A Little Knowledge...

‘But where will we go?’

‘You mean ‘where would we go if it actually happened?’ That’s easy - the west of Ireland: the ancestral home at Cloonagh.’

‘But in a pandemic, silly, there’s no travel. How would we survive and feed the girls?’

‘Well, we’d have to stay put and slug it out with the neighbours while we’re all looting the Tesco metro in the village. We could then take the National Trust property up the road - they have allotments. They might just let us in - we are members after all...' ’

‘Typical! You’re just not taking me seriously.’

On some Saturday mornings, Maude tucks herself away with a novel from the library. This morning, it is a tale of a flu pandemic that is apocalyptic in scope.

‘We at least need an emergency food store in the garage with (write this down):

Everything you can get in tinned form

Toilet roll

Powdered milk

….that kind of thing…use your initiative.’

I reminded Maude that I already have a storage system in the garage – with all the basics covered. 

One of my best boyhood friends was Polish. His parents had been refugees - shunted all over Eastern Europe and North Africa before arriving in Northern England. A win on the football pools had enabled them to set up their own business and live comfortably. Zbig’s dad, however, always maintained a garage store of essentials – an insecurity stayed with him and the memory of his garage store stayed with me. My thoughts were just moving on to memories of happy afternoons playing tennis on Zbig’s lawn when Maude persisted:

‘Listen to me - this is important . I’ll do a checklist for the emergency store. I’ll have it laminated by one of the support staff at work and you can keep it in the garage. Everybody has a siege store in America. ‘

‘Your mother has one in Ballymena. What calamity is she expecting.’

‘A power cut at Sainsbury’s’

Three Doors Up

‘Look out of the window,’ said Maude. ‘Now.’

Maude was downstairs monitoring the girls. I could hear one of them crying and complaining incoherently about a crime committed by the other one. I was upstairs grabbing a minute put Brylcreem in my hair. It was one of those mornings when the smell reminded me of my father.

‘Have you looked?’

‘I’m looking, now.’

I was surprised to see that the third car in a funeral cortege was parked outside our house. My eyes followed the train of cars up to the hearse – as it was being filled with a coffin three doors up. Mourners and funeral professionals were milling around.

‘Oh.’ I said.

Three doors up is a rented house – tenanted by a couple in their forties for about six months. They could often be seen walking past the house with shopping bags – as they didn’t own a car. I did pass the time of day with them. Regrettably I never really took the time to engage them in neighbourly conversation.

Initially I wasn’t sure which one of them was dead.

‘Is it him, do you think?’ asked Maude.

I then saw ‘him’ getting into the first car. A large wreath emerged from the house with the name ‘JAQI’ at its centre.

‘Well it’s not him, he’s there.’ The upstairs window afforded me the better view.

‘Must be the woman, then’ called Maude from downstairs.

‘They’re fetching out a big wreath – it says ‘JAQI’. J,A,Q,I.’

‘Rather unorthodox spelling,’ suggested my wife.

I coughed and realised that I now have my father’s cough – he was virtually in the room.

‘Your daughters are out of control. Are you coming down any time soon? ‘

'Day Off'

‘You’re not having another day off. You’re coming with me and mother and the girls to feed the ducks at The People’s Park’.

The People’s Park always brings to mind communist China, but I remind myself that it is, in fact, in non-communist Ballymena.

‘How exactly, does a fifty mile round trip to help your father collect some mackerel constitute a ‘day off’?’

‘I’m sure that you both enjoyed your boys’ day out.’

I admitted (to myself) that I had enjoyed elements of it. I like driving Crawford’s bouncy jeep. It takes me back to the sensation of driving my first car – an original mini ‘city’. (I passed my driving test while working for Central Manchester Health Authority and drove a disused mini-van with free petrol from the ambulance station).

Crawford is also very good company and I sensed that he needed a day out. A full house, blending the infirm and the very young, was inclined to make Augusta a little ‘directive’. Earlier in the week, Crawford had entered the breakfast room in song – as he did every morning. Augusta pointed at a chair and commanded ‘Sit’.

‘She talks to me like I’m a bloody terrier,’ observed my father-in-law.

Good fresh mackerel are things to be shared between friends in Northern Ireland and they also make for a good excuse for a 50 mile round trip to reminisce a little.  Denver was delighted to see Crawford. I drank coffee while they finished off each other’s jokes and discussed the parlous form of the rugby club’s current first team.

