Mr Woollens mobilises slowly and with great precision, inching his way along the great mass of textbooks on the book shelves; along the backs of chairs and cabinets covered with fossils and specimens in jars and ethnic carvings; tentatively feeling his way along the walls hung with diplomas and certificates and photographs of awards ceremonies and antique taxonomic prints; moving hand by foot by hand, securing each purchase and only then transferring his weight, as slowly and meticulously pinpoint as a giant starfish moving over a span of uneven coral – ironic, given that starfish were his speciality.
‘Yes,’ he pants, pushing his wild white hair over to one side, exposing the great tangle of his eyebrows and the partially paralysed slant of his mouth. ‘I spent years looking at the damned things.’
I ask if there’s anything I can get him, some water perhaps, a cup of tea?
‘There is one thing,’ he says. ‘You can get me a package of something to enable my own destruction.’
Those great eyebrows tremble as he studies my response.
‘No?’ he says. ‘Thought not. In which I suppose I shall just have to settle for a cup of tea.’
Author: jim clayton
joan & agnes go shopping
Joan is sitting in the sunshine on an antique walnut chair, an aluminium walking stick planted squarely in front of her, both hands resting on it, giving her the appearance of a graven warrior leaning on their sword. I have to say she’d look pretty good in a helmet, with a nose-piece and slits for eyes; as it is, her only armour is a tweed skirt, silk blouse and metallic hairdo.
And if Joan is a warrior, her declared enemy would be Sciatica.
‘I’m a martyr to it,’ she says, thumping her stick on the carpet twice, which she does periodically, to emphasise the key points.
‘Not that I let it win. I know what you, the doctor and everybody else will say. You’ve got to keep moving Joan. Physiotherapy and pain relief, that’s the ticket. But all these pills and potions turn me into an absolute zombie, dragging myself around the place, moaning and carrying on. And when I’m in that state I’m afraid all I really need is shooting.
Thump, thump.
‘I must tell you something, though. You’ll like this. My friend Agnes came round the other day. She visits every now and again. Like the flu. She wanted me to drive her to the mobility shop to help her choose a three-wheeled walker. I said can’t you just order it online like everyone else? But she hasn’t the faintest idea what online means. She thinks it’s something to do with the railway. Still, I don’t mind the odd excursion. I drive, of course. Everything’s a fuzz close up, but so long as the sun’s high enough I get by. So we drove over to the mobility shop, and spent an absolute lifetime looking at their range. I suggested the most solid looking thing with a basket on the front and a seat to sit on if it came to that. But Agnes being Agnes she went for the racy red affair, a three-wheeler, something that wouldn’t look out of place at Brands Hatch. Whilst she was fiddling around with a cheque book – a cheque book! I mean, honestly. She’s like something out of the Middle Ages! – Anyway, whilst she was driving the assistant absolutely insane with her chaotic bag and her endless requests, I took the opportunity to nip next door to the paper shop to get my copy of the Financial Times. Whilst I was in there chatting to the shopkeeper about call centres or somesuch, a woman came into the shop and asked me if I knew a woman with a red three-wheeled walker. So I said Yes, I’m afraid I do. So she said Well she’s just fallen over!’
Thump, thump.
in the house of alma
‘How much do you know about – the situation?’
Charlotte is standing with me and my colleague Olufemi where we agreed to rendezvous outside the house. She seems anxious, her long blond hair tied back in a purposeful ponytail, her eyes drawn and tired.
‘Not much, only that Alma has been going downhill a bit lately, at risk of self-neglect.’
‘If it wasn’t for me she would’ve died already – sorry to be so blunt.’
‘No. That’s okay. It’s good to be clear.’
Charlotte unconsciously moves Alma’s keys from hand to hand, as if they’re too hot to hold for long.
‘The fact is we’re moving,’ she says. ‘And I’ve no idea what’ll happen when we’re gone.’
‘Does she have family?’
‘No. A niece somewhere. I’ve never seen her.’
‘That is a pity,’ says Olufemi. ‘That is sad for the lady.’
‘What about carers?’
