douglas has successfully created a cordon-sanitaire of intellectualism and cultivation around himself: his little white collar the final ring of protection against the oppressively 'cool', easy-going popularity of Dave types. He is certainly not accustomed to being addressed as 'Vic'. To regain his priestly dignity, Douglas adopts a position of wry detachment in relation to Dave, and there is plenty to be wry about. At the same time, there is, in this battered old rocker, an openness, a curiosity, an innocent ability to relish the part without bothering with the whole, that Douglas can't help being drawn to.
"What you reading then?" Dave picks up Douglas's book, and nods his head sagely. "Ah, the old Saccry Representatziony eh? Quite interested in that myself."
"Really?" Douglas is slightly affronted for a moment, then the wryness returns. "In what capacity?"
"When we were doing the really big stadium tours back in the 70's, we did some pretty spectacular shows. For our 'Flick of the Devil's Tail' tour, yeah?, we kind of took some ideas from old christian mystery plays and spectacles, then twisted them, you know..." Dave trails off. He has realised what he is saying. "It's quite interesting though, that whole history of Christian theatre, isn't it Father"
Douglas winces. He wonders whether Dave cares at all which denomination provides his spiritual fix.
"I'm not a Catholic Priest, Dave."
"No, I know that, Vic." Dave is slightly puzzled.
Douglas decides to let it go. "So - to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I want to talk to you about Isaiah, chapter 40, that bit about the voice that crieth in the wilderness...” Dave holds out his hands and looks skywards. Douglas puts his arm over the back of the bench and prepares himself to listen. Which other of his parishioners, after all, would bowl in full of the joys of spring to talk about Isa.40:3.
By the time Dave leaves, Douglas decides he rather likes the fellow, extraordinary as he is. What's more, he's left Douglas with some interesting thoughts about how the rock gig is today's equivalent of the old religious spectacle. No wonder the Anglican church faces an uncertain future when it leaves the task of affecting the mind, memory and will of the unlearned masses to scruffy young rock stars. He picks up his empty mug and his book and makes his way back to the house. Again Alison catches sight of him and again he is lost in thought. This time, he is pondering whether he would look preposterous in a leather jacket, not unlike the one Dave was wearing. Which is odd, because as Dave drives back to the farm in his Land Rover he’s thinking he’d quite like a proper tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows like the Vicar’s - and perhaps a cap to match.
"Alright Vic!"
It's not Michael at all, but St Maggie's newest parishioner.
"Don't mind if I join you, do you?" Dave Gill plops down onto the bench beside Douglas and lets out a sigh of effort. 30 years of Cocaine, alcohol and blonde model-actresses have taken their toll on his ticker. "What a fantastic bloody day, eh Vic?!" Dave clasps his hands beneath his grey pony tail and stretches out his drain-pipe legs.
"Ah, Mr Gill, an unexpected pleasure."
Whilst the Reverend Carduggan is not immune to the celebrity status of the former lead-guitarist of Crimfish, nor uncognizant of the fact that he could pay for the much needed repairs to the church organ with a single flourish of his cheque-book, he feels somewhat perturbed by Dave's bullish familiarity. Since leaving school, Douglas has successfully created a cordon-sanitaire of intellectualism and cultivation around himself: his little white collar the final ring of protection against the oppressively 'cool', easy-going popularity of Dave types. He is certainly not accustomed to being addressed as 'Vic'. To regain his priestly dignity, Douglas adopts a position of wry detachment in relation to Dave, and there is plenty to be wry about. At the same time, there is, in this battered old rocker, an openness, a curiosity, an innocent ability to relish the part without bothering with the whole, that Douglas can't help being drawn to.
"What you reading then?" Dave picks up Douglas's book, and nods his head sagely. "Ah, the old Saccry Representatziony eh? Quite interested in that myself."
"Really?" Douglas is slightly affronted for a moment, then the wryness returns. "In what capacity?"
