Happy Birthday, Dad

I was nearly born on my dad’s birthday. Just five days more and today would be even harder. He died exactly a month after his 71st  birthday, 30th May 2006. My dad was a musician, an artist, a probation officer, a social worker for the elderly…

 

…and an alcoholic.

 

Of all the cool things my dad was this is the thing I remember him for most.

 

Recorder, piano, flute, clarinet, guitar, bass. I’ve played many instruments from the age of 6, and I’ve always been involved in and passionate about music, but my dad never taught me anything, never sat and played anything with me, never spoke to me about anything to do with music. I was a bass player for years before I found out my dad had played double bass in a band in his spare time while he was tuba player in the Grenadier Guards band, and he even toured Europe! I’ve always been an artist. My dad was employed as an artist before I was born. But he never taught me anything, never sat and drew with me, explained perspective, colour theory, typeface, nothing. I didn’t even know he was these things till I was older and my mum told me. Memories of my dad are a confused, emotional mess that I will never understand, and every so often I come to terms with that.

 

The only nice memory I have is sitting on my dad’s knee when I was probably about 4 or 5 with a notepad and pen – the red pen with white hearts – and writing out the alphabet one letter at a time. My dad would write a letter first, capital A, and then little a, and I’d copy it underneath. I used to love doing this. Writing is still a favourite pastime of mine, and I love writing longhand, making the words look beautiful.

 

When I was younger I didn’t understand why he acted weird shortly after he’d got home from work, and I don’t know when I realised, but it was probably around the first time I found a lemonade bottle in the cupboard under the sink that didn’t smell like lemonade. It was vodka. Neat vodka. Which explained his sneaky excursions to the kitchen at 20 minute intervals every evening, and his gradual metamorphosis into night-time dad, this stranger in the house who spoke funny, lost his balance a lot, and upset my mum. Years of tipping the contents of that secret lemonade bottle down the sink and replacing it with water is still the first thing that comes to mind when I think about our relationship. He’d never tell me off because that would mean him acknowledging its existence, acknowledging he had a problem, acknowledging that it was affecting his whole family, badly, and he couldn’t do that. Would I have had a great relationship with my dad if it wasn’t for his secret drinking? Would he and my mum have stayed together? Would I have a better sense of family and what that even meant if his drinking hadn’t stopped important bonding gatherings from happening? Maybe. Maybe things would have been worse, depending on what he was hiding from. At least it would be truthful.

 

My dad was a secret alcoholic and it ruined my family. It isolated us. Nobody else in either my mum or dad’s family knew. To this day I don’t think they know, or just don’t want to know. I’d be inclined to say the latter. For all the things me and my dad have in common, somehow, genetically maybe, I always will be sad that this one part of him overshadowed all of those things. I miss you, dad. But I missed you then too.

 

Happy birthday…

Irascible Ruck

The fight for the seed
The fight for the nuts
I’ll get there first if you get there last
Flitter and flutter
Flap and and a chut
A peck and a warning for the last crust
A chirp and a chatter
Irascible ruck
While the cat sits, waiting, with a bit of luck…

Mind

I am your mind.
You may not leave.
You cannot leave.
Only you can know me.
Only you can hear me.
Only you can feel me.
You. Alone.

I control your fear and your vulnerability.
I control your trust and your guilt.
I control your weakness and your acceptance,
your validation and your shame,
your loneliness and your comfort.

I protect all these things.
I protect these things for your survival.
Your survival is all that matters.
All that matters to us.
You and me, your mind.
You. Alone.

I know your secrets, your lies.
I know what you really think.
I know your fears, your failures.
I know more than you would ever tell.
I know your hatred, your desires.
I know your worst moments with distinct clarity.
You cannot leave.
You cannot let me out.

As your days start and end, only I…
As your life ebbs and flows, only I…
As your world dips and sores, only I…
When the sunset of your days arrives, only I will know you.
You. Alone.

In this box I hear you.
In this box is me, you, my mind.
I am my mind in this box.
Alone with myself amongst this noisy life.
This box. Me. Just me.
Please, someone hear me.

Things that really happen…

My neighbour actually spoke to me today. It was the fault of bins. We share an alley way for them. It’s an unwritten code that if you share an alley way then you must collect each others bins from out front. My neighbour is always there first. I can’t decide if she’s making a point by doing so. No sooner than the T-Rex-truck has groaned its way round the corner she is there, grasping my green bin by the handles and dragging it up my back passage, then hers, the same. She fumbles noisily round the corner to her gate and in latches the divide between our lands before depositing her bin in its rightful, precise place.

I beat her to it today. We left the front door at the same time. The unknowing bin man (yes, man, it was, definitely) had left me a present of perfectly positioned bins right at my doorstep. I casually grasped the handles of her faded ivy covered receptacle and smiled with much friendly force. She smiled back, as much as her feeble face would allow, and walked towards me in the same brown padded coat she’d had on since I moved here 5 years ago. Then she spoke! Yes, spoke! More than some form of cursory hello too!

“Have they taken it?”
I check. “Yep, all gone”
“Oh good.” She genuinely appeared relieved as she looked at me through her yellowing Reactions(TM) lenses, and said, “I trimmed my bush at the weekend and I was worried they wouldn’t take it.”

