First in the Queue

I'm off down the hill to the Post Office to pick up change for the till.

We've a shortage of pennies.

It’s a hot afternoon, the Sun dripping down the back of my neck.

I'm in the queue.

Dawn and Doreen are enthroned on their stools behind the glass –  positions One and Three – and Rose, "Cashier Number Two, please," is a small, unnoticeable woman between the double D.

Dawn and Doreen mirror each other; a genuine 88, the real thing, two pneumatic ladies bantering over Rose’s quiet head.  And when they must move in the course of their work, they float like dodgems around the cluttered space.  Gently their midriffs collide in the tighter corners – softly rebounding from each other, pin-balling across the office floor, reversing and negotiating. 

Dawn, younger but senior, Doreen, older, on the edge of insubordinate.  She’s looking at retiring but has just a hint of the memory of a sexual encounter or two about her – a someone by Beryl Cook.  

Dawn’s busy with a young man sending football stickers.

- They'll squash no problem, he says and she forces the package through the Small Packet size guide.

Rose is busy putting five pounds worth of gas on somebody’s card.  

Doreen’s got the Position Closed sign up; she's been busy untangling rubber bands or something.

Rose finishes with her customer and it’s me next, but as I step forward Doreen takes down her sign and calls me over to her window.

- I'll do him, Rose, she says, with a slight tinge of innuendo, looking at me from under her mascara.

- Afternoon, Doreen.

I slide the change book, with the cash inside, under the glass to Doreen.

She takes it with a slight sigh.

- Thank you, lovey.

She does everything with a slight sigh.  She likes her job – the people – the public – it’s important, but she doesn’t like money or counting or having to do it.  Everything’s a sigh but ending in a smile.

She tots the column of figures and riffles the notes, moistening her fingers on an already dry sponge damper.  Her gold topped fingernails glisten like new pound coins, flashing over the fleshy pads of her counting digits.

I have to look away from the blurring movement.  I can’t count as fast she, and I get a bit queasy watching the whirring of her hands.

Postman Pete comes in from his van.  He’s here to collect parcels.  He flicks out his electronic pad. 

- Picked up the wrong one! he says, dabbing at the screen with a capped ballpoint pen.

- Oh! you idiot, wails Dawn.

- It were full of fish!

- Fish? No! What live fish? says Dawn.  No!

- No, y’ dope, tuna, tins o’ tuna.

- Oh, I were gonna say… shouldn’t be shipping fish, not live fish, not in’t mail.

- No, says Pete.  Mind you talking of wildlife…

- What?

- I were just lifting it up and this massive big spider crawls out of it.  Massive hairy thing.  Nearly dropped it!

- Eeuw!  Nooo! Dawn and Doreen chorus.

Another customer moves up to Rose’s window.

- Here, says Dawn, we had to stop that feller sending spiders through post.  D’you remember, Dor?  You weren’t here, Rose.  Pots with them in, he had, wrapped ready to go int’ post.  Can you believe it?

- Oh ay, says Dor.  Oh, and Dawn, do you remember that woman with the crisps. 

But Dawn’s gone to fetch a sheet of First Class from the back.

Doreen looks to me for audience.

- This woman comes in and puts this great big box on the scale.  What’s in it, says I, she says “It’s snacks” but I thought she said “snakes”.  Oooh!  I heard her say “snakes” not “snacks” but it were crisps!

- Haha! I offer.

She chuckles to herself casting me quiet glances as she starts to push the little cash bags under the partition.

- Snakes!  Honestly… so that’s forty in ones, twenty in fifties, ten in twenties, five in tens and ten in copper.  Is that right, lovey?

- That’s right, Doreen.

I want to tell Doreen about Penny Stamp who worked in the Post Office where I grew up.  Penny Stamp.  Working in a Post Office.  But I can't find the right moment, so I don't say anything.

She pokes the last of the bags of shiny two pence pieces under the glass.

- They look new, I say.

- Yeah, I just made ‘em, she says winking at me.  Have you got a bag, lovey?

Then I'm off back up the hill with the weight of change bouncing my bag against my back.

Getting Married

(Please note names have not been changed to protect the innocent...)

Alison Ewens

and Michael Wolf

were getting married.

We knew that -

because Alison

rolled over and over

on the football field on Tuesday

at playtime

after dinner.

We all stood around

 then walked slowly

 with her rolling

at our feet

 all the way along

from one goal

to

the other.

Michael was there too -

he would not let anyone

get too close

it might be dangerous.

Dominic Patterson and Nicholas Downton

wanted to see

Alison and Michael kissing.

Alison told us

that if she asked

Michael

to kiss her

he would.

Michael said he would kiss her, too,

if she asked him.

But she did not ask him -

and he did not kiss her -

but we all knew

that they would be

getting married

one day

probably fairly soon.

But Dominic and Nicholas

were not convinced

and went off to play marbles

by the canteen.

Mountains and Ice Cream

I have been blessed or cursed with a memory for minutiae... Revisiting North Wales a few years ago this came back to me.

In 1969

a car pulls away from the station

at the foot of Mount

Snowdon.

A boy’s nose

breathes

mist onto the glass

as the father drives

away to find

“ice-cream instead”

In 1969,

a family ticket to the peak costs

£12.00

In 2006,

family ice cream instead costs

£12.00.

In 2006,

the boy is 46 –

he can’t remember the ice-cream

but he can still taste

the disappointment.

A Tale of the Unexpected

Ok, so I'm doing my delivery round on Wednesday and as I pull up at Mrs Wright's house, her neighbour who's, what,  about 78, is standing leaning against the wall by her front door.

I walk up veg box in hand and he's staring at the van...

- I'm trying to read what that says on your van...