"When we were doing the really big stadium tours back in the 70's, we did some pretty spectacular shows. For our 'Flick of the Devil's Tail' tour, yeah?, we kind of took some ideas from old christian mystery plays and spectacles, then twisted them, you know..." Dave trails off. He has realised what he is saying. "It's quite interesting though, that whole history of Christian theatre, isn't it Father"
Douglas winces. He wonders whether Dave cares at all which denomination provides his spiritual fix.
"I'm not a Catholic Priest, Dave."
"No, I know that, Vic." Dave is slightly puzzled.
Douglas decides to let it go. "So - to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I want to talk to you about Isaiah, chapter 40, that bit about the voice that crieth in the wilderness...” Dave holds out his hands and looks skywards. Douglas puts his arm over the back of the bench and prepares himself to listen. Which other of his parishioners, after all, would bowl in full of the joys of spring to talk about Isa.40:3.
By the time Dave leaves, Douglas decides he rather likes the fellow, extraordinary as he is. What's more, he's left Douglas with some interesting thoughts about how the rock gig is today's equivalent of the old religious spectacle. No wonder the Anglican church faces an uncertain future when it leaves the task of affecting the mind, memory and will of the unlearned masses to scruffy young rock stars. He picks up his empty mug and his book and makes his way back to the house. Again Alison catches sight of him and again he is lost in thought. This time, he is pondering whether he would look preposterous in a leather jacket, not unlike the one Dave was wearing. Which is odd, because as Dave drives back to the farm in his Land Rover he’s thinking he’d quite like a proper tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows like the Vicar’s - and perhaps a cap to match.
TT - 23 An Incumbent amongst the Cucurbits
When Glandice Morgan sets about a piece of Wagner, it is less like a lark ascending than a drill hitting masonry: her top C the vocal equivalent of maximum torque. Douglas, unable to take the strain any longer, has removed to the vegetable patch at the bottom of the vicarage garden, which is mercifully out of range. It is unusually mild for late October, and not only is he wearing his favourite tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, but Alison’s bonfire is still crackling gently and giving off the occasional swirl of sweet smoke. He looks at the garden fork stuck at an angle into the earth between the two neat rows of leeks and wills a Robin to land on the handle. It doesn’t. But it’s pretty damn good, all the same.
Douglas balances his mug of tea on the arm of the bench, leans back against the wooden slats and opens his book. He is reading a very interesting account of 15th-century Florentine Sacre Rappresentazioni by P. O. Flanhandy, S.J. He is particularly interested in the special effects used in these popular religious dramas: candles in coloured jars suspended high above the stage; small boys in taffeta tunics lowered on winches from specially constructed platforms; holy doves shot down wires amongst exploding fireworks. He is, of course, thinking of his own modern day mystery play, only now he’s wondering whether it wouldn’t be rather wonderful to reconstruct one of these sacred spectacles in Tendringhoe’s own, very beautiful 15th-century church, perhaps as a play within a play.
It is as he muses on this thought that Alison catches sight of him through the kitchen window. There he is, her husband the Vicar of Tendringhoe, his commanding physical stature evident even as he pours over his text, every inch the scholar. He had his nose in a book the first time she saw, him, almost 25 years ago, at a residential trumpet workshop for Christians in the Brecon Beacons: Baudelaire’s Fleur du Mal, she remembers, in the original French of course, but using his Derby County season ticket as a book mark - that was so Douglas!
Alison peels off her yellow marigolds and hangs them over the edge of the sink to dry. She looks again with satisfied approval at her husband as he sits amongst the mellow fruitfulness of the Vicarage garden. His mind might be lost in anything, she thinks to herself pleasurably: speculative theology, early Byzantine church music, renaissance art, and she’s not far wrong, for Reverend Carduggan is indeed rummaging around in all these areas of learning in order to find something with which he might legitimise the oddly persistent image of Michael Glebe suspended from the rafters of St Maggie’s in nothing but a rudely short taffeta tunic.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
TT 22 - Excitement at the Fat Cat Vegetarian Cafe
Gabriel Lamb is charming the ladies at the Fat Cat Vegetarian Cafe. He is leaning against the doorpost, his actor's coat draping expensively behind him, blowing cigarette smoke out into the street and filtering charm back in through the open doorway. Roz, who favours stripey tights, T-bar shoes and brightly coloured jumpers, fares slightly worse in the onslaught than Sal, who favours women.