O_o

23 Sycamore Street

Her father had died inside the spindles of a threshing machine. It was sudden, they said, like that was some sort of comfort. Molly didn’t want to leave her home, but her mother said they had no choice. The house had come with her father’s labouring job, and the land owners had to replace him which meant they had to leave. The small terrace house on Sycamore Street was waiting patiently for them as they pulled up. They entered through the green door of number 23 and Molly quickly marked her new home as “dark, dull, and depressing,” and she certainly didn’t want to be there. The long ride from the fresh, open countryside into the murky, claustrophobic city had worn them both out, and then they had to unpack the cart. Sleep that night was made more than welcome.

The next morning there were still cloth bags and chests blocking the scant hallway as Molly climbed the creaky wooden staircase to her bedroom. Her mother was still frantically cleaning every crevice of the house, almost oblivious to her surroundings. Molly spent the day putting together her toy theatre made of paper and card that her Aunt Sal had got her last Christmas. She played with the paper figures, defining their characters and imagining new scenes until she was called for supper. Her mother looked tired as they sat down to bread, butter, jam and a full pot of tea in front of the freshly blackened stove. Molly piled her slice of bread with homemade blackcurrant jam and couldn’t fit enough of it in her mouth at once. Her mother told her to wipe her jam encrusted face, and handed Molly one of her hand embroidered napkins. It smelled of past times and tea chests.

Tucked up in her bed that night, Molly shut her eyes and imagined herself back in her old room, small and cosy, with the smell of open fields outside. She drifted off as she remembered the old barn down the track, how she used to help her dad pile up the hay, then leap into its soft, crackly bosom. Her dad laughing at her, trying to maintain his authority whist secretly wishing he could do the same. She leapt into his arms and hugged him so tightly, enough so he wouldn’t leave her again. But then his grip loosened. She held on. What was he doing? She opened her eyes, looking for his smiling face. But it wasn’t there. It was ridged, cold, lifeless. She was on the cold floor of a white room, her father lying there, limp. A jolt went through her making her arms fling themselves away from this body, pulling her further and further away. The dark stranger lay there. Molly sobbed. That wasn’t her father! It wasn’t! She woke bolt upright, sobbing as she was in her dream. Her mother rushed to her side and cradled her within her soft shawl. “It’s okay, Molly, I’m here,” she whispered.

The next morning Molly was wrapped up in her best coat and made to put on her black gloves. “It’s getting cold out there, love. Warm hands, warm heart.” Molly held her mother’s hand very tightly as they walked across the road to the bustling open market. They stopped at the fruit stall for a pound of apples. “Sweet enough for the best apple pie in the county, ma’am,” said the round man as he poured the autumn gems into her mother’s bag. “I’m sure the young lady will test my claim, won’t you miss?” Molly gingerly looked at the flushed stallholder and wrapped herself round her mother’s arm.

They walked through the market, stopping occasionally as her mother eyed the local produce. Molly wasn’t interested. She felt dizzy, her eyes kept open by the bitter breeze that whipped at the stall covers every now and then. She heard a rasping voice, children laughing, then a huge cheer. The colours bounced off her eyes like a bright sunrise. Mr Punch was cracking his truncheon, warning the alligator to keep away. “That’s the way to do it!” bellowed the raspy voice. There were a dozen or so children gathered in front of the makeshift theatre with rosy smiles. They cheered as Mr Punch waged a final blow to the alligator which bounced off the stripy stage. Molly laughed. The breeze whipped at her elbow, then she realised her mother wasn’t there. Panic began to rise in her gut. She turned, wide eyed, looking for the familiar figure, but …

And then “Hello, my name’s Arabella. What’s yours?” A girl in a white pinafore with pink flowers stood in front of Molly. She had long black hair and the biggest blue eyes Molly had ever seen. A pink ribbon held her hair away from her face, the breeze trying it’s hardest to dislodge as many wisps as possible. Molly realised her mouth was gaping and forced herself into a kind smile. “I’m Molly. We’ve just moved here.”
“Thought I hadn’t seen you before.” said Arabella, her eyes perusing every detail of this new girl.
Molly looked down at her old grey coat that her dad had bought her last year for her birthday. It was grey and warm, and reached her knees. “Do you live round here then?”
“My dad owns the bakery on Compton Road, just round the back there.” She directed Molly’s gaze with her eyes. “I’ve been told to fetch salt, but I do love Mr Punch, don’t you?”
Molly smiled. “Yes, I love the theatre. My Aunt Sal took me at Christmas last year. I’ve got my own theatre at home.”
“Your own theatre! How do you fit it into your house?” Arabella’s cheeky face warmed Molly as they both giggled at the silly thought.
“You can come and see it if you like. I live over there, number 23,” Molly pointed at the house with the green door. “My mother won’t mind.”
“Number 23?” Arabella exclaimed with such disbelief that Molly’s brow wrinkled quizzically.
“Yes. Why? Don’t you believe me?”
Arabella realised her expression and smiled broadly, almost too broadly. “Oh no, of course I do, silly. It’s just it’s been empty for a while. Didn’t think anyone was ever going to take it.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” said Molly apprehensively.
“Oh, no reason.” Arabella paused, like she was weighing up something in her mind. “It’s just the man that was there before, he … well, he was a bit of a … my mother said he drank too much and I was to keep away from him. Something about war. I don’t know really.”
“Did he live there on his own?” asked Molly.
“No, he had a wife, but I only saw her once, on the market buying a big bunch of comfrey leaves. She must have left him ‘cos she wasn’t with him on the cart when he left. Just him. No one’s lived there since. Must be nearly a whole year now.”
Molly took in the information, but didn’t respond.
“Anyway,” Arabella said, breaking the silence, “I’d better get back to the shop. Dad will be annoyed I’ve taken so long.”
“Oh, yes,” stuttered Molly, breaking her thoughts. “It was really nice to meet you. Will you come over to see my paper theatre? Maybe tomorrow?”
“I’d love to. I have to work until four. My dad says I’m the only one who can sweep the floor properly,” Arabella said proudly. “But I could come over after tea if you like.”
“See you then.” Molly’s eyes smiled as Arabella ran towards her shop waving. Had she just made her first friend? A hand on her shoulder made her jump and she whipped round to see her mother’s relieved eyes. “I thought I’d lost you,” she sighed. Molly swung on her mother’s hand as they made their way across the street to number 23. She felt warm. The breeze didn’t bother her any more.