‘I was on the verge,’ said Denver, ’of buying a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black to keep in for your visits.’

‘What stopped you?’ enquired Crawford.

‘Well they only had a big litre and a half bottle.’

‘Am I not worth that?’

‘It wasn’t a question of expense Crawford – I wasn’t sure you’d live long enough to finish it.’

Do I not 'like' that?

Maude and I met Chad for breakfast this morning: Eggs Benedict in Gosforth seemed a very civilised way to start the week. Chad was as effusive and entertaining as ever – as he and Maude traded stories of teaching difficult young people under difficult management.

Anyone related to a teacher will know that a gathering of teachers  brings about a detailed discussion of modern teaching: poor managers, excessive workload, government meddling etc. The quorum for this to occur is a mere two. I usually try and change the subject and bring teachers back into the non-teaching world. It’s easier during the holidays: their ire is not quite so intense. Today, I managed to get Chad onto the subject of social media. Chad shared my horror of people whose status updates reveal/share too much or make childlike observations.

We quoted a few examples to each other and agreed that one could be forgiven for thinking that the status updaters concerned had forgotten to take their medication.

‘I think it’s that they’ve generated their own mini stardom‘, observed Chad, ‘and those idiots who ‘like’ their every observation on ‘how cute chipmunks are’ cheerlead them into thinking they are funny and relevant.’.

I nodded agreement. Chad went on.

‘They’ve deluded themselves into thinking that their every thought has an import that has to be shared, when, in fact, it’s…….it’s….’

‘Giddy nonsense?’ I suggested.

‘…a load of shit,’ concluded Chad.

I agreed that he had a point and people should stop ‘fluffing’ inane updaters with the stimulus of a ‘like’ or a supportive comment.

‘There should be another button - next to the ‘Like’ button. An alternative.’

‘What?’ asked Chad, ‘a ‘dislike’ button. What are you – some kind of joy-sapping troll?’ Chad guffawed.

‘No. Nothing as negative as that. Something supportive. A small medicine bottle, or perhaps a pharmacy sign. Hitting it would send a private suggestion that the fully grown adult who feels the need to share their love of chipmunks should consider taking some calming medication.’

  

Death and the Weather

My father is more or less blind now. I asked him what he could see on the screen as we watched the Irish football team leak goals to the Spanish.

‘I can see white shapes. I think it’s their shorts moving about.’

He can still, nonetheless, hear very well. He monitors all communication in the house.

Mother came in from the kitchen. Jocasta had insisted on a long bedtime story and mother was very ready for a cup of tea. She was carrying a plum and apple lattice pie that we had bought earlier in the day. We had been to a Morrison’s somewhere in North Manchester. I had been very surprised to find that the sandwich included in the children’s lunchbox in the supermarket ‘restaurant’ – along with a piece of fruit and an organic fruit bar – was filled with jam. A jam sandwich this side of the 1970’s seemed very odd. I contemplated a complaint, but the boy on the till didn’t look up to it. I made a mental note to send an email.

Me: ‘Should I put it in the oven?’

Father: ‘Is the little one asleep now?’

Mother: ‘Yes, she is asleep.’

Father: ‘Put what in the oven?’

Mother: ‘Never you mind. Couldn’t we just have it cold?’

Father: ‘What do you mean: ‘Never you mind’? I still live here.’

Me: ‘It’d be nicer warmed up….’

Father: ‘What is it?’

Mother: ‘That’ll take ages. I‘ve the kettle on already.’

Mother paused at this point to put on her glasses and more closely inspect the pie and its packaging – as though that might help her make a decision.

Mother: ‘Couldn’t we microwave it?’

Father: ‘Oh, it’s a terrible thing to lose your sight!’

Me: ‘Wouldn’t be the same: pastry. Let’s just have it cold.’

Father: ‘I might as well be dead for all the attention I get. Is it still raining? Is that rain I can hear?’

Mother: ‘No it isn’t and no, that isn’t.’

Me: ‘I’ll make the tea.’

Mother: ‘It’s all they think about the Irish: death and the weather. They’re obsessed.’

My mother, herself Irish, has a charming habit of referring to the whole race from afar in the third person.

Father: ‘What are you putting in the oven?’

Me: ‘My head.’

'Don't go Changing...'

I created a tableau of rocks on the kitchen windowsill from the contents of Aurora's backpack after a trip to the local reservoir. Maude interpreted this as a cry for help and decided that I needed some adult society. She texted Larry and asked him to spontaneously invite me out for a coffee. An arrangement was made for Thursday and Larry insisted that Tyneside was our oyster as he could ride his bike anywhere to meet me.

