I hadn’t been to Southend-on-Sea in years and therefore shouldn’t have been surprised by all the changes. I remembered, some thirty five years previously, visiting the town with a gang of friends. Then, there had been a Dixon’s on the corner where now there was the obligatory W.H.Smith. We had, back then, stopped for coffee’s at Dixon’s before making our way down to the world famous pier. Keddies was gone, replaced by a new façade that promised future renovation and development. The town was unremarkable in that it could have been anyone of a number of high streets. Missing was the identity and soul that I recalled, replaced with a corporate uniform seen in the reflected windows of Next, BHS, Marks and Spencers, Waterstones and a host of other look alike shops that could be found in Guilford, Bishops Stortford, Manchester and any other town or city in Britain. I walked past the glass fronted shops feeling as if I, oddly enough, knew the place well while still being a virtual stranger. People passed me as though mist, ephemeral figures without quality or substance; aliens that looked like me but who floated pass like an old reel-to-reel movie from a time long gone. Shuffling pass with a chill detachment, locked into their personal worlds, adrift like satellites orbiting my own curious world.
I thought of Brenda, of our brief encounter. I had been foolish in making such an entrance and wished that I could, as if by magic, re-wind the event and play it over again, a new. With a more structured and prepared approach. Still, too late now and no point in crying over spilt milk. Perhaps I should telephone and arrange to meet with her over a meal? Maybe invite her husband, Robert along too. She might feel less intimidated if she were with her husband. After nineteen forty eight neither I, nor my sisters ever heard form or saw our Mother again, although I was told she made a fleeting visit once to see Maggie when she was ill in hospital with pneumonia. Apparently, she came to see her but, for some reason unknown to us, made it into the hospital but never got as far as Maggie’s bedside. It remains a mystery to us now as it did then. Why did she come if not to see Maggie? Was it just to reassure herself that Maggie was alright? Did she meet with Dad before she had the chance to see Maggie and perhaps they argued again or perhaps Dad warned her off. Dad could be like that at times so it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had. But we didn’t know and now we never would.
I eventually reached the pier and again was shocked by how unremarkable it was. The longest pier in the world at over one and a bit miles. Just rickety planks of dull, ageing wood that had all seen better days. Rumour had it that the town was planning a face lift and God alone knew it needed it. I bought a bag of chips from a stall on the sea front and walked onto the pier. A train runs up and down the length of the pier but I decided against taking it and instead chose to walk. A stiff breeze blew at me as I walked but the cold soon dissipated as I strode on. The chips were far too salty but that could have been me, tastes do change after all and my tastes certainly had.
My first wife, Gloria, had been the sort of girl that, back in my day, we said was a ball of fun. Ebullient and every bit the soul of the party. We married in nineteen fifty seven, when I was twenty two and she just twenty. Our marriage lasted for just the same time; twenty years. We divorced in nineteen seventy seven, the year of the queens silver jubilee. Nothing acrimonious, we just drifted apart and no longer had anything to say to each other. Rather sad really, especially for our two boys but by then they were grown up and had their own lives to live. Gloria went onto marry again whilst I never did. Being a teacher there were plenty of opportunities but I simply didn’t want to get involved feeling far better to have the occasional lover but without any real ties. I sort of regretted that now but life is far too short for regrets isn’t it? The pier was anything but short and lived up to its reputation for being long. By the time I arrived at the end, I felt quite weary so I sat down on a wooded seat and watched the sea rise and fall as the tide made the currents flow and ebb. Our lives on this planet are so short, so brief that we really, all of us, should be born with the gift of hindsight so that we\ might live our lives as though each one might be the last. None of us realise how short and fragile life is nor how precious and yet we still blunder on making the self same mistakes over and over again. Human kind the supreme animal? I beg to differ. I hadn’t smoked for years but, with some bizarre desire, had bought a packet of cigarettes. I opened the packet and, putting one to my mouth, lit up. Oddly enough the smoke felt good as II inhaled it. I blew it out again with a nonchalant, self satisfied air as though I were Humphrey Bogart or Clarke Gable. Now there were two gentlemen who had every right to call themselves superstars unlike this modern bunch of talent less wasters. Take David Beckham for example. What on earth was so great about him? Bobby Moore was worth two of him and he never earned a fraction of what that young man had. Oh, don’t get me wrong, good luck to the fellow for taking advantage while he could but at least be honest about it. As that thought fled my mind with a rattle of grey I realised that, as much as I may like to think otherwise, I was getting old. You know that you are getting old when you start comparing your generations stars to the modern day ones. Tragic really. When I had divorced from my wife I had been forty two. For the first three years of my life after that I had no real interest in women at all, unless from a professional point of view. I did a lot of travelling whenever I could, nowhere particularly exotic although I did get to go to the United States. Prior to the divorce I had met Helen, a girl some twenty years younger than me. Buxom, blonde and the best laugh I had had in years. We never truly had an affair as we never slept together but my life was in need of some companionship back then and Helen was the perfect companion.
She entered my life like summer. Warm as honeysuckle and sudden as nicotine.
I remember the first collision of our eyes from across a silent room. A silence filled with the hubris of business. A spark that flew at acute angles and bounced around the distance between us like Morse code. A semaphore signal that rode on wings of lust and damp desire.
Of all the gin joints in all the world you had to walk into mine.
Funny that, the way that quote floated into my mind at just the same time as my eyes were undressing her, as she was undressing me. The strange, inexplicable magic weaved its drunken spell and we both became intoxicated by its voodoo.
The Gris Gris and the chicken bone.
Shake them.
Shake them.
Days bled into weeks and the turmoil of our lives twisted knotted desires between us and neither one of us could break the cord. And ironically neither one of us could break the vows we had made those years gone by. Loyalty or fear? Maybe elements of both. The age gap played no part. It really didn’t come into the equation. Commitment did and there was none on offer. None we could truthfully deliver. She danced before me and threw off her blouse and we kissed and promised the stars to each other but all we had to offer was a fistful of rose dust. I would have tasted those lips forever. I would have parted those thighs and laid my heart in her hand but that old devil, commitment and loyalty, and the love of children, strode between us with a vow.
She entered my life like summer and just as soon as seasons change she was gone.
I want you to take me on the front of a car
whilst the rain falls and soaks us to the bone
She said those words, she said those words to me and I loved her though I shouldn't.
I had never seen teeth so white or eyes so blue before; pearls and sapphires, sapphires and pearls. Her tongue tasted of stale cigarettes and the taste made me glad that I didn't smoke. The sun stroked the car like the golden hand of God caressing a cat and the promise of days stretched out before us. A myth in the making but a pleasant one.
She undid my shirt and sucked upon my nipples and then kissed my stomach with the flutter kiss of butterfly lips. I sighed a smug and self satisfied sigh and thought that there must be a god in heaven that has blessed me with forbidden kisses that fell from my chest to my midriff to my waist.
Down.
Down.
I placed my hands on her knees and prised her legs apart and she screamed. The sound shattered the moment as though stones thrown against stained glass.
“What's wrong? honey, what's wrong? “
She wept tears of poisoned jade from those gorgeous azure eyes.
