Caring

A quick break. Just nip out the back for a quick cigarette. No, no. He is waiting in the hallway, looking for staff. Go to him, to the man who did not come in time, The Next of Kin, who now is next himself.

“I’ve come to pick up Christine’s things. If you could give me a hand to the car, that would be great,” he said.

“Of course,” she said, unlocking the side door, being wary of any hopeful escapees. They took the boxes quickly. There were not many. They put them into the boot.

She tried to make small talk. “Have you come far?” “Oh no, just from Surrey. Not too far.”

“Well I hope the journey back is ok. Would you like a cup of tea before you go?” He rearranged something in the boot. “No, no thank you. I must be off.” 

She searched for something to say. “I haven’t worked here for long. Did Christine live here for long?” What a terrible question she thought, but she did not have the correct words and he did not come and he is only from Surrey. He said vaguely, “I think about two years.” It was three, she knew it was three, but she nodded; one nod of the head, accessory to his ignorance. He shut the boot of the car, the three boxes and the television packed neatly inside.

He turned to her. “Yes, about two years. I wonder what the statistics are on how long people survive in these places?” She shook her head, uncertain. She wondered how he could ask of statistics when all that was left of his mother was in the boot of his car? 

Christine had asked for him in those long dreadful nights but he did not come for her, for his mother; the statistic.

He thanked her for her help and he drove away. She locked the side door and went into the empty room, Christine’s room. He had left the little picture of the cat that she had cut out and stuck on the door but he had taken the television. Perhaps he cracked and it had all spilled out on the way home. Perhaps he found God waiting for him in a layby down the road; after all, he needed a new parent as all that was left of his own was packed neatly into three boxes in the boot of his car.

Nothing left but the end of the day.

The trees have become greener overnight and it is suddenly summer today. People in sandals. The orchards are lined up, ready to do business. I feel ok, lying on the floor watching the sea gulls falling silently on the breeze. Keep watching the sky until it turns the deepest blue, until the night comes. 

A smile shared with a friend, freckles on a smiling face that you have never known there before, silhouettes playing on the shoreline, boys flying a kite on the sand, open arms, out-stretched hands. 

The trees grew back overnight and I was sure it was winter yesterday. The pointing man on the bench, flanked by two bald friends, watching the sun fall down behind the sea. Waves of light rolled in gently on the water. The mother taking the child’s hand as they go down the steps. Nothing left but the end of the day.

Green jumper and red jumper sit huddled together, knees up, sifting sand. They stay long after the sun has gone, smoking cigarettes and putting off tomorrow. I hope they stay. I think that they are young and I think that they are in love and I know I will feel lonelier when they are gone. 

I will keep the window open tonight so that I can hear the sea because it is mine tonight. I will get a few drunks blowing in on the breeze later, but I will stomach it because the sea is mine tonight.

When I go to work in the morning, when I reach the road that turns in towards the station, I will turn around to say goodbye to the sea. “Wait for me, I will come back later,” I will tell it as if it is a loved one. And I will return to it at the end of every day.

Beginnings

This is the beginning of a story that will get longer...maybe a Chapter One...


Everything had stopped moving in the morning, she thought. She had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, no paths to tread and there wasn't anyone to tell, no delivery to be made in thought or word, no one to give it all to.

She waited for him to leave. He slept loudly. She tried to wake him without it seeming deliberate - putting the radio on, fidgeting, sighing melodramatically, coughing, making tea loudly and then, when all else failed, jabbing him in the ribs and saying, "Sorry, but it's getting late and I need to get on."

He blinked at her, not knowing her face, where he was or what the correct etiquette might be at such times. Clothes on and out, he surmised. After all, she was not his wife.

He was not her husband but her husband would return soon, eyes filled with nothing and briefcase full of paper deals. He would be jet-lagged when he returned and she would make him his favourite drink with added sleeping tablets, listen to his edited summary of his trip and then take his daughter and pregnant maid and drive six-hundred miles away from him.

The new place was all rugged coast, tumble-down house, beautiful and wild; a place for her girl to grow and be free. A place where he would never come.

She watched him get in the taxi. "Sorry", he had said as he left; his parting gift an apology, an admittance of wrong-doing, of regret. Her one night of desire in six years, driven away sat beside an apology in a taxi, gone and gone and gone.  Change the sheets and get the sleeping tablets. Where is Leila?

