Home and Away

“We’re thinking, Dad... We’re thinking of moving.”

Christine watched her father’s hands as he washed the cups. Suds clung to his fingers as he lifted the dripping cup from the bowl and rinsed it under the tap. His wedding ring glinted through the bubbles.

“Oh are you?” he said, taking another cup and running the dish-mop around the inside. “Well I hope you’re not going too far.”

She felt a cold grip around her heart.

“You need to be in striking distance,” he said, “so I can keep an eye on you, eh.”

“Perth, Dad.”

“Perth? What do you want to go there for? Can’t say I know it really. Your mother and I stayed a night there on the way up to Orkney that year, but I can’t say I... we didn’t see much of it really, you know, just went to the b’n’b and straight off in the morning...”

“No, Dad...”

“We went for a stroll by the river - that was lovely actually, but more than that... Why? Has John got work up there or something?”

“No, Dad, it’s not...”

“I mean it’s not close but, well, I suppose it’s on the train line up through, eh... I mean Scotrail was pretty good, I seem to remember, but...”

“It’s not Scotland, Dad.”

“What..? Course it is, it’s what... fifty miles north of Edinburgh, isn’t it... something like that. We were driving then of course. I wouldn’t drive it now mind, not with my back...”

“It’s Perth, Australia, Dad. Western Australia. John’s family are...”

“It’s what? No, no, no, it’s definitely in...”

She saw the realisation cloud his eyes as he looked at her. He looked back at the bowl of bubbles and the cup slipped from his hand and splashed back into the bowl. Soapy water splashed onto the front of his shirt.

“Damn! Damn fool thing!” he said.

Christine reached for a tea towel from the radiator and tried to wipe at the wet shirt.

“Here, give it here,” he said, “I can do it.” He snatched the tea towel from her. “Damn fool thing!”

Christine grabbed the roll of kitchen paper and tore off a length. She squatted to mop at the pool of water on the floor.

“What are you... Leave it, will you, just leave it!”

“Sorry, Dad, I was just...”

“Leave it. I’ll get the mop in a minute. I’ll do it... Just ... Just... why don’t you go through. I’ll bring the tea in a minute. I won’t... I won’t be a minute. You go in’t room, I’ll bring it through. Do you want a biscuit?”

“No thanks, Dad.”

“I went to the VeeGee, John’ll want a biscuit... I bought a pack of... You go through and make sure he’s not mucking up the settings on the TV. I’ll be through in a minute.”

Christine popped the pedal bin open and dropped the kitchen towel into it. She turned and slipped out into the hall. She felt the tightness in her throat. Her cheeks burned red beneath her eyes. She couldn’t face John straight away. He was happy enough flicking through the channels on the television.

As she reached the sitting room door she stopped.

“I’m just popping upstairs a moment, love. I won’t be a min... there’s something I’ve been wanting to find.”

John was sitting on the sofa. He didn’t respond. She watched him for a moment looking from the TV to the remote and back again. He pressed a button and suddenly the volume boomed for a second before he found how to mute it again.

“John? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah... sure... whatever.”

She started to move towards the stairs but he hissed to stop her.

“Hey, Chrissie,” he whispered, “did you tell him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he, you know... how did he take it? Is he ok?”

“I don’t think...”

“He’ll ... give him time, he’ll get used to it. Did you mention ... you know...?”

“One thing at a time, John. One thing at a time.”

She climbed the stairs and was instantly engulfed in her childhood. While Mum and Dad had made many changes to the house downstairs - the kitchen extension, the French doors from the dining room - since Mum died nothing had changed. Upstairs they hadn’t even redecorated. The brown stair carpet, the textured wallpaper on the landing - the very air of the house felt unchanged, still, thick with the memory of dust and central heating. The towels hanging on the landing banister to dry - that slight odour of moisture from the bathroom, not damp but... used. The afternoon sun threw a certain glade of orange light from the frosted bathroom window out through the door and onto her bedroom door. Here was the ceramic plaque bearing her name that Dad had put up on her sixth birthday when she and Cicely finally stopped sharing and she got her own room. “Christine” in black cursive writing on a pink background with little primroses and bluebells framing the word. She fingered the dent in the door that Dad and Uncle Kev had made moving her new bed into the room. How mad Mum had been.

Christine stepped into her bedroom and cast her eyes around the familiar shelves: her childhood books; her collection of ceramic animals; the peacock feather in the heavy-based glass specimen vase. She glanced at the shade on the lamp, decorated with teddy bears dancing and hugging each other; the string of fairy lights strung across the wall above the bed; the array of stickers gleaned from her youthful magazines and stuck randomly across the headboard. She sat on the bed for a moment, felt the strange silence of memories crowding through her heart.

