Symbol Cream

Terry enjoyed piping hot tea, the scalding type that scoured the roof of the mouth to the bone.  Terry was a fitness freak.  Enjoyed pumping dumb-bells (as many as possible)  to the silent music of his own bodily rhythms.  Toned his muscles to the optimum of rib and tissue.  Honed his manly curves towards the Golden Mean of Grecian perfection.

He leaned forward with an imaginary discus in his hand and prepared to lob it, loft it, float it towards the heavenly heights of health.  His very heart, indeed, floated, too, in the silken tides of his own breathing.  He paused for a while to take another searing sip of Darjeeling tea, but it had somehow turned into a lukewarm consistency more akin to creamy curds than anything else.  But he had not put any milk in it.  That would have been against his religion. 

Tea was to be consumed strong and hot and untarnished.

 A bit like Terry.

 He wiped a bead of sweat from the enticing bulge of his left bicep.  Only to hear (or, rather, glimpse) an irritating attempt at attracting his attention from outside.

 “Terry! Terry!”

 He saw the face of his Ex.  She was mouthing her own garbled version of speech at him, accompanied by a highly visible rapping on the window.

 He shrugged.  Shrugged inside, if not out.

Ever since his latest binge of bodily exertions, he had avoided the Call of the Wild.  And, for Terry, sex was tantamount to losing self-control.  His discipline was threatened whenever he allowed his defences to be corrupted by the chance cavortings of female breast or bottom. 

His Ex continued to shout relentlessly through the pane.

“Didn’t you hear the doorbell?” she mimed.

He shook his head.

“Can’t hear you,” he mimed back, although he could have read her lips.  And probably did.

The church across the road from Terry’s place – which possessed the biggest looking bells in the whole wide world – failed to penetrate his concentration, especially as he usually sported ear-pads which carried several layers of white noise.  Even on Saint days or periods of marital ceremonial, these bells, for Terry, were as silent as the deepest grave.

“Are you bleeding deaf?” shrieked his Ex, as she tried, in vain, to pierce Terry’s studied otherworldliness.

He attempted to mount a dumb-show of innocence, mouthing nonsensical words as a diversionary tactic, as he played harder to get.

Perhaps, she’d go away of her own volition, given enough rope.

Soon, however … having grabbed an absentminded gulp of stonecold sludge from the tea-cup … he decided to open the front door to give her an unambiguous piece of his mind.

As soon as he had slipped all the bolts and trip-switched the various tumblers in a highly charged complex of locks, he allowed his draw-bridge slowly and dead-silently to lower itself.  His muscles strained at the harness of fleshless cantilevered bone … and the tepid outside air met his deeply carved manhood with a creamy touch.

“We won the lottery!” screeched his Ex.  “The ticket we shared has come up!”

Tears came to Terry’s eyes.  How sweet of her.  She needn’t have told him.

But something inside told him different.  That heart of stone of his.

And, impulsively, he cut her dead … with the sharp edge of a blood-bloated artery which he meticulously uncoiled from its wrapping of bone and flesh.

Her dying eyes spoke sad volumes as the church bells pealed deafeningly across the town’s gambrels.

Touching gingerly what remained of the roof of his mouth with his tongue, he found he could actually lick the lower edge of his brain.  It was soft and mushy, like cottage cheese, if not cream. 

He knew Mind and Body were inextricable.  His whole being evidently needed more tuning up with the dumb-bells and he returned inside, abandoning what remained of his ex Ex on the doorstep, steaming.

(published 1995?)