She spoke in staccato syllables that bruised against her sobs and told me of a step father with his ivy hands and worm withered loins. She spoke of dark days and even darker nights and of a mother who knew but looked the other way with blinkered eyes. Of a man who whispered honeyed threats and wanted secrets sinister kept silent and hidden like cobwebs in a coffin.
this is love, this is love that I'm feeling
And I knew then that the scars of childhood terrors and memories ran deeper than any shared love. And i knew then.
“Take me home. Please.”
She said those words, she said those words to me and I loved her though I shouldn't.
All that ever was, or ever could be, was here right now. Here. I tried to pretend it wasn't happening, as if pretence could ward off the inevitable in the same way that a crucifix or a garland of garlic could ward off a vampire, but we both knew that what was happening was as much a ritual of fate as was the symmetry of the hour that wove the thread of minutes about us like a daisy chain. We held fast to the myth of the moment and clung to it in silent desperation in a way that, with the gift of hindsight, was as funny as it was tragic.
one love, one life, when it's one need in the night
Tragic like a pantomime horse or a clown with a painted smile and wounded, weeping eyes. Painful, brutal, honest? Sometimes though honesty is no substitute for self centred self deception but even so, we couldn't fail to realise the fundamental facts:
this was all there ever was and this was all there would ever be. You see, love isn't just the falling in, that bit is easy, it is the falling out and then climbing back up that fucking big hole that really counts. Climbing back up and out and reaffirming what real love is all about. For a moment, a fraction of a time, I forgot, I saw my own hurt rise up like a hillside and I cowered down in front of such an obstacle, I cowered down and saw toffee love, sticky and sweet and available but real love kicks arse and I could love, I always have loved and always will love but not this girl. The pain that was then passed and is nothing now but distant forgetfulness and toffee love is still a sweet taste, but that is all it is.
On the back of this relationship I wrote what had to be my first poem in years.
Waters Edge
Could you see me if I got any closer?
If you looked over your shoulder
And saw the mirrors reflection grazed onto the moon?
This is not the time for dim recall
Nor for the dewy eyed remembrance
Of the lost days spent star gazing and skimming stones.
We wrote our history in chalk dust
So that the winds of memory
Would blow and cast those thoughts away like crumbs.
I blew out another lungful of air and laughed out loud as the sea around the pier wrapped itself about the wooden pillars that held the structure in place.
Saturday, 6 September 2008
Chapter Eight - June 1956
Twist - chapter eight - June 1956
Stan sits with his head in his hand. It has been a long night. A long tortuous night. Lilly lays exhausted in the Muswell Hill hospital bed. Too exhausted to to think of the turn of events, too bone weary to weep. The labour had been an epic forty eight hours and the baby had been stillborn. The girl had been wrapped in a sheet and then had been taken for baptism before being taken down to the mortuary. Just such a tragic site to see something so innocent and so small lying dead before having truly lived. They had called the girl Brenda. It had been a name that Stan had long loved and Lilly had conceded to this although she had preferred Linda. Stan had wanted to telephone his son but had remembered his oath to Lilly but the more he thought about it the less he thought she could mind. His promise had been made with thoughts of a living child and not a dead one and although he didn’t think for a minute that his grief was anything compared to his wife’s, he still felt the pain of loss cut him to the soul. He needed to let his thoughts out. He needed to share his grief with someone who he knew loved him and would understand his hurt. In a noisy corner og the hospital, attached to the wall by reception, a public phone box hung. He dialled his son’s number, a Maidstone reference, and then pushed his tuppence into the slot.
“Maidstone 58995?”
“Hello son, it’s me. Sorry to call you so late in the day but I have some bad news for you. I hadn’t told you before ‘cos Lil didn’t want anyone to know but she was pregnant. I’m at Muswell Hill hospital now.”
“Blimey Dad, that is a bit of a shock ain’t it? No offense meant but ain’t the pair of you a bit old to be having children?”
“As much a surprise to me son as it was to you. Certainly wasn’t planned. Anyway, that is all beside the point as the baby was stillborn. Have to say, mush as she was unplanned, I feel bloody awful. Didn’t think it would affect me this way but I feel cut to the core. Seeing the poor little mite lying so still and lifeless. I guess it brought back memories of you and your sister when you was born. Funny how I still remember it.”
For a prolonged moment the only response Stan got was silence. He thought that perhaps they had been cut off and was about to hang up and try again when his sons voice sounded in his ear.
“I haven’t seen Ellie in years Dad. She promised to look after me when you and Mum divorced but I haven’t heard a dickey bird from her but I can tell you something now, something that I heard from a very good source recently, something that I reckon you wont want to hear but I think it only proper that you know of.”
“What’s that son?”
“Ellie has had a baby, an illegitimate child.”
Stan felt his head swim. He felt as if this night had been made to cause nothing but pain and fear for him. Although his daughter was of an age at twenty six to do as she pleased, to live her life as she saw fit, he still felt a deep concern for her well being. He couldn’t go to her now as he had a duty by Lilly but as soon as he could make the time he would get down to Canvey to offer what help he could for his eldest child.
Friday, 11 April 2008
Chapter Seven - October 1998
It struck Tom Hanley, as he sat at his desk looking out at the rain that had started to fall that, as far as he was concerned, there were really only two kinds of rain. One was the soft kind of mist like drizzle that fell with subtle pin drops that seemed to amount to nothing but that soon, and with unexpected results, soaked you to the skin before you knew it. It was the kind of rain that Tom had encountered on his walking holidays to the Lake District. The sort of rain that fell walkers were used to. It didn't really fall at all but just descended like a soft veil that silently set to creating a haze around your head and face and that made the rocks and slopes treacherous places to climb and descend. When out walking you simply covered up with a variety of water proof clothing but the face was always bare to the elements and because of that suffered the most as the soft rain clung to your eyebrows and eyelashes until your vision became impaired and then you found yourself constantly having to wipe the back of your hand across your eyes to enable you to see where you were putting your feet. Tom, as crazy as it seemed, loved those conditions but then again he simply adored his walking holidays much preferring them to his summer visits with his fiancée to the south coast of France. France was a beautiful country and he loved the way the French lived their lives with their work to live ethic opposed to his country’s and America’s habit of living to work. The Lake District held a certain magic for Tom and a form of release from the everyday tensions and stresses of working life. He thoroughly enjoyed his occupation and was passionately committed to his job but he always looked forward to his time walking the fells.
The second sort of rain was when those large, heavy drops fell with big droplets that exploded against the face and shattered \onto the pavement with huge wet crashes. You could hear that kind of rain. It fell like moist hammer blows. It was falling now. He could see it from his office window as it fell onto the grey paved area that lay directly below his hospital office. Leopard spots that turned the slabs from pale grey into a shimmering dark mass of concrete that looked as if it had just, moments before, been laid.
Tom preferred the first option of rain to the second but it was a close run thing. As a child, Tom had found the sight and sound of rain falling to be a therapeutic, almost erotic, sensation. A bit like watching fire flames dance. It had a similar, hypnotic quality. It was working its voodoo now and Tom had to forcibly drag his mind back to the task at hand. It was a job that doctors were increasingly finding themselves having to do. The task of accounting for the role of doctoring was now becoming,
or so it seemed, as equally important as the actual role of administering to the sick. It was a bit like being a policeman, you wanted to be out there seeing the streets clear of villains and lowlifes but instead found your self writing reports about the cost of countering all the villains and lowlifes. It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most exacting and tedious part of Tom’s job. The telephone’s sudden outburst was a welcome distraction.
