Paired for Life

‘You have to become the swan,’ she said. ‘You do not simply see the swan upon the water, you have to BE the swan. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie, but with little conviction.
‘Try it again, please, one more time before we finish.’
He rested his bow against the string, placed his left hand in its starting position high on the neck of the instrument and started to play.
He knew he was a little flat but Miss Radcliffe was already lost in her imagination of the most beautiful music. She could not resist the temptation to join in.
‘Yaaa da da, laaa da da... she is alone, the swan
Daaada da... Feel the water supporting you...Daaa da da da ... she weeps as she swims
Crescendo as you climb... her grief is overwhelming...
Better...
...and sweetly at the top there - you’re a little flat...’ she sang the words.
‘Let the current flow... it is exquisite pain for her...
the water is cold, powerful...
it carries you along... yes
yes, that’s better... more and more....’
Charlie drew his bow across the final note.
‘There, Charles. Did you feel the difference? You were finding the instrument’s voice there a little, do you not agree?’
‘Yes, Miss Radcliffe.’ He was ready to leave the fusty room and walk home through the afternoon air.
‘Right, well we’ll leave it there for this week, Charles. Good. Some improvement. Definitely. Some definite improvement.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Have you seen a swan swimming, Charles?’
‘Yes, miss, of course. In the park. On the lake. I’ve seen them there.’
She didn’t seem quite satisfied with his answer.
‘Yes, they do come to the lake, I suppose. But in the wild, away from humans and ducks and bread and picnic baskets - have you ever..?’ Her eyes glazed a little as her thoughts drifted away from her.
Charlie waited a moment to see if her sentence had an end...
‘Right. I’ll see you next week, miss’
‘Yes, Charles. Please be prompt.’
‘Yes, miss.’
He slackened the nut of the bow, released the wing nut on the spike of the cello and eased it back into the base of the instrument. He lifted the lid of his case and carefully packed cello and bow away.
Miss Radcliffe watched him, lost in her thoughts. He could still smell the peppermints on her breath with which she tried to mask the sour stain of cigarette smoke.
He stood and gripped the handle then realised he had not gathered his sheet music. Miss Radcliffe noticed at the same time and reached across from her seat and lifted the pages from the wire stand. She glanced again at the title.
‘They pair for life, you know,’ she said.
‘Pardon, miss?’
‘Swans. They pair for life, and if one of them dies the other slowly pines away.’
‘Right... Bye then, miss.’
‘Yes, yes. Goodbye, Charles. Goodbye. Practise please, practise.


At the park he swung the kiss gate open and clumsily manhandled the cello awkwardly through it. He would normally just stick to Clementson Road to avoid the difficult kiss gate manoeuvre but today... there was something in Miss Radcliffe’s tone that had stayed in his mind. So now he looped down between the rhododendrons, past the restored Victorian greenhouses and down into the park proper.
There were handful of children with their parents on the spinners and swings. Three boys were playing football on the grass, their bikes casually strewn across the path. As Charlie picked his way between them the ball came bouncing over towards him and struck the case of his cello. He shot an angry look at the boy who seemed to have kicked it but then, seeing him come running over to retrieve it, Charlie felt a little intimidated.
‘Sorry,’ he said, as the boy came into earshot, then he immediately felt stupid.
The boy didn’t even look at him- just trapped the ball, steadied himself and kicked it hard back to the others.

