Author: jim clayton

smoko

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

There’s a small enclosed porch at the front of the house, and that’s where Karen goes to smoke, a bit like an air-lock in reverse. The porch only has three things in it (not including Karen): an ashtray, a pack of cigarettes and an enormous plastic pipette. Quite what that’s for I don’t know, but I don’t hang around to ask.

‘Dad’s in the kitchen having his porridge,’ says Karen, taking another deep drag and nodding behind her as she blows out.

Her father Keith is sitting at the kitchen table. A tall, lean man in his seventies, he struggles to his feet to shake my hand and thank me for coming. He’s had a long spell in hospital, discharged home with a summary of his complex health problems and a request to sort out equipment and therapy. His handshake is warm and firm, and despite his illness he still has an air of quiet competency about him.

‘Sorry about Karen’ he says. ‘She’s adopted the porch as her smoko and we can’t persuade her to stop. She’s got learning difficulties,’ he adds. ‘She’s a good girl.’

I set up shop at the table and we go over how things are and what Keith might need.

‘You wouldn’t think to look at me now but I used to be so fit,’ he says. ‘I played football, tennis. Swam in the sea. Built this house, worked full time. There weren’t enough hours in the day. And if you’d have said to me after all that I’d have ended up like this I’d never have believed you.’ He works the porridge around in his bowl a while then adds: ‘Never smoked. Not a one. Mind you – I think Karen’s taking care of that side of things all by herself.’
And as if summoned by her father, Karen strides into the kitchen, bringing with her a palpable cloak of smoke.

‘All right?’ she says.

the longest hour

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Joan is lying in bed, a beanie wrap-around cushion supporting her neck, her long white hair wild on her shoulders.
‘I’m quite alright as I am, thank you,’ she says fussing ineffectually at the sheets. ‘I don’t want anything.’

Joan is ninety-five, tiny, translucent, tethered to the world by her watch and her will and the pictures on the wall.

‘I had a twin brother,’ she says, not to me, I don’t think, particularly, or anyone else in the room I can see. ‘Flew with the RAF. Never came back.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
She doesn’t react.

I’ve come to see how Joan is after her fall yesterday. The ambulance picked her up, although a mouse could’ve done it. I can’t imagine Joan falling – or at least, only as a dried leaf might fall, slowly, with a soundless settling to the forest floor.

‘I was an hour older,’ she says, closing her eyes, to bring it clearer to mind. Then adds: ‘It’s a little more than that now.’

behind the glass

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

The almshouse cottages are laid out on three sides of an immaculately kept croquet lawn. The white enamel paint is a little chipped on the hoops, showing patches of dark iron underneath. Maybe that’s through being struck with croquet balls over the years, but I’ve never actually seen anyone play. In fact the most life I’ve ever seen on the green is that crow, hopping around in the misty rain like a sexton in a frock coat, his hands under his tails, inspecting the lawn for worms.

Helen won’t be out playing croquet anytime soon, rain or shine. It’s enough of an adventure just making it from the armchair to the bathroom and back. I can imagine she would have been good at it though, sometime before the war, bobbing down to line up the final shot, giving the ball a hearty thwack, snatching off her cap, throwing it in the air, and then jogging over to the judging desk, the croquet mallet balanced on her shoulder. But of course, she wouldn’t have been living in an almshouse then. She would have been in nursing accommodation in London, excitedly practicing the air raid drill, hurrying out to dances, learning her craft.

Seventy years or more have passed since then, and Helen’s world has contracted to the size of a single room. It was small to begin with, but in an effort to stop her from falling the bed has been brought into the living room, leaving just enough room for a commode, a zimmer frame, an armchair and a side table. She still has her shelves of books, of course – one case devoted to Miss Read, whose name is repeated with dizzying regularity up and down the spines – but if you wanted to fetch one out you’d have to move a stack of things first.

Helen has been sitting this whole time with her head resting on the open palm of her right hand. She straightens now and again to look between her daughter Karen and me with an anguished look on her face.
‘I simply don’t understand what it is I have to do,’ she says.
‘You don’t have to do anything, mum. We’re just talking about things we can do to help you get better.’
‘Is it money? I think I have enough. But if you need more I can get another job.’
‘No, mummy. Don’t fret. We’ve got enough money. You’re job is to rest and focus on getting better.’
‘But all these people,’ says Helen, frowning at me. ‘I don’t know who they are or what they want. What do they want, Karen?’
‘They want what’s best for you, mummy. Like we all do. Try not to worry.’
‘But I do worry! I can’t stop worrying!’
Karen goes over to give her mum a hug, but Helen irritably pushes her away and then slumps forward again.

