Let There be Light

‘I’m totally with you,’ said Lenny.’ I hate the winter too. It’s cold and unforgiving - a bit like my ex-wife.’

Lenny is a friend and an optician. We’d got to know each other as members of the same quiz team.

Lenny was dropping off Maude’s new ‘geek chic’ glasses as a favour and the clocks had just gone back.

Shortly after he left, Lenny thoughtfully texted to me the details of a SAD lamp he’d seen in the Maplin’s brochure.

The lamp arrived within a couple of days. With a cupboard full of immune boosting vitamins, St 

John’s Wort and a fruit bowl full of bananas, we are truly winter-ready.

This evening felt pretty wintry and we remembered the lamp. The family gathered for the big ‘switch on’.

The lamp is VERY BRIGHT.

The kids disappeared behind the sofa. I thought of switching the hoover on to chivvy them all the way up the stairs for the night.

‘It’s scary Daddy. I can’t see Mummy.’

‘Don’t worry poppet. It’s meant to be a bit like sunlight, when there isn’t enough sunlight.’

The device illuminated the room with something close to the strength of the floodlights at a minor league football stadium.

‘Is Mummy on fire?’

‘I’m getting quite a headache,’ said Maude. ‘Beginning…… to feel……quite.... cross. I thought you’d read the manual’

‘Not yet, darling, and no, darling, Mummy isn’t on fire.’

‘For instance, how close should I be?’ asked Maude, as she persevered on the sofa, wincing a little.

Maude’s headache was worsening and I was feeling quite stressed as I rifled through the desk drawers for the instruction manual. It didn’t feel as though we were getting the optimum results from a device designed to create a sense of well-being.

The girls had disappeared momentarily and I could hear the familiar sound of one of their rooms being ransacked.

I found the booklet.  I read the ‘quickstart’ guide in the glare of the lamp. The guide was imprecise about recommended distance and I began to feel a dryness in my mouth and the onset of a stress-induced headache. For a moment it felt like the light was drawing me towards it – I thought I was having a near death experience.

Maude spoke and distracted me.

‘I think, perhaps, I should wear my prescription sunglasses.’

‘It does warn, darling, that headaches are possible during the first couple of sessions.’

The girls reappeared and joined Maude on the sofa. The girls were wearing their sunglasses.

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.’’