‘You’re looking at her. Not that I meant to do it, or even wanted to, really. But what can you do? I used to be a nurse, too. About a thousand years ago.’
‘So you’ve been providing a measure of care for Alma? Doing what, exactly?’
‘It started off just buying her food. Bit and pieces here and there. Clearing up. Domestic stuff. She never paid for any of it, but what could I do? I couldn’t just let her starve. But then lately she’s been unwell and I’ve had to start cleaning her up. She’s started falling, staying in bed. Been incontinent – that sort of thing. I’ve changed the sheets and quilt any number of times. Thrown them out, bought new. It’s been quite stressful. On top of all the hassle of moving. That’s why I had to get social services involved.’
‘Sounds like you’ve done everything you could and more.’
‘You are a good friend and neighbour,’ says Olufemi. ‘The best.’
‘The other thing I need to tell you is – she says hurtful things.’
‘To you?’
‘And I know it probably comes from a place of fear. I don’t doubt she’s scared people are going to take her independence away. It just makes it all even more difficult to handle.’
‘What hurtful things?’
‘Well. No doubt you’ll see when we go in. Don’t get me wrong. Deep down Alma’s okay. A little eccentric, in her own way. But erm…you really have to brace yourself.’
‘Okay. Thanks for the heads up.’
‘Let’s see what she’s like today, then, shall we?’
Charlotte gives us both a brave smile, then pushes open the gate and we all walk in a line down the overgrown path to Alma’s front door.
I’m guessing the house was built sometime in the thirties. A little down-at-heel now, it still has that air of moneyed class-consciousness you see in some suburban homes. When Alma dies I imagine it’ll be sold off and re-developed into separate flats. There’s certainly space for it. Inside it’s hard to imagine one person living on their own here, let alone a ninety-five year old confined to one room upstairs.
‘It’s cold,’ says Olufemi.
‘I put the heating on but she turns it off again,’ says Charlotte. ‘Doesn’t want to spend the money.’
‘But a person needs heating,’ he says. ‘This is not good. Not good at all.’
We’re all of us standing in the gloomy hallway looking round. Archways leading off into dark, unoccupied rooms. It’s early morning, and a thin light sparsely illuminates the kitchen.
‘It’s a mess,’ says Charlotte. ‘I’ve done my best, but…’
She stands at the bottom of the staircase with one hand on the balustrade.
‘It’s no good calling because she won’t hear you,’ she says. ‘We may as well just go up.’
So we do.
The landing is as cold and resonantly empty as the rest of the place. All the doors stand open and dark apart from the door to Alma’s bedroom, which is closed, with a little light spilling out from under it. A radio is playing loudly – a gardening programme, something about azaleas.
Charlotte knocks, then turns the handle.
Alma is lying on the floor.
‘Oh Alma!’ says Charlotte, hurrying over.
‘Get away from me!’ says Alma. ‘And whilst you’re at it, lose some weight.’
‘Don’t be like that, Alma. Look. I’ve brought some people to see you. Some nurses from the hospital.’
‘Nurses from the hospital? Whatever for?’
Olufemi and I go over to her to introduce ourselves and see if she’s alright.
‘How did you end up on the floor?’ I ask her.
‘I slipped! D’you think this is some sort of game? Concentrate, boy! Why not try using your mind for once? You might like it.’
‘Let’s help you up…’
She’s obviously uncomfortable, though, because once we’ve ascertained she hasn’t hurt herself, she lets us gently help her up and back onto the bed.
She’s wearing a t-shirt and nothing else, her withered legs scarcely able to support her.
Alma catches her breath, and when she’s ready, divides her attention between me and Olufemi. It’s like being scrutinised by a giant, partially denuded chicken, her eyes preternaturally bright and sharp.
‘You!’ she says to me, suddenly clawing at the air between us so unexpectedly that I have to lean back. ‘Pah!’ she says. ‘You’re no use.’
‘Please, Mrs Alma. We’ve only come here to help you,’ says Olufemi, kneeling beside the bed.
‘And as for you,’ she says, turning slowly to smile down at him in a horribly leering way. ‘YOU – my little pickaninny friend. You can go and kneel somewhere else.’
purchased
The camp in the woods was a poem.