"So, what's your play going to be about?" says Roz, whose metabolic rate is cracking on at such a pace she could have a deep fried Mars Bar with her mid-morning coffee and still not break her 1200 calorie limit.
"Well, it's a comedy, really" says Gabriel, and gives Roz a smile to warm her hands on, which is just as well, since he is letting in a cruel draught through the open door.
"Oh...!" says Roz excitedly, and her arms lift slightly at her side as though she wants to say 'yippee!'
"It's about a man who's paid to cry."
"Oh, quite dark then." Says Roz, and the arms come back down again and the eyes widen.
"Um..?" Gabriel draws down the corners of his mouth and stares out across the street into the leaf strewn church yard, "well, I suppose it is, really. Well, perhaps more 'magic realism'."
Gabriel finishes his cigarette and finally closes the door with a tinkle of the bell. He joins them at the large round wooden table in the geranium filled bay window. "He starts off as a lad on street corners," He says, suddenly animated, as though his mind has just ignited with the idea and he is sharing it for the very first time. "People pay him to cry for their own griefs. It's set in the Edwardian era, in the east-end of London, so they're too stoic to cry for themselves, you see." And Roz does see.
"Then the first world war comes along, and of course, business is booming. He ends up in Vaudeville. At first he's the warm up act for The Great Rolando, the renowned sentimental tenor, but soon he's top of the bill, a household name."
"So what happens then?" Sal, who has been pretending to busy herself with the coloured chalks and the menu board is hooked.
"Well, it all goes a bit wrong. After the war, he ends up in the circus. A freak show. I haven't decided how it ends yet. Perhaps it is a tragedy after all."
"Is it an allegory?" Asks Roz.
"Not an allegory, exactly. Although it is...there are symbolic resonances. It's going to be very visual! Increasingly visual, as we go from street to theatre to circus."
"Sort of hard to stage." Says Roz, who has a tendency to innocently drop these teeny-weeny remarks that turn out to be horribly incisive.
"Well, the staging will be ambitious." Gabriel says, picking up a pepper grinder from the table and fiddling with it for a while. "But I like the idea of going back to the spectacular." He puts the pepper down. He's caught up with Roz's comment and he needs both hands free. "I want to stage it like an old fashioned Music Hall, or Cabaret. Dancers, acrobats. I'd love to actually use limelights. Pump the smell of greaspaint into the crowd." His hands intuitively cup with the sheer plenitudinous viscerality of it all.
"You know, the more I think about it, the more I think it is a tragedy." Gabriel Lamb decides. "Here's this character, trapped inside a performance, the performance of other people's emotions. And the more he martyrs himself the more they clap and cheer."
"Oh yes, that's very good!" Says Roz.
"Very clever!" Agrees Sal.
"So, what's your play going to be about?" says Roz, whose metabolic rate is cracking on at such a pace she could have a deep fried Mars Bar with her mid-morning coffee and still not break her 1200 calorie limit.
"Well, it's a comedy, really" says Gabriel, and gives Roz a smile to warm her hands on, which is just as well, since he is letting in a cruel draught through the open door.
"Oh...!" says Roz excitedly, and her arms lift slightly at her side as though she wants to say 'yippee!'
"It's about a man who's paid to cry."
"Oh, quite dark then." Says Roz, and the arms come back down again and the eyes widen.
"Um..?" Gabriel draws down the corners of his mouth and stares out across the street into the leaf strewn church yard, "well, I suppose it is, really. Well, perhaps more 'magic realism'."
Gabriel finishes his cigarette and finally closes the door with a tinkle of the bell. He joins them at the large round wooden table in the geranium filled bay window. "He starts off as a lad on street corners," He says, suddenly animated, as though his mind has just ignited with the idea and he is sharing it for the very first time. "People pay him to cry for their own griefs. It's set in the Edwardian era, in the east-end of London, so they're too stoic to cry for themselves, you see." And Roz does see.
"Then the first world war comes along, and of course, business is booming. He ends up in Vaudeville. At first he's the warm up act for The Great Rolando, the renowned sentimental tenor, but soon he's top of the bill, a household name."