- Oh, yes, it is a bit tricky to make out...

- What is it? B...E.. R, is it?

- B, E, A, N, I, E, S - Beanies...

- Beanies?   What like in Beans?

- Yes.

- Beanies ...oh.   Beanies...

I knock on Mrs Wright's door... she often takes a minute or two to come so I'm stood there waiting...

- She's in, but she's been pooorly, she probbly won't come.  Can't make that out...Beanies?

- No, it is a bit tricky...   I'll just leave it here under the bush.

- No, not there, here I'll tek it.   Gi'it here...

I rest the box on the wall for him to take.   It's only a ‘B’ box, standard size, no potatoes.   It's got some onions, carrots, a lettuce, spring greens, 3 courgettes, an aubergine.  It’s not heavy.

He lifts it off the wall.

- Blimey!   That's heavy!

I think he's joking.

He's not joking.  

He's holding the box and wobbling about.

- I've only got one leg!

He hobbles off to put the box in the passageway.

I watch him bend, straight-legged, slowly lowering the box onto the ground.

He straightens up, puffed from the exertion.   Poor old boy.   I feel a bit bad for him, making him struggle with his one leg.

- She's a fabulous cook, you know.

- Is she?

- Ooh fabulous.   I'd do some gardening jobs for her and she'd cook up Sunday lunch!   Ohh, fabulous. Hehe!

He pushes his belly out and rubs the memory of the food. 

- What is that then? Beanies?

- We're a greengrocer's and a wholefoods shop.   Been there more than twenty years.

- Twenty years?

- And more...

- Twenty years, not heard of it.   Where is it then?

- Down on Crookes Valley Road, you know just opposite the big church by the lights.

- Oh, down there.

- Yes.

- Oh, right.   Yes, I've a couple of young 'uns selling drugs for me down there.

- Rig... What!?

- I'll send them in...

I think he's joking.   He is joking...isn't he?

- Erm, well you needn't bother!

He's not laughing

He must be joking.

- Oh I don't care what they do, so long as they bring me my ackers.     See you.

Twa Corbies

Twa Corbies is a traditional folk song from Scotland.  You can find the original and a translation here...

Two black crows,

caped in feathers,

etched 4B

against the charcoal tarmac,

pecking with blade-black beaks

at some flattened thing

in the middle of

the London Road,

hopping highwaymen

pecking

then checking,

glancing,

dancing,

expecting to fly,

then hopping back and pecking again

quick as thieves

nicking stuff,

on nervous legs

preparing for the bounce off

Twa Corbies - an Illustration by Arthur Rackham

before some truck

or bus

can come and turn them

into the sort of mess

they are pecking at.

Sin eaters.

Twa corbies

borrowed from

the Dark Peak,

here at the traffic lights,

pecking at Death.

Then, later, 

two

like flapping, tattered binbags

stuffed up in a

leafless tree,

on finger thin branches

clawing at the All Souls’ sky

just by Johanna’s flats,

hunched down into their shoulders

finger smudges of rain

on their tarpaulin wings.

After Benediction

They say confession is good for the soul....

In the sitting room,

after Benediction,

when the Holy Ghost had settled on us,

O Salutaris Hostia,
most of us

would sit and watch

Going for a Song,

while Mum

or sometimes Dad

would put tea on the

trolley.

Then there would be

the squeaking of the wheels

and the gentle

clanking

of crockery,

Songs of Praise,

the large aluminium teapot,

the blue and white striped milk jug,

a family of mugs,

and knives and plates

jostling as the trolley wheels

found the edge of the carpet.

General purpose

noise and reaching

and spreading

of butter on bread,

white with dark crusts,

golden syrup,

bramble jelly,

Honeyboyhoney

in a large plastic tub,

Swiss roll,

Cadbury’s chocolate minirolls,

cup cakes,

Oaty wonder,

Mr Kipling

Jaffa,

Club

When the lemon yellow toaster had been bought

it would hide behind the sofa

and Dad would reach us slice after slice

of golden slice,

and hand them to Mum

who would

meltingly butter them

and spread them

with Golden Shred

or

blackcurrant jam.

In the absent mindedness

of preparing to eat,

I flicked my finger

and the large and luscious

mucus string

that I had just collected from my nose

found its way carelessly

into the air,

descending from the peak of its parabola

as Kate raised

her honey-dripping toast

to her mouth.

And there was another settling,

Tantum Ergo Sacramentum

a landing

and a shriek

and a shaming

and a reddening of cheeks

and a cutting off of corners,

and a

private

hopeful, yet doomed

resolution

as the bogie laden fragment

sizzled in the Parkray.

At Sunridge House

School time memories

Dusk falls

and the girls are early to bed.

But at half past eight

he and I take our guitars and

go gently into the

boarding house courtyard.

Below her window

we start to sing

and play

and one by one

all the windows above us

slide open and

girls

of every shape and age

lean out to listen

and when we have finished

playing and singing

they laugh

and chatter

and clap their hands.

And she

that is his sweetheart

is proud and embarrassed

that this boy would

dare to

do such a thing.

And others’ eyes

are turned towards her

and others’ hearts

are imagining

themselves thus serenaded.

And then

in the kitchen

we are sat on tall stools

and we are given

Hot Chocolate and Digestives

by laughing girls

Our guitars

rest gently

between our knees.

The kitchen is warm

by the gas burners

and we are flushed

that we have dared

to do such a thing.

A lenient teacher

suggests it would perhaps

be best

if we leave now.

And the two stand together

like adults.

He kisses her

in her pyjamas,

his hands

inside her dressing gown

smoothing the pink brushed cotton

over her hips.

Then I am walking down

through the town

with my guitar in its

soft, cloth case

gently banging against my leg

on my own.