A noise from outside broke in upon her consciousness. She stood and walked to the window and drew back the curtains. Her father was stood in the garden, his hand resting on the bike shed. She couldn’t see his face but, silently, his shoulders were shaking.

Me reading 'Home and Away'

prompt: baby thoughts

Birthday Poems for a Brother

John's Poem

When John

stopped going to Mrs Moore’s

he went to

Our Lady Of Lords

and he learned how to

have friends

Marcel

and Tina

and Michael Popplearse

and how to have a drawing book.

Then he learned writing

and he drew pictures of his friends

and underneath he wrote

I like Tina in my tea

and

Marcel is poosticks and a bum.

So this is John’s poem really

I don’t think he knew how to spell

Popplearse.

Lessons in Lego

Jess was born

upstairs

with the door shut

and Cousin Wyn

came to look after us

downstairs.

And when she had come

Cousin Wyn told us

we could tiptoe like mice

up the stairs and see

our new baby sister.

And Mum was there

and Dad

and there was this baby

in a black carry cot

and Mum said the baby

had brought us things,

and if we put our hands

in the bottom end

of the carry cot

we would find the things

she had brought.

I didn’t know

how a baby

could get to the shops

but Mum said

I didn't need

to worry about that.

And there were things -

I got a little box of lego,

blue lego

roof pieces.

It was all right.

Then John opened his box -

when I saw what he got

fireworks went off in my head

John got

little yellow curved bits of lego

that made a fantastic round tower

if you put them all together.

Yellow bits

not blue.

Curved bits

not roof bits.

And they said the baby

was called Jessica Mary

and that she was the baby now

and I had to be her big brother

and teach her things.

I thought I should better teach her about

lego.

I expect Kate got something too

but she was six

and I didn’t want it

it was probably a wet yourself dolly

or something.

Only a game

John and I

dug Jess a grave

in the garden.

Dad had been doing some digging

and we asked if we could.

He did not know

why we were digging,

but we dug a trench

then mounded

up the soil

as if we had buried Jess there.

Then we made a cross

out of two bamboo poles

and made a paper sign

with

Jessica Baldwin

RIP

written on it.

When we told Mum

she thought we were mean.

So did Jess.

The Russells

were coming for tea

and she said

don’t let Ann Russell

see our grave

she might get upset

and cry.

Ann was seven

and it was only a game.

So John and me

we went and

jumped up and down

on Jess’s grave.

Dead Flowers

rustles in the undergrowth

we fling stones

stand silent for a moment

to count the effect -

stillness still

weigh the probable outcome

in our minds until

with nervous glances between us

we push our hands

among dead flowers

separate stem from stem

touch fingers in our searching

and draw from the wrecked bed

a grey frog

eyes sunken from the stoning

a shattering of limbs

soiled with earth

our eyes meet in an understanding

of the creatures death

and the strange power of our hands

Slug and Chicken

So it was Paul Brake and me and Dom playing in the front garden and Eric Gowrie comes down the road. He doesn't live near our house, so he must have come specially.

Paul Brake and me and Dom are playing football across the garden even though the road is just there. But Dad's out.

“Hi,” says Eric Gowrie.

But Paul Brake doesn't look at him.

Eric Gowrie is from Singapore. He has shiny black hair that falls across his forehead like a curtain. His skin is like the colour of Toffoes.  He has pointed eyes.

“What?” says Paul Brake.

“How are you today?” says Eric Gowrie, really politely. He's talking to all of us but me and Dom know that Paul Brake has to answer.

Paul Brake doesn't know Eric Gowrie. Paul Brake doesn't know that me and Dom do know Eric Gowrie. Eric Gowrie goes to our Church. Yesterday at Mass, Father Macaffrey talked about love thy neighbour. Mr Seymour used to live next door to us. He was friendly and nice - but I didn't love him. Then he had his leg off. And then he died.

“What's it to you?” says Paul Brake.

Paul Brake is big. Me and Dom fit in behind him. Paul Brake is looking at the ground.

“Do you like slugs?” says Paul Brake to Eric. He still doesn't look at him.

“I don't mind them,” says Eric.

“Come here then,” says Paul Brake.

“What?” says Eric.

“I said 'Come here, then', didn't I?”

Eric Gowrie opens the gate and comes here. He steps up the steps and onto the grass.

Paul Brake is bending over and picking something up off the ground.

It's a slug.  Quite a big one.  It's brown.

“Come here,” he says to Eric.

“What?” says Eric.

“I said 'Come here', didn't I?” Paul Brake holds the slug on his flat fingers.  It has pulled in its horns.  It's like a slimy blob.

“Kiss it,” he says.

“What?” says Eric.

“You like slugs? Then kiss it.”

Eric looks at Paul Brake.

Eric looks at me and Dom.