To The North

I love the intricate, semi-understandable fiction of those women writers who were either Elizabeth Bowen or Elizabeth Bowen's contemporaries who wrote in her vein.  Dialogue was Ivy Compton-Burnettish to the nth degreee, often murkily fustian but, on clearer days, clear as clouded crystal.  Intervening prose of description and scene-stetting and mind-setting and passion-posing was dense at times but, at others, crepuscular with emerging meaningfulness.   Words which stretched you.  Thoughts that imbued you with thoughts you dared not earlier think you could even have the capacity to think.  It made me want to write further fictions their pens had not had time to write.  Days of the heart where plots bleat for escape.  Heat of the death in a night's hotel.  A house in a city called Eva Trout.  Eva she was the one I'd love.  A country where maps were made like her face.  Ley lines giving form and favour to a sweetheart's beauty. This was the fiction I needed.  A fiction that fabricated a real-life lover I would not otherwise meet.

 "And now you have made me, what next?" she asked, splitting from the page like a woodknot made proud.

 "Let's explore the place you live."

 I looked around at a city I knew was like Paris but was not Paris.  It had canals like Venice, museums like Vienna, statues like Florence, lakes like Maggiore. 

 "What here?"

 "It made itself as a sort of non-sequitur in admiration of your own gratuitous serendipity."

 "Your big words are too clumsy for real thoughts."  She looked even prettier as she mewed this plaint.

 "Real thoughts don't touch the sides ... least of all the sides of paper.  They flow along wordless channels like these mock gondolas."   As I spoke and as if she had not seen them, I indicated, with a slightest finger, the ghostly craft that threaded the ever-developing veins of my city.

 "Even if your words are plain and simple, being used in complicated structures of thought and meaning does not absolve you."  Eva, now thinking herself autonomous enough to stalk off into parts of the city I had not yet created, toppled into a canal I had only just deemed possible.  She sleeked off into the splintery rainbows of false tides, before I could catch her in my all-weather, all-fable net.

 Perhaps it was the ghost of Elizabeth Bowen herself.  But do ghosts have scales and eyes in the sides of their heads?  Human ones, surely, don't.

 The city faded around me to the north.  To the nth degree.

(Published ‘Oasis’ 2001)

 

Killing Time / Budget Day

Killing Time 

He looked at his watch. An hour to go. It could be worse than eternity if he actually stared at the hands moving. So, the question was how to kill time, to give the impression of it passing quicker. Almost on an impulse, he prodded the two fingers of one hand into his eye sockets …      a little overhard for comfort, as it happened, for they slipped too easily into the ill-guarded confines of the brain’s soft underbelly. Sledgefingers to crack a nut... The watch ticked on, unconcerned

 Published 'Cloth Ears' 1990 

 

 BUDGET DAY

If I were to write clearly enough I wouldn’t need to type it out at all. Still, it would look more official in print, as opposed to my spiderwriting of a leftward bias. It’s strange how apparent nonsense can take on a tone of credibility and respectability when in the guise of neat printed uniform characters on parade. It seems to flow better, even mean better. Take the word ‘budget’ as an example. As I write it down in my typically colloquial manuscript, dressed to the nines in smart shoulder-high quotation marks, although it is, I somehow visualise a scrawny bird in a cage which is, after all, better than a scratched hand in a bush, when it comes to matters financial. But now I’ve managed to type it out, it takes on all the aura and demeanour of an official government statement on economic housekeeping rather than a childish exercise in cutting corners off postage stamps which, in essence, it surely is.

 

It’s strange, I repeat, how arrant nonsense assumes the rank of meaningful authority, when the words move in the strict rhythm of the typewriter’s choreography rather than the outlandish wobbling and weaving of my ill-tutored pen which, if the truth be known, is probably drunk on ink.

 

The spoken word is another story, as the Chancellor of the Exchequer drones on, taking gulps at the tumblerful of seeming water. I suppose it’ll look OK in Hansard.

 

Published 'Eavesdropper' 1989

 

Inchware
  

I hardly recognised the lady. In her finery, she looked nicer than she did when I first saw her in the lounge bar of the Bell and Steelyard. On that occasion, the hastily thrown on clothes that she had automatically found at the forefront of her wardrobe had done her no justice at all. Tonight, however, she was obviously putting on an effort for me.