"So what happens then?" Sal, who has been pretending to busy herself with the coloured chalks and the menu board is hooked.
"Well, it all goes a bit wrong. After the war, he ends up in the circus. A freak show. I haven't decided how it ends yet. Perhaps it is a tragedy after all."
"Is it an allegory?" Asks Roz.
"Not an allegory, exactly. Although it is...there are symbolic resonances. It's going to be very visual! Increasingly visual, as we go from street to theatre to circus."
"Sort of hard to stage." Says Roz, who has a tendency to innocently drop these teeny-weeny remarks that turn out to be horribly incisive.
"Well, the staging will be ambitious." Gabriel says, picking up a pepper grinder from the table and fiddling with it for a while. "But I like the idea of going back to the spectacular." He puts the pepper down. He's caught up with Roz's comment and he needs both hands free. "I want to stage it like an old fashioned Music Hall, or Cabaret. Dancers, acrobats. I'd love to actually use limelights. Pump the smell of greaspaint into the crowd." His hands intuitively cup with the sheer plenitudinous viscerality of it all.
"You know, the more I think about it, the more I think it is a tragedy." Gabriel Lamb decides. "Here's this character, trapped inside a performance, the performance of other people's emotions. And the more he martyrs himself the more they clap and cheer."
"Oh yes, that's very good!" Says Roz.
"Very clever!" Agrees Sal.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
TT 21 - Lemon Oil
“You’re always late.”
“You wanna know what it is?”
“What?”
“Tough shit.” Dezzy catches his own eye in the rear-view mirror, releases the handbrake and pulls out of the station forecourt. The windscreen wipers squeegee rythmically, barely able to keep up with the downpour. Sian rifles through the glove compartment and fishes out a packet of cigarettes.
“Help yourself.”
“Oh, thanks. That’s really kind of you.” She replies from around a Marlborough. She pulls his gold lighter from the dashboard. “Where’re we going?”
“Beach.” Dezzy turns on the air conditioning with an irritated huff. “You bloody gonna make my cab stink.”
“The beach?!” The pitch of Sian’s voice, normally so under control, shoots up.
“The beach?!” Dezzy mimics, falsetto. “Yeah, I fancy a swim.” He laughs.
“Seriously, though.” Sian looks at him, eyebrows raised, head on one side.
“Seriously, though - I got us the key to Big Bob’s beach hut.” Since they normally do it in the back of his Rover he reveals this surprise romantic destination with some relish.
“It’s too cold.” Sian drags melodramatically on her cigarette.
“No it ain’t. There’s a little stove in it and everything. And blankets and cushions . It’s well cosy, Babe.”
“When did you go there before, then?” Sian asks, suddenly full of suspicion, and she checks his eye movements in the rear view mirror. They flick slightly to the left but since he’s about to pull out into the High Street it’s not conclusive.
“With Bob, in the summer.” The indicator ticks noisily.
“You went to the beach with Big Bob?”
“Yeah, why not?” He swings out into the main road and sends a plane of water up over the pavement. “So where your parents think you are today?”
“In the library.”
“What - looking like that?!”
“Like what?”
“Dressed up all sexy for me.”
“I’m not ‘dressed up all sexy.’”
“Yeah, you are. I like it.”
“I dress for myself.” Sian says and pulls a CD from the box between her feet. She looks at it as though she’s holding a dead mouse by the tail. “Why do you listen to such shit music?”
“Shit music?! What you talking about, shit music?!” Dezzy hams up the disbelief.
“No, not sheet music’. Sian says, calmly. “Shit music.”
“You the one who shit.” He says offhandedly, but Sian notices with satisfaction that his jaw muscles have started to twitch.
“Well I do shit occasionally, yes, that’s true.” Sian swivels her eyes towards him then bursts out laughing. There is a pause, then Dezzy laughs too. He can’t help himself, his shiftless soul instinctively tends towards the light-hearted. Sian looks at him, his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin, his black hair that smells of lemon oil, his Adams apple bobbing up and down. And for a moment she thinks maybe she could fall in love with him, if she just applied herself.