By the lake, Charlie lifted his cello and rested it on the bench. He stood by the end resting one knee on the wooden slats and looked out across the water. A few ducks muddled around on the grass and a row of grey pigeons sat uniformly spaced along the low wall at the water’s edge. Across the lake a little way, he spotted the swans. The same pair had been here for as long as Charlie could remember. Every year they would nest on the little island in the spring and a few weeks later four or five grey cygnets would follow them as they sailed serenely across the water. Charlie wondered where all those swan children were now. He imagined them flapping furiously across the water, beating their wings, until optimum takeoff speed was reached and then majestically rising into the air, swimming up into the clouds, the sun setting on the horizon. In his mind he saw them arced across the sky, formation flying like old footage he had seen of droning war planes, Lancasters, Wellingtons, brave warriors flying off to their destiny.
The swans had seen Charlie too. They came gliding across the water towards him as if powered by thought alone. Charlie wished he had something to feed them - bread, anything. He bent and pulled at a golden dandelion head. Tossed it towards the water. But it was too light and just fluttered down onto the mud. One of the swans swam closer drawn by the familiar movement of the throwing arm, but without even seeming to look it discounted the muddied flower.
Charlie noticed the moment the swans realised he had nothing for them - they subtly, coolly, simply, redirected their way parallel to the bank to a spot further down where a young woman was freeing her toddler from her pushchair. Charlie and the swans saw the woman reach for a paper bag beneath the seat and start handing pieces of white bread to her daughter. The little girl took each piece and held it extravagantly over her head before throwing it with abandon, mostly in the general direction of the water.
You shouldn’t feed them bread, Charlie thought, even while he envied the little girl. It’s not good for them.
He remembered the excitement of standing just there with his own mother, being handed the same pieces of bread, throwing with as much enthusiasm as this little girl did. His feet started to walk him towards them, until his hand on the handle of his cello case reminded him that he was older.
The swans moved with no hesitation. Theirs were perfect, easy movements, each reflecting the other as the water reflected each of them. A silent duo. A pas de deux. Their heads moved in perfect synchronisation, never deciding where to go but yet swimming with pure intention. Charlie found himself watching the space between them - an invisible silver, silken connection, sometimes stretching, sometimes shrinking, constantly changing shape. They were together and yet separate, a unity of swan and yet two distinct beings. They were paired for life, Charlie thought.
He thought of Miss Radcliffe sat waiting for him each week. He could only ever imagine her in the study, still, quiet, waiting. As if there were no other purpose in her life. Just music, and the teaching of it, the teaching of him. He saw her - a cigarette in her thin fingers, a column of ash growing at its tip as she waited. She had never paired, he thought. Or maybe she had. Maybe she had lost the one who had moved in slow easy arcs with her, the other separate being in her unity.
The bag of bread was empty now.





The swans glided slowly, separately, together, back out across the chilly grey water.


prompt: she asked him if he understood
written in one hour - with a little subsequent editing.
20.11.2018

Sudden Rain in June

An ash black cat on the tarmac licks her gravel paws I pose on the sofa snack on blue tortilla chips the salty olive oiled jalapeños you gave me and blossoms of tangy goats cheese

Worlds apart you & I share stories of sudden rain in June I tell you how it hits the pavement like applause bloodies the asphalt lifts the scented lid of first dust The cat scutters away burned by these insulting drops But you I see you lift your open mouth to the clouds

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.

Blue Misses

A wraggle of lads

push out of the Supabar

words lost in mouthed vowels and chips

while on the corner by the street lamp

four girls

in minis and blouses

huddle around one of their phones

blue screen lighting up their faces

as they rate

whoever's featured

with oo's or boo's

they don't look up

as the lads come over

just turn as a group

as the boys sweep past

caught in the wake

of the evening bow-wave

20.11.2018

Ill Wind

It didn't snow straight away but she knew it wouldn't be long.

She'd woken in the morning to an unfamiliar metal squealing as the weather vane on the barn swung round to the North. And to the sound of banging. But she didn't think. Patrick would have known to go and close the barn doors but Patrick was gone. There were so many things he used to do of which she was simply unaware. They'd made a good team. But now, alone, she was a novice again, and she cursed herself for the things she didn't do until it was too late.

Coombe Farm nestled in the rounded belly of the valley end and usually benefited from the shelter of the rolling hills that cradled it. The fields on the northerly side bathed in generous sunlight and the wooded slopes of the hills opposite softened the breath of the warmer winds from the south. But at this time of year, the wind swung around and sharpened its edges. It smelled of frost and peat and smoke and damp. It seeped through the cracks in the door and rattled the glass in the windows.

