Mars Bar

In Keymarkets,

Mum takes her shopping

up to the till.

Hello, Eileen, says Mum

how's your Mum?

Eileen taps the numbers into the till

as she tells Mum

how her mum is.

Mum holds out her money.

She pays.

It's Saturday

and it's sweets.

I’ve got a Mars bar

in one hand

and a sixpence

in the other.

The woman behind us

 puts her basket down

on the checkout.

Eileen starts

tapping her numbers into the till.

I do not know what to do.

Mum calls me.

I go after her.

I still have the Mars bar.

I still have the sixpence.

In the car I get a very

sick feeling

in my stomach

when I eat the Mars bar.

I push the sixpence

right down the back of the back seat,

Mum turns around.

Are you all right? she asks.

I tell her about

how I am feeling sick

Mum says

Are you going to be sick?

I say no.

I do not tell her

about the sixpence.

On Sunday,

on the way to Mass,

I feel better

but I can't reach the sixpence - 

it has gone too far down.

Julian is Mad!

Julian lives in a council flat.  
In Leicester Square.

A council flat.

Leicester Square.

He pays £25.00 per week in rent.

For a council flat... 
...in Leicester Square.

The council have asked him would he like to buy it - 
the council flat
 in Leicester Square

for £27,000.

Malcolm and I cannot believe it. 
£27,000

- Of course you must, says Malcolm. 
- No, I will not, says Julian, I am content.

Malcolm rolls his eyes.

Julian is mad!

...

- Today, says Julian, I am mad. 
- Oh, why? I ask 
- Today, Ahmed comes to see me. 
- This afternoon? 
- Yes, this afternoon.

Ahmed works in the Indian restaurant

- So why are you mad? He is your friend. 

- But today he brings me chicken wings. 
- Fantastic, I say, chicken wings from the restaurant. Brilliant! 
- No, it is not good, says Julian. He brings too many. 
- What do you mean, too many? 
- Too many chicken wings, I cannot eat them all. 
- So. Save some and have them tomorrow. 
- Yes, so I have to turn the fridge on! Electricity! It cost money, you know - it not come free!

A Long Shadow

On the beach

at Duckpool

we found

Dad’s willy

made of stone -

fat

and grey

and ridged.

We took it home

and

kept it on the mantelpiece

in the kitchen

next to the bell

and

Mum’s used stamp jar.

 -

Mum said

that

when they were

makingbabies

Dad’s willy

was

ten inches.

It cast a long shadow.

Julian, The Lover

In the dressing room
Julian sits combing his wig.

He sings in a quavering tenor.

Mario Lanza
The Student Prince....

Unapologetically, an explosive crack reverberates from his plastic seat.
He has farted - again.

He continues to sing.
I cast him an accusing and resentful glance as the aroma rises.
It goes unnoticed by the perpetrator.

He stands and adjusts his breeches.

- These too small, he says pulling roughly at the crotch.
- Hm.  I'm trying not to breathe in.
- I have big arse.  Too big for these.  Big arse.  Women like big arse on a man.  A big hammer for a big nail!

He laughs.

- Ha!  I give good meat injection!

Helping Donna

So,

it’s been sunny this morning

then rain,

heavy,

now sun again

and light hazes through spring leaves

dappling the cycle path

as I walk down the ring road.

Will she be there?

I can’t stop myself thinking it

and my heart sinks a little.

She often is.

Sitting

crumpled in the Waitrose underpass.

- Can you spare any change?

- Sorry, love,

I often lie,

I haven’t got anything today.

Or there is an almost grudging,

embarrassed

reaching for my change purse

and a fumbling count through change

trying to judge the right amount to give

that will balance

the desire to give

with the desire to walk away,

that will alleviate guilt

and still leave enough for a bus fare

or a snickers.

It’s my money

but if I stand there trying to choose how much to give

the whole business becomes sordid,

ridiculous,

layered with guilt and inadequacy.

After all – what’s she going to do with it anyway?

Just drink it…

But is that really the point?

She needs it more than I do?

Does she?

Then give it all.

But then I won’t have any for…

emergencies…

Then don’t give her any…

But that’s mean!

Giving grudgingly

is no gift at all!

So,

today,

I’m thinking ahead.

I’ll sort it out now

before I get there

and so I fetch the change purse

from the bag on my back.

A quick count through and I reckon I’ve got

thirty pence

I can spare.

Thirty pence?

Really?

Is that all?

Oh,

ok.

I have another look and take out the fifty.

Fifty?

Yes, fifty, that’ll have to do.

Otherwise I’m giving her coppers,

and you certainly can’t do that.

Well you can’t.

But you've got thirty

and that wasn't in coppers...

Look, it's fifty, ok!

it's just...

neater!

Ok.

So,

I’m coming to the underpass

and I can see her

across in the opposite subway

– my exit –

where she always sits.