It’s an impossible position for Karen. Not only does she have the grindingly practical business of caring for an elderly mother whilst running a family of her own, she has to do it without the one person she’d naturally have turned to for advice and support, as she did all through her childhood, adolescence and beyond, the single parent who’d trained and worked as a nurse, the woman who’d seen things and suffered things and come out the other side with her hands and her uniform clean, who’d always somehow managed to be just as strong and as resourceful as she needed to be, the woman that was somehow in the room and yet out of it at the same time, as remote as that black and white photograph of a newly qualified nurse in a pristine uniform, sitting with a straight back behind the glass.

‘Anything you could do to help would be great,’ says Karen, smiling weakly at me. Then reaches over to squeeze her mum’s shoulder.

polaroids of pets and their owners

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1.
Geoffrey has two cats. Suki is a heavyweight, silver grey affair, sprawled on the seat of Geoffrey’s four wheeled walker like a luxuriously furred but rather bedraggled cushion, one paw draped over the side, an expression on her face of the purest hatred for the world and everything in it, especially Harry, the kitten. Harry is as hyperactive as Suki is inert, seemingly on a mission to destroy the bungalow, in such random bursts of activity it’s like watching a film that slows one minute and speeds up the next. Harry attacks the curtains, my bag, a pile of rubbish, the TV cables, winding himself up for each assault with a tensioning wiggle of his hips, whipping his tail from side to side, then skittering across the carpet – this time to take out a little stuffed dinosaur, rolling over and over with it, coming to a stop on his back with the dinosaur in its teeth and front paws, brutally pedalling it to death.

‘He’s having a funny five minutes,’ chuckles Geoffrey from his riser-recliner throne, King of Catland, packets of fishy favours to hand on the cantilever table.

But I’ve already been here ten.

2.
‘Are you okay with dogs?’
It’s an article of faith to say yes, because Leila’s brindle staffie Frankie is hurling himself against the baby gate so violently you’d think he hadn’t eaten in a week and a leg of mutton just walked in the door. Before I can answer either way, Leila unlatches the gate and Frankie bursts out. I stand my ground and ignore him – and, thank god, it works. In fact, it’s extraordinary how quickly he changes mode: from Hound of Hell to Snuffly Chump.
I scraggle him behind the ears, and he seems to like that. Then suddenly he’s reminded of something, and hurries off into the sitting room.
‘Oh no,’ says Leila. ‘Wait for it.’
There’s a plaintive squeak or two, then Frankie comes trotting back into the hallway to sit at my feet with a blue ball clamped in his jaws.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ says Leila. ‘Him and that ball. I wish I’d never got it.’
Frankie bites down on it twice in quick succession, to emphasise.
‘It was funny the other night, though,’ says Leila. ‘He fell asleep with it in his mouth. Then he started dreaming, doing that spooky eye-rolling thing they do, twitching and jerking, and then the ball squeaked, and woke him up, and scared the bejeesus out of him. He fell off the sofa and the ball squeaked some more and he dropped it and ran behind the curtains. I thought that might’ve cured him. But no, he was straight back on it. Poor ol’ Frankie. He’s like me – an addictive personality.’

Dracula: Doomed forever to keep on auditioning

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Okay – so – er-hem: Dracula
Don’t you think it’s all a bit too creepy & crepuscular?
And this obsession with all things cardiovascular
To be honest it’s just weirdly irregular
and won’t make you popular
We’re struggling with the medieval vernacular
And although we think your musculature
Is really quite spectacular
for someone of your – how shall I say? – vintage stature
this ancient blood vengeance rapture
just comes across as a chip on the dusty old scapula