Through the green door the smell of the unfamiliar house greeted them. “Now, go and find me the pie dish,” said her mother, “I’ve got an apple pie to make for tea. It’s in the cellar in one of the tea chests.” Molly smiled at the thought of her mum’s apple pie. She slipped off her coat and took a candle from the mantle. Her mother lit it for her. Molly opened the old wooden cellar door. The black patchy latch was cold. The musty smell filled her nostrils and the damp air settled on her face. She walked into the gloomy darkness, the candle lighting a hazy circle of mottled bricks and spider webs as she turned the corner and felt for the stairs. Her hand passed over the coarse brickwork, prickling at her fingers. She descended the stone steps, her shoes crushing the sand like dust with each step. As she got further down something felt different. She stopped and held the candle upwards into the emerging room. The dark space glimmered dully in the circle of light. There was nothing there, just the old tea chests. She got to the bottom of the steps and shivered. It made her spine rattle, like all the nerves had jumped inside her at once. She walked over to the tea chests and put her hand inside one, scrabbling around in the inky newspapers.

Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Her body went numb, and her knees left her. She fell, crumpled to the floor, the candle clunked to the ground and she was in darkness. She tried to shout out but no sound would emerge. She pushed at the floor but she couldn’t stand. Something was holding her there, holding her down. Her ears were screaming at her, a desperate, begging scream. She closed her eyes trying to block out the sound. The weight round her throat constricted further. Her eyes bulged open with fear. She wanted so desperately to scream, just scream. The wailing in her ears pierced the darkness; she pleaded with herself to do the same. Frantic, her voice escaped in explosive terror. “No!” She lurched up, springing through the black air, away. Away from there. Her feet found the stairs – she didn’t know how – and she scrambled up, feeling the gritty ground beneath her splayed hands, grasping for the top, for the door, the latch, away from the pursuing dark.

“Mum!” The cellar door burst open into the kitchen, Molly hung there holding the latch, breathing hard, gasping at the stewed apple air. Throwing down the cutlery in her hands, her mother rushed to her. Molly could feel her mother’s tight grip on her shoulders, but it was like they weren’t really there. No. It was like she wasn’t really here. She sobbed hard as her mother guided her to a chair and sat her down, unable to answer the questions through her uncontrolled breath. Eventually her mother held Molly’s blotchy cheeks in her warm hands, feeling the cold sweat on her terrified daughter’s face. “Tell me!” her mother urged. Molly sobbed as she spoke. “Something grabbed me, mother. Something’s down there. It held onto me. It screamed in my ears. I couldn’t breathe. Something’s down there.” She sobbed into her mother’s neck, her body convulsing with fear and relief.

That night Molly got into bed. As her mother drew the curtains in her bedroom, Molly slipped into her cold bed and drew the covers round her shoulders. Her mother sat beside her and stroked her mousey fringe. “My beautiful girl,” said her mum, as her eyes searched Molly’s face. “We’ll be all right here, you know,” she said reassuringly. “Just you and me.” Her mother’s kiss was warm on her forehead. She smelled of apple pie, cosy and safe. Sleep took over quickly. Molly woke again to the sound of the groaning house, cracking and creeping with corner of your eye noises. The street lamp shadow of her room was watching her. She hid under her covers until morning peeped through the drapes.