“Hello, Tom Hanley.”
“Doctor Hanley, I have a Vicky Hargreaves on the line from Braithwaite and Bent. Do you want to accept the call?”
“Who?”
“She is the young lady that you saw regarding Eleanor Harrison last month. Do you remember? She requested a brief meeting with Eleanor Harrison regarding her brothers death and the subsequent inheritance. You attended the meeting I believe?”
“Yes, I remember. Put her on please Rose. Thanks.”
He remembered her well enough now. Pretty girl. Dark hair. Latin looking. Deep brown eyes. Pert breasts. Tight little arse. Uncommonly bright too as he remembered. They had enjoyed quite a deep conversation regarding the fractured family unit.
“Ms Hargreaves, nice to hear from you again. How can I help?”
“Hello Doctor Hanley. I hope that you are well. Not an inappropriate time to call?”
“No, not at all. Having to go through my weekly facts and figures. Finances you know? Boring as hell. Thank god for your call. Now, how can I help you?”
“Well, it will probably sound a bit strange but following on from our conversation about Ellie and her
family I have to confess that I became very interested in both poor Ellie’s situation and also the whole bizarre business surrounding her family. I did a bit of digging around. I know I shouldn’t but I became more and more intrigued the more I unearthed. I guess at this point you will decide to politely tell me that you are busy and then thank me for my call before hanging up on me.”
The content of what she was saying did have a note of sheer bloody inquisitiveness about it but he understood why someone could so easily become hooked by such a case, certainly such an odd case as Ellie’s. There were some very unusual anomalies surrounding Eleanor Harrison and her family.
“Not at all. I too find the whole business not only tragic but also intriguing. What do you have in mind?”
“Would you be up for us meeting? I have, as I said, uncovered some information on Ellie and her family. If you would then great. Do you know Smith’s restaurant?”
“Smith’s in Ongar? Yes, I know it.”
“If I buy you dinner could you make the twenty first at eight?”
“Certainly. I look forward to it. Eight on the twenty first it is then.”
The telephone returned to its cradle Tom ran the brief conversation over again in his mind. Interesting certainly but it wasn’t just idle nosiness on his part about a patients odd history, although he was genuinely interested, that had promoted him to accept the dinner invitation. There was something about Vicky (Victoria maybe?) that Tom found wonderfully exciting. He would have to square it with Ruth first but yes, he was very much looking forward to a meal and night of conversation with the exotic Ms Hargreaves.
Outside the rain had stopped as suddenly as it had started. The ominous dark grey clouds were parting and a fragile blue sky was beginning to thrust its way through. The grounds of Runwell Hospital looked fresh and verdant as if a host of natures cleaners had given the place a late spring clean. September had floated into October and the seasons were moving rapidly on. Summer was now long gone and Autumn well on its way. Winter would arrive before you knew it and then the following years spring. Tom and his fiancée, Ruth, had planned for a late spring wedding in 1999. The year before the millennium. Ruth would have it that getting married then held some strange mystical overtone. Marrying on the last year of the last century apparently held an element of good luck. One thing was for certain. Life was certainly full of unexpected occurrences.
Tom turned the excel spreadsheet off. He was still a little baffled by the advent of computer technology.
Smith’s. Nice restaurant. He was looking forward to it.
.
.
all words and art are copyright © of cocaine jesus.
The second sort of rain was when those large, heavy drops fell with big droplets that exploded against the face and shattered \onto the pavement with huge wet crashes. You could hear that kind of rain. It fell like moist hammer blows. It was falling now. He could see it from his office window as it fell onto the grey paved area that lay directly below his hospital office. Leopard spots that turned the slabs from pale grey into a shimmering dark mass of concrete that looked as if it had just, moments before, been laid.
Tom preferred the first option of rain to the second but it was a close run thing. As a child, Tom had found the sight and sound of rain falling to be a therapeutic, almost erotic, sensation. A bit like watching fire flames dance. It had a similar, hypnotic quality. It was working its voodoo now and Tom had to forcibly drag his mind back to the task at hand. It was a job that doctors were increasingly finding themselves having to do. The task of accounting for the role of doctoring was now becoming,
or so it seemed, as equally important as the actual role of administering to the sick. It was a bit like being a policeman, you wanted to be out there seeing the streets clear of villains and lowlifes but instead found your self writing reports about the cost of countering all the villains and lowlifes. It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most exacting and tedious part of Tom’s job. The telephone’s sudden outburst was a welcome distraction.
“Hello, Tom Hanley.”
“Doctor Hanley, I have a Vicky Hargreaves on the line from Braithwaite and Bent. Do you want to accept the call?”
“Who?”
“She is the young lady that you saw regarding Eleanor Harrison last month. Do you remember? She requested a brief meeting with Eleanor Harrison regarding her brothers death and the subsequent inheritance. You attended the meeting I believe?”
“Yes, I remember. Put her on please Rose. Thanks.”
He remembered her well enough now. Pretty girl. Dark hair. Latin looking. Deep brown eyes. Pert breasts. Tight little arse. Uncommonly bright too as he remembered. They had enjoyed quite a deep conversation regarding the fractured family unit.
“Ms Hargreaves, nice to hear from you again. How can I help?”
“Hello Doctor Hanley. I hope that you are well. Not an inappropriate time to call?”
“No, not at all. Having to go through my weekly facts and figures. Finances you know? Boring as hell. Thank god for your call. Now, how can I help you?”
“Well, it will probably sound a bit strange but following on from our conversation about Ellie and her
family I have to confess that I became very interested in both poor Ellie’s situation and also the whole bizarre business surrounding her family. I did a bit of digging around. I know I shouldn’t but I became more and more intrigued the more I unearthed. I guess at this point you will decide to politely tell me that you are busy and then thank me for my call before hanging up on me.”
The content of what she was saying did have a note of sheer bloody inquisitiveness about it but he understood why someone could so easily become hooked by such a case, certainly such an odd case as Ellie’s. There were some very unusual anomalies surrounding Eleanor Harrison and her family.
“Not at all. I too find the whole business not only tragic but also intriguing. What do you have in mind?”
“Would you be up for us meeting? I have, as I said, uncovered some information on Ellie and her family. If you would then great. Do you know Smith’s restaurant?”
“Smith’s in Ongar? Yes, I know it.”
“If I buy you dinner could you make the twenty first at eight?”
“Certainly. I look forward to it. Eight on the twenty first it is then.”
The telephone returned to its cradle Tom ran the brief conversation over again in his mind. Interesting certainly but it wasn’t just idle nosiness on his part about a patients odd history, although he was genuinely interested, that had promoted him to accept the dinner invitation. There was something about Vicky (Victoria maybe?) that Tom found wonderfully exciting. He would have to square it with Ruth first but yes, he was very much looking forward to a meal and night of conversation with the exotic Ms Hargreaves.