 Thursday morning came.

‘The rain looks quite heavy,’ read Larry’s text, ‘could you swing by and pick me up.’

The house looked uninhabited. The downstairs windows were covered with faded newspapers on the inside, weeds dominated the garden path and the door lacked a bell or a knocker. I rapped on the wood and heard the sound echo in an empty hall. I was reminded of a business trip to Liverpool when all the houses I could see from the bus window looked like this and I suspected (hoped) that Liverpool was shut and that I could return home.

Larry opened an upstairs window and assured me that he would be down right away – adding:

‘Bit of an early start, mind..’

A minute or two later the unlocking of the door sent another echo through the empty hall. I stepped in to see that Other Larry’s renovations had stalled as they were about 6 years ago.

‘The police think it’s a drugs den,’ laughed Larry. ‘I’ll just brush my teeth.’

You can pick up with certain friends quite easily after a lengthy period of non-contact. Larry is one such friend. Most of the major details of Larry’s life remain unchanged. Larry is:

• still Other Larry’s lodger
• still earns a frugal living from teaching the ukulele
• still considers noon an ‘early start’

Dink is no longer in Larry’s life. His new partner is Yasmin, who lives in Jesmond, has a ‘strategic’ job and wants to marry Larry. Yasmin also sits in with Larry when he drives his car. This was a new detail and came as something of a surprise. Larry now drives the automatic Hillman Imp left to him by his late grandmother.

‘I can do a different test – just for automatics. It’s easier.’

We went for coffee and a light lunch at the nearby library and updated each other on what we knew of people of our mutual acquaintance: Miles and his return to Albion Windows, Lucien and his move to Rowlands Gill, Jez and Joolz and their performance art collective. I told him that I’d been stuck in a lift with Joolz not so long ago, but the journey was a mercifully short 2 floors. I asked if he knew anything of Archie. I hadn’t seen Archie at his usual bus stop for some time.

‘You’ve been very mean about little Archie.’

I was surprised by this.

‘I have only ever referred to Archie with great fondness.’

Larry persisted.

‘He’s a lovely little fella and you’ve made him out to be a feckless little fool.’

I suggested that I merely quoted Archie’s own words and reported true events.

‘I didn’t know,’ I ventured, ‘that you and little Archie were so close’.

‘Well, we’re not ‘close’ as such….’

I raised an eyebrow in anticipation of some elaboration’

‘…..but we do go for a pint....’

I raised the other eyebrow…

‘…..every couple of years.’’

"Yum! Jesus!"

‘Daddy, how do you make your body move?’

‘Your brain sends a signal to your body, like “move your arm”’.

I moved my arm as an illustration.

‘And when you walk, your brain tells your arms and legs to move and it tells your eyes to watch where you’re going.’

'OK Dad.'

Aurora and I marched on the spot for a minute. Jocasta came and joined us – but opted to skip.

My eldest daughter is going through a very inquisitive phase – needing to know how everything works.

‘What about people who walk without moving their arms Daddy?’

‘If they are not technically disabled darling, they are not to be trusted and are best avoided.'

‘OK Dad’.

Aurora resumed her marching on the spot. I saluted her and, sensing a break in her line of enquiry, made to ‘about turn’.

‘Daddy. What about the people at church?'

I raised an eyebrow and waited for my daughter to elaborate.

'Well, you know the way Jocasta puts her arms up and runs around screaming when you take the croissants out of the oven. Her brain says "Yum! Put your arms up!'''.

'Yes.....'

'Well What about the people at church who raise their arms and close their eyes while they are singing?’

This question did not entirely surprise me. I had seen Aurora scanning the congregation during services.

‘No arms yet Daddy,’ she’d whisper. Aurora has inherited her mother’s ‘stage whisper’ and can usually be heard by all present.

‘That’s a slightly different thing, sweetness. The people who raise their arms at church are having a special spiritual moment and they are trying to get closer to Jesus.’

‘So they are, like, saying "Yum! Jesus!' They’ll not actually reach him though Daddy, will they? I mean, you’re tall, but I don’t think you’d be able to actually reach Jesus.’

‘No darling – I didn’t mean that they are actually trying to touch Jesus. They are being moved by Jesus and raising their hands in his general direction.'

‘A-ha!’. Aurora’s face showed great revelation.