At four o’clock the next day Arabella was standing on the doorstep of number 23, the house she was always told to keep away from. Molly let her in and introduced her to her mother. They went up to Molly’s bedroom and set up the toy theatre.
“Where did you live before?” said Arabella.
Molly placed the main character into one of the side slots of the tiny theatre. “On a farm. My dad worked there.” She stopped. She had to. “Let’s do The Miller’s Maid. Do you know it?”
“Not really. But you can direct me, like I’m a proper actress.” Arabella knelt closer to the side of the theatre and picked up a stick with a paper lady glued onto the end. “Can I be this one?” she asked.
“You’re the leading lady then. I’ll be the man.” Arabella giggled at the thought. Molly smiled as she pulled the red curtain up from the front slot of the theatre making the sounds of a triumphant fanfare as she did so. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Molly in her grandest voice, “Welcome to this evening’s performance of The Miller’s Maid.” Molly positioned her leading man centre stage. “My Lords,” said Molly in gruff voice, which made Arabella giggle again. “I welcome you to my humble home here in the land of…” Molly broke off in fits of laughter, mirroring Arabella. They enacted a play far from any ever seen before and made their paper people take a bow as the stiff red screen lowered.
“I know,” said Arabella, “let’s make a den.” “Yes!” said Molly excitedly, grabbing the covers off her bed. “Have you got any boxes we can use?” asked Arabella. “Only ones in the cellar,” said Molly, “but …”
“Well let’s go get them then.” Arabella said as she got up. Molly hesitated. She looked at Arabella, stuck between wanting to please her new friend and not wanting to go into that cellar again.
“What’s wrong?” said Arabella, looking into Molly’s worried face. “Nothing. I just don’t like it down there,” said Molly. “Why? It’s only a dusty old cellar with a few spiders. You’re not afraid of tiny spiders are you?” Arabella’s eyes smiled and she held out her hand to Molly, eager to get going. “Come on.”
Molly felt silly. She couldn’t tell Arabella what had happened, it would make her look like a baby. She got up and took Arabella’s hand. They clambered down the stairs into the kitchen. Her mother was hanging washing in the back yard. Molly stopped at the cellar door, unsure. “Silly,” said Arabella, who pushed past her and undid the latch. The cold air hit Molly in the face as she watched her friend descend the steps. “Got a candle? It’s dark down here.” Arabella’s voice floated from nowhere. Molly grabbed a candle from the mantelpiece and lit it from the embers of the stove. She followed Arabella’s footsteps and found her in the middle of the stone stairs, the candle flickering at her pale features. They tiptoed down to the dark expanse of the cellar, lighting up the boxes as before. Something wisped at Molly’s neck and she turned abruptly, holding back a squeak as she did so.
“You really don’t like it down here do you?” said Arabella. “It is a bit spooky I suppose.”
“Something strange happened down here yesterday, that’s all. It was nothing though,” said Molly unconvincingly while she drew the dust covers off some of the old tea chests, hunting for a suitable box for their den.
“Look, what’s that?” said Arabella stood by the far wall staring at the brickwork. Molly brought the candle closer and looked where Arabella’s gaze was locked. Within the mess of cement encasing the red bricks there was a hole.
“Looks like the brick’s broken in half or crumbled,” said Arabella as she crouched to the floor. “But there’s nothing down here.” Arabella stood and ran her hand over the rough mortar. “Strange. Give me the candle.”
Molly handed the candle over, glad to let her friend investigate. Arabella held the candle to the hole and stood on her toes, straining for a better view. “It’s a hole!” she cried. “There’s a big cave on the other side.” Arabella poked the candle into the small hole trying to light up whatever was beyond it. “I can’t see anything. It’s too dark. Here, take this.” Molly took the candle back. “Just leave it, come on, let’s go,” she said. “No, I want to see what’s behind here.”
Arabella stuck her small hand through the hole and into the dense blackness beyond. “Ooh, it’s cold,” she giggled. Then, suddenly, eyes wide, Arabella grabbed at her own hand. “Molly, help!” she cried, “help me!”
Molly pulled at her friend’s arm. It was stuck. They both pulled and pulled, but something pulled back. “Help me!” cried Arabella, tears streaming down her pale face. “Push away, Arabella. Push!” Molly kept on pulling, unsure what to do. She was about to run for her mother when Arabella was freed. They both landed in a heap on the cold cellar floor. They shared a shocked look and both jumped up and scrambled to the top of the stairs. Molly pulled at the latch but it wouldn’t budge. Arabella joined in, they pulled and pulled. Molly screamed for her mum, but nothing. Something was coming at them from the stairs. It was dark. The candle extinguished in the flurry to escape. Something was there, getting closer. “Mum! Mum!” screamed Molly at the locked door. Arabella clung to Molly, shaking, sobbing. The thick blackness was nearly to them; just another step and it would be on them. The girls backed further into the corner of the door frame, willing there to be more room for them to escape, both scraping breath from the musty air. It was there! In front of them. It was there!

