Author: jim clayton

daisy d.

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

‘Are you alright with dogs?’ says Clara, throwing open the door anyway. It’s not a great risk, though. Daisy is the cutest dachshund I’ve ever seen. With her long, lugubrious expression and sad brown eyes, she could be a circuit judge passing sentence even though it breaks her heart to see, once again, what humanity has been reduced to.

‘Hello little one!’ I say, bending down to reach out my hand for her to sniff. She does so – with such a tragic air – then reverses so awkwardly you’d think she was being remotely controlled by someone in the next room with a poor view of the action. Somehow she manages it, though, and leads me through to the living room, her tiny legs making heavy weather of the three carpeted steps up to it.

Even if Clara hadn’t immediately explained her relation to Peggy, I would have known they were sisters. Whilst it’s apparent that Peggy is the one with all the health problems, still, they share the same square face, the same way of holding themselves, lightly upright, their hands just-so on the armrests of their chairs, the same level, mildly amused sparkle to their eyes.

I have to say, Daisy fits right in.

‘I don’t live here,’ says Clara, heading off any questions I might have on that front. ‘I make it over as often as I can, though. Which reminds me, Pegs – you’re almost out of washing tabs. I shall have to pop out and get you some more.’

‘Righto,’ says Peggy – and the matter settled to the satisfaction of both, they both turn to stare at me.

Daisy has temporarily absented herself from the room, but she soon comes bouncing back with something squeaky in her mouth – a well-chewed plastic hamburger – which she places neatly and carefully at my feet, and then backs up.

‘Who wants it?’ I say, picking it up and waving it in the air.

‘Well – Daisy, I should think,’ says Clara.

ken, cowboys & aliens

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Ken has got one of his pipes on the go. In any other house it would stink the place up as comprehensively as a termite fumigation, but Ken is sitting in his usual seat by the open patio window, so most of it billows out harmlessly. As soon as he spots me striding across the lawn, he taps it out, and follows my progress towards him with a baleful air.

Ken has always reminded me of someone and it’s only now I realise who. At the very end of the closing credits of the first Star Trek series, after the stills of multi-coloured planetary landscapes, Kirk in some catacombs, or a ship coming in to dock – there was always a closing shot of a gaunt and quite terrifying figure in a robe, staring straight at you, as a Desilu production appeared on its forehead and the music thrilled to a conclusion.

That’s Ken.

To be fair, he’s friendlier than Balok, who, I only just learned, was actually a fearsome puppet used by cuddlier beings to test the friendliness of anyone coming to call. So whilst Balok’s slack-jawed, unblinking expression was designed to be scary, with Ken it’s more a symptom of his general bewilderment, and of the hours he spends sitting in his chair by the window smoking his pipe, watching old films on the TV.
‘How are you, Ken?’ I ask, struggling in through the window, past the drinks cabinet shaped like a globe, and a kitchen trolley stacked high with necessaries.
‘Terrible,’ he says.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the worst thing, would you say?’
‘The worst thing?’
‘Yes. You know – are you in pain? D’you feel sick, dizzy…?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s just my bloomin’ memory.’
‘In what way?’
‘I can’t remember nothing. Not a thing.’
Carefully he places his smouldering pipe on the tray beside him, and folds his hands in his lap. ‘I’m old,’ he says. ‘I’m just one of them ones that goes on too long’
‘Well – let’s see what’s what,’ I say, putting my bag down and reaching for his folder. ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’
‘No. I’m all right.’
‘Okay. So – I understand you had a fall this morning.’
‘Did I?’
‘Apparently. The ambulance came and picked you up. That’s why I’m here now. To see you’re okay.’
‘I don’t remember. If you say so.’
I scan through the notes and then put them aside.

There’s a western playing on the TV. No shoot-outs. Just some guys talking round a campfire, tipping their hats back, toeing the dirt, looking regretful.
‘Glenn Ford!’ says Ken, pointing at the set. ‘And there! That dodgy looking one, sneaking round the horses. Ernest Borgnine!’
He turns his sad eyes on me. ‘You see,’ he says. ‘The longer ago it was, the more chance I’ve got of remembering it.’
He reaches for his pipe, looks at me, then slowly puts it back again.
‘So I’d like you to explain to me if you can,’ he says. ‘Where’s the sense in that?’