The wind wrapped itself round the back of the house and found the year's gathered detritus – old sacks, leaves, straw – and scattered it back across the yard. She felt as if she'd been found out. Everything the wind said was cruel. A judgement. The songs it sang were bitter and grating. It found her flesh between her clothes and dragged its sinister blade across her skin. There was no getting warm. The smoke backed down the chimney and smutted the clothes on the dryer in front of the hearth.

She cursed the wind every moment she had to venture outside. She cursed Patrick too for leaving her to this, this bitter solitude. She stayed in as long as she dared, putting off the tedious tasks she knew she must perform. She went to the back bedroom and opened the blanket box, cursed the moths that had evidently been feasting on the blankets and garments within. At last she found it Patrick's old Guernsey and the looseknit shawl her mother had worn. She wrapped herself against the oncoming grief of the wind.

She battled across the muddy yard and opened the henhouse. The five were hunkered on the lowest perch, their heads pulled down into the shoulders of their wings, feathers ruffled up such that she could see the purple grey roots of their plumage. She tipped grain into the feeders and cracked the ice in the water trough but the birds remained in their maudlin meditations, sullenly blinking at her for disturbing them. She could feel their annoyance. Should she leave the flaps open? They showed no inclination to venture out into the gritty wind.

'You've got drink. You've got scran. You'll survive a day,' she said.

It was only after she had lowered the flaps again that she heard the beating of wings come from inside,

'Ah, bugger you,' she said. 'Bugger the lot of you! You'll stay in there now and like it!'

Now the snow had started, thick and fast. It had plastered itself across her back much more thickly than she had realised as she tended to the chickens. She turned her head as if to challenge the beast wind but was forced to squint her eyes against the icy blasts. Snow crystals stung her cheeks. Head down, and pulling the shawl tighter around her, she set off across the yard to the barn.

And now she saw her mistake, the barn door had been flung open before the wind. She should have come here straight away – as soon as she had caught the sound of the weather cock grinding its unfamiliar wail. The barn had shuddered and swallowed gust after gust of the shouting wind.

During the night the milker had given birth. She had heard the animal lowing, a dark rich guttural moan. Patrick would have recognised the signs and she would have left her bed and followed him to the barn, lantern in hand, to see to the animal. She knew how to follow him. She knew how to be at his right hand. She knew what he would need before he knew himself. But with Patrick gone, the rhythm was upset. The natural order was in chaos. The sound and sights that were language to him, cues and clues as to what he needed to do, now went untranslated for her. She was alone and the wind sharpened her aloneness, tattering the memories of their life together, ripping their story from the landscape and leaving her with broken words, fragments of their togetherness that no longer meant anything but just hung like brittle flags, dissolving under the acid breath of the North wind.

The milker lay on her side. A black motionless mound was spilled in the straw beside her.

Snow still gusted in through the open barn door. It had been closed the previous night as usual. She had made sure of that. But as had so often happened before, the wind change had challenged the latch and caught the great timber panel full force, splintering the wooden closure like kindling. Patrick had had to repair it many times, had often said he should get an iron fixing from Howlett the farrier, but had never got round to it.

She cursed him again, this man whom she had loved so deeply, relied on so completely and who had left her so suddenly.

It was her grief at losing him that was transfigured into this anger at him and now, as she stooped to test the little corpse for any vestige of life left, she cursed Patrick until the tears ran. She held the head of the calf in her lap, pulled at the mucus that still clung to its muzzle. But nothing. The animal's eyes were half open but glazed and dim. The neck was stiff and cold.

The milker turned her head towards the woman and a deep rolling growl rippled in her throat.

'Tis too bad, old girl. Too bad. I'm sorry.'