 

‘This is a much better place, isn’t it?’ I said, even before sitting down. My insistence on our first official date being at a venue different from that for the original off-chance encounter was based on a gut feeling that relationships could take no chances.

 

In retrospect, I should have been surprised at her willingness to wait for me in a pub, whilst still alone. Most women of my acquaintance would ensure they were later than the man, so as to avoid unnecessary embarrassment. Something I took for granted.

 

‘Never tried this one before.’ The lady’s reply was instantaneous. She nervously weighed the back of her bouffon.

 

‘I see you’ve already got yourself a drink.’ I nodded towards the half drunk remains of a fluid that looked like undiluted bleach at the bottom of a tumbler.

 

‘I’m not late, am I?’ I added during a pause for afterthought.

 

‘No ... no. It’s just that it’s raining outside.’

 

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ My face was large and I wore whiskers to cut down on the bare frontage. My old best grey suit cut into my behind proving, if nothing else did, that I was not in the same shape as when I was younger. I’d tried to liven up the ensemble with a floral tie. The white ankle socks you couldn’t see: my legs must have grown shorter over the years, too; whilst the flairs had grown wider, by the look of them. I felt self-conscious of my spectacles, like peering through a porthole in a ship. Without another word, I turned to the bar where I intended to obtain a drink for myself. I was not in the mood for one, but even I understood that you wouldn’t be welcome to sit down in a pub without one. I should have brought a thermos of tea and some plastic cups. It cost more than a bomb to buy even a soft drink in a place like that, A number of pubs have now started to sell cups of coffee but, even so, you felt a wally asking for one from a blousy girl whose only skill in life was pulling pints. I had chosen this pub because the clientele was customarily well dressed. You could tell a lot from a person’s garb. However, I was perturbed to discover that I had forgotten that the staff were definitely more than one cut below the average punter. A surly individual, whom I understood to be the manager, scowled, as I approached the bar. His suit did not seem to have had even the lick of an iron for several wearings. The tie was ill-knotted, more a Y than a small Q. His face was only something you could write to doctors about (preferably skin specialists). The manner of his service made me wonder if I’d done something wrong. Instinctively, I looked round to see if I’d soiled the carpet, quickly realising it was already one huge horizontal wall-to-wall dog dirt. The drink he poured out for me was flat. When I complained, he said it was not meant to be fizzy and, even if it was, it’d probably give me wind. I scowled back — a bit late in the day, but I hope he got the point. My mother always told me that you can say more with the face than ever your tongue can get round. If I say so myself, I’ve a pretty rum selection of old-fashioned looks for all eventualities. Not waiting to witness him reeling back on the balls of his feet at the severity of my cutting expression, I turned my back on the little downsquirt and made for the table where I expected the lady, my date, still to be sitting.

 

She was.

 

But who was that with her? Didn’t look like me. At least I’ve got some dress sense.

 

‘Are you going to introduce me?’ I cannot recall exact;ly which of the three of us said that. Three of us? Three of me? Three of them? Three of you? Three of her? Three of him? All seemed to ring untrue. Whatever the case, one of the ladies (or both?) had an escort for the evening, so I left without causing any trouble. I don’t suppose, in the event, that ugly customer of a pub manager would have stood for any nonsense. Looking back, that word seemed to make sense of the whole affair.

 

(published 'Odyssey' 1991)

Baffle 42

If you need a clue as to your own whodunnit, don’t ask the murderer who created you.