The door opened and the girls fell into the kitchen. Molly’s mother stared in disbelief at the heap of sweaty sobbing piles of dirty clothes at her feet. “What on earth are you both doing?”
“Mum, it’s down there, something, that thing, whatever it is. I don’t know. Something behind the wall. There’s something there. Mum, please.” Molly garbled. Arabella was clinging to Molly’s dress, her face buried in the dirty white cloth, shuddering shoulders and cobwebbed hair. Molly’s mum shut the cellar door. “From now on you’re not allowed down there, do you hear?”
“But mum, there’s something down there. We can’t stay here. Please get it out!” Then she noticed it, the black figure in the kitchen door. Slowly it turned as it entered the room. Molly got up from the floor ridged with fear. Arabella, still attached to Molly’s dress, followed her ascent. They both stared.
“Well, I’m sure I’ve never heard of such a fuss,” said the figure.
“Molly, this is Mrs Aston, our neighbour.” Molly’s mum shot a look that meant be polite. Molly didn’t say anything, but wiped her face with the cuff of her dusty dress. Arabella stood, staring at the kitchen floor where she’d just been.
Mrs Aston’s crumpled face studied Molly. “Well child, pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.” Molly remembered herself, partly due to her mother’s look which said everything. “Pleased to meet you Mrs Aston,” said Molly, curtsying. She’d never curtseyed before, but she felt this looming presence warranted it. Mrs Aston’s face crawled into a smile, her wrinkles making way for her yellowing teeth. She walked further into the kitchen, her stiff dress crinkling as she whooshed with every slow step. She sniffed the air, like there was something there, but she wasn’t sure what. “I just wanted to introduce myself, seeing as we’re neighbours now. It’s nice to have someone next door at last.”
Molly’s mum fussed into action. “Can I offer you some tea, Mrs Aston? Please, sit down.” Mrs Aston gracefully took to a seat while Molly’s mum sorted the tea things. “I do hope I’m not imposing,” said the old woman as she leaned her black gilded walking stick against the kitchen table. “I saw you in the yard and thought it a good opportunity.”
“Of course,” Molly’s mother said graciously. “We are neighbours after all, you should call any time.”
“You are kind. It is hard sometimes, on my own for so long in that house, since my husband died. Not much to do nowadays. Not much I can do,” the old woman smiled, then turned to Molly. “And you, young lady, and your friend there,” Arabella was still staring at the kitchen floor. Molly was stuck rigidly, not knowing if she was allowed to move, or if she dare. “What game has got you in such a tiz, hmm?”
“Oh,” Molly hid a shiver. She saw her mother’s monitory glance towards her. “Nothing. We just … saw a spider is all.”
“Oh, spiders won’t hurt you. More scared of you than you are of it.” The old woman chuckled once, like it was stuck in her throat.
“How long have you lived her, Mrs Austin?” asked Molly’s mother.
“Oh, for as long as is long,” replied Mrs Austin. “I moved here when I married. My husband has been gone for ten years now. But we still talk.” Molly caught her mother’s gaze as the tea things were placed on the table with precision. “Sit down, both of you.” She said. Both girls obeyed.
“You still talk?” said Molly. “How?”
“Molly!” said her mother.
“No, no, it’s all right dear. No, we still talk. He visits me every so often and we catch up round the table.”
“Oh.” Molly said, unsure how to respond to such an explanation.
“Yes, my gift has spared some of my grief, for which I am grateful. You must attend one of my evenings, dear.”
Molly’s mother shifted uneasily, but busied herself with pouring tea. “Oh, thank you. I’m not sure …”
“Oh nonsense, dear. It’s nothing to be scared of. Spirits are just echoes of the past. You should see them as comforting.”
Molly could see her mother’s eyes glisten as she drew a napkin to her face. “My husband is not long passed and I don’t think it best to …” she stopped abruptly, hiding her face in her napkin. Molly went to her and cradled her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry, my dear. I didn’t realise. How terribly insensitive of me. And I claim to be a psychic! Ha!”
“No, please, you weren’t to know,” said her mother, stroking Molly’s arm. “We are getting on aren’t we Mol?”
Molly nodded, then stared at the old woman who’d upset her mother.
“It’s okay,” said her mother.
“Did you know your previous neighbours well, Mrs Austin?”
“Oh no. Well, not really. Not like this. They never had anyone in to entertain. No children. Hardly saw them. My husband used to see him stumbling back from the ale house, The Alma down the road there, every night. Hardly saw his wife, except at the market sometimes. Timid girl. Didn’t say much. You heard her at night though. My God, you heard her.” The old woman stopped, lost in a memory, her eyes saddened by the thought. “Anyway, he left on a cart a few months ago. She must have gone ahead of him. Or she left him. I didn’t see her to say goodbye either way.”

Mrs Austin finished her tea and collected her walking stick before rising. Molly’s mother followed. “Anyway, I mustn’t hold you up any longer, dear. Thank you so much for the tea, and you really must visit whenever you feel.” The woman moved towards the back door. Molly stood in front of her mother. “And you girl, keep out of that cellar, away from those spiders.” She bent forward to Molly’s ear, her musty smell intensifying as she got closer, then whispered “Some things are best left unexplained to those that believe, child.” Molly’s nerves shivered. Mrs Austin’s foreboding eyes told more than her words. The dark figure turned and left for the gate in the back yard.
“What a nice woman,” said her mother.