Leila is praying, eyes tight shut, "Please God, make sure my child is healthy and happy and safe. I am not sure I believe in you any more, Lord, so please step up and do the right thing. Step up and be a father to my child."

Ten-fold

You told me that you’d called the wine shop down the road and said to the man,

“I’m in love with the woman who lives down the road from you, round the corner. Would you take a bottle of champagne to her for me?”

“How much do you love her?” asked the man.

“I love her ten-fold for each step you will walk down the road to her door.”

Pause. “Okay.”

So now it sits on the kitchen worktop because I don’t know who to share it with;

Because you are shared.

I daren’t open it because the pressure might just blow the roof off

And bring the walls tumbling down.

And then everyone would know that we love each other ten-fold.

Should I fold now? Or do we keep building this paper house?

How long until a whisper brings us tumbling down?

Fractions

My other half’s other half doesn't know that my other half has another other half. 

Which means he has a total of one and a half.

But I think I have maybe just a half of one of his halves, which makes him my other quarter, 

But mostly I am diminished myself, so I make up about a quarter too, 

Which leaves me with a half, whilst he’s got three halves. 

How much does my other quarter’s other half have then?

I'm fucked if I know.

But I do know something: these fractions aren't adding up.

Sundownandout

Ships loiter along on the horizon, in the hazy pink, lazy pink tired hot day. Windmills stand stock-still out at sea, all spent and nothing doing, now that the day is closing its eyes. Pier broken off, burnt remnants sitting it out, stubborn dead wood waiting offshore to be invited back home. Silhouettes dotted along the shore claiming the sky as their own, holding the colours and air between outstretched arms. Headlights swing carelessly around the headland across the bay, behind the once-grand crescent hotel where the cracks creep up the walls, ready to bring it all down. Night time brings the wind-breaks down and the crying babies are taken home after wailing for an hour past their bed-time while mum and dad drink tins on the benches overlooking the sea, because the sea belongs to them, if only for this moment. Teenagers strut the sand, lighting cigarettes and disposable barbecues, playing tinny music on their phones which hold a thousand posed grinning photographs that show how happy and tanned they have been today. Instant memories to prove the day’s worth. Swear words strewn across the sand along with the trail of empty cider cans, marking a path from happy beginnings to sorrowful angry heated ends. Storms are coming and we can feel it on our skin. Electric heat lifts hairs on backs of necks as fingers tentatively lift edges of linen and cotton tumbles to the floor in folds. Lazy crescent moon hardly lifts above the horizon and recedes across the harbour, deepening from gold to red as it disappears after only visiting for an hour or two. Heat and electricity on our skin, bringing hands together and lips begin the long night’s gentle work, making tapestries of touch and skin. 

Bike

We had been out having some glasses of wine, when rounding the corner, outside the museum, we saw him. It took a moment for the scene to become clear because my glasses were in my bag and the contents of the other glasses were in me, but  there he was, hunched over, down near the peddles of my bicycle, sawing off the lock with a hack-saw.

“Hey!” I called out, “HEY! That’s my bike!” I began to run towards him and he scrambled to his feet, reaching to pick up his rucksack which was on the ground nearby, but he fumbled and I was there, right there in-front of him, an incredulous look upon my face, whilst he looked at me, a bit dismayed and put out.

“What are you doing?!” I said, incredulously, “That’s my bike!” He looked down at the ground and shuffled his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He was probably in his early twenties. His hair looked unwashed and he was somewhat, slightly dazed. “Are you sure that’s your bike?” He looked at me, hopefully.

“YES! Of course I’m sure! What are you talking about?” I winced with disbelief at his disbelief. I went to the bike and took out my keys. I undid the lock, just to prove it.

“Oh. It is yours then.” He said, disappointed.

“Yes! It IS my bike! I can’t believe you were trying to steal my bike! WHY?! Look at it!” We all looked at my bike. A white Raleigh bike, thirty years old (at least); a grandma’s bike with a basket and some rust attached.

“Ah nah; that’s a lovely bike,” he nodded at it, defensively.

