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

Mum Said

I

Mum said

“Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head…

Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head, wink in her eye!”

The man

down the road

showed Mum his willy

from his bedroom window

when she was on the way to Wanstead Flats –

She was eight.

She was scared.

He winked,

but she didn’t tell anyone.

Mum said

when she was young

she thought

there were men, women and nuns,

and nuns went around

on wheels

under their long black dresses

– and that was a bad habit.

Mum said

When she was at boarding school

during the war

she used to eat soap

to make herself sick

so she could have a day in bed

- but it never worked.

And at dinner time she used to put

the fat from her meat

up her knickerleg

so she wouldn’t have to eat it.

And during

the War

she had to learn

how to fold toilet paper

so she could wipe

again and again

with the same piece.

And she said

that she wrote off

and got a signed photograph

of Gregory Peck.

She loved Gregory Peck

and wanted to marry him.

But the nuns took Gregory Peck away

and tore him up.

And Mum said

one of her friends at school

was her cousin

and she was called

Ursula Mary Brock

which meant

She-bear-bitter-badger

and one was called

BCM

which meant

Big Country Mary

but I don’t know why.

But the best of her friends

was Auntie Mon.

And they always called Mum

‘Tiddler’

because she was small,

and that’s why all our cousins called her

‘Auntie Tid’

even though by then

her legs were thick as tree trunks.

So Mum said.

“Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head…”

II

Mum said

she saw the curtains burning

in a house

as she walked down

Woodcote Road.

She said

she thought the owners must know

so she didn’t bother to tell them.

And Mum said

she had danced with Mr Waverley

– Mr Waverley from The Man From U.N.C.L.E.

– but not with Napoleon Solo,

or even Ilya Kuriakin.

And one time

when she had gone to a dance

with some friends

a young man noticed the wet patches

under Mum’s arms

while he was dancing with her

and he said:

“Coo – you sweat a lot, don’t you!?”

which put her off a bit.

And she said

she and

Dad

had had

Tea

with

the Queen Mother

– but not in her house.

You had to have good manners

and not put the elbows on the table.

III

Mum said

she thought

she had just

happened to be born a child

– that was just what she was,

not a man,

or a woman

or a nun.

And because they were all children

Dom and Jack

poured

methylated spirits

onto Mum’s doll’s house

and set it on fire

– with a Swan Vesta –

and Mum got very upset

but of course it didn’t burn.

And once

she crept through

into the neighbour’s garden

and did a poo in the bushes.

And she said

one time

because they were all children

they had all sneaked through

into the neighbour’s garden

for a dare

and then the neighbour had come

and all the others had run away

and left Mum

who was too little to run

to face the neighbour

all on her own.

And Mum said

Uncle Jack

used to say

“Comment-allez votre Bum?”

And when he had swallowed a pin

he had to go to hospital

and they fed him cotton wool

to stop the pin sticking inside him

in his stomach.

“How did she die?

Nod in her head, wink in her eye!”

IV

And Mum said

great-great-granddad

was an Alsatian

and his family name was

Dreyer.

So, in Alsace,

where they spoke German,

they called him Herr Dreyer

– but I don’t think he was a barber.

Mum said

that

great-great-uncle Somebody

lived in Russia

and kept a circus

and was finally

done-to-death

by a yak.

Cousin Stella said he was gnawed by a gnu

but I don’t think that can be right.

And Mum said

that there was an ancient Spanish cousin

who did an act with snakes

and it was charming.

And somebody else

was so tall

they fitted into the

Guinness Book of Records.

Because gnus don’t gnaw

and they don’t live in Russia.

And Mum said

Granddad

electrocuted

the East coast Railway Line –

it was his job,

and he got paid

a thousand pounds a year

but he died before I was born

because he had smoked too many cigarettes.

And Uncle Dom

put his foot through the ceiling

while he was fixing the electrics

in the loft.

And Uncle Jack

got a tattoo

of an anchor

on his arm

when he was in the Navy Blue,

like Popeye,

but afterwards he felt stupid

so he would never

take off his shirt on the beach.

And they all sang

“Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

– how did she die?

Nod in her head…

Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

– how did she die?

Nod in her head, wink in her eye!”

V

And Mum said

of all her best friends

her best friend was

Auntie Monica

who was her sister

and who she loved better

than anyone.