RSVP

 

 

Saturday Night, for Hazel and I, was copycat night.  That meant we had to

duplicate the hi-jinks of the night before, because we needed to live up to

its living it up.  You see, TFI Friday Night Was Music Night and, of course,

Friday Night (it bears repeating) marked when the weekend, at the

full-frontal lobe optimum, was still young—with the Sunday Night down-in the

dumps blues not even residing at the back of the mind let alone at the down

lobe of last Sunday’s precursive lo-jinx.  Déjà-vu echoes were meddling

affairs at the best of times.  So, when Hazel and I sported Friday Night’s

glad rags on Saturday Night, we tended to ignore the sick stains.  And many

of those who could only afford putting all their eggs of entertainment in

one basket (at the Saturday Night Bop) ignored us, pretended we weren’t

there, chatted lightly of tomorrow’s Antiques Road Show, Songs of Praise and

100 Best Tunes, before they consented to a right old sing-song around the

Honky-Bonk—followed by the archetypical pub brawl.   Tank-tops and

Tonk-Bops.  Shell-suits and Monday Morning Rhythm & Blues.  OK, OK, Hazel

was a nut.  But she’s the past now, as far as I am concerned.  Or at least

since last weekend.  I never liked the way she’d lately been tending towards

extending Wednesdays outwards until the whole week became a no man’s land. 

I am running a Big Breakfast party, starting at 7 this coming drizzly Monday

morning.  Hazel does the weather.  Bring a flask of tea or a bottle of RSVP.

 

published PURPLE PATCH 1998

The One-Eyed Fly

The One-Eyed Fly. 

 

When Wiles arrived in the town, he knew he was in good time for an equally good reason. His mother had informed him where everything was bound to be in relation to the bus station including the venue arranged for meeting his estranged father. Although she herself did not want to renew acquaintance with her husband, there had always been a feeling that it was inevitable that Wiles would meet the man who had, to put no finer point on it, helped create him. She did nothing to stand in his way. How could she? A man and his son had a right to meet this side of death. How else would they recognise each other later? And she swatted a fly, without thinking. ‘Here, take this packed lunch with you. It’s got all your favourite things - Marmite butties, flaky pastry apple pie and extra strong peppermints. The thermos has got hot tea in it at the moment, sugared to the nines, just as you like it.’ She stared sweetly at him with her one good eye, the bad one having burst in a pub brawl many years ago.

 

‘Thanks ma.”

 

‘Remember me to him, won’t you?’ She flicked a careless sprig of hair from her eye, as Wiles wondered how his father could possibly have forgotten her. ‘Don’t forget, he’ll be in the library reading room at precisely twelve o’clock. You’ll recognise him from the photographs, he says, though I’m not so sure... they were taken donkey years ago.’

 

Wiles put his hand into his duffel-coat pocket to ensure that the Brownie snaps were still there. The sharp edge of a corner pricked his thumb. One of the duffel-pegs on his coat looked decidedly dicey, but he didn’t want to worry his mother about that now. Best to have that fuss and bother later in the day.

 

He gave her a peck on the cheek and walked to the bus stop. He mused over the circumstances of how his father had regained contact with them. It were mere chance, apparently - his current step-father was a friend of his real

father, a fact unknown for some time to all parties concerned. The two men were members of the same Lodge which met every week in the same town towards which Wiles was now heading on the ring road. A random natter had served to reveal all, before either of the two men had the wherewithal to keep mum.

 

Wiles sat back in the top front bus seat (having given up the pretence of driving it with the safety-bar) and consigned his life to the careful driving (or otherwise) of the man propped up at the large vestigial steering-wheel underneath him. Wiles often eschewed public transport for this very reason. He once fired off a letter to the local newspaper recommending that all potential bus passengers should be allowed to audition (or at the very least be introduced to) the one who was to be in sole charge of so many precious lives.  They did not print his idea, but he did receive a nice reply with an attractive embossed letter-head (which was in his duffel-coat pocket along with the photos of his Dad, for an inscrutable reason of Wiles’ own).