Dom and I look at each other. I've got my hands in my pockets and I nudge my willy because I suddenly need to wee. I see Dom's eyes look over to Eric and then to Paul Brake and then back to Eric again.

Paul Brake is just staring at Eric.

I think how horrible it would be to have to kiss a slug. My wee doesn't want to go away so I cross my knees a bit to keep it in.

“No,” says Eric.

“What?” says Paul Brake.

“I don't want to kiss it.”

“Are you chicken?” says Paul Brake. “Kiss it!”

Paul Brake holds the slug right up close to Eric's mouth.

Eric just stands absolutely still looking at Paul Brake.

I think Paul Brake is going to push the slug onto Eric's mouth. I look at Dom. But Dom is looking at Paul Brake. Paul Brake doesn't push the slug onto Eric's mouth but he steers his hand around the side of Eric's face and slowly presses the slug onto Eric's cheek.

Eric stands absolutely still. Still.

Paul Brake slowly takes his hand down again but the slug stays stuck to Eric's cheek for a moment.

Then it falls off onto the ground. There is a little slimy wet patch on Eric's cheek where the slug was.

Suddenly me and Dom hear Mum shout from the kitchen.

“It's teatime,” says Dom.

“We have to go in,” I say, “it's our teatime.”

“See you tomorrow,” says Paul Brake.

“Yes,” says Dom, “see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Eric,” I say. “ Bye, Paul.”

“Yeah, bye,” says Paul Brake.

Eric doesn't say anything.

At tea, Mum says, “Did you have a good game?”

“It was all right,” says Dom.

“Eric Gowrie came round,” I say. Dom looks at me really hard.

“Oh did he?” says Mum. “Did he want to play?”

“No. Not really,” I say.

Dom looks at me.

I look at Dom.

“Can I have another cake, Mum?” I say.

Changing Schools

The car grinds gravel

as it swerves around the Virgin Mary.

It stops in front of the gates:

the car park – puddles and pebbles.

The woman gets out of the passenger’s side

and opens the back door.

"Come on, now," she coos.

"It'll be fine."

One by one,

three children slide across the back seat

and out onto the stony ground.

They huddle round the parent –

ducklings in an elastic bubble –

sheltering in her shadow.

She shepherds them through the gate

and into the asphalt playground.

Three children

in the wrong uniform

cling to her coat

as she scans for a teacher.

A large female

with huge hands

spies her and crosses towards them.

They talk adult

for a moment

before the female

switches to child

her voice simpers

and modulates 

as she invites the three

to go and play on the bars

until play is over.

They move inertly

and stand near the bars

while the mother

weaves out of the playground

issuing smiles, like seeds, to other children,

as if sowing protection for her own.

She waves a quiet goodbye,

climbs back into the car and

leaves.

A flock of watching infants

has gathered.

They have seen the car pull away

and now

turn

their attention.

The three circle their wagons

and eye each other hopelessly

as the silent tears come.

Claws

in Art when

Richard had finished his 

drawing 

he coloured in his fingernail

with

pencil as shiny as grey metal

then 

he did all the others
left hand and right
and 
when he had finished
he showed his claws

and snarled

at Jane

bees

The Vicarage, Morwenstow - the beautiful house
built for the eccentric Reverend R S Hawker
See also The Wreck of the Caledonia

My siblings and many cousins will no doubt remember our big family holidays in North Cornwall and Devon

and staying at the vicarage in Morwenstow

and the little room called The Eyrie that looked down into the courtyard

and how the bees had built a huge hive in the ceiling

which became so laden with honeycomb that the plaster bulged ominously

and how inevitably it had to go.

For homework from my writing class last week, we were asked to write a piece on "consequences" and we were given a poem TheWasps by David Constantine as inspiration.  This is my response.

we are the bees

(because she is here)

that fizzed in and found her (be-

cause she is here) and we have

been fuming about

the blooms

of this summer

garden (because she is here)

supping colours up from yellow

cowslips and black-ey'd susans

till we are foxglove

dust laden

with sunny set

honey-suckle pollen (because

she is here) and we are thick-covered 

with dusky jasmine warmth with

 carousing courage from

our craving labours

and we have found

the hole between blockstone

and mortar (because she is here)

worn by rain these two hundred

years that leads to the

cavern within

the roof among

the smoky joists above

the plaster and we have stocked our

larder (because she is here) full of

plenty with this season's

sucking and churning

and spittling and

wraggling and you human

can see the bulging pendulous

bagsacks of our great labours

groaning (because

she is here)

combing (because

she is here) in the flaking

ceiling and you come and crack-

make with your bullnose

chisel (because

she is here)