Outside the rain had stopped as suddenly as it had started. The ominous dark grey clouds were parting and a fragile blue sky was beginning to thrust its way through. The grounds of Runwell Hospital looked fresh and verdant as if a host of natures cleaners had given the place a late spring clean. September had floated into October and the seasons were moving rapidly on. Summer was now long gone and Autumn well on its way. Winter would arrive before you knew it and then the following years spring. Tom and his fiancée, Ruth, had planned for a late spring wedding in 1999. The year before the millennium. Ruth would have it that getting married then held some strange mystical overtone. Marrying on the last year of the last century apparently held an element of good luck. One thing was for certain. Life was certainly full of unexpected occurrences.
Tom turned the excel spreadsheet off. He was still a little baffled by the advent of computer technology.
Smith’s. Nice restaurant. He was looking forward to it.
.
.
all words and art are copyright © of cocaine jesus.
Monday, 3 March 2008
chapter six - August 1986
Last night Brenda awoke me with a shake. It took me awhile, as it always does, to rouse myself from sleep. She was in pain and bleeding. Panic drove itself into my head and for mintues I simply ran around pleading with her to tell me what to do. Bloody daft I know but I was at a complete loss. Seeing her in pain and seeing blood weeping from her womb drove me near to madness. Thank god, even though she must have been in extreme pain, she managed to maintain a degree of her normal common sense and told me to phone the Doctor. Damn obvious I know and I should have thought of it myself.
Took bloody ages for anyone to reply and then it was an answer phone that said "If your call is an emergency then please hold the line and we will put you through to the Doctor on call". It felt like ages before I heard a sleepy sounding voice answer my call. It was Doctor Macveigh. He sounded less grumpy than usual which seemed ironic given the fact that it was two in the morning. I explained the situation and he said that he would be there as soon as he could but in the meantime that i should make my wife some tea and try to ensure that she was as relaxed and comfortable as she could be under the circumstances.
There is something oddly irritating about Doctors when they state not only the obvious but in such patronising tones. I didn’t argue or point out how infuriating I found the manner of what he was telling me, instead I just said Yes, in all the right places and hope to hell that he would gt here quickly.
Why is it that everything bad always occurs at between two and three in the morning.
Mind you, that isn't strictly true. Three years ago, at virtually the same time the twins had been born and that was anything like bad. It was the best of times. I could still remember with such clarity not only the feeling of deep elation, of joy at being a father but also of being peacock proud that I had helped to create these two minor miracles. A boy and a girl. Can you imagine anything so wonderful? One of each and in one go. All down to me. Well, of course that bit was far from the truth. The common place miracle that nature performs with each birth has now become routine and the male part of the birth only lasts for moments. Birth really puts sex into perspective. A delightful means to an end. I found the whole birthing experience something close to an epiphany. Like looking into the blinding eye of God as he perform the extraordinary and makes it appear mundane.
A boy and girl, or, in our case, a girl and boy. Separated by minutes and by two very distinctive looks and two highly individual personalities.
April 4th 1983. The morning our family arrived.
And now, lying on a bed and groaning with a low sound my wife was weeping and bleeding whilst I watched our tiny baby die.
When the Doctor arrived he was accompanied by an ambulance who, after he had speedily examined her, whisked her off to Southend Hospital.
They did their best of course but it was too late. The baby couldn't have possibly survied, too much blood was lost. Brenda had miscarried.
I tried to comfort her. I tried to wrap my arms around her but she seemd so cold so distant. I cannot help but believe that something subtle and unknowable has altered between us. Something forever has changed.
.
.
.
all words and art are copyright © of cocaine jesus.
Took bloody ages for anyone to reply and then it was an answer phone that said "If your call is an emergency then please hold the line and we will put you through to the Doctor on call". It felt like ages before I heard a sleepy sounding voice answer my call. It was Doctor Macveigh. He sounded less grumpy than usual which seemed ironic given the fact that it was two in the morning. I explained the situation and he said that he would be there as soon as he could but in the meantime that i should make my wife some tea and try to ensure that she was as relaxed and comfortable as she could be under the circumstances.
There is something oddly irritating about Doctors when they state not only the obvious but in such patronising tones. I didn’t argue or point out how infuriating I found the manner of what he was telling me, instead I just said Yes, in all the right places and hope to hell that he would gt here quickly.
Why is it that everything bad always occurs at between two and three in the morning.
Mind you, that isn't strictly true. Three years ago, at virtually the same time the twins had been born and that was anything like bad. It was the best of times. I could still remember with such clarity not only the feeling of deep elation, of joy at being a father but also of being peacock proud that I had helped to create these two minor miracles. A boy and a girl. Can you imagine anything so wonderful? One of each and in one go. All down to me. Well, of course that bit was far from the truth. The common place miracle that nature performs with each birth has now become routine and the male part of the birth only lasts for moments. Birth really puts sex into perspective. A delightful means to an end. I found the whole birthing experience something close to an epiphany. Like looking into the blinding eye of God as he perform the extraordinary and makes it appear mundane.
A boy and girl, or, in our case, a girl and boy. Separated by minutes and by two very distinctive looks and two highly individual personalities.
April 4th 1983. The morning our family arrived.
And now, lying on a bed and groaning with a low sound my wife was weeping and bleeding whilst I watched our tiny baby die.
When the Doctor arrived he was accompanied by an ambulance who, after he had speedily examined her, whisked her off to Southend Hospital.
They did their best of course but it was too late. The baby couldn't have possibly survied, too much blood was lost. Brenda had miscarried.
I tried to comfort her. I tried to wrap my arms around her but she seemd so cold so distant. I cannot help but believe that something subtle and unknowable has altered between us. Something forever has changed.
.
.
.
all words and art are copyright © of cocaine jesus.
Saturday, 1 March 2008
Chapter five - March 2002/1947
Brenda was nothing like my Mum.
Sorry. Nothing like our Mum.
I guess that she took more after her father for she was tall and slender whereas my, OUR Mum was short and plump.
Brenda had an elegance and a style that our mum had never had. Mum was five foot two. Bosomy even (If there is such a word) and very much the housewife. Brenda, on first sight, didn't appear to be, in any shape or form, someone you could describe as a housewife. Reserved. Refined. Resplendent even in her fine clothes and her exotic perfume.
She was nothing like our shared mother though.
I had introduced myself moments before and now we stood facing each other. She, and her husband, looked at me as though they either hadn't heard me properly or, as I really suspected, they heard me perfectly well but with a matter of disguised disbelief. They certainly didn't welcome me into the bosom (that word again) of their family.
From behind them a voice called out and Brenda's husband, Robert, turned to see who had called and then, with the merest of nods to me, went toward the caller. He was taller than her and, again, looked and smelt of comfort if not wealth.
I could see from Brenda's eyes that my unsuspected appearance was not only unannounced but also unwelcome.
"My brother?"
"Yes."
"My brother died four years ago."
"I am sorry to hear that. I didn't know your other brother or your other sister. I am still your brother though. My name is Alexander."
"Other sister? How do you know so much about me? About my family? Why have you come here today of all day's? Why now? I am burying my Mother. My brother died four years ago and I have never met my brother's other sister. Please, I don't mean to be rude but please, leave us in peace, at least for today, at least for now."