What drew me first was the sign. I could just make it out through the trees. At first I thought it was a PRIVATE – NO ENTRY thing. As I got closer I could see it was part of something else, something more extempore. A lean-to made of green tarpaulin, ropes and bent saplings. Camping chairs and plastic garden furniture around a fire pit. A scattering of shovels and rakes. An upturned wheelbarrow. I saw they’d been working on a bike track, making jumps out of mounds of packed earth supported with wattle fences, water trenches on the fall-side to make it more interesting. It was an industrious scene. The tools looked suspiciously new, and I guessed they’d stolen them from the allotments near the church. In fact, come to think of it, everything looked scavenged. The sign turned out to be a whiteboard they’d nicked from the gate outside the local nuclear bunker (hilariously and ironically apologising for the cancellation of the planned open day due to ‘inclement weather’).
Whilst I was taking some pictures it struck me what a perfect analogy all this was: a nuclear bunker sign, tied to a tree next to the flimsiest of structures, so open to the elements you could imagine sitting in one of those rickety plastic chairs smoking a last cigarette as the shockwave raced towards you; a stolen iron ‘purchased’ sign hammered into the ground in front of a shelter pitched on private land; the hard work and improvisational skill taken to make the track and the jumps versus the anti-social thievery and trespass. But how much more anti-social was it to be part of a system that would countenance using a nuclear weapon – the normalisation of which underscored not just by the fact that the authorities had built a nuclear bunker next to the allotments in the first place, but now and again ran an open day (weather permitting)?
Not that I wouldn’t have been furious if I’d turned up at the allotment, found my shed broken into and my tools gone. I would’ve stamped about in my wellies, becoming even more furious waiting hours on hold for the non-emergency police line to pick-up. No doubt I would’ve entertained the same vengeful fantasies, subsiding in time into a moodily pessimistic so-this-is-how-things-are-these-days kind of wretchedness.
But isn’t what these feral bike track-kids have done just empire building writ small? Isn’t that what we as a country have done for centuries? Found a place we liked, stuck something in the ground that marked it out as ‘ours’? And then, after sufficient time had passed for us to say it had some historical patency, denied anyone else any influence there (even if it was thousands of miles from our shores and right next door to theirs)? And not just us, of course. A great many other countries have been founded on the same take & defend principle.
A colonial poem, then, writ small in stolen canvas, garden tools, and a sign apologising for the cancellation of the nuclear bunker open day.
slam dunk
Well – finally I did it! I performed one of my poems at a poetry slam.
Leo runs Guerrilla Poets at The Lansdown Arms in Lewes every third Sunday. It wasn’t at all as I imagined. It was so much better! The pub was full and friendly. A great mix of regulars, passing trade – and poets of every age and description. A woman who’d just written some lines on her phone. A guy who had only stopped by on his way to see his girlfriend in a pub up the road, but who happened to have four lines in his head about the philosophy of bike wheels. A woman who read a poem about the place in Mexico where Dean Moriarty died, shaking the dried rattle from a snake to cleanse the air before she spoke. A woman who used to be a punk and performed a poem about yeastiness. A little boy who skipped up and read a poem about poo and another one about not eating chicken. And me – reading Junkenstein’s Lament. It was such a warm, supportive and appreciative crowd, the perfect place to start out. It makes me want to do more (although next time I’ll make an effort to learn the poem first, so I don’t lose my place and the rhythm of it….).
If you’ve got a poem in you (and you live near Lewes) – check it out!
the twopenny hangover
Kenneth’s house is so ancient and well-heeled it has its name stencilled on the curving corner brickwork of the street. Black railings lead round from the sign beneath tall windows to the porticoed entrance, three wide steps up to a black and white tiled threshold, a wide oak door and worn brass bell-pull. The keysafe to the side is a glaring modern expediency whose installation I imagine took some persuading, but given Kenneth’s age and poor state of health I’m glad he agreed. When I’d called earlier to arrange a time, Kenneth told me to retrieve the key and let myself in. ‘I’ll be in the drawing room’ he said, room pronounced rum. ‘Just holler out when you’re in the hall so I’ll know it’s you,’ he said. ‘There’s a fellow.’