‘So their brains aren’t moving their bodies. It’s Jesus’s brain and he’s really messing about.’

The book what I wrote

I once worked for a ‘literature development agency’. The agency developed literature with a select bunch of favourite writers and rarely allowed any words in that had been written by a stranger. I used to take the calls to manage the disappointment of outsiders. A typical call would go something like this:

‘I’ve wrote a book.’

Never an auspicious start.

‘Well hello, nice to hear from you.’

I would begin in this way to sugar-coat the news coming later in the conversation that the caller – or ‘writer’  as they preferred to be described – couldn’t actually write ‘fuck’ on a dusty blind.

Other calls would come from disgruntled writers who had received a small commission or some crumbs of writing workshop work in the past - but had fallen out of favour. One such call from a poet who called himself ‘The Strolling Geordie’ began in a regrettable fashion.

‘I DON’T NEED ANY FUCKING ARTS ADMINISTRATORS!’

I resisted the urge to ask why, in that case, he had taken the time out to call one. He had clearly been drinking and had succumbed to high emotion when he probably would have been better served by going out and ‘strolling’ for a while in the fresh air.

Another aspiring writer took time out from preaching about Jesus at the foot of Grey’s Monument to recite his poetry at me in the office.

The organisation was housed in a theatre. Our small office had been created in what had once been the gents’ toilets. In Health & Safety terms the space would legally accommodate 2 people, 2 desks and a filing cabinet. In truth it was home to 2 regular staff, a portly Labrador, a sofa, a louche public school boy theatre director and a hot desk for various unkempt actors and indolent ‘Project Managers’.

Being in a theatre meant that we were surrounded by creative people who had a whimsical approach to security.  Actors and writers needed to be in and out at all hours – as their various muses took them. They were also inclined to sleep in the building if they were entrusted with a key. The Fire Door, therefore, was always ‘on the snib’. Once a street poet knew how to get in, the territory was his. Especially if the street poet was a former Gulf war soldier with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and an instinct for invasion.

‘I hope you don’t mind, but this is my new poem.’

Peter  would just appear in the room. He had very clear blue eyes and a piercing stare. He was a little volatile, so I was in the habit of making him a coffee and listening intently.

'Ring of Fire'

We had a barbecue on Saturday. Friends and babies milled around the kitchen. The babies took to the floor for a crawling competition and created the added bonus of an assault course for adults moving to and from the barbecue on the terrace with plates full of piping hot food. The barbecue was sat on bricks from an aborted bricklaying project of last year. (I had read a Sunday supplement piece about the joys of raised beds for growing your own vegetables. Deluded by the memory of a day’s bricklaying on a conservation holiday twenty years ago, I’d ruined the Mazda’s shock absorbers with a load of cheap bricks.)

Between the barbecue assembly and the fence was a shelf of small gardening equipment. I had looked at it earlier in the day and dismissed it as innocuous: terracotta pots; twine; unplanted seeds in sachets; a highly combustible plastic propagator.

The whole neighbourhood seemed to be enjoying the sunny day. I could hear Desmond and Celia giggling on the other side of the fence and the sound of splashing water suggested a water fight. We have often admired the youthfulness of Desmond and Celia. Whenever Celia does get out of her rocking chair they get along like teenagers.

Maude was enjoying the company and waving away the praise for her marinade.

Chad had, once again, 'forgotten' to bring any wine. Maude had set him to work on chores as a penance. I looked in to see him shelling peas. I was surprised by this, as peas were not on the menu. When Maude looked in his direction he laughed his theatrical laugh or beamed a smile back at her. As soon as she looked away his bottom lip obscured the peas he was trying to shell.

The propagator explosion was much louder than one could have imagined – even if one had been aware of the hazard. Maude screamed and jumped into the air with such force that her glasses were skew-whiff when she landed. Aurora followed suit and set off a chorus of screaming babies. Not wanting to be left out, Chad fired a shower of peas across the kitchen as he screamed too.

It was then that I realised that the explosion had blown an almost perfectly circular hole in the fence and had sent burning debris flying onto our neighbours’ property – more accurately, onto our neighbours. Celia was screaming. I looked through the burning aperture to see Celia stood naked in a newly acquired hot-tub. Desmond had the look of a man desperately bailing out as he scooped water onto her rear and burning splinters sizzled on the water’s surface around her.

It didn’t seem like a good time to offer an apology.