She stood up. Pushed the tears from her eyes with the back of her wrist. She bent and found the calf's front hoofs and, holding them together in one hand dragged it out of the barn. The umbilical cord trailed after it, terminating in a massed clamp of blood and slime and mucilage. She would figure out what to do later. It would come to no harm now, no greater harm anyway, and the cold wind would slow the rotting. She left it around the side of the barn and covered it over with some old sacking.

The snow was falling thicker still and no sooner had she pulled the sack over the little corpse, than the flakes began to blanket it.

She rubbed her hands on her skirt, cupped them together and blew into the opening between her thumbs. As she stood and looked down the valley, into the very throat of the wind, she saw a dark smudge among the falling snow, moving vaguely, slowly, towards her. The smudge moved in the rhythm of a person walking, head down, trudging through the thickening quilt of powder.

She saw the body opening and closing with each heavy step.

A person, a woman, coming towards her – a dark, hooded figure looming out of the snow towards her...

19.02.2019

No waiting

I will no longer wait
for this bus
because buses slow down
if you are waiting for them
and it makes no odds
if I see the very first moment
of its bumper
rounding the corner
at the end of the road

It will either come
or it will not come
whether I wait 

or not

No
I will no longer wait
but I will stand here
because this bus-stop
is as good a place to stand
as anywhere else

and I will watch the sun
creep in and out of the clouds

and I will watch children
running near the kerb

and I will hear their parents
scolding them

and I will watch
a starling
on the gutter of a house
preening itself

and I will breathe
the bus-stop air
rather than the air by the crossing

and that will make a change

and perhaps
while I stand here
watching and breathing and listening
I will count the chips of paint
on the bus-shelter
and fancy that I can see a face
forming in the dry stud
of chewing gum
that someone has posted
on the glass

and I will imagine 

the sweetness of the gum

on my tongue

But I am not waiting for the bus
because it takes too much energy
and I don't have that kind of wealth

No
No waiting
for the bus
even though
you said
you might be on it

Winter Blues

'Yes, yes,' he said, 'I'll get it fixed. Don't you worry about that. Don't you worry. I'll get it fixed before the cold weather comes. I've got a guy does things for me like this. Jim. I'll get him to come over and have a look, ok. He'll fix it. He's good at boilers. I'll get him to come over next week. You here next week? I'll get him to come over and have a look... What day is best for you? He'll have to come and have a look then probably he'll have to order some parts, so it might take a day or two to get them because... these old boilers, well, the merchants don't keep the parts in stock now, you know. You can still get them, like, but you have to order them, you know.

'Ok, so I'll get Jim to come and have a look and then when he's got the parts he'll come back and fix it. You know, it might take a week or two, but it'll be done before the cold weather comes you can be sure of that. I don't want to mess you around. You'll need the heating when the cold weather comes. These old blocks are freezing in the winter - no insulation, see - they didn't think about that when they built them, I suppose. Didn't have the technology, maybe.
'Rightio is there anything else while I'm here?'

'Well, you said that you would fix the window in the bathroom last time you came ...'

'I did, I did! I haven't forgotten, but I need to... I just haven't had time to get to the glass place, you know. But it's on my list. It's top of my list. For next week. I'll get the glass and come over. And fix it. Do you mind me just letting myself in if you're not here?'

'No no that's... '

'I'll come over next week with the glass and I'll... Right, if there's nothing else I've got to get home. Sharon's got line dancing tonight and I said I'd drop her. All right? I'll love you and leave you then, Amanda, and I'll give you a ring when I've spoken to Jim to let you know when he's coming over. All right?

'Yes that's all right, I suppose.'

'Good, good, see you then, then... I must say you've got the place looking nice. Better than the last guy. Still that's a woman for you, isn't it, making things look nice. Men can't be ars... bothered with stuff like that can they, but no, but yes, you, you've got an eye. I can tell. I should take you on, eh? Take you on as a stylist, eh? You could sort them all out, couldn't you? Ok then, bye bye...'

'Bye, Phil...'