genesis

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

it was me
I did it
I destroyed Dad’s shed
(cut myself on a nail
goddammit
serves me right
blood all down my shirt
bloody shed murderer)

anyway, I had some right
being there at the begatting
forty years ago
Dad scavenging planks from pallets
at the printers where he worked
grimace & purpose of Noah
an eye on the sky
& a fiver for the lads
to drop it all round
and when he had enough
nailing them up, quick, ship-lap style
a couple of windows
real glass, putty of aniseed
speculative press in the corner
inviting a bridge of thumbs
across the divide

but now those hands
rest in the ground
empty as gloves
and here I am
bloodied and breathless in the ruined ribs of it all
the fucked felt, the fossilised tins
nails and screws and useless things
the wormy bench, the rusted saw
and look – a square of green rubberhermes
an offset image of Hermes
no doubt from the printing
of some catalogue
I take it inside
hold it up to a mirror
to read the backwards writing
only subsequently
do I become aware
of my face behind it
suddenly a lot like yours

growing disarray

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

only twice I saw my father cry
once, when he came home early from work
having quit his job
(there was a new manager;
they didn’t get on)
no doubt knowing his dream
of being a self-employed gardener, handyman,
anything other than a bloody printer’s clerk
was never going to happen, was it;
things were desperate
what with all these kids,
their constant squabbling,
getting through clothes & food
like nobody’s business;
but at least he didn’t piss his wages
up the wall like his father did,
coming home drunk,
fighting his eldest brother Ted,
throwing him down the stairs;
and what else could he do
the double-bed in the box room
a strip curtain for a door
(the normal door off
or you couldn’t get in or out),
the cost of school shoes, and everything else,
the weekly shop, the rent, electric, gas;
well – he’d just have to swallow his pride
there was nothing else for it, was there
he’d just have to go straight back
and apologise

once, watching the Morecambe & Wise Christmas Show
the sketch in the Russian sled
where Ernie is in the back
singing ‘somewhere my love’ to Diane Solomon
and Eric is the driver
in a ridiculous hat and moustache
who keeps getting pulled out of his seat
by the horses
and climbing back up
over and over again
his hat on one side
his moustache hanging off
in growing disarray

leaping the loops

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when Dad mowed the lawn
and I was a kid
I used to play a game
leaping the loops
made by the cable
as he walked up and down
‘Mind out!’
he’d shout
But I never did

These days, I’ve lost count
of all the electrical equipment I’ve seen:
sanders, drills,
computers, lathes,
compactors, fans.
The ventilator
Dad was on
before he was gone
from that particular machine

but you can over-think these things
so here are a few facts worth keeping:
there are no straight lines in nature;
energy can be neither created nor destroyed
but is interchangeable;
lawns get mown
when the grass has grown,
and loops are for leaping

his last tweet

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I have no doubt his familiar was a jackdaw
he was so acquisitive, divergent,
distractable, odd.
increasingly he was living only
where he could see everything
and everything could see him
over time he built a chaotic but glittering nest
borrowing from other nests
stealing, more than once,
it has to be said
only to make his nest more beautiful
less obviously refractive
he died – suddenly, tragically off-cam –
from a strange but Snopes-verified condition:
multimediamegaly
the funeral cortege, I’m proud to reveal,
attracted almost a hundred followers

the mysterious mr manager

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There’s an elderly guy I see quite often over the woods. An intriguing character, neatly dressed in a shirt and tie, windcheater and slacks, carrying a shabby leather briefcase. It’s only when you look closer you can see the grimy shine to his clothes, and the kind of tan you get from being outside in all weathers, all year round. He has an odd, politely deranged look,  like a manager who had a breakdown at the bank and ran off to live in the forest.

Earlier in the year I’d gone off the usual paths, looking for new things to photograph, and I’d come across an extemporary shelter, a tumble-down roundhouse made of scavenged rubbish bags, fallen timbers, tied together with garden string and Christmas tree lights. There was a shelf inside with a blue tin cup, a half-opened tin of pilchards, and a sleeping bag, rolled up and stashed out of the rain in a corner. It wouldn’t take much to image Mr Manager making all this, fussing with the string, tutting over the lights, then resting his head on his briefcase at night, lying awake in the dark, listening to the rustling in the undergrowth, or the pattering of the rain.

I don’t see Mr Manager all the time. When I do, he’s either sitting somewhere sunny or marching through the trees, talking to himself in that low and level way people do sometimes when their thoughts are breaking surface without them knowing. I always make a point of saying hello and waving, and although it’s taken a while, we’ve got to the point where he trusts me enough to smile and wave back.