The hall is as sumptuous as you’d expect from the exterior. A wide, softly curving staircase, smooth as the whorled interior of a whelk, rising on plush red treads past paintings, prints by Gillray, fading family pictures dating from the age of the plate, up past a gilt and crystal chandelier to the honey-moted tones of the upper storeys. Another jarring note, though – the stair lift, whose track starts by a walnut table for keys and things, where there’s a silver framed photograph of Kenneth as a young airman, leaning forward in that earnest, David Niven way, cap jauntily back, arms crossed and resting on an immaculately pressed trouser leg.
‘Up here!’ he says when I call – then subsides into a series of rattling coughs.
I squeeze past the chair where it’s come to a stop at the top of the stairs, and walk into a bright and beautiful room, where Kenneth is waiting for me in his favourite chair.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ he says, shaking my hand. ‘Do take a pew.’
* * *
Kenneth’s observations are below normal range but unsurprising given his COPD and recent chest infection.
‘It doesn’t help that I smoked for fifty years or more,’ he wheezes. ‘Well everybody did. It was almost compulsory. And during the war one tended to live day to day. I loved to smoke, though. It was one of the few things I was good at. If I didn’t have a cigarette I’d smoke a pipe. And if I didn’t have any pipe tobacco I’d jolly well cut up some old carpet and smoke that. I managed to quit in the end, though.’
‘How did you manage it?’
‘Funny story. My wife had arranged a family trip. A pauper’s experience of Paris she called it. Didn’t sound at all like my cup of tea but I went along with it as I often did. I’d read George Orwell of course. Down and Out in Paris and London. Marvelous book. I remember him talking about the twopenny hangover, which was a rope you could lean on whilst you were sitting on a bench. And then at the end of the night they’d untie the rope, and there you were! Orwell smoked like the proverbial, of course. Didn’t do him any good either, although I think he had a touch of the old TB. Anyway, there we were, checking into this blackened ruin in the Place de la Contrescarpe – or the Can’t Escape, as I called it. Awful. Indescribable. And I remember lying there that night, staring up at the ceiling, smoking cigarette after cigarette – A because I couldn’t think what else to do and B because I thought it might discourage the fleas. And I thought to myself Kenneth! What on earth are you doing, lying here like this, killing yourself! So we checked out and went somewhere a little more civilised, I gave my last pack of Chesterfields to the person sleeping in the doorway, and I never smoked again. And now here you are telling me my breathing’s no good!’
‘Well – it’s not great.’
‘I’m ninety-five, Jim. I don’t think you could truthfully describe any aspect of me as being great. But there we are. You’re a smashing fellow and I thank you for your time.’
mail merge
mr & mrs dream reduction
mr & mrs standard complexion
mr & mrs do me down
mr & mrs London bound
mr & mrs simply wired
mr & mrs newly acquired
mr & mrs hyline hens
mr & mrs why ask again
mr & mrs hares a’boxin’
mr & mrs cytotoxin
mr & mrs backroom baying
mr & mrs slackline swaying
mr & mrs referendum disaster
mr & mrs cooperative disorder
mr & mrs haggle hassle
mr & mrs tattered tassel
mr & mrs wobble wattle
mr & mrs hot water bottle
mr & mrs go wash your face
mr & mrs go watch your space
mr & mrs reasonable open day
mr & mrs IVA
mr & mrs soubriquet
mr & mrs fixable synth
mr & mrs unoccupied plinth
mr & mrs bargain hunter
mr & mrs landscape gardener
mr & mrs dry xylem
mr & mrs unexpected item
mr & mrs lazy leitmotiv
mr & mrs keith
genesis 2:7 II
And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground
(because the LG could see there was plenty around;
exactly what tools He used the bible doesn’t say
but I suppose He was just naturally good with clay)
anyway
He breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul
wasting no time at all
taking his toll
on all the other creatures
and complex eco-systemic features
spooling out behind him on the evolutionary scroll
thanks be to God
but hey
all this is a long-winded way to say
that out and about today
with Lola the dog
I came across a rotten log
that looked a bit like an apocalyptic serpent
about to swallow God’s starry firmament
(or would do if my f-stop was properly determinant )
and I thought – if I propped a little man up in the foreground, with a stick
it might give the picture an emotional kick
you know – a piquant focus –
poetic hocus pocus
like foregrounding a monstrous bulldozer with a crocus
so I looked around for something to use
(exactly like God, but in cagoule and shoes)
instead of the dust of the ground
all I found
was an old cow pat
enticingly dry and flat
so I thought I’d cut a man out of that
but the pat was too crumbly
my hands too cold & my fingers fumbly
and then the penknife
jackknifed, the blade snapped shut
and suddenly there was blood
dripping on the pat man and the mud
and I yelped, and dropped the knife,
and cursed this foolish, photographic life
wrapping a tissue round my thumb
swearing at the clumsy fucker I’d become
but wondering if the blood would animate
this hokey man of shit I’d tried to create
but no – he didn’t move a fibre
didn’t jump up, wave, run off or whatever
he just lay there looking like a sorry piece of crap
not at all the cute figure I needed for the snap
(and by the way, can I say right here?