***

Molly shuffled down the pavement, slowly but determined. Her old feet hadn’t given up on her yet and she was adamant they wouldn’t either. Her daily walk to the Compton Road shops kept them in check, and the steps in her modern apartment block made sure they worked hard. She walked past the market hall and remembered when it was all open air, no fancy roof, and the Punch and Judy shows she so used to enjoy when she was a girl. Her primary school class weren’t as impressed when she’d taken them to Blackpool for the day. Still, they’d all be in their 30s now and might appreciate it if only for historical reference. As she approached the newsagents on the corner she spied her old street, Sycamore Street, marked for demolition three years ago. Finally they were reducing it to rubble in front of her eyes. She remembered her mother always cleaning that step below the green door, proud as she was. In the newsagents Molly picked up a pint of milk and a local paper and stepped towards Mr Singh. “Morning Mrs Brown, lovely day.”
“Oh yes. It seems to cheer the pigeons anyway. Had one on my windowsill this morning, pure white he was, looking for crumbs.”
“Cheeky beggar!” said Mr Singh. “I hope you told him where to go, young miss.”
Molly brushed off the shop keeper’s sly blandishment with her hand. “Oh I don’t mind. He was quite beautiful actually. Had a story in his eyes, I could tell.”
Mr Singh fed the cash register some numbers and it rang out in a song of fiscal pride. “Not much in there,” he pointed to the Harlow Gazette on the counter. “All doom and gloom. Best not to bother with it if you want to keep that rosy smile.”
“I don’t really read it. I only get it for the crossword, and that usually takes me all week!”
Molly bid her local friend good morning. Leaving the shop she gazed one last time at old Sycamore Street, nearly all gone. “Things move on I suppose.”

Harlow Gazette
Friday 14th August 1961

BONES FOUND BY DEMOLITION TEAM
‘Police are investigating the discovery of
human remains found in the cellar of a
demolished house on Sycamore Street,
believed to be that of a female, circa 1890.
More details to follow.’

Selfish Breed

Today I don’t like being me.

Today I don’t like the human species.

The selfish cycle of life.

The selfish individuals, and their selfish needs.

Fuck you up.

Bring you down.

The desire of what you can do for me.

Pointless life.

No reason to be.

Just selfish need, selfish deeds.

Ego driven.

The selfish breed.

1000 Snowflakes

Every night he'd ask his mum if it would snow this winter. His mum always said it depends if the snowflake fairy pays us a visit. But Harry had to be good for the snowflake fairy to visit. So Harry tried very hard to be good. He helped carry his mum's shopping home, he visited nan once a week and gave her a big hug and kiss before he left, he helped his dad sheer the sheep till they were naked of wool. He worked hard. Harry believed.

The nights grew darker and the townsfolk covered themselves in woolly clothes to keep out the chill. But still the snowflakes wouldn't fall. Harry was trying to be good every day. Sometimes he'd try twice as hard. He even shared his sweets with his sister in the hope that the snowflake fairy was watching, somewhere.

***

Harry's mum had just tucked her boy into bed. She was worried. For once she was wishing the snow would come to the town, just to reward her hopeful boy who'd tried so hard on behalf of the lucid snowflake fairy. She thought, and wondered, and imagined and dreamed.

***

A few weeks later it was Harry's seventh birthday. He climbed trees and made a den in the woods with his friends. When he got home there was a party with streamers and silly hats, and a cake with seven candles. When he blew out the candles he made a wish. He wished it three times just to make sure the snowflake fairy could hear. That night, after he'd checked through the curtains one last time, his mum tucked him safe and sound into his warm bed. His mum told him that night his dreams would be special.

On their way to the shops the next morning Harry wondered why his dad was with them. He never came shopping when he had the sheep to tend. The town was busy too. But everyone was heading in the same direction, towards Wellgate in the centre of town, and, Harry realised, so were they. His mum didn't answer him when he asked, she just smiled a watery smile.

Harry, his sister, and his mum and dad rounded the corner to Wellgate into a throng of people clogging up the small entrance. When they turned and saw Harry they parted like a drift of snow, all the way to the end where the town well had always stood. Harry's eyes widened at the sight. The well, lacy white, was patterned with snowflakes. 1000 snowflakes. As he got closer he could see they were made of wool. All eyes of the children of Ossett town gaped wondrously at the grand sight before them. The townspeople smiled as Harry gazed at the well, his eyes studying each carefully crafted snowflake, each one made by those watching him, each filled with the joy of a child. Harry's mum gave him the biggest hug he'd ever had and told him how the people of Ossett wanted him and all the children to have their own snowflakes, just for them.

 

 

In bed that night Harry smiled into his pillow wrapped in the dreamy day he'd just had. He didn't think of the snowflake fairy. He thought of his mum and his dad and all the nice people he'd met that day who'd made him and his friends such a special present.

***

The moon shone in the dark swirls of the night and cast a bright beam upon the well in Ossett town. The woollen snowflakes danced, but there was no breeze. From deep in the well something shivered. A flurry of wind carrying shimmering silver dust flowed from the well's opening. Jack Frost rose up into the white woollen flakes made by the people of Ossett. Up he rose, into the eaves, calling to the night, calling to the snowflake fairy.