And they were fiends –

the very best of fiends.

And they looked after each other

and called each other Feenie.

And when they got older

one Feenie bought

a birthday card

which said:

“Happy Birthday

to a real

(excuse the nasty word)

OLD

friend!”

And she wrote in it

“To Feenie

love

Feenie.”

And she sent it to the other Feenie.

Then

when it was the first Feenie’s birthday

the other Feenie

sent it back to the

first Feenie.

And it got sent

backwards and forwards

from Feenie to Feenie

until it fell down the back of the fireplace

in Tall Elms.

VI

And Mum said

Nana

had arthritis

and she lived in bed

and moaned

and would not have any one to feed her

in case they tried to scrape

Rice Krispies up her chin

with a spoon

and put them in her mouth

like they do with babies –

she wouldn’t have that.

And Mum said

that even though Nana could hardly walk

she got up

the day before she died

and tried to do the ironing

and the housework.

And afterwards

everyone looked at each other

and said:

“She must have known,”

and

“She didn’t want to leave things in a mess.”

And Mum said

that after Nana had died

Mum was traveling on the upstairs

of a bus

and she looked out the window

and there was Nana

sitting on a bench

on the Leytonstone High Road –

just along from Bearmans.

“Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head…

Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head, wink in her eye!”

VII

And Mum said

When she first met Dad

she wrote a thing in her diary

and this is the thing:

“Met a Ron – with a car,”

because it was unusual

in those days.

And the Ron took

her out to do

kissing in the car,

and

when they’d finished

and wiped their mouths,

the Ron started the car

to drive home

but when the headlights went on

there were a great lot

of rabbits

all sitting around on the grass.

And Mum thought it was a sign

because she was a Catholic.

VIII

She was an old, old, old, old lady.

And her eyes were a misty blue.

and she never said “yes”, and she never said “no”

all she said was

“I love you!”

When Mum was in her hospital bed

and it was my last time

she said,

“It’ll be all right.”

And she looked so old,

though everyone said

she was still so young,

and it seemed like there was

only one thing she could do.

So she had a cup of tea

from a baby blue beaker

with a spout

and then she went to sleep

and we all went home.

But we stopped

in a lay-by

and had the deepest of cries

with rain crawling down the window.

And Dad turned around

in the car

and tried to hug us all

at the same time.

Then in the morning

very early

she died.

They

telephoned

to tell us

and I ran upstairs to tell Kate.

And afterwards

I knew that Mum was right –

it was all right

because

she didn’t get stuck –

dying –

at least I don’t think she did –

she didn’t try to come back.

And Dad and Kate

went to get her stuff

because she didn’t need it anymore.

“Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head…

Old Mrs McGinty’s dead

- how did she die?

Nod in her head, wink in her eye!”

*

I look out of the bus window

from the upstairs

and I often do see her

out of the corner of my eye,

but then when I look properly

she turns into someone else.

*

And Auntie Joyce said

that when we were camping at Daccombe

Mum said to her

when they were walking in the lane

that she just hoped

we would be old enough

to remember her

even if she died.

And then she did,

and I do

and I remember all the things

Mum said.

August 2005

blackberries, 2019

     we have come out early

this year and

before the heat of the day

have stretched legs up the hill

to Carr Wood

     the blackberries

in thick clusters

hang from vines, still cradled away

in bush tops

hoist in bindweed canopies

behind barbed brambles

and stealthy nettles

smirking beneath a green palace 

an angry salad of leaves

     for we are the first

this year

to assault this harvest

to marvel at the crop

the dropping wealth

of sunblessed flesh that

slips between fingers

and into our mouths

a flood of perfumed berry blood

as our tongues

press to mash

these precious clots

     and we pick

in silence

mostly

the girl and I

cast in memories and thoughts

of other years

and when we speak

we talk again

of hedgewitch

of rosehip, sloe and haw

of lost recipes

folklore

and ancestors

and on the brambles' thorns

we swear a tacit blood pact

that should we never again

do this together

we will always have done it

today

     but you

have stayed behind

despite our invitation

because it was not in your plan

for the morning

or you found some other hesitation

that held you home

     we are disappointed

and relieved

for this harvesting

has become our thing

we forage for links that bind us

and we find them

in the gathering

of this rich fruit

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.