the Lord God had the right idea
avoiding any similar conclusion
choosing breath of life over blood transfusion)
so I left my primitive pat man unpapped on the log
and staggered home howling after the dog
my attempt at creation a complete disaster
fuck that shit – all I need is a plaster
12 short lines on a frightening decline
bye bye / fly
toodle pips / thrips
mind how you go / mosquito
take it easy / flea
mic drop / wasp
peace, out / louse
have a good one / ichneumon
see you later / cicada
sayanora / borer
au revoir / orthoptera
sleep tight / cabbage white
g’night / g’nat
a proper west ender
‘What’s the verdict, doc? Still alive? You can tick that box, then. But I can tell you what the problem is, without none of your fancy nonsense. I’m ninety-four! Yes! That’s what the problem is. Ninety-four and fucked, ‘scuse my French. We’re all living too long, y’see? Weren’t too long ago I’d have popped off by now. But we’re all hanging around in limbo and no fucker knows what to do with us and I don’t see no end to it – d’you? I don’t mind, though. I’ve had my life. I was in Germany, just after the war. You talk about hard times now, but you should ‘a seen it back then, mate. Terrible. All them kids, scratching around the ruins for someink’ to eat. We did that, and worse. Bodies everywhere. I’d never seen nuffin’ like it. People talk about war like it’s something grand, something to be proud of. I weren’t proud. Far from it. I still have the dreams. But then again, y’see, I was just a kid myself, twenty years old and no sign of a razor. We lived day to day, though. We went dancing and tried to forget about all the bad stuff. It’s just the way it was and that was that. There weren’t nothing you could do about it. When I made it back home for good I followed the family trade. In the theatre. I weren’t a hoofer like me ol’ man. Nah! I liked all the backstage stuff, the lighting mainly. Dad was the real thing, though, a proper West Ender. He had this nice little thing going with Gertrude Lawrence. You’ve heard of her, I suppose? They did pretty well, but then she nicked off to America and and he ended up stage doorman at the Winter Gardens. Still, she never forgot him. When she come back he was the first one she’d look up. She’d be outside knocking on the door in her pearls and furs and mum’d be shouting up the stairs Oi Billy, your fancy bird’s back! I loved it in the theatre, though. I was at home there. It was in me blood. I remember one day, I was sitting out front watching them sort out the flats, and Alec Guinness was sitting next to me with his feet up. And he says to me Jack. Look at me. I’ve got no legs to speak of. I’m starting to lose my hair. I’ve been working myself ‘alf to death and still I ‘int got ten shillings to me name. What are my chances, d’you think? But I set him straight pretty quick. That was an easy one. I mean – c’mon! Alec Guinness!’
sunset terrace
‘I’m just finishing off my mother’s rectal area but you could come over at a quarter past five if that would be acceptable?’
I check my watch. It’s ten to.
‘Okay. Fine. I’ll see you then, Jeremy.’
‘Lovely, James. Looking forward to seeing you at a quarter past five, then. Goodbye.’