With that she turned away from me and followed her husband. Her daughter, blue eyed and sweet stood a little distance from me. She had been watching and listening to our odd conversation. She stared at me as though observing something unusual. Children often seem to have that ability don't they? The power, with just a look and with a silence that is absolute, to make adults feel totally naked and utterly worthless.
"Hello. My name is Alexander. I seem to have upset your mum."
"Are you really her brother?"
"Yes, I'm afraid I am."
"And she has got a sister?"
"Two. Elizabeth and Margaret"
She stood there, pale and pretty considering the detail of our brief conversation. The spring wind captured a handful of dust and sent it spinning around our feet.
"Did you know my Grandmother?"
"Yes, she was my Mum."
"Why didn't she ever speak of you then?"
Funny thing that. I couldn't answer the child’s question. I found that I didn't know the answer. I remembered the day she left as clear as crystal but I didn't know why she never spoke of me.
"She never said that she had a son?"
"Nope, never. And she never mentioned your sisters either."
I felt a pain that I thought I had dealt with many years ago reappear and slice itself deep into my psyche. I suppose a pain like that can never be got rid of. The scar it leaves marks you for life and on occasion the scar throbs.
In a funny way the girl before me reminded me of little Maggie, or at least Maggie as she was way back then.
"May I ask your name?"
"Sophie."
"And you are about twelve?"
At this I had managed to massage her ego. I could see that she wasn't twelve but when you are a kid being told by an adult that you look older is always taken as a compliment. My ruse worked. She blushed.
"Gran used to say that I looked older than my years. I am ten."
She was the same age that Maggie had been when Mum had left us. Ten.
1948 was the year that Mum had left us but it was 1947 when the argument to end arguments had happened. The row like no other.
Dad was never a violent man. He never hit Mum but then again he didn't need to. He had a vile way with words that could flay your mind.
"You whore! Don't give me that crap about doing his house work. You are being fucked by him aint ya? Don't lie to me Lilly. I know it when you lie."
His face was contorted by his rage and his breath gave away the alcohol that fuelled that fury.
"Harry, no, I swear I haven't. It is just a cleaning job. Cleaning is all I do I swear."
The table rocked as his fists smashed into it sending plates crashing to the floor and causing Maggie to scream with fear. Lizzy and I just sat there petrified. Hating him for his outbursts. Hating him for hurting Mum with his words. Not wanting to believe that Mum was 'having it off' with this other bloke.
"CLEANING? FUCKING CLEANING? CLEANING HIS FUCKING COCK MORE LIKE!"
Hard to describe the affect that this incident had on all of us but it was Maggie who took it the worst. Maggie was Daddies little girl, his little diamond. She worshiped the ground he walked on and always forgave him his drunken rages. We all were scarred by this row. The fact that after his vile words he slammed out of our house and went back down to the pub didn't lessen the effect that his words and actions had on us. As I have said previously, we all loved our Dad, he was, believe it or not, a good father to us but he was a fool for drink and if he hadn't spent so much of his pay on booze then maybe Mum wouldn't have done what she did. But then again, what did she do apart from leave us? To this day we still don't know if she was having an affair or not. She ended up with him but what came first? The affair or Dad's abuse? Did Dad drive her away or was she captured, her heart that is, by this other man?
Time became a swirl from then on. The blonde girl before me was just another stranger. Facts folded into fantasy and fiction poured out a cup of liquid fact. I turned and walked away from these people, from my sister and her family. I was foolish to have come here. Foolish to have approached them.
Sorry. Nothing like our Mum.
I guess that she took more after her father for she was tall and slender whereas my, OUR Mum was short and plump.
Brenda had an elegance and a style that our mum had never had. Mum was five foot two. Bosomy even (If there is such a word) and very much the housewife. Brenda, on first sight, didn't appear to be, in any shape or form, someone you could describe as a housewife. Reserved. Refined. Resplendent even in her fine clothes and her exotic perfume.
She was nothing like our shared mother though.
I had introduced myself moments before and now we stood facing each other. She, and her husband, looked at me as though they either hadn't heard me properly or, as I really suspected, they heard me perfectly well but with a matter of disguised disbelief. They certainly didn't welcome me into the bosom (that word again) of their family.
From behind them a voice called out and Brenda's husband, Robert, turned to see who had called and then, with the merest of nods to me, went toward the caller. He was taller than her and, again, looked and smelt of comfort if not wealth.
I could see from Brenda's eyes that my unsuspected appearance was not only unannounced but also unwelcome.
"My brother?"
"Yes."
"My brother died four years ago."
"I am sorry to hear that. I didn't know your other brother or your other sister. I am still your brother though. My name is Alexander."
"Other sister? How do you know so much about me? About my family? Why have you come here today of all day's? Why now? I am burying my Mother. My brother died four years ago and I have never met my brother's other sister. Please, I don't mean to be rude but please, leave us in peace, at least for today, at least for now."
With that she turned away from me and followed her husband. Her daughter, blue eyed and sweet stood a little distance from me. She had been watching and listening to our odd conversation. She stared at me as though observing something unusual. Children often seem to have that ability don't they? The power, with just a look and with a silence that is absolute, to make adults feel totally naked and utterly worthless.
"Hello. My name is Alexander. I seem to have upset your mum."
"Are you really her brother?"
"Yes, I'm afraid I am."
"And she has got a sister?"
"Two. Elizabeth and Margaret"
She stood there, pale and pretty considering the detail of our brief conversation. The spring wind captured a handful of dust and sent it spinning around our feet.
"Did you know my Grandmother?"
"Yes, she was my Mum."
"Why didn't she ever speak of you then?"
Funny thing that. I couldn't answer the child’s question. I found that I didn't know the answer. I remembered the day she left as clear as crystal but I didn't know why she never spoke of me.
"She never said that she had a son?"
"Nope, never. And she never mentioned your sisters either."
I felt a pain that I thought I had dealt with many years ago reappear and slice itself deep into my psyche. I suppose a pain like that can never be got rid of. The scar it leaves marks you for life and on occasion the scar throbs.
In a funny way the girl before me reminded me of little Maggie, or at least Maggie as she was way back then.
"May I ask your name?"
"Sophie."
"And you are about twelve?"
At this I had managed to massage her ego. I could see that she wasn't twelve but when you are a kid being told by an adult that you look older is always taken as a compliment. My ruse worked. She blushed.
"Gran used to say that I looked older than my years. I am ten."
She was the same age that Maggie had been when Mum had left us. Ten.
1948 was the year that Mum had left us but it was 1947 when the argument to end arguments had happened. The row like no other.
Dad was never a violent man. He never hit Mum but then again he didn't need to. He had a vile way with words that could flay your mind.
1947
"You whore! Don't give me that crap about doing his house work. You are being fucked by him aint ya? Don't lie to me Lilly. I know it when you lie."
His face was contorted by his rage and his breath gave away the alcohol that fuelled that fury.
"Harry, no, I swear I haven't. It is just a cleaning job. Cleaning is all I do I swear."
The table rocked as his fists smashed into it sending plates crashing to the floor and causing Maggie to scream with fear. Lizzy and I just sat there petrified. Hating him for his outbursts. Hating him for hurting Mum with his words. Not wanting to believe that Mum was 'having it off' with this other bloke.