The heavy table

Another recent piece written at an Electric Tomatoes session.  The prompt was The Heavy Table. Family members will recognise some of the ideas in this piece. 


Grandma died.
On the first Sunday after Easter.
Granddad said she stayed home from church because she felt a bit queasy but when he got back there she was on the scullery floor. She'd been taking clothes out of the twin tub he said. Heart attack.
He said he hadn't known what to do with her so he phoned the ambulance even though he knew she'd gone. He phoned the ambulance and then he carefully stepped over her and finished taking the stuff out of the washing machine. It was his shirts mainly. He just used her wooden tongs and slumped the shirts over into the spin dryer while the water drained. But then he noticed he was splashing her and knowing how noisy the dryer was he thought it best to wait until she'd been... taken care of. That's what he said.
We had the funeral a week later and when everyone was gone Dad had said he was going to talk to Granddad. He took him out into the back garden. But only a few minutes passed before Granddad came back in.
'Where's me pipe?' He said. 'Where's my effing pipe?' He sounded cross.
It was there on the side table next to his chair, hanging in the pipe rack Jack had made him.
'It's there Grandad,' I said.
'Where?' he said. 'Fetch it for me, lad.'
I ran and rattled the pipe from its stand. Dad was standing in the back doorway watching him with a grim look on his face. Mum came in from the kitchen and caught Dad's eye. They didn't say anything but I saw Dad give a little shake of his head.
'Do you want tea, Dad?' she said.
'And the pouch, lad. Don't forget my baccy.'
I popped back to the table and looked for the pouch.
'In the drawer, in the drawer.'
I slid the drawer open and grabbed it and the plastic lighter that rolled up to the front, the smell of stale tobacco rising bitter in my nose.
'Dad?' said Mum again, 'tea?'
'I'll take it outside,' he said, and with his smoking gear he walked past Dad in the doorway.
I could see them through the window. Granddad sat squinting on the bench where he would always sit and Dad stood looking at him. Mum poured the tea into mugs and carried them out. I couldn't hear what they were saying but they weren't smiling.
Then Jack came thumping downstairs. He been up in the guest room looking at the old stack of Beanos and Dandys that Grandma always kept for us.
'A-Team!' he said.
'Oh!' I said.
He ran out to Mum and a moment later was back turning on the television.
'Can we?'
'Yes, but we have to keep the volume down low.'
Hannibal was just lighting an enormous cigar and had a huge smile on his face as Granddad came in quietly and sat at the table. Mum and Dad came in too. I could hear them talking in the kitchen but not what they were saying.
I watched Granddad lift the tablecloth from the table as he sat there. Just the edge. And fold it back. He exposed the wood and ran his hand along it as if he was checking it was smooth. He curled his finger around the corner as he reached it then slowly slid his hand back along the edge again. He saw me looking. Pulled his mouth into a sad smile. I smiled back.
'Anthony,' he said - pronouncing the 'th', no one else called me that. With everyone else I was Tony or Tone or even Ant but with grandad it was always the full Anthony.
'Anthony,' he said, 'come here.'
Even grandma called me Tony.
I went over to him.
'Give me your hand,' he said.
I held it out as if to shake hands.
'Put it there  pardner...' I said.
'No, flat. Like this.'
He stretched his hand out palm up. The skin of his open hand was dry - a little shiny in places. The creases across his palm spelling a clear M.
I pushed my hands out like his, fingers straight, tight together. There were the feint lines of an M on my hand too. 'Man' it would say one day, Grandma had told me, but I couldn't pretend it said that yet.
'Looser,' said Granddad.
'What?'
'Relax your fingers let it go a bit floppy.'
I did as he asked and he then carefully took my upturned hand in his. Cupped his under mine. Then slowly led it to the underside of the table.
'Now... just under here,' he said, pressing my fingertips lightly against the bottom of the table.
'Just under here... .' He slid his hand to one side with mine in it still touching the wood.
'Just under here... Can you feel it?'
'Feel what?'