“What you looking at?” He says.
“You’re ugly face!”
“Put a bloody CD on then!”
“But they’re All - So - Crap!” She says as though to herself, and she puts on the one album of his that she really likes. The one she plays incessantly.
When they get to the beach the rain has eased off, but it is still damp and grey, and the car-park is empty. The sea is brown and flat and hardly distinguishable from the planes of wet sand that shimmer between the rotting, wooden windbreaks. They walk along the lower tier of the concrete sea wall towards the beach huts, avoiding the slippery swathes of bubble-pop sea-weed. Sian is skeptical about the whole project and she walks in silence, pulling her leather jacket tightly around her, as much to hold in the latent strop as to keep out the sea breeze.
Big Bob’s beech hut is called ‘Mary-Ann.’ Once inside, Dezzy bustles about, lighting the calor gas stove for some tea, and turning on the radio. He takes the sofa cushions that are piled against the wall, lays them down on the wooden floor, then makes a little bed with the blankets and scatter cushions. He sits down and pats the space next to him. Sian sits down and leans against his shoulder, still huddled inside her coat although she’s starting to feel more cosy, and its almost romantic with the slow hushing of the sea outside. Dezzy takes off her jacket and pushes her down onto the cushions. He lies on top of her, only his elbows keeping the full weight of his taut, springy body from hers. She can smell the lemon oil over the natural musk of his skin, slightly sweet like cinammon and plasticine - the smell of illicit sex. He is already hard. He opens his mouth wide when he kisses, filling her whole mouth with his tongue and biting her lips. They take off their jeans and continue under the blankets. Dezzy breaks off to pull a condom from his jeans’ pocket. When the kettle starts to whistle, Sian Carduggan is already doing it. It is, she calculates, her 17th time.
“You wanna know what it is?”
“What?”
“Tough shit.” Dezzy catches his own eye in the rear-view mirror, releases the handbrake and pulls out of the station forecourt. The windscreen wipers squeegee rythmically, barely able to keep up with the downpour. Sian rifles through the glove compartment and fishes out a packet of cigarettes.
“Help yourself.”
“Oh, thanks. That’s really kind of you.” She replies from around a Marlborough. She pulls his gold lighter from the dashboard. “Where’re we going?”
“Beach.” Dezzy turns on the air conditioning with an irritated huff. “You bloody gonna make my cab stink.”
“The beach?!” The pitch of Sian’s voice, normally so under control, shoots up.
“The beach?!” Dezzy mimics, falsetto. “Yeah, I fancy a swim.” He laughs.
“Seriously, though.” Sian looks at him, eyebrows raised, head on one side.
“Seriously, though - I got us the key to Big Bob’s beach hut.” Since they normally do it in the back of his Rover he reveals this surprise romantic destination with some relish.
“It’s too cold.” Sian drags melodramatically on her cigarette.
“No it ain’t. There’s a little stove in it and everything. And blankets and cushions . It’s well cosy, Babe.”
“When did you go there before, then?” Sian asks, suddenly full of suspicion, and she checks his eye movements in the rear view mirror. They flick slightly to the left but since he’s about to pull out into the High Street it’s not conclusive.
“With Bob, in the summer.” The indicator ticks noisily.
“You went to the beach with Big Bob?”
“Yeah, why not?” He swings out into the main road and sends a plane of water up over the pavement. “So where your parents think you are today?”
“In the library.”
“What - looking like that?!”
“Like what?”
“Dressed up all sexy for me.”
“I’m not ‘dressed up all sexy.’”
“Yeah, you are. I like it.”
“I dress for myself.” Sian says and pulls a CD from the box between her feet. She looks at it as though she’s holding a dead mouse by the tail. “Why do you listen to such shit music?”
“Shit music?! What you talking about, shit music?!” Dezzy hams up the disbelief.
“No, not sheet music’. Sian says, calmly. “Shit music.”
“You the one who shit.” He says offhandedly, but Sian notices with satisfaction that his jaw muscles have started to twitch.