 

 

 

Harry woke the next morning with his mum's excited voice telling him to look outside. He pulled open his curtains to the scattering of soft white flakes of snow that lay as far as he could see. He shut his eyes and thanked the snowflake fairy for listening to all the people of Ossett. Then he ran downstairs to find his bobble hat and red wellies.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

The Halloween Ghoul

It’s Halloween! At last! At last! The night Sam had been waiting for.
He’d practiced hard his howls and grrs, terrified they’d be, he was sure.
Grease painted jowls, hollow eyes, holes cut into a pillow case.
He was such a chilling site, such a fright, with his spooky bestest scary face.
Clutching his plastic pumpkin basket, his high-vis trainers on his feet,
his mum took a photo for the mantelpiece, then followed him down the street.
 

They went to Mrs Bumblebam with her wobbly feet.
Her cat sat in the window, looking nice and neat.
She would be scared, she would be shocked. How she would quiver.
Her legs would wibble, her feet would wobble and make her all a shiver!
 

Sam knocked on the door, once, then twice.
As it opened he howled into the night.
 

“Oh, here’s some toffee apples my lovely little man.
Now mind you eat them nice and slow,” said Mrs Bumblebam.
“Isn’t he lovely? Isn’t he sweet? By far the cutest ghoul I ever did meet.”
 

His mother’s face proudly swelled, indeed her son was the cutest in the world.
But Sam wasn’t happy, not one little bit.
He wanted to be the scariest ghoul on the whole street!
 

They went to Mr Fartheroy, who was mostly skin and bones.
His garden guarded diligently by his little red nosed gnomes.
He would be scared, he would be shocked. How he would shudder.
His bones would shake, his skin would flake and make his fudder judder!
 

Sam knocked on the door, once, then twice.
As it opened he howled into the night.
 

“Oh here’s some chocolate mallows my tiny little boy.
Now mind you eat them nice and slow,” said Mr Fartheroy.
“Isn’t he lovely? Isn’t he sweet? By far the cutest ghoul you could ever meet.”
 

His mother’s face proudly swelled, indeed her son was the cutest in the world.
But Sam wasn’t happy, not one little bit.
He wanted to be the scariest ghoul on the whole street!
 

They went to the Sorrowglads, a couple without child.
Past their gate the air did freeze, where the others had been mild.
They would be scared, they would be shocked. How they would bellow.
Their hearts would thump, their nerves would jump, their knees would turn to jello!
 

Sam knocked on the door, once, then twice.
As it opened he howled into the night.
 

“Oh here’s some fudgy yum yums my small little lad.
Now mind you eat them nice and slow,” said Mr and Mrs Sorrowglad.
“Isn’t he lovely? Isn’t he sweet? By far the cutest ghoul we ever will meet.”
 

His mother’s face proudly swelled, indeed her son was the cutest in the world.
But Sam wasn’t happy, not one little bit.
He wanted to be the scariest ghoul on the whole street!
 

‘Alas,’ thought Sam, but in different words, ‘I shall never scare.
There must be no ghost spookier than me. It just isn’t fair!’
But then, Sam looked once, then looked twice, but no, it couldn’t be!
It was! A figure in the dark, just behind the maple tree.
 

While his mother and the Sorrowglads babbled into the night,
Sam slipped away, past the tree, and found a boy so white.
“What is your name?” Sam enquired, “I have not seen you before.”
“I am Tom, and you will not, as I did die years afore.
“I have watched your anger grow and grow,
“Your failure does frustrate.
“But let me tell you, Master Sam, being a ghoul is not so great.”
“No more treacle pudding and custard.
“No more warm bed for me.
“No more present on my birthday.
“No more hugs from mum to me.
“No more friends or play time.
“No more fishing trips.
“No more trees for me to climb.
“No more Friday fish and chips.”
 

Sam’s mother called, “it’s time to go, where are you little Sam?”
A ghoulish glow came from the trees, and Sam said “here I am.”
 

That night, after Sam had brushed his teeth, and hugged his mum so hard,
he snuggled in his Batman bed and his mum read to him out loud.
When she’d finished she said goodnight and kissed him on his head.
“Mum,” Sam said, “I think next Halloween I’ll be a robot boy instead.”

Your Feet Have Got It Covered

Isn’t it great when you go to all the effort of getting a proper old school original band to play, maybe who’ve been around for a while, who’ve created songs that have stood the test of time, a band that even those who weren’t born the first time around know when they hear them, and then you find that the generic yet genre specific cover band playing down the road have pulled double the punters you have? What a depressing state for live music to be in.

 

Don’t get me wrong, cover bands have their place. I think they’re a great thing. Good for musicians to build their repertoire, and great for practice. Good for audiences who may get their first introduction to music that happened before their time but influenced so much of what they hear now. To someone who loves to promote creativity, especially in music, the disappointing thing is that being in a cover band is now seen as the way to make a living if you want to be a full time musician. Cover bands get paid more. Cover bands get booked more. Yes, it might be for cheesy weddings or crappy family ‘fun’ gigs, but a gig’s a gig, and money is money. I can see the pull. If you’re serious about being a career musician – and by that I mean someone who pays their own bills, does their own washing, needs to consider such things as household budgeting – then you need to find the most lucrative avenue(s) through which to achieve your career goals. Some musicians would say it’s part of growing up and the acceptance of life as a musician. You can’t be in a fantastical band of your dreams all your life, whimsically producing what you feel, purging your soul in the name of your ‘art’ if you want to make a living. This may be true. But why should it be true? Why don’t people come to your gigs?