She pushed the door closed behind him and turned and leaned against it. She could hear his footsteps on the concrete in the stairwell, the resonating tang of his wedding ring hitting the iron handrail. Then his voice booming and indistinct as he met some other tenant down below. What was he wriggling out of doing for them, she wondered.

She hadn't got it looking nice. She hated it. All she done so far was hang some of her tapestry pieces on the wall. The two garden scenes she done for her degree show, and the framed seascape that Dad had liked so much.

She was desperate to hide the reality of the rooms. The damp plaster, the peeling wallpaper. She knew what she would do if it were her flat but as a tenant, a poor tenant, she was only too aware of the large sum Phil held as her bond. He was a git, she thought. Harmless, but a git nevertheless. He hadn't yet done any of the repairs she had asked him to do since she moved in: the bath tap washer; the leaking cistern on the toilet. Eventually she had given up waiting and borrowed some tools from Marchin and done it herself. Marchin wanted to do it for her but she wouldn't let him.

He had wanted to do a lot for her. She wouldn't let him do any of it. She could feel his Polish machismo in every throbbing sinew of his body. And while she loved that strength, the confidence in his blood, she hated how small she felt against him. She despised the simpering child that she regressed into in his arms. Shrank from every feeling of power she had painstakingly fermented in herself.

So while he became more and more dominating of her she found herself wanting more and more to resist. Their love-making which had been playful, sensitive and passionate in the beginning, became rough and angry, wild and unpredictable. He took to leaving while she slept so she'd wake up alone, wondering where he had gone.

So, when Cameron told her he'd seen Marchin with someone else she had ended it. And he didn't fight for her. It was, she felt afterwards, the typical male tactic of behaving so badly that eventually the woman would end the relationship and then he, as he already had, would take his victimhood and his urges into the bed of another. She'd felt the pattern many times before.

'Fuck him,' she said out loud, pushed herself forcefully from the door and into the kitchen.

'Bastard!'

She put the kettle on and looked out onto the swing park below. Two kids were sitting on the swings, rocking, but not swinging. They were, what, fifteen? Sixteen, maybe... hanging on to childhood securities but too cool to play. She had long hair. He had his hood up. Amanda, even from this distance, could sense the balance of tensions between them.

'Don't do it,' she mumbled to the girl as the kettle switched itself off. 'Don't get taken in by it.'

She made sweet chai tea, dangling and dipping the tea bag on its string. She watched the colour of the water slowly shift in hue until after a few minutes she pulled the bag out, held it over the glass mug with one hand, and ran the fingers of the other down the string to the soaking pillow at the end. She squeezed, and dark droplets fell into the mug like blood into water, clouding and swirling until they disappeared into the brew.

She lifted the cup to her lips and blew.

She looked out again and saw the trees beyond the swing-park had lost their leaves. When had that happened? Last time she looked they had been bedecked in verdant foliage. Now they etched lines against the grey clouds. It was getting dark, too.

The boy and the girl stood up. She studied the chair of the swing, ran her palms across her buttocks, while he hitched up his beltless jeans.

Whatever they had talked about had changed their status. A new stage in their negotiations had been reached because while she stood looking at her fingers on the chain, he stepped up to her and kissed her cheek. She shrieked and pushed him away in mock shock. Amanda thought she could hear her say 'Who said you could do that?'

But Amanda knew that she had said it even if she hadn't used words.

He was brave, though, stood his ground, and evidently had some persuasive comment for the girl. She turned to him and let him take her hands. He pulled her towards him and their faces met.

Then she hit his chest and ran off laughing.

Amanda stood and watched the sky gradually darken. Then, from below, a voice drifted up to her - a woman's voice, singing. A deep sorrowful voice, singing an old song. The notes hung in the air. Maybe it was the black woman who had smiled at her in the stairwell yesterday, now lilting her desperate song out into the early evening.

'... caaaan't help lovin' that maan of mine.'

Ella sings...