"CLEANING? FUCKING CLEANING? CLEANING HIS FUCKING COCK MORE LIKE!"
Hard to describe the affect that this incident had on all of us but it was Maggie who took it the worst. Maggie was Daddies little girl, his little diamond. She worshiped the ground he walked on and always forgave him his drunken rages. We all were scarred by this row. The fact that after his vile words he slammed out of our house and went back down to the pub didn't lessen the effect that his words and actions had on us. As I have said previously, we all loved our Dad, he was, believe it or not, a good father to us but he was a fool for drink and if he hadn't spent so much of his pay on booze then maybe Mum wouldn't have done what she did. But then again, what did she do apart from leave us? To this day we still don't know if she was having an affair or not. She ended up with him but what came first? The affair or Dad's abuse? Did Dad drive her away or was she captured, her heart that is, by this other man?
Time became a swirl from then on. The blonde girl before me was just another stranger. Facts folded into fantasy and fiction poured out a cup of liquid fact. I turned and walked away from these people, from my sister and her family. I was foolish to have come here. Foolish to have approached them.
But she was my Mum.
Monday, 25 February 2008
Chapter four -September 1998
Runwell Hospital doesn't have an A&E. It doesn't have an orthopaedic ward nor a diabetes centre. No ambulances as such.
It has padded cells and patients who either rage with a demented fury or others who sit staring into a vacant space remembering what ever it is that people with mental illness recollect.
Runwell Hospital is in Wickford, Essex. It has an austere and chilling facade with its pale blue and pastry cream painted walls. As though it should be in Brighton, or some other seaside resort full of ice cream parlours and children but instead is full of screaming patients and drug addled schizophrenics. A fraud of a facade. Make up on a corpses face.
By and large, the wards are like any hospital ward. Beds lined up, three or four to a ward, with small framed windows that capture the light and hold it in a distant haze. A gauzy mist of an untold fairytale.
Rochford Ward has three beds with three female patients.
Rose sits with her missing legs bandaged at the thigh. She stares out the window and mutters something incomprehensible. Words fall in jumble of litter. Sounds that she, and she alone, knows the meaning of. Her husband died having spent twenty years caring for his wife who was diagnosed with dementia at the age of fifty seven. Rose is now eighty two. She has spent the winter of her years in a timeless lane choc a bloc full of ancient memories of a time long past.
Helen, who lies in a bed diagonally opposite to Rose, has suffered from delusions all her life. Unless she is sedated, which she has been since puberty, she sees maggots seeping from people’s eyes and mouths and crawling ever towards her. She first had these delusions when she was fourteen. These visions terrify her as it would any sane person. Helen is no longer sane. Her dreams have driven her into that exclusive club of madness. She is now forty seven. Her parents, now in their late seventies, visit her every week. They no longer weep. They stopped weeping many years ago when their daughters mind killed the daughter they had loved. They visit now because.
Just because.
The third patient is one Eleanor Harrison.
Eleanor is sixty eight and first showed the signs of dementia five years ago. Since then she has slid into a silent world, much like Rose's where she chases her memories. By her side on the hospital provided cabinet sits a framed photograph of four people. Two adults and two children.
Eleanor sits and while she sits she rocks gently back and forth as though seeking the time when, as an infant her mother would rock her in her arms.
Today, Eleanor has a visitor.
"Hello Eleanor, How are you today?" A smart women dressed in a tailored suit enquires. Beside her stands a Doctor.
"She likes to be called Ellie and not Eleanor. Eleanor has bad memories apparently."
"Ellie? My name is Vicky, Vicky Hargreaves. I represent solicitors. Braithwaite and Bent. I have come to give you some news. Can you hear me Ellie?"
"She can hear you, or at least we think she can. She cannot speak though but we believe she can still hear what's being said. Try again."
"Ellie? You have inherited some money. That is good news isn't it? When your brother died he left you some money. Not a lot but enough for you to buy some small things. Ellie?"
Eleanor had started to rock more violently now. Back and forth but so hard that the chairs legs were lifting off of the floor and she was uttering a low, deep moan.
"Oh god, what did I say?"
"She didn't know that her brother had died. Perhaps that caused this outburst. If you'll let me pass I will give her something to calm her."
From a kidney bowl shaped dish he produced a plastic syringe. Eleanor's rocking was too violent for him to try and placate and so he simply stabbed the syringe through her floral dress and into her thigh.
"A sharp scratch Ellie and then you will feel fine again. Good girl."
Within moments her rocking ceased.
Water. Like a pool. Like the one in Romney. The one me and Stevie used to play in. Mum and Dad took us there. Want to go again. Me and Stevie. Want to go again. Go in the pool. Go in the pool. Not swim though. Just lay under and breath. Fill my lungs. In the pool.
"Does that often happen?"
"I have never seen her behave that way before. You fancy a quick coffee? I can give you a bit of back ground detail?"
"Yes, Ok. I will have to be quick though. I am just a junior partner at the practise and they expect me back this afternoon."
They walked the sterile floors and into a small kitchen area where he made the both coffee's his milky and sweet. Hers black without.
"My names Tom by the way. Been here about five years now. Crazy place to work huh? Why don't we take these outside?"
She smiled politely at his pun and followed him into the late summer sun.
"So then," she asked, "What do you know of Eleanor Harrison?"
"She and her Mum lived on Canvey Islands. Moved there in the 50's after her Mum had divorced her husband. He took the boy. When Ellie first came to us, about three, maybe four years ago, her Mum, who is dead now, brought her to us. She was still able to communicate but on a very limited scale. The photo she has on her cabinet is a family portrait taken back in the late 40's. Apparently the family had a small holiday home on Romney in Kent. She and her Mum, after the divorce moved into Essex. Oddly, so did her Dad with his new family but he never saw his daughter. Never visited. They split up when she was about fourteen. When they split she promised her younger brother that she would come back for him and look after him. She was little more than a child herself. She never did of course. Her brother lived somewhere in Kent."
"That is so sad. Family's eh?"
"Absolutely. What makes it even sadder though is this. Once every year she would see her brother drive past her home with his wife. He did this for a number of years and well into his adult life. Drove from his home in Kent just to look at the place where his sister lived."
.
.
.
all words and art are copyright © of cocaine jesus.
It has padded cells and patients who either rage with a demented fury or others who sit staring into a vacant space remembering what ever it is that people with mental illness recollect.
Runwell Hospital is in Wickford, Essex. It has an austere and chilling facade with its pale blue and pastry cream painted walls. As though it should be in Brighton, or some other seaside resort full of ice cream parlours and children but instead is full of screaming patients and drug addled schizophrenics. A fraud of a facade. Make up on a corpses face.
By and large, the wards are like any hospital ward. Beds lined up, three or four to a ward, with small framed windows that capture the light and hold it in a distant haze. A gauzy mist of an untold fairytale.
Rochford Ward has three beds with three female patients.
Rose sits with her missing legs bandaged at the thigh. She stares out the window and mutters something incomprehensible. Words fall in jumble of litter. Sounds that she, and she alone, knows the meaning of. Her husband died having spent twenty years caring for his wife who was diagnosed with dementia at the age of fifty seven. Rose is now eighty two. She has spent the winter of her years in a timeless lane choc a bloc full of ancient memories of a time long past.