“Well I do shit occasionally, yes, that’s true.” Sian swivels her eyes towards him then bursts out laughing. There is a pause, then Dezzy laughs too. He can’t help himself, his shiftless soul instinctively tends towards the light-hearted. Sian looks at him, his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin, his black hair that smells of lemon oil, his Adams apple bobbing up and down. And for a moment she thinks maybe she could fall in love with him, if she just applied herself.
“What you looking at?” He says.
“You’re ugly face!”
“Put a bloody CD on then!”
“But they’re All - So - Crap!” She says as though to herself, and she puts on the one album of his that she really likes. The one she plays incessantly.
When they get to the beach the rain has eased off, but it is still damp and grey, and the car-park is empty. The sea is brown and flat and hardly distinguishable from the planes of wet sand that shimmer between the rotting, wooden windbreaks. They walk along the lower tier of the concrete sea wall towards the beach huts, avoiding the slippery swathes of bubble-pop sea-weed. Sian is skeptical about the whole project and she walks in silence, pulling her leather jacket tightly around her, as much to hold in the latent strop as to keep out the sea breeze.
Big Bob’s beech hut is called ‘Mary-Ann.’ Once inside, Dezzy bustles about, lighting the calor gas stove for some tea, and turning on the radio. He takes the sofa cushions that are piled against the wall, lays them down on the wooden floor, then makes a little bed with the blankets and scatter cushions. He sits down and pats the space next to him. Sian sits down and leans against his shoulder, still huddled inside her coat although she’s starting to feel more cosy, and its almost romantic with the slow hushing of the sea outside. Dezzy takes off her jacket and pushes her down onto the cushions. He lies on top of her, only his elbows keeping the full weight of his taut, springy body from hers. She can smell the lemon oil over the natural musk of his skin, slightly sweet like cinammon and plasticine - the smell of illicit sex. He is already hard. He opens his mouth wide when he kisses, filling her whole mouth with his tongue and biting her lips. They take off their jeans and continue under the blankets. Dezzy breaks off to pull a condom from his jeans’ pocket. When the kettle starts to whistle, Sian Carduggan is already doing it. It is, she calculates, her 17th time.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
TT 20 - The Furthest Limit of the Village
Tendringhoe station is at the furthest limit of the village. There are other limits, of course. To the south there is the quayside; then east of the quay there is a more gradual petering out from road, to lane to footpath and out along the estuary towards the sea. To the north the houses thin out gently along the main road into Saxeburgh until the final farm is passed. The Station, however, is at the furthest limit. Unlike the estuary path in the opposite direction, it does not give way to an attractive and expansive vista. A thicket of shrubs and stunted trees conceal the empty marshland beyond. Only the experienced eye can pick out the start of a narrow footpath that winds through trouser-whipping saxifrage between the green smelling river and the railway tracks. Nor does station exit greet the incomer with polite facades. It lies behind a row of small, dark, Victorian railway cottages, the sort that have washing perenially strung out in their rectangular back gardens. So it is left to the frosted front door of the Railway Tavern, set at an angle into the corner building, to glint at passers-by like a prominent tooth in a rather louche and crooked smile.
Beyond the front door of The Railway, the two sides of the L-shaped interior recede obliquely. Len Magma is seated slightly to the left of the projecting corner of the bar beneath a glittering canopy of trinkets and tankards, the racing section of the Daily Sport opened before him. He is one of half a dozen regulars drinking in the The Railway this Saturday lunchtime. Although they periodically engage in conversation with each other they do not sit together, but are dotted around the otherwise empty pub, either at the bar or at one of the small wooden tables that flank the walls. At present, they gaze silently at the racing on the small TV screen in the corner, or hunch over their papers, or simply stare absently at the British Railways and Elvis memorabilia that surrounds them.
"What's the name of that actor?" Ginger Roger, Len's best friend and principal driver for Bob's Luxury Tours, says from his side of the bar. Since this is such a pointless question, there is no reply. "Played the Butler...what's that film?"
"The Admirable Crichton." Says Tony Styles, editor, reporter and photographer for the Tendringhoe and Chasmundham News, without taking his eyes from the television screen.