 

The town turned out to be a confusing place. After shaking hands with the surprised driver at the bus station, Wiles had tried to follow the directions his mother had given him. He found the public convenience easily enough. He managed to go twice, in case he couldn’t later find his way back to it. Then he set about reconnoitring the lie of the land for the library. It was supposed to be in Upper King Street... but not the one his mother had said. He started to panic so much he had to sit down and cross his legs. But it was only ten o’clock and he still had two hours left in which to establish the whereabout of the library. He moithered and dithered about asking a passer-by as to the mystery of Upper King Street, but thought better of it. He sat outside the Post Office in order to partake of an early lunch. Despite having had a heavy breakfast of cereal, thick-cut rashers of fatty bacon, grilled mushrooms looking to Wiles a bit like bodily innards and as much toast and marmalade as he could stomach in the time available, he decided to get the Marmite butties over and done with in case he was faced with a tight time schedule later in the morning. Apparently, as he later found by following a blue fingerpost saying public library, his destination was situated in plain King Street (presumably upper in position only). It was an old fashioned building amazingly constructed with the steep slope of the street (rather than against it for perpendicularity). It was closed! Closed for renovation! He could not believe his own angst, but eventually his brain had no option but to place faith in the purely impersonal image on the retina of his eye. Now the time was ripe for panic and he desperately looked around for his mother. But of course, she was nowhere to be seen. He picked out a photo from his duffel-coat pocket to stare at the young man on it. He looked remarkably like Wiles himself, which in a way was not surprising. However, what was more than just a little surprising, the image of his father was standing outside the very same library building - except the street did not seem to slope at all.

 

As the first ever earthquake to hit Hertfordshire began to shudder with increasing violence under his feet, Wiles unaccountably thought it would have been less surprising for the town to be attacked by a giant one-eyed fly flapping its enormous wings like marmite-smeared clipper sails. He then spotted someone familiar on the opposite side of the street to the library taking his photo with an ancient Brownie box camera.

 

Wiles sicked up his breakfast (without somehow budging is lunch) and he cursed aloud that he had not been able to audition God before he was born. But his last thought (other than the loose duffel-peg) was that it had indeed been very wise to go twice when he had the chance.

 

 

Published 'ProtoStellar' 1992

Baffle (16)

If there were a dining club for shy diners - not versed in prandial repartee - would each member take advantage of the secret logistics of dumb waiter or serving hatch when providing a meal for just one other member, i.e. providing a single meal, by turns, in each of their own homes, while not revealing themselves to the diner visually, only culinarily?

A good question is one which you can't get to the end of and thus find yourself unable to answer it.

Baffle (4)
I smell differently when faced with fathoming a crime.  If on the forage for food, then I switch noses.  And eat the discarded one.

DUST TO DUST

 

 

Mrs. Barge peered into the bath. There was an ingrained tide-mark looping about six inches from the rim. Almost gouged into the enamel: the strongest astringent would have no possible purchase upon it.

 

Mrs. Barge’s first-born baby, now grown-up, barged around the house in a lonesome game of blind bluff. Her husband, even at this moment, was grunting in a far-away closet. The other babies were braying in the empty scullery, eager for something to eat. Even the kitten looked old.

 

Returning from a holiday was always like this.

 

Mrs. Barge did not question the ugly bath-mark, despite nobody having been in their house for a whole fortnight. Probably burglars, one of whom had taken a bath, instead of their more usual stigmata.

 

Nothing appeared missing except a large chunk of her memory. The house was far too shiny for a fortnight’s dust-filled emptiness.

 

“Mummy, Mummy!” A baby had run into the bathroom.

 

“Yes, Dear.” Second nature to respond.

 

“Daddy says the house smells of clean things - like wax polish - and air-wick - and pine disinfectant - and suds - and coal-tar – and…

 ...“

“Yes, Dear.” The same reply but said differently.

 

Something was in the air, amid the warmth rising from the radiators. It was in the churning pipes that fed the benighted house and emptied its deepest slurries. It was in the shadow-beams of dust. It was in the bath.

 

Mrs. Barge vowed never to go on holiday again, because it always made coming back worse than ever. Holidays were hell.

 

She ignored the wave of dirty darkness as it swept from room to room, seeking the sluice trough of its own spent dreams. Each dust particle a baby one.

 

 

 (Whispers From The Dark 1995)