I don’t know what’s more disconcerting – the formal description of the personal care Jeremy’s giving or the way he changed ‘Jim’ to ‘James’. Either way, I’m intrigued to meet him.
The house is in the middle of a long terrace, the only thing marking it out being an atmosphere of general neglect. Nothing too awful; more like a disaffected giant leant in with the eraser end of an enormous pencil and rubbed it out a little. The number is a rusted iron affair, the black paint long since flaked off, hanging on a skew so it’s only possible to make out by taking it in sequence with the numbers on the houses either side. I ring the bell and take a step back. After a long pause Jeremy comes to the door, wiping his hands on some kind of souvenir tea towel.
‘Oh hello, James!’ he says, draping the tea towel over his shoulder and reaching out to shake my hand. His feels icy from the water, soft and broad, too; if I closed my eyes I could imagine I was shaking flippers with a seal.
‘Don’t just stand there!’ he says, flapping me through. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
‘It’s freezing – but at least it’s bright.’
‘Yeees! It’s surprising what you can tolerate with a little light. She’s just through here, James. Excuse the mess.’
The house still follows the original two-up, two-down floor plan – a small front sitting room and back parlour, a tiny kitchen and downstairs toilet, and two rooms upstairs. Jeremy has set his mum’s bed up in the parlour, just about managing to squeeze it in along with a commode and a comfy chair. The front room is for watching TV, and this is where his mother is sitting, wearing a short fur jacket and a beige turban – a little at a slant – fixed at the front with a brooch. Jeremy’s paintings cover the walls: swirling life studies in reds and browns and yellows, so thickly done I imagine he uses both ends of the brush, and then maybe his feet.
I introduce myself to Jeremy’s mother, but although she smiles contentedly she makes no sign that she’s really understood who I am or what I’ve come to do. Jeremy leans in and bellows in his mother’s ear – much more of a shock to me than it is to her – then leans out again.
‘She’s a little hard of hearing,’ he says, gently. ‘Would you like me to make you some tea whilst you take her readings?’
I run through the obs, and I’m pretty much done by the time he brings through two mugs and a beaker for his mum.
‘Everything looks fine,’ I say, looping the stethoscope over my neck and taking the mug.
‘Well that’s a relief.’
‘Yep. I think all we need to do is book some physio to get your mum back up to strength, have someone come in a couple more times to make sure she stays on the level, and maybe have an OT come round to see if there’s any more equipment you might find useful.’
‘I don’t know where it would go,’ says Jeremy. ‘I mean – look at the place. But we’re in your capable hands. We’re really very grateful.’
I write up my notes on the laptop whilst he sits on a stool and watches.
‘I love your paintings,’ I tell him.
‘Thank you!’ he says. ‘I use their old front bedroom as a studio. The light’s much better there, you know. Painting’s my thing. It’s what keeps me sane.’
‘Everybody should definitely have a thing. But how would you say you’re bearing up generally? It must be quite a strain.’
‘Oh. That’s kind of you to ask. It has been hard, that’s for darn sure – but I’m fine. As I say, I have my art.’
‘Do you need any care support?’
‘What would they do? I do it all.’
‘Well – I don’t know. Give you a bit of a break? Maybe you could consider some respite care at some point. You’ve got to look after your health, too.’
He laughs.
‘Me? I’m alright. You have to be, don’t you? I must admit it was hard at first, though. I had no idea what I was letting myself in for. But the rest of the family live abroad and they’ve got their own families so there wasn’t really anyone else. I’ve just had to learn as I went along. And now look at me – nurse, domestic, pharmacist, accountant. Electrician! But like I say. I still have time to paint. And we watch a lot of black and white films together, don’t we mum? We’re going to watch one when you go. A good one. Sunset Boulevard. Mum’s favourite. We’ve seen it I don’t know how many times. Norma Desmond…’
He puts his mug on the floor, jumps up, straightens, widens his eyes, snarls, throws the tea towel over the opposite shoulder and says Ready for my close-up, Mr DeMille.’
He holds the pose a few seconds, then sits back down on the bed again and picks up his mug.
‘And – scene!’ he says, taking a sip.