So we’d like to thank you for auditioning here
and wish you all the best with your future career
We hope you’re not too upset; it’s what show business is all about
and don’t forget to close the window on your way out

halloween checkout jokes

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

The checkout girl started telling me Halloween jokes just after she told me a rival supermarket was selling the same two tubs of sweets for eight pounds instead of the five pounds each I’d just laid out for.
‘Why are ghosts so bad at lying?’ she said.
‘Erm…’
‘Because you can see right through them!’
‘That’s a good one.’
‘What does a witch use to keep her hair up?’
‘I don’t know. What does a …’
‘Scarespray!’
‘Yeah!’
She didn’t give me time to think of the answer, which is fair enough. I tried to think of one I could say myself, but all I could think of was the one about the skeleton who goes into a bar and asks for a pint of beer and a mop. It didn’t feel quite right, though, and anyway, the girl was laying out the jokes faster than she was scanning the items, which was pretty damn fast, and I didn’t stand a chance. I wasn’t sure if this wasn’t something they’d been asked to do or not, but she was so enthusiastic I thought maybe she would’ve done it anyway. I got my wallet ready with the reward card and the tokens.
‘Why didn’t the skeleton go to the ball?’ she said, swiping the card.
It was one I knew, so I said ‘Because he had no body to go with!’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right.’
She handed me back my card, and stared at the machine that printed out the receipts and vouchers, and looked so sad I felt guilty.
‘Know anymore?’ I said.
She glanced up at me, then said: ‘What does a skeleton like to eat?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Spooketti!’
I pointed at her, smiled in a faux-cheesy way, and said Goulish.
‘Oh’ she said. ‘Yes. That would have been better.’
I didn’t really understand, until I’d packed the trolley and moved away, and only then did I realise that she thought I’d said Goulash.
Which would’ve been pretty slick, if I’d actually meant it.

sig

jim! jim!

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I’m in danger of being thrown out of book group.

Not just thrown out, but ceremonially unbound, de-leafed, dust-jacketed, redacted, tossed on the remaindered pile, pulped.

Reason being, I tend not to like the books. Not even the ones I choose. (I mean – I’m a fan of John Steinbeck. He’s written some of my favourite books ever. But East of Eden? Yeuch. C’mon!)

The latest one is Absalom, Absalom! (So good they named it twice). Faulkner’s masterpiece. ‘The best novel yet written by an American’ (according to Faulkner). And sure – it looks good on paper. A civil war saga told from several viewpoints, each one as unreliable as the other. I think the idea is that you patiently peel away all the narrative layers and achieve understanding amongst the wreckage. Something like that. Which is fine, until you set to work, and find yourself overcome by layer fatigue. I’ve never read a book with such narcoleptic power. It didn’t matter how sharp I felt when I sat down, in just a couple of pages I was yawning and wondering what snacks we had in the cupboard. The febrile drama of the whole thing only made it worse. It was completely numbing, like finding yourself trapped next to one of the main characters on the bus, monologuing without end, requiring no input from you whatsoever, or any sign that you’re interested, or even alive. You’d have to pretend to faint to escape. And even then they’d insist on going with you in the ambulance.

Apparently Faulkner was influenced by Joyce. That doesn’t surprise me, having tried and failed to read Ulysses. I don’t know if they ever met, but I think they would have got on. Either that, or cancelled each other out, like two literary black holes colliding, disappearing into a prose singularity that swallows narratives whole, twists them up and splurges them out into an eternal parade of string people sitting on porches or horses smoking cigars, sipping whisky and bitching about Gettysburg.

Anyway. I’m just hoping everyone else is having the same trouble as me. My fear is they all completely love it, the immersive experience, the overwhelming, supersaturating drama of it. And pity me for my inability to engage with the passion and the poetry. And then vote to have me thrown out on my raggedy beginning-middle-and-end ass.

But at least I know what I’m going to choose next.

Farewell My Lovely.