“Well I know it’s a lovely bike, but it’s my lovely bike, not your lovely bike! Why don’t you go and steal one with gears or something? No, how about this; don’t steal anyone’s bike!” More pitiful shuffling of feet.

I leaned in towards him and brought my voice down to a menacing whisper. “Me and this bike have been together a long time and if, if you had stolen it, I would have hunted you down, and killed you”. Briony laughed. “I would have! And I will if you ever try that again!”

“I’m really sorry, look I really am. I feel really bad about it now.”

“Oh, he feels really bad about it now, so that’s ok! How would you feel? If someone stole your bike?”

“I’d be really upset. I mean, I’ve had my bike stolen; five times!” he said, “That’s why I’m trying to get another one.”

“Yes, but I didn’t steal any of your five bikes! I can’t believe it, I can’t believe you tried to steal my bike.” I shook my head and stared at him. “Tell me why I shouldn’t phone the police?”

“Ah nah, please don’t do that. Please.” He looked hurt and resorted to shuffling his feet again. Briony looked at him sympathetically. I started to feel sorry for him, amidst the annoyance.

“Look, you’re gonna need a new lock; that one’s nearly gone through.”

 “Oh thank you for your advice! And whose fault is that, that I need a new lock?”

“What you want to do is get one of them ‘D’ locks; they’re much better.”

“Oh ok, are they the best then? I mean you’d have trouble getting into one of them?” He nodded. I made a note to buy one of those next time.  “So what are you going to do, hmm? To make up for the fact you ruined my lock? What have you got? What are you going to give me? Give me the money for a new lock and we’ll call it square.”

“I haven’t got any money.”

I looked him up and down. Probably not, but he must have something.

“Ok, give me a joint. I bet you’ve got a joint.” I didn’t even smoke joints any more, but he looked stoned and my wine-induced-wisdom was telling me this was the best deal possible. Suddenly, I wanted a joint.

“I haven’t got any,” he did the pathetic eyes again and started to root around through his bag. He pulled out a half-consumed bottle of cheap cider. I winced. Briony reached out to take it.

“NO!” I stopped her, feeling that a second-hand bottle of White Lightening was not a good deal. 

“Right, you can buy me a new lock. Give me your address or your phone number,” I demanded.

He shuffled again. “....O..kay...How about you give me your number? I’ll get a lock and I will ring you.”

“...O...kay.” I said and scribbled the number down.  He wasn’t evil, he was just hopeless. I would put my faith in humanity and I would trust his word. Yes, he was being honest, I had faith.

That was the last time that a man asked for my telephone number. And guess what? He didn’t call.

A brief introduction to the graffiti of Margate

I love many things about Margate. One of these things is the graffiti. I am collecting them either in photos or just writing them down. This is my new hobby.

Lots of it is the usual stuff; teenage declarations of love like “Kai 4 Sashy”, so-and-so hearts so-and-so. Lots of those. “Devon loves Niall” at first seemed to be a normal one until I noticed the swastika beside it.

There are some romantic and mysterious equations like "ARSE + TITS" (unfortunately no = so we’ll never know...) and this one, which has to be shown as a photo to be fully appreciated (but not understood, at least not by me...I think/ hope it's a positive message though):

Some graffiti is a bit indecisive; “Hi or hey”.

Then there are the really profound ones: “DAZZER IS A MONKEYCOCK. X” (the kiss after is a nice touch); “Children have the right to say no to war”; “What if the hockey cockey is what it’s all about?” (I like the spelling on that one) and “I am broken.” Quite poignant that last one.

But my favourite so far is some anti-Terry-Wogan graffiti; “Terry Wogan got paid £10000 every year for Children In Need. Greedy pig.” Of all the old BBC presenters to attack, it seems a strange choice...

Pavements

Dead dog on the pavement. I eye the driver’s eyeballs to make sure she really is sorry, like she says she is. I’m not sure if the eyes are wet from the guilt or from the Margate wind. Council van pulls up. It says ‘Waste and Disposal’; some burial. Sleep tight small creature. I turn away as the man in the uniform polo shirt takes a bin bag out of the van and scoops him up, placing him inside another bin bag, ready for the grand wasteland burial, with all the trimmings, the teabags and the coke cans. I see the head flop and the blood on the pavement and I turn away, hand to my mouth.