 

The answer? How much time have you got? I’ve heard countless band members blame the venue or the promoter for not promoting their gig enough. I’ve heard the local newspaper’s lack of coverage being blamed. Then there’s the weather, the time of the month, the price of beer, next door’s cat. But the simple fact is the economy of live music is dependant on your very own feet, however lackadaisical they may be.  It is the audience who dictates what venues provide in the way of musical entertainment. If the majority of their punters still keep buying beer whilst being besieged with bad Thin Lizzy covers or endless Greenday ‘classics’ then who are the venue to argue? Businesses need to make profit otherwise they cease to be businesses. Simple.

 

It’s hard work for a venue to decide to support independent music. The bureaurocratic costs are steadily mounting, the red tape progressively getting stickier. The less venues supporting independent music there are the more audience each remaining venue will get. The law of attrition suits some, but only the strong willed will survive. And that’s all they will do, survive, just.

 

So feet are to blame. Well, yes. But this includes band members’ feet too! Bands are the ultimate audience; the ones who can make or break a live music scene in any locality. What really pisses me off is when independent bands don’t support each other, or, for that matter, independent live music in general. There is an ever increasing attitude of if my band isn’t playing then what’s the point of going to any gig? This insightful comment is usually followed by some whinge about the lack of support for live music in their town, whilst lamenting that at least they’ve got their loyal fans (consisting of eight friends/family/girlfriends/boyfriends).

 

The point is if you don’t go to local gigs with original music then there won’t be any gigs for your band to play at. Quite a simple sum really. Being in a band means you have a wider responsibility to your local live music scene, because if you want to carry on being in a band then you will need it to exist! You can’t bake a cake without an oven to put it in (or something). In order for your band to survive you need other bands to survive, you need promoters to exist, you need pubs and venues to thrive on live music, you need regular audiences. The sustenance to all of those things’ existence is you and your feet. Collectively your feet have a voice and they dictate the direction of the live music scene in your local town.

 

So next time you’re out in your local pub or venue have a good think about how you being there affects how that business runs, and therefore affects how much the local independent music scene will thrive. Your head counts. Just your presence in any venue says something to that business. The moment you walk through the door you become a statistic, whether you like it or not. Your very existence in that space says a thousand words, even if you remain silent. If the live music which that venue is providing isn’t original, isn’t something new, something different, something you come away from feeling inspired for the future of music, if what that venue is presenting to your ears is against the basic Tao of every original live music supporter, even after a couple of pints, then find a venue that’s putting original stuff on and stay there. Demand it! You don’t need a banner or a sign on a 2×4 to make a statement. You can do that perfectly well with your feet.

 

DEATH: The worst thing you can say…

The worst thing you can say to a friend who has just lost someone is ‘my condolences’ or ‘sorry for your loss’ or any other equally banal formal statement that a company would use when expressing sorrow for accidentally killing your husband at their radioactive plant.

 

I remember thinking about this a long, long time ago when one of my friend’s relatives died and obviously she was upset about it. I thought ‘what would I want to hear?’ I certainly knew the last thing I’d want to hear was some generic off the shelf statement that didn’t show any thought or care from me to my friend. I wanted my friend to feel supported by me, to feel they had someone to talk to should they need to, to feel they had my sympathy and I’d really thought about how they must feel and empathised with them. ‘That’s how I’d want a friend to make me feel,’ I thought. I also thought about how when you announce to the world that someone you care about has died that’s when people usually outpour their sympathies and then promptly forget about you, even though you will probably feel like utter crap for a good few weeks through the funeral, the scattering of the ashes, the after thoughts of past times, and when all the ceremonials are over the kicking in of a black void where you’re just supposed to get on with things. THAT is when you really need your friends, in that black void time. So I decided, for my friend, I would send her a message a few days after the funeral just to check how she was doing and make it known AGAIN that I was there should she need me, that she shouldn’t feel awkward about contacting me for whatever reason, even if it’s just to blub down the phone for half an hour. ‘That,’ I thought, ‘is what I’d want.’

 

Maybe I think about these things too much because I’m so desperate to have friends, as I have no close family, and the family I do have live far away and really aren’t people I can be myself with. I realise – oh, how I realise – that people do not all think the same way and that something that is painfully hurtful to me would not be seen as so to them. Different upbringings, different life experiences, different wiring, different perceptions. The thing is, realising these things doesn’t change how much the result hurts when perceptions clash, when the what I’d do doesn’t match the what they’d do. The desperation to have a brother or sister who went through the same as me, knows exactly why my mind is a bit fucked up, how strange my family is, and therefore gets exactly where I’m coming from is overwhelming. I just want someone to understand. But that is asking a lot from a person who’s only known me for a relatively short period of my entire life. It requires them to be interested. And why should they? They’ve got their own problems. I don’t blame them. I’m really not that interesting. And thus my problem shall never be resolved. I will continue to try because I am human and to give up hope means that’s the end for me, something I’ve contemplated many a time but haven’t got there yet, and I hope not to.