and your mallet

and your shrouded hat

and your tight-cuffed sleeves

and your tarry fumes and you

chop us out drowsy

(because she

is here) in this

evening as this sun's day sets

sizzling into the sailing sea and

yes you hesitate (because she is

here) but still you

burn us up

Snap

The garden gate is new

and unfamiliar toys

stake claim to the lawn

some new flop-haired child’s tricycle

some other one’s ball

there are people living

in the place now

that I do not know

and although

I once inhabited

the ground they squat upon

knew every inch of hedgerow

I am a stranger now

and the kitchen cupboards

glimpsed through cupped hands

against the glass

are of a new design, soft closing

and where the cutlery drawer once was

it is not now

and where it was not

it now is

I imagine

I stand at the bedroom window

on the upper floor once more

and feel the tense twine that attaches me

to every item in the room

and every tree in the garden

snap

Dead Fairies

A late Summer Thursday afternoon

and dreaming

I revisit the garden of my childhood Spring

two merciless, samurai leylandii 

preaching 

across the grass

the cherry tree, rope ladder strung from its lower branch

the prunus, spotted with blossom buds and busty bullfinches

closer to the house, a small slope against which we handstood

or rolled down on daisy afternoons

over here 

to the right, the old widowed shed

racked with bikes and plant pots and rakes

shelves of powders

against ants and slugs and fungus

I step behind it

to rediscover the dank hiding place

where golden rod stems snagged socks

where spiders the size of apples waited for sandalled feet

where fence panels, slipped from between posts,

have sidled to the ground and dried to a silver grain

and here next to the bald tennis ball and a decaying shuttlecock

I find the tumbled grave of small bones and dried hair

of shattered gossamer film

I pull small rot-welded corpses of dead fairies one from another

here where magic died 

and wishes made 

yet unbelieved

were finally abandoned

Lucy laughs at Marek

At the foot of

Shirebrook Road

two ten year old girls sit

on the steps of the house

that once used to be the old

Mini Motorparts Shop

they watch a boy

dancing bad parcour

around the yellow

municipal grit bin

girl two is giggling

at the boys looping

tumbles

girl one says

ok Marek

you made Lucy laugh

you made Lucy laugh

but you’ll never make me laugh

Marek

you’ll never make me laugh

Lucy in her

leopard skin dress

continues her giggle

and Marek continues

his dance

Mysterious Stark

Another imagined urban faerie...

Behind the

cold, grey

concrete stairs

in the corner of the lowest of ground floors

in this

multi-storey

car park,

is a dark

and mouldy

den.

In the den,

so dark and mouldy,

that lies behind

the cold, grey

concrete

stairs,

is a gathering together

of leaves

and crisp packets

flattened cans

and sweet wrappers

and the cellophane from boxes of cigarettes

half a page of a newspaper

and some more

dry

dead

leaves.

This is the treasure

of

Mysterious Stark.

This is the home

of

Mysterious Stark.

He makes

no sound except

the sound that he catches

from the feet of the people

walking

up and

down

and up

the concrete steps

and across the

car park floors.

He grabs those sounds,

wraps them up in city mumbles

and rolls them up the stairs again.

He catches the clicks

of opening doors

and

slamming doors

and he

sharpens them

and spears them back onto Level Three.

He sucks up the noise of engines starting,

and he drinks them down

then belches them out into the grey

afternoon.

On special, windy Saturdays –

he waits for people coming out

of the supermarket,

their hands tied down

heavy

with carrier bags full of baked beans.

Then

he picks up a mighty

mittful of grit

and throws it in their faces,

right in their eyes

and he laughs at them

as they blink and cry.

But he’s not always so grouchy

sometimes just for fun –

in his mouldy dark den –

he catches

the smallest corner of the wind

and ties it by its tail

to the hand rail

so that it can’t escape.

Then

he stirs the loose end

of the wind

into his pile of treasure

and chuckles to himself

as

round and round

the leaves chase the crisp packets and

the sweet wrappers chase

the cellophane

and

the half a page

of newspaper

covers itself with wind glue

and

blows itself

right around the shoe

of a man named

Ken.

The eclipse of the sun

Mum makes a pinhole in the paper,

holds it in the sun –

a tiny dot of light appears below

at the centre of the shadow.

A pinhole for a peepshow

she says

her eyes shining

and we wait

as heady moments pass

and watch at last

a tiny shade move

across the dot

an image cast of

a crescent sun.

I reach out my hand

place a single finger

in the ray of light

to see if I can feel its weight,

its heat

switch fingers one by one

allow the fleck of buried sun

to land on each in turn

an eclipse

projected on my fingertips.

She smiles at me

But then he

comes and steps

between the sunlight

and our game

and I see him place his

hand upon her back to

claim her –

her cotton blouse

her auburn hair

her tender skin

her wings

he clips.