'Feel again, very gently.'
'What is it?'
'No mouth, just fingers. Feel.'
I carefully spread my fingers brushing the under surface. It was slightly rough.
'It's rough.'
'It is.'
'Like dents in the wood.'
'Pop down and have a look.'
He swung his knees to the side and made an opening for me next to the table.
'Go on,' he said.
I dropped and looked up at the underside of the tabletop where my fingers had stroked. It was dim, dark, but I could just make out some marks along the edge.
'Is it... it looks like... is it writing?'
'It is indeed,' he said. 'Can you read it?'
I peered at the marks that were clearly words forming a sentence but could make out nothing.
'No, it's too dark.'
'And,' said Granddad, 'it's in German.'
'German?'
'Yep!'
'Why? What does it say?'
'It says "Diese Tafel ist für Josef". Can you tell what it means?'
'Er... No.'
'Well what do you think "Diese Tafel" means?'
'No idea.'
'Well, "Diese" means "this"...'
'This?'
'Yes. So "Diese Tafel" means... this...?'
'This... er...'
'Well, what is this?' He banged his hand down onto the table just by my nose.
'This? It's a table...'
'Exactly... ."Diese Tafel" This table...
'Right...'
'"Diese Tafel ist für Josef"', he repeated "This table ist für Josef." Is for Josef.'
' Oh! I said. Who's Josef?'
'My dad! Your great granddad. Josef was my dad and he married my mum, Anna Maria, and they came from Germany to London just before the Great War.'
'Right! They were German?'
'Yes.. Well, Alsatians..'
'Alsatians? Like the dogs?'
'Alsatians are people from Alsace. That's where they came from.'
'Right... So who wrote this then?'
'That was written by my grandma, your great great grandmother, Elsie Dreyer. When Elsie died she wanted to make sure that this table went to Josef, my dad, so she wrote on it. She wrote on other things, too, but this was the only thing for him.'
'And he left it to you when he died?'
'Yes, but he didn't write on it.'
'No?'
'No, he didn't need to. Nobody else wanted it. It was too big and heavy.'
'Right.'
'But I love it.'
'Me too,' I said.
Mum came through from the kitchen.
'Tony, Jack, go wee. We're going now.'
'Why?'
'Because... It'll be bedtime before we get home and you've got school in the morning.'
'But.. Granddad!'
'Yes?'
'He'll be...'
'Oh don't worry about me lad!' said Granddad.
In the car, Mum turned off Sing Something Simple and turned round to us, leaning over the back seat. She spoke in her soft voice.
'So Tony, Jack, how would you to like to share a room?'
'What?'
'What! Why?'
'Because... because we've asked Granddad if he'd like to live with us.'
'What!'
'Yes.'
'What did he say?'
'He's thinking about it. But he'd need a bedroom.'
'But what about all his things?'
'Well he'll bring all his clothes and things of course.'
'And his furniture? Where would we put it all?'
'Well we wouldn't be able to take all his furniture.'
'Oh!'
'So he could bring his favourite chair perhaps, and his radiogram, but we'd help him sell the rest.'
'What? I said,' but not his table?'
'The table?'
'Yes, Josef's table...you can't sell that.'
'Yes, well, it's a bit big. We'd have to sell that. If we could find anyone to take it.'
'It'll go in the auction,' said Dad, 'somebody will take it I expect.'

jockey shorts

In an attempt
to drive
his taunting teenaged son
from his bedroom
as he tries to prepare for bed
the father strips

completely

naked

to the blue thread veins

that run across his chest
to the varicose vessels
that meander
from his groin
and delta down his inner thigh

the lad jeers
cheerily

at the whiteness
of the pallid skin
stretched shining
over the ridges of the shins

scoffs

at the loose-toned buttocks

revealed

as shapeless

jockey shorts

are thumbed down from the hips

complains
as a curtain of pendulous stomach

undulates in

a galloping adipose syncopation

but is silenced

as the father's flaccid weapon

larger than his own

claims victory

over the moment

the father

ignores the abuse

chooses to centre himself

in his thoughts

tosses the shorts

to the dirty linen basket

shakes creases

from folded pyjamas

stored beneath the pillow

ties a double bow

in the thick white cord

to ward against

further

more physical

attack

but

eventually

the lad grows up

and

sees that

he is
now the one
who strips to the white bone

before sleeping

contemplates

a ruined temple

as he yearns

for some more sensuous

corporeal sensation