"No." Roger plucks at his bottom lip. "American film. He was the Butler for this posh English bloke, played by, oh, what was his name? You know. British Comic. Pint-sized sex-symbol."
"Ronnie Corbett." Offers Len.
"Was in a double act, with that tall, good-looking fella."
"Ronnie Corbett." Says Len again, thinking that maybe Roger didn't hear the first time.
"No - not bloody Ronnie Corbett!" Dismisses Roger. "Went to Hollywood. Was in that film with that actress. What's her name?"
"Another one in there, Len?" Uri has returned from the back room where he has been phoning in bets for his customers. Len releases his tankard for a refill.
"You know." Roger presses on. "Bloody Gorgeous. Had all them little plaits."
"Bo Diddley." This comes from old Reg sitting at his usual bench beneath the Elvis mirror. .
"Bo Diddly! That's the One!" Somehow, the two men's submerged brains are able to comminicate through the alcoholic murk like a pair of whales. Roger swivels on his stool. "What was that film, Reg?"
"9 1/2!" Says Reg knowledgeably.
"Bo Diddly - 9 1/2!" Roger turns back to the bar . "He was in 9 1/2. With Bo Diddly. Little fella. Died. COME ON, COME ON. YE-ESSS. C'MAHN RISING STAAR!" His attention is momentarily distracted by the sudden acceleration of his horse in the 3.30 at Goodwood. There is an agonising moment as three horses all seem to be neck and neck, with Rising Star perhaps just a nose ahead. Roger levitates a few inches above the bar stool in anticipation, then it's round the final bend, the camera angle changes, and within seconds the front runners have splayed out and Rising Star has comes in an entirely useless third. Roger, no-longer supended in the air by the thought of a 12-1 win on a fiver, drops back onto his stool with a disappointed sigh. Outside it has started to rain heavily.
"Dudley More." Says Reg, after a short pause.
"Dudley More! That's the fella! Dudley More."
"What about him." Asks Tony the journalist.
"What was that film?"
"Arthur?"
"ARTHUR!" Suddenly he is making such good progress the disappointment of the race is almost forgotten. "Now..." He draws a breath - he is on the home-straight. He turns to Tony. "Who was the actor that played the Butler."
Before Tony can answer the door opens and an attractive, fair-haired girl comes into the bar. There is a moment of suspension, as subtle yet significant as a change in atmospheric pressure. She is seen but not directly acknowledged. Having no status in the pub hierarchy whatsoever, any frisson that her entrance into the Railway Tavern has caused needs only be re-routed amongst the men themselves in a series of small, knowing, 'aye-aye' looks.
"What would you like?" Uri says, politely but with no social interest.
"Diet Coke, please." She is already fiddling with the change in her purse. She casts a look around the bar. "Oh, hello Len." She says, and because she feels intimidated by the alien, male atmosphere, adds, quite possibly for the first time, "How are you?"
"Sian." Len Magma says with a nod of acknowledgement but it is not the usual obsequious response she recieves from him in the vicarage. She returns her attention to her pound coins. Uri sets a can of coke on the bar alongside a glass. She pays and goes and sits at an empty table in the corner by the dart board. She looks anxiously now and again through the window at the station forecourt and fusses obsessively over her mobile phone.
The air pressure in the bar returns to normal.
"Sir John Gielgud." Tony folds up his newspaper.
"SIR JOHN GIELGUD." Roger slaps the bar.
"What about him?"
"Best actor this country's ever produced."
"Is he bollocks!" Tony feels the door swing open behind him. He turns and sees the girl run out into the rain, her jacket over her head, and climb into a waiting taxi.
Beyond the front door of The Railway, the two sides of the L-shaped interior recede obliquely. Len Magma is seated slightly to the left of the projecting corner of the bar beneath a glittering canopy of trinkets and tankards, the racing section of the Daily Sport opened before him. He is one of half a dozen regulars drinking in the The Railway this Saturday lunchtime. Although they periodically engage in conversation with each other they do not sit together, but are dotted around the otherwise empty pub, either at the bar or at one of the small wooden tables that flank the walls. At present, they gaze silently at the racing on the small TV screen in the corner, or hunch over their papers, or simply stare absently at the British Railways and Elvis memorabilia that surrounds them.