Helen, who lies in a bed diagonally opposite to Rose, has suffered from delusions all her life. Unless she is sedated, which she has been since puberty, she sees maggots seeping from people’s eyes and mouths and crawling ever towards her. She first had these delusions when she was fourteen. These visions terrify her as it would any sane person. Helen is no longer sane. Her dreams have driven her into that exclusive club of madness. She is now forty seven. Her parents, now in their late seventies, visit her every week. They no longer weep. They stopped weeping many years ago when their daughters mind killed the daughter they had loved. They visit now because.
Just because.
The third patient is one Eleanor Harrison.
Eleanor is sixty eight and first showed the signs of dementia five years ago. Since then she has slid into a silent world, much like Rose's where she chases her memories. By her side on the hospital provided cabinet sits a framed photograph of four people. Two adults and two children.
Eleanor sits and while she sits she rocks gently back and forth as though seeking the time when, as an infant her mother would rock her in her arms.
Today, Eleanor has a visitor.
"Hello Eleanor, How are you today?" A smart women dressed in a tailored suit enquires. Beside her stands a Doctor.
"She likes to be called Ellie and not Eleanor. Eleanor has bad memories apparently."
"Ellie? My name is Vicky, Vicky Hargreaves. I represent solicitors. Braithwaite and Bent. I have come to give you some news. Can you hear me Ellie?"
"She can hear you, or at least we think she can. She cannot speak though but we believe she can still hear what's being said. Try again."
"Ellie? You have inherited some money. That is good news isn't it? When your brother died he left you some money. Not a lot but enough for you to buy some small things. Ellie?"
Eleanor had started to rock more violently now. Back and forth but so hard that the chairs legs were lifting off of the floor and she was uttering a low, deep moan.
"Oh god, what did I say?"
"She didn't know that her brother had died. Perhaps that caused this outburst. If you'll let me pass I will give her something to calm her."
From a kidney bowl shaped dish he produced a plastic syringe. Eleanor's rocking was too violent for him to try and placate and so he simply stabbed the syringe through her floral dress and into her thigh.
"A sharp scratch Ellie and then you will feel fine again. Good girl."
Within moments her rocking ceased.
Water. Like a pool. Like the one in Romney. The one me and Stevie used to play in. Mum and Dad took us there. Want to go again. Me and Stevie. Want to go again. Go in the pool. Go in the pool. Not swim though. Just lay under and breath. Fill my lungs. In the pool.
"Does that often happen?"
"I have never seen her behave that way before. You fancy a quick coffee? I can give you a bit of back ground detail?"
"Yes, Ok. I will have to be quick though. I am just a junior partner at the practise and they expect me back this afternoon."
They walked the sterile floors and into a small kitchen area where he made the both coffee's his milky and sweet. Hers black without.
"My names Tom by the way. Been here about five years now. Crazy place to work huh? Why don't we take these outside?"
She smiled politely at his pun and followed him into the late summer sun.
"So then," she asked, "What do you know of Eleanor Harrison?"
"She and her Mum lived on Canvey Islands. Moved there in the 50's after her Mum had divorced her husband. He took the boy. When Ellie first came to us, about three, maybe four years ago, her Mum, who is dead now, brought her to us. She was still able to communicate but on a very limited scale. The photo she has on her cabinet is a family portrait taken back in the late 40's. Apparently the family had a small holiday home on Romney in Kent. She and her Mum, after the divorce moved into Essex. Oddly, so did her Dad with his new family but he never saw his daughter. Never visited. They split up when she was about fourteen. When they split she promised her younger brother that she would come back for him and look after him. She was little more than a child herself. She never did of course. Her brother lived somewhere in Kent."
"That is so sad. Family's eh?"
"Absolutely. What makes it even sadder though is this. Once every year she would see her brother drive past her home with his wife. He did this for a number of years and well into his adult life. Drove from his home in Kent just to look at the place where his sister lived."
.
.
.
all words and art are copyright © of cocaine jesus.
Monday, 11 February 2008
Chaper three - October 1955
Muswell Hill.
N10.
North London.
Famed for having had such celebrities as Ray and Dave Davies of The Kinks, both of whom were born there and Mike Leigh, the film director who lives there. Even Virginia Wolf, in her novel, Mrs Dalloway speaks of Muswell Hill.
"And utterly ruined the cook's nerves at Mr Brewers establishment at Muswell Hill."
Something about Muswell Hill that attracts arty types.
Muswell Hill has a long history much like the city that it sits north of, London. A history that goes back, so recorded notes tell us, to the 12th century. Not as old as London itself which goes back more than 2000 years but long enough. Back in the 12th century the Bishop of London, who was also the Lord Mayor of Haringey (money goes to money followed by weighty titles) owned an area of land, some 65 acres, that was located a little to the east of Colney Hatch Lane. He granted this land to an order of nuns, newly established and determined to do the Lord's good works, whereupon they built a chapel on the site. It was called 'Our Ladie of Muswell.
The name itself comes, or so it is believed, from a natural spring, apparently blessed with miraculous properties, known as the 'Mossy Well'. A Scottish King, dying of an incurable disease drank from the well and was cured. The legend spread and the place became hallowed and pilgrims would rally forth to drink from its waters. The source of spring was The River Moselle which had its source in Muswell Hill and Highgate.
Muswell Hill as we now know it didn't really blossom until the 19th century when the City of London grew and its inhabitants moved east, west, south and, inevitably north. Muswell Hill changed from having a gaggle of country houses to the growth of elegant town houses that to this day adorn its leafy suburban streets.
Of course there is Alexandra Palace, or Ally Pally as known by the working class cockney oiks who reduce everything to simple and humorous slang, that sits high on the hill overlooking London below. Alexandra Palace, an aging lady who stills wear her silks and finery that all have seem better days. Her petticoats are frayed and her linens are dirty but she still has a glimmer of her former style and majesty.
South of Muswell Hill lies Crouch End laying in a valley between Haringey to the east and Muswell Hill, Hornsey and Wood Green to the north. It is a busy town with many shops and a network of smaller houses that cling onto the skirts of the wealthier Muswell Hill like limpets to a grand galleons hull.
5 Ellison Avenue was a house with a secret. Not a dark and sinister secret, not by today’s standards anyway, but a secret nonetheless. 5 Ellison Avenue was where Lilly and Stan Harrison lived in their small but well appointed terrace house. It had three floors. It even had a bathroom with a heater.
Every day at 3.30 Stan left work. He had a good job working at the Savoy Hotel in central London where he cut slabs of meat with a deft skill. He was the Savoy’s head butcher. Not the best paid job in the world but he cut prime cuts of meat and he knew a few 'proper people' where he could obtain, with no questions asked, bits of this and that.
He came home today as pleased as punch. He had a gift for Lilly that he knew she would love.
His key made its normal crisp entry into the lock and then, with a sharp click followed by a dull bang as the door shut behind him he walked into the shadowy hallway.
"Lilly, luv, I'm home. Got somethin' for you"
"I'm in the kitchenette. Your dinner won't be a tick"
Good as gold was Lilly, thought Stan. Every night that I get home me dinners ready and waiting. Not all women are like my Lilly. Keeps a proper home smart as a pin and dinner ready and hot when's I gets in.