Another Sunday been and gone. Dead dogs, “Fuck you” written on someone’s front door, beside their letter-box, churches with demolition orders, brothers stabbing each other playfully, bright boys skipping school, there’s shit on the pavement that seems to be seeping up eternally. Boys running cold down alleyways saying, “He’ll pay, I’ll make him pay.” It’s just another day, another day.

I move house from the quaint, quiet haven of the tourist city where an English god looks down on all; the place where god is stacked up in stone blocks that touch the sky, where the streets are cobbled and boys go to the school of kings where they learn how to speak more loudly than the girls and the rest, they learn to thrive and to turn their collars up against the world and barge on through, aided and abetted by centuries of greedy golden bias. I trade in the safe and the bland for the sea and the treachery, the dog mess and the string vests, the fake tans and the empty seaside bandstands.

The boys and girls beside the seaside learn different skills. They are kings and queens wearing stolen copper crowns. They learn how to survive, not how to thrive. They are harder and their experiences more essential, more desperate. They know how cold the wind can blow and they know that there are no spare blankets in the empty cupboards. They haven’t seen mum and dad for some time but not because they are closed off and up into boardings; but because they have never met dad and mum is always at work or looking after the others who are smaller than they. But the sea shines bright in the sun and makes promises of escape to distant lands. The sea keeps making promises that it cannot keep.

Frances goes out in the morning to visit the charity shops. She comes back later with books and concern. She says that she has examined the faces of the people here and they all look as if they are experiencing trauma. I laugh, but yes, she is worried and she is right. I noticed this the other day. The faces are perplexed or angry or worn with suffering and despair. She says that they won’t meet her eyes. Mistrust. Do not make eye contact.

Unless you are Jenny. Jenny makes eye contact with as many as possible. She enforces it. I like Jenny’s rules. Say it like it is, be friendly, be open, don’t board yourself up; that is only for the broken. Never give up. Jenny, 75, braces herself against the wind and the hostilities and aims to make community. Tireless.

Pavements hosting all manner of visitors. Sofas, dirty unsprung mattresses, broken plant pots, egg shell, banana skins but no slapstick payoff, seagulls picking through tatty grease-soaked chip-papers pulled from overflowing sun-baked bins, cigarette butts from here to eternity, empty paracetamol packets, the constant rattle of empty cans rolling home to the gutter, shoes – all sizes all colours, lolly-pop sticks coated in colourful sticky e-numbers, chewing gum fresh from the mouths of babes, a crumpled cardigan settling into the fabric of the tarmac, spit, bottle tops, broken glass, old sewing machine, dirty nappies and feet thumping on through, keep thumping on through; drop but don’t stop, don’t stop.

The days are getting hot and there is heat on our skin, making us want one another. Girls looking at boys as they swagger past, shirts off, muscles flexing. Boys looking at girls, the eternal fascination with legs, legs, legs, short shorts, light summer dresses hanging lazily from sun-brown shoulders. Heads turn and turn and skin burns whilst the adults think ahead to the time when the sun will go down and when heat might pass from skin to skin, lip to lip. Mouth to mouth, we breathe life back into one another in the dark. Just wait for the sun to go down.

The children are absorbed in other past-times. They run and totter on the sand, legs unsteady beneath ecstatic hearts and they cannot hide their excitement at the sandcastles to be built and the bucket and spades do a roaring trade, whilst the adults plaster the sunblock onto their small people and watch them run off into the water, splashing and screaming when that first wave hits their ankles and they brace themselves for the next and the next all day long until the sun gets tired.

Sand in sandwiches, crunching in mouths with warm cheese and wilted lettuce. Shells picked up and cherished until the next favourite is found and pocketed and the last is forgotten. And then sandals and shoes and dry clothes are reunited with owners, always with difficulty and barely-behind too-small towels held by up by mum.

   

A little bit of sand is taken home in shoes and in the corners of castle-shaped buckets that swing from pushchairs as the sun goes to bed and the night sky lights up with dramatic scene-stealing effect and it’s the most beautiful thing that you have seen all day, apart from the one you’ve got your eye on, who, by now, with any luck, is standing beside you, beside you, getting closer and closer by the minute. With any luck they’re beside you. With any luck this is sun stroke; stroking brought on by the sun. The sun makes us fall in love so quickly.