There she is

wrapped in a damp blanket.

She’s under cover

but the rain has come kicking down

the passage under people’s feet

and has puddled up the concrete

 to where she sits.

What’s her name?

Her name..?

Yes.

I don’t know.

What, you’ve never asked?

No, why should I?

She’s a person, she must have a name.

Yes, well,

I’ve never asked.

Donna…

Donna.

She’s probably thirty five,

Donna,

but looks forty five –

yes, forty five with added wine.

She’s trembling under the blanket.

Not shivering,

it’s bigger than that,

it’s a shaking grown up from a shiver,

it’s a quaking grown from disease

and fear.

But I’ve got my fifty pence

ready in my hand.

How generous am I, eh?

I’m not even going to wait for her to ask,

I’ll just pop it in the woollen hat

she’s got sat

on the ground in front of her.

Down it goes,

“There you go, love!”

There, I’m helping - 

Helping Donna.

Donna’s actually still saying it

“Can you spare any change, please?”

after the deed is done

 and then she’s trying to find 

the energy for a thank you.

She can’t raise her eyes to mine

but she lifts her eyebrows

and mumbles a weary

“Thangyu”

But I don’t need thanks –

I’m so generous, me

- that was fifty pence, remember,

not thirty,

fifty!

Just at this point,

a woman corners

into the underpass,

bowling from the Waitrose end

towards us.

She’s floating along,

energetically,

riding her buoyant hips.

She’s a busy thing

and she spies Donna,

helpless.

I’m past her now

and just as I reach my

clean getaway

I’m hearing her say

“So,

do you know where you can get food?”

She’s taking charge,

showing practical support,

helping Donna,

and my fifty pence,

is melting

like a chocolate coin at Christmas,

and my generous glow

is fading to ashes.

And the last thing I hear

as I re-enter the outside world

is a strong

and determined Donna,

suddenly revived,

and the words she utters

fill my heart with a strange,

mischievous joy

as she gives a resounding

“Fuck off!”

to this Good Samaritan.

Julian: Curtain Footman

Covent Garden

The Royal Ballet

1984

We are the curtain footmen - 

Not Julian... but very like him.

Julian, Malcolm and I.

We are the keepers of the peace – the audience assemble and the dancers prepare and we stand and guard the gap between the curtains.

We hold the hallowed space between audience and dancers... Not so much Art more Health and Safety.

We stand festooned in finery – wig, breeches, white gloves…
Footmen... Flunkies...

...

Tonight, before the ballet begins, Julian and I, in our frock coats and frills, stand holding the curtains closed.  Up for the fifteen, through to Beginners..

The orchestra is tuning up.

Malcolm is not here tonight.

Tonight is my turn.

Malcolm shares his post with me.

Malcolm shares his coat with me – long in need of a dry clean – too narrow for broader shoulders, hot and steamy, someone else’s odour of a thousand and one nights rising from the arm pits.

The stage vibrates to the stomps of ballerinas warming up, grace wrought from sheer muscle, the shifting of chalk caulked ballet shoes on the floor cloth as they pirouette and jeté, occasionally breaking to comment, whisper and giggle.  
Muscles flex.  
Sinews stretch.  
Fingers wrap around ankles and they bounce down kissing their own knees, 
folding like knives at their hinging hips,
to leave sharp buttocks, haloed by tutu, as the summit of straight legs.

They don't see Julian and me.

...

Julian hawks and grates his soft palate.  
In the street he would spit.  
Here he ruminates, chewing the product of his expectoration.

He finishes, swallows and speaks:

Today, Julian says, I feel very lucky.

Me:  Oh?

Today, he says, I find twelve pence on the street.

Ah, I say, yes, that is lucky... very lucky.

Twelve pence!

Julian abandons his post leaving me straining with the heavy curtains.

He moves militarily away swooping around in a left wheel, coming to attention, then moving off again, left foot forward… and… and… and about turn.  

He slopes imaginary arms.

Julian is Mauritian.  An orphan.  Jaulein – his real name – but he has lived a life among people who cannot, will not, pronounce it.  Raised by the Army... Effectively.

He is grateful to them.  
To the British Army.  
To the British Government.

- When I die, says Julian, I will leave no will.  Then all I have will go to Her Majesty… I give her thanks.

- Today, says Julian, I feel very lucky.

Talking over the Grapes

We do have an exciting time down at the wholesale market at 4.30am!...

David Wilson and Sylvia’s husband

are talking over the grapes,

while I check out the bananas.

David Wilson pulls up a bunch

and shakes it.

Then Sylvia’s husband

says to me

there was this old woman

in me shop

on Saturday

and she picks up a bunch of grapes

and she says -

how much for these, love?

But she’s a bit

doddery

and the grapes are a bit

ripe

and by the time she’s finished the question

every grape had fallen off

the stalk.

Sylvia’s husband says

 I couldn’t stop laughing, me.