I extinguished the fence with the watering can and closed the French windows behind me as I went back into the house. The room fell silent as I calmed Aurora in my best Max Wall voice:

‘It’s alright dear, Daddy’s put the fire out.’

Ginger Teeth

I met Sadie for coffee and pancakes today. It was at a cafe at the end of my old street.

'Maude and I had our first flat just round the corner you know. Before the kids and all that. This was a real ale off licence then.'

I looked around. Art Nouveau styling, people reading books. It all looked quite metropolitan...for Newcastle.

We talked about children. Her two, my two. I knew that she wanted to discuss difficulties at work.

She knew that I was perhaps the only person who knew the true nature of her present/my former manager. There was a pregnant pause. I broke the silence.

'We can only talk about her if we agree not to mention her name - a bit like actors and 'The Scottish Play'. I don't allow it to be spoken in my house and I'll not have it polluting my rare social engagements.'

Sadie nodded. 'But how should I refer to her?'

'Well some of Maude's less able kids have great imagination when it comes to assigning epithets to their classmates and teachers. They have a maths teacher, for instance, who talks out of one side of his mouth. They christened him 'Luke Sidetalker'. I suggested an exam pass at least for whoever thought of that. One boy calls a sandy haired classmate 'Ginger Teeth'. I particularly like that one.'

'I like 'Ginger Teeth'', said Sadie.'It's quite apt and stops me demeaning myself by swearing in a public place. 'Ginger Teeth' it is.'

Sadie detailed some of Ginger Teeth's recent antics: shady dealings with funders, applying for a job that Sadie had expressed an interest in, not telling Sadie, getting said job and adding it to her portfolio of roles, the promise of a new contract for 6 months, non-manifestation of said contract in paper form etc...

I was unsurprised by any of what I was told. Sadie explained that she put up with the maltreatment for economic reasons. She seemed to be asking me if she should launch herself into another 6 months of self-esteem battering.

'You really shouldn't take on the new contract - even if it does find its way on to paper.'

'But how will I pay the bills?'

I thought for a moment.

'In short you need a way of raising money which is less demeaning?'

'Yes'. Sadie looked optimistic.

'Given the choice, myself,  I'd rather play the spoons at the Monument.'

'Vast Difference'

I hadn’t really read the letter properly.

A part of me didn’t really want to read the letter properly.

It was Monday morning and I was pleased that I had found a free parking space just beyond the hospital’s charging zone.

This joy was fleeting. I looked at the ‘how to find us’ map on the back of the letter and realised that the procedure that dare not speak its name was actually at a health centre on the other side of the borough.

I rang them and apologised. They agreed to see me if I got there within a half hour.

I could be forgiven for the lapse. My doctor has a disconcerting approach to consultations. She dictates referral letters into a machine, pausing the recording to restart the conversation, then pausing the conversation to complete the letter.

‘Dear Dr Yadda Yadda [minor surgery, can’t spell his name, please check] comma,

Hits 'pause'.

'Lovely man. He's done thousands of these. Literally thousands'

Hits 'record'.

'My patient, comma, after long deliberation with his partner, comma…’

Hits 'pause'.

‘Much prefer the comma to the dash don’t you? Too many people using dashes these days. Think they run scared from commas ‘cause they’re not sure how to use them. You still writing?’

I nodded. ‘Blogging mainly, half a novel…’.

Hits 'record'.

'…believes that his family is…’

Hits 'pause'.

‘You have discussed this with Maude haven’t you? I mean, you don’t technically need her consent these days, but your partner really does need to know.’

I nodded.

Hits 'record'.

‘…complete. I have outlined the preoperative requirements, comma, the nature of the procedure, comma, the risks, comma, and the usual recovery period. Full Stop ‘

Hits 'pause'.

‘Have you thought of joining the Royal Society of Authors. God-send. Got thoroughly fed up with the writing scene around here – so parochial. I go to RSA meetings in Edinburgh. Made lots of contacts – novel out in two months. Bingo.’

Hits 'record'.

‘Please arrange for surgery at earliest convenience. Patient will prepare as advised and adhere to preoperative instructions. Double space. Yours sincerely, comma, line line line line [room for big signature]. All the letters after my name.

Hits 'pause'.

‘Lovely to see you. Come back sharpish with any complications (very rare). Look into the RSA thing – good source of critical readers for fiction and, if you don't mind my saying, I think you need a direction, a plan.'

Opens door with a smile. 

'Not sure about blogging though, not really worth the effort…’