"Don't you want to know what I got you then?"
"If you want to keep it secret you wouldn't have told me now would you, you daft bugger?"
Lilly stepped out of the kitchenette drying her soap sud arms on an old tea towel. A short woman and plump with bright blue eyes and thick glasses.
Stan, the very opposite of Lilly, tall, thin with glasses that were even thicker and appeared to be ground out of bottle bottoms, placed a warm and affectionate kiss upon Lilly's check.
"Silly bugger," he said, "let's go into the kitchen and I'll show you."
"Before you do Stan, there is something that I need to tell you first."
"Oh? Sounds serious. You alright girl?"
"Oh, I'm fine."
The declaration of health and well being hung like a frail thread over the spectre of their conversation.
"Go on."
"I have missed my period. I'm pregnant"
"Pregnant? Jesus Christ girl, you are forty three. You can't be pregnant! How the hell did that happen?"
"I am pregnant. The Doctor confirmed it and it happened the way most pregnancy do you silly sod."
"Jesus Christ. Me a Dad again. I'll be fifty by the time its born. Christ wait 'till I tell Steven."
Lilly's face turned the colour of an approaching storm.
"He's your boy Stan, you tell what you think best. He is twenty one after all but I don't want anyone to know about us. We have to keep up the pretence. You know we do. I don't want the world to know and I never want our baby girl to know. You hear me?"
Stan looked at his love and smiled. It was a smile of confused love. He took from his pocket a small bag and gave it to Lilly. She took the package from him with her ruddy coloured, scrubbing brush hands and opened it. Inside was a large, sapphire ring of the deepest blue.
"Oh, Stan, it is beautiful. Why'd you do such an extravagant thing like that for?"
"You know why. I can't do the proper thing by you can I? This way, should I kick the bucket, at least you can sell this and keep yourself safe. Eh! What d'you mean, 'baby girl'. How do you know that?"
"I just know Stan, I just know. I want to call her Brenda, if that's alright with you?"
"
N10.
North London.
Famed for having had such celebrities as Ray and Dave Davies of The Kinks, both of whom were born there and Mike Leigh, the film director who lives there. Even Virginia Wolf, in her novel, Mrs Dalloway speaks of Muswell Hill.
"And utterly ruined the cook's nerves at Mr Brewers establishment at Muswell Hill."
Something about Muswell Hill that attracts arty types.
Muswell Hill has a long history much like the city that it sits north of, London. A history that goes back, so recorded notes tell us, to the 12th century. Not as old as London itself which goes back more than 2000 years but long enough. Back in the 12th century the Bishop of London, who was also the Lord Mayor of Haringey (money goes to money followed by weighty titles) owned an area of land, some 65 acres, that was located a little to the east of Colney Hatch Lane. He granted this land to an order of nuns, newly established and determined to do the Lord's good works, whereupon they built a chapel on the site. It was called 'Our Ladie of Muswell.
The name itself comes, or so it is believed, from a natural spring, apparently blessed with miraculous properties, known as the 'Mossy Well'. A Scottish King, dying of an incurable disease drank from the well and was cured. The legend spread and the place became hallowed and pilgrims would rally forth to drink from its waters. The source of spring was The River Moselle which had its source in Muswell Hill and Highgate.
Muswell Hill as we now know it didn't really blossom until the 19th century when the City of London grew and its inhabitants moved east, west, south and, inevitably north. Muswell Hill changed from having a gaggle of country houses to the growth of elegant town houses that to this day adorn its leafy suburban streets.
Of course there is Alexandra Palace, or Ally Pally as known by the working class cockney oiks who reduce everything to simple and humorous slang, that sits high on the hill overlooking London below. Alexandra Palace, an aging lady who stills wear her silks and finery that all have seem better days. Her petticoats are frayed and her linens are dirty but she still has a glimmer of her former style and majesty.
South of Muswell Hill lies Crouch End laying in a valley between Haringey to the east and Muswell Hill, Hornsey and Wood Green to the north. It is a busy town with many shops and a network of smaller houses that cling onto the skirts of the wealthier Muswell Hill like limpets to a grand galleons hull.
5 Ellison Avenue was a house with a secret. Not a dark and sinister secret, not by today’s standards anyway, but a secret nonetheless. 5 Ellison Avenue was where Lilly and Stan Harrison lived in their small but well appointed terrace house. It had three floors. It even had a bathroom with a heater.
Every day at 3.30 Stan left work. He had a good job working at the Savoy Hotel in central London where he cut slabs of meat with a deft skill. He was the Savoy’s head butcher. Not the best paid job in the world but he cut prime cuts of meat and he knew a few 'proper people' where he could obtain, with no questions asked, bits of this and that.
He came home today as pleased as punch. He had a gift for Lilly that he knew she would love.
His key made its normal crisp entry into the lock and then, with a sharp click followed by a dull bang as the door shut behind him he walked into the shadowy hallway.
"Lilly, luv, I'm home. Got somethin' for you"
"I'm in the kitchenette. Your dinner won't be a tick"
Good as gold was Lilly, thought Stan. Every night that I get home me dinners ready and waiting. Not all women are like my Lilly. Keeps a proper home smart as a pin and dinner ready and hot when's I gets in.
"Don't you want to know what I got you then?"
"If you want to keep it secret you wouldn't have told me now would you, you daft bugger?"
Lilly stepped out of the kitchenette drying her soap sud arms on an old tea towel. A short woman and plump with bright blue eyes and thick glasses.
Stan, the very opposite of Lilly, tall, thin with glasses that were even thicker and appeared to be ground out of bottle bottoms, placed a warm and affectionate kiss upon Lilly's check.
"Silly bugger," he said, "let's go into the kitchen and I'll show you."
"Before you do Stan, there is something that I need to tell you first."
"Oh? Sounds serious. You alright girl?"
"Oh, I'm fine."
The declaration of health and well being hung like a frail thread over the spectre of their conversation.
"Go on."
"I have missed my period. I'm pregnant"
"Pregnant? Jesus Christ girl, you are forty three. You can't be pregnant! How the hell did that happen?"
"I am pregnant. The Doctor confirmed it and it happened the way most pregnancy do you silly sod."
"Jesus Christ. Me a Dad again. I'll be fifty by the time its born. Christ wait 'till I tell Steven."
Lilly's face turned the colour of an approaching storm.
"He's your boy Stan, you tell what you think best. He is twenty one after all but I don't want anyone to know about us. We have to keep up the pretence. You know we do. I don't want the world to know and I never want our baby girl to know. You hear me?"
Stan looked at his love and smiled. It was a smile of confused love. He took from his pocket a small bag and gave it to Lilly. She took the package from him with her ruddy coloured, scrubbing brush hands and opened it. Inside was a large, sapphire ring of the deepest blue.
"Oh, Stan, it is beautiful. Why'd you do such an extravagant thing like that for?"
"You know why. I can't do the proper thing by you can I? This way, should I kick the bucket, at least you can sell this and keep yourself safe. Eh! What d'you mean, 'baby girl'. How do you know that?"
"I just know Stan, I just know. I want to call her Brenda, if that's alright with you?"
"
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