"What's the name of that actor?" Ginger Roger, Len's best friend and principal driver for Bob's Luxury Tours, says from his side of the bar. Since this is such a pointless question, there is no reply. "Played the Butler...what's that film?"
"The Admirable Crichton." Says Tony Styles, editor, reporter and photographer for the Tendringhoe and Chasmundham News, without taking his eyes from the television screen.
"No." Roger plucks at his bottom lip. "American film. He was the Butler for this posh English bloke, played by, oh, what was his name? You know. British Comic. Pint-sized sex-symbol."
"Ronnie Corbett." Offers Len.
"Was in a double act, with that tall, good-looking fella."
"Ronnie Corbett." Says Len again, thinking that maybe Roger didn't hear the first time.
"No - not bloody Ronnie Corbett!" Dismisses Roger. "Went to Hollywood. Was in that film with that actress. What's her name?"
"Another one in there, Len?" Uri has returned from the back room where he has been phoning in bets for his customers. Len releases his tankard for a refill.
"You know." Roger presses on. "Bloody Gorgeous. Had all them little plaits."
"Bo Diddley." This comes from old Reg sitting at his usual bench beneath the Elvis mirror. .
"Bo Diddly! That's the One!" Somehow, the two men's submerged brains are able to comminicate through the alcoholic murk like a pair of whales. Roger swivels on his stool. "What was that film, Reg?"
"9 1/2!" Says Reg knowledgeably.
"Bo Diddly - 9 1/2!" Roger turns back to the bar . "He was in 9 1/2. With Bo Diddly. Little fella. Died. COME ON, COME ON. YE-ESSS. C'MAHN RISING STAAR!" His attention is momentarily distracted by the sudden acceleration of his horse in the 3.30 at Goodwood. There is an agonising moment as three horses all seem to be neck and neck, with Rising Star perhaps just a nose ahead. Roger levitates a few inches above the bar stool in anticipation, then it's round the final bend, the camera angle changes, and within seconds the front runners have splayed out and Rising Star has comes in an entirely useless third. Roger, no-longer supended in the air by the thought of a 12-1 win on a fiver, drops back onto his stool with a disappointed sigh. Outside it has started to rain heavily.
"Dudley More." Says Reg, after a short pause.
"Dudley More! That's the fella! Dudley More."
"What about him." Asks Tony the journalist.
"What was that film?"
"Arthur?"
"ARTHUR!" Suddenly he is making such good progress the disappointment of the race is almost forgotten. "Now..." He draws a breath - he is on the home-straight. He turns to Tony. "Who was the actor that played the Butler."
Before Tony can answer the door opens and an attractive, fair-haired girl comes into the bar. There is a moment of suspension, as subtle yet significant as a change in atmospheric pressure. She is seen but not directly acknowledged. Having no status in the pub hierarchy whatsoever, any frisson that her entrance into the Railway Tavern has caused needs only be re-routed amongst the men themselves in a series of small, knowing, 'aye-aye' looks.
"What would you like?" Uri says, politely but with no social interest.
"Diet Coke, please." She is already fiddling with the change in her purse. She casts a look around the bar. "Oh, hello Len." She says, and because she feels intimidated by the alien, male atmosphere, adds, quite possibly for the first time, "How are you?"
"Sian." Len Magma says with a nod of acknowledgement but it is not the usual obsequious response she recieves from him in the vicarage. She returns her attention to her pound coins. Uri sets a can of coke on the bar alongside a glass. She pays and goes and sits at an empty table in the corner by the dart board. She looks anxiously now and again through the window at the station forecourt and fusses obsessively over her mobile phone.
The air pressure in the bar returns to normal.
"Sir John Gielgud." Tony folds up his newspaper.
"SIR JOHN GIELGUD." Roger slaps the bar.
"What about him?"
"Best actor this country's ever produced."
"Is he bollocks!" Tony feels the door swing open behind him. He turns and sees the girl run out into the rain, her jacket over her head, and climb into a waiting taxi.
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