sig

leila’s recipe for old age

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It’s a broad, bright morning, a little colder than of late but still unseasonably warm, so I don’t understand why Leila’s house should be so dark and cold. It’s in a good position, set back from the road up a steep incline; there aren’t many trees around; it has generous windows front and back. But stepping over the threshold is like stepping into a mausoleum: musty, shadowed and quiet.
‘Have a seat’ says Leila, soundlessly pulling one away from the dining room table. There’s a bowl in the centre of the table piled with glossy ceramic fruit, and it strikes me that all the living things in the room – the large vase of orchids in the fireplace, the cat sleeping in its basket, are all fake. Leila seems a little fake, too, as perfectly made-up and buttoned-up as a lifesize doll. There’s a large painting over the mantelpiece – a fishing scene in a sunny Mediterranean harbour – and somehow it makes the place seem colder.
‘I don’t feel it,’ she says. ‘I’m a December baby.’
I tell her why she’s been referred to the community health team, and she takes the news with a polite but detached interest, like someone being told of a development somewhere that doesn’t particularly involve or interest them overmuch.
‘It’s so kind of you to visit,’ she says. ‘Can I get you anything…?’
‘I was just going to ask if I could get you something! Some tea or toast?’
‘Oh, no!’ she says. ‘I’ve had my breakfast.’
‘What did you have?’
‘Some porridge and a cup of black tea.’
‘Sounds healthy.’
‘Oh – I’ve always eaten well.’
And it’s true, she doesn’t seem malnourished. In fact – environment aside – she seems in pretty good health. The only medication she’s prescribed is for memory loss, but of course, she often forgets to take it, which is one of the reasons Leila’s been referred to us.
Her short term memory is severely compromised. Her conversation is on a loop, on this occasion revolving around two things: how active her mother was into old age, and what happened when she got together with her sister, Dolly.
‘I just think I’ve been rather lucky as far as health goes,’ she says, for the sixth or seventh time already. ‘But you see my mother lived till a fine old age, and I get my old bones from her.’
‘That’s lovely.’
Leila giggles and brushes her skirt a couple of times.
‘Yes! You should have seen it when she got together with Auntie Dolly. They used to play whist, you see, and honestly! They were like a couple of naughty schoolgirls!’
I steer the conversation back to the plan for the next few days, the carers who’ll be coming in, the appointment at the memory clinic and so on. She listens to all of this very seriously, nods to show she understands, then brushes her skirt again.
‘Yes! Well! I just think I’ve been rather lucky as far as health goes,’ she says.
‘I think you must have looked after yourself, too, though, Leila.’
‘Yes. I think I have. And do you know what my secret is?’
‘No. What?’
‘I believe in onions.’
It’s such a shock to hear her say something different that it makes me laugh.
‘You can laugh, but it’s true!’ she says.
‘In what way, onions?’
‘Well,’ says Leila, brushing her skirt again. ‘They bring out the flavour of meat.’

little red hen inc.

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let me tell you ‘bout the little red hen / she knew her way round the farm and back again / when to run & when to relax / the sharp rain & the sharper axe / the narrow margins on milk & eggs / the tractor monsters beyond the hedge / anyway / one day / she scratched up some grains of wheat / and instead of just laying on with her beak to eat / she packed ‘em up neat / & took them to / the rest of the raggedy farmyard crew / namely a dog, a cat / a mouse & a rat / all ducked out suspiciously in a line like that / so / y’know / true / an unlikely combo / but – see – the farm had always been a little absurd / the lines between the animals blurred / anyway / this particular day / LRH flaps up on a stanchion / and the gang of four I previously mentioned / stood together with apprehension / (y’see – she had a certain reputation / for poultry flights of imagination) / Who will help me plant this lil’ ol’ mess o’seed? / she said / with a beaky smile & shake of the head / not I said the dog & the cat / not I said the mouse & the rat / well shit on you, she said / stuffed it back in her pocket instead / I’ll do it myself she swore / and dropped down lightly onto the floor

and so she did

well my god – such dusty dedication / daily feeds & fancy irrigation / until one day she saw with pleasure / how far it stretched on her retractable measure / so back she went to the mangy quartet / to see if they’d shifted their stance yet / not I said the dog & the cat / not I said the mouse & the whatever / well – that plucky bird she gave them the feather / kicked off back to her corner / spent an egg-bustin’ week / scything the corn into heaps with her beak / threshing the grain with a rusty bedspring / brushing it together with her wings and things / and it was only after she’d crooked her back / filling a mess o’hessian sacks / that she took herself back to the barnyard chapel / to see about some venture capital

(oh…kay said the duck with a cynical quack
I wish you the best of luck with that)

so then what the hen needed to know / was where she could bake her batches of dough / no way was she going to the farmhouse kitchen / the farmer always bitching / & moaning about all the criminals / & crazy animals / no better than cannibals / the sheep in some kind of woolly cooperative / the pigs openly combative / the geese coquettish / the donkey with a wiccan flower fetish / so he spent his time / checking land prices online / dreaming of the moment / he could quit this torment / and live in Greece or Spain or somewhere hot / basically anywhere the animals were not / so it was lucky the hen was a bird of utility / able to source her own facility / & eventually / when the bread was done and dusted / and the production schedules busted / LRH packed her ciabatta / branded with high-end promotional matter / an artisanal label / the LRH gesturing with a wing to a table / as if to say / look at this wonderful display / fresh to you today / and her order books grew / and the products fairly flew

and so did she

and the dog, the cat, the mouse & the rat? / she put them all in blue net hats / employing them in a productive capacity / in her burgeoning baked goods industry / the sparrows / of the hedgerows / she used to seed the artisanal loaves / while the doves / from the dovecote / working to a strict but flock friendly rota / far exceeded the daily quota / loading the little vans / that were driven by a dozen little red hens / each a personal friend / who had eagerly bought into the venture / & a heap o’creatures too numerous to mention / until everything was progressing according to schedule / and the Little Red Hen was given a medal / Awarded in Recognition of Entrepreneurial Endeavours / and a badger hung it over her beautiful feathers / while everyone applauded / (even the dog, the cat, the mouse & the rat did) / and the farmer Skyped from Faro / saying he was due back tomorrow / to give her advice on tax evasion / but wished her the best on this happy occasion / and the Little Red Hen went back to her perch / to watch as the sun set behind the church / and dreamed about spreadsheets, losses & gains / grown from just a few scattered grains / a gizzard of self-belief and a sharp business brain / and she settled down to roost / wondering how to give it a boost

and so she did

so the next day she called an extraordinary meeting / the pigs grunting and the sheep bleating / the farmer grinning by satellite link / from a laptop propped on an upturned sink / next to a well-dressed fox / paws up on a box / who the doves were sure they recognised / from some corporate scandal televised / I want to thank you for everything you’ve done / said the little red hen / when the meeting began / You’ve all worked so hard and that’s fantastic / you’re perfectly loyal & wonderfully enthusiastic / But the time has come for bigger things / for the LRH to spread its wings / So I’m very happy to say / I’ve asked to speak to you today / Sir Reynard Fox of Fox Incorporated / who’ll be taking the reins of the family we’ve created / and me? I’ll be staying on in an executive role / whilst I move out into the wider business world / utter silence from the floor / then a creaking from the old barn door / as the dog, the cat, the mouse & the rat / muttering bitterly snuck out back / just as Reynard Fox stood up to speak / and the Little Red Hen clucked her beak / and smiling widely preened her feathers / dreaming of blue skies and better weather / of personal assistants / a portfolio of investments / offshore identities / and other supranational amenities / maybe a penthouse hen house / in the Philippines or somewhere else / (the farmer was advising her / he was sending brochures) / and she felt herself changing from a Little Red Hen / to a Fowl of the World and back again

and so she did

freddy

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Elsa has a history of falls and unexplained blackouts, so when she doesn’t answer the phone I drive straight over to investigate.

The house is a low white building set back from the road, a dark garden to one side with contorted sculptures dotted about and random things strung from branches, giving the place a watchful, witchy feel. I fetch the key from the keysafe and let myself in.
Hello? It’s Jim, from the hospital…
There’s uncollected post right by the door. I pick it up and put it on a stool.
Hell…oooo
Nothing.

Last time I was here the house was full. There was Elsa’s husband, Freddy, his carer, a carer for Elsa, and then two therapists whose visits had unexpectedly clashed. Freddy had been shuffling excitedly up and down the hallway, stirred by all the commotion, presenting random things after looking for them with great enthusiasm, tugging on his braces, marching on the spot in his slippers like a seagull paddling for worms. Elsa had been the quiet centre of it all, sitting on an armchair in her nightie, overwhelmed.

Now the hallway is silent, what little light there is reflecting dully off the parquet flooring.

Hell…ooo. It’s Jim … from the hospital…
Every door leading off from the hallway is shut, which I take as a sign the place is empty. Still, I have to open each one and check that Elsa isn’t on the floor.
Kitchen.
Bathroom.
Closet – ( a shock, to be confronted by coats on hooks, close-up).
Which leaves the door to the sitting room at the furthest end of the hallway.
Hell…ooo
I knock and open the door.
Utterly silent except for the honeyed tocking of a longcase clock. A saturating green light spills in from the garden through the patio windows illuminating an empty leather sofa, dark paintings on the walls, a carved mirror and dining table, a leather bucket armchair with its back to me. And as if my entrance has stirred everything up, the clock suddenly gives a shuddery kind of cough and a kick, and starts grinding out the quarter. And that’s when Freddy decides to swing round in the bucket armchair, his hands spread, his eyes wide.
‘Oh my Jesus Christ!’ I say, falling back.
‘Har hah!’ says Freddy.