Today when I saw him I was very tempted to go up and find out more. He was sitting on a fallen tree in one of his usual spots – a raised bank of grass overlooking the woods – and I was ambling along the bottom looking for mushrooms. I waved, and after a moment, he did, too. For a minute I thought I might walk up there and introduce myself, chat to him – about what, I wasn’t sure. Probably the weather, the time of year, the usual introductory stuff. I could ask him if he’d seen any fly agarics yet (that was one thing I was looking for today, although I have a feeling it might be too early in the season). And then in the way these things go, one thing would lead to another, and I could find out his story. Normally I wouldn’t hesitate, but something held me back. So I settled for a cheery ‘Good morning!’ and carried on.

I worried about it for a while. He could be a vulnerable adult, ‘fallen through the net’, at risk of self-neglect, dependent not just on the kindness of strangers, but on their professional conscience, their willingness to step in and make the necessary calls.

But then I pictured him sitting contentedly up on the grassy bank, sipping water from a bottle, looking around – about as happy as I was, (as far as I could tell), mooching around the young oaks at the fringe of the wood, looking for mushrooms.

And who was I kidding? It suited me better, not knowing the facts about Mr Manager. I was happier making up stories about his circumstances, happy one minute, sad the next. Which I suppose you could see as either a worrying dereliction of duty, a vote for individual self-determination, or a romantic vision of how a life could be lived, wholly outside the normal run of things, out in the woods, lying in the dark, listening to the rain.

New post in ‘Voices’

Job No: 2013
the name of the fox

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks for reading!

sig

the name of the fox

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Ray answers the door. I know from the referral he’s eighty something, but if you snatched a look on a foggy night after falling out of the pub you could be persuaded he was twenty-four. His skin has a deep leathery tan, hair dyed black, swept up in what would have been a substantial quiff in the late fifties; his teeth suspiciously even, cardboard white, his flowery shirt unbuttoned to the navel, revealing a slew of chains of differing lengths and thickness, pendants of silver and gold, crosses, St Christophers, a US dog tag, an Egyptian ankh.
‘Hi!’ he says. ‘Come in!’
‘Just a flying visit, Mr Clarke. The nurse asked me to drop by with a couple of things for Daphne.’
‘Daphne?’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘Another lovely person to see you.’
‘Oh fantastic! Wowee!’ says a thin voice from the room straight ahead.
‘Go through’ says Ray.
‘Thanks.’

The lounge is a shrine to Elvis. Images of The King on everything, from mirrors and paintings and gold records and film posters, to ceramic statues, a throw over the back of the sofa, even the clock over the mantelpiece – Elvis in his Las Vegas incarnation, legs apart, arms windmilling the minutes and hours.
‘Hello, Daphne! Lovely to meet you. I’m Jim, from the hospital.’
‘Lovely to meet you, too!’ she says, holding on to my hand, squeezing it, gradually pulling me in. ‘Aren’t you handsome?’
‘You’re making me blush,’ I say.
‘Now, now,’ says Ray.
She laughs and releases my hand..
‘I’ve just dropped round to bring you this special cushion to sit on. To protect your bottom. And some cream for the carers to put on in the morning.’
‘Now – you hear a lot about the NHS,’ says Ray, taking the things off me. ‘But I have to say, we’ve had nothing but the very best treatment.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ I say.

Daphne is beaming up at me from the armchair. I’m guessing Ray does her make up, because there’s something doll-like in the way the lipstick and rouge has been applied. She’s immaculate, though, as perfect as the figurine of Elvis, circa sixty-eight special, in a glass bell jar on the coffee table. She’s cuddling two soft toys, a fox in a waistcoat under her left arm, a scruffy looking teddy bear under her right.
‘And who are these two gentlemen?’ I say, patting the bear on the head. ‘They look amazing.’
‘Guess their names!’ she says.
‘Well – this one here, I’m going to start low and say … Ted!’
‘Yes!’ she says. ‘Now – what about this one?’
‘Mr Fox? Hmm. That’s a bit more tricky. But I’m going to take a wild guess, and I’m going to say… Elvis!’
‘No. It’s Montgomery. How do you do?’ and she offers up his paw for me to shake.

double jeopardy

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I don’t know what it is about the film Double Jeopardy
but like a detective haunted by an unsatisfactory case
I keep coming back to it

maybe it’s that police launch, throttling-in from the fog
while Ashley sobs on the deck of the yacht, holding a knife;

or when the prosecutor, waving her hand at the jurors, says:
‘Did aliens murder your husband? No.
Aliens weren’t beneficiaries in your husband’s life insurance.’

Or the prison montage. Weight pumps, abdo scrunches, jogging
round the yard in the rain
‘I got to hand it to you, honey. It’s just sheer hate driving you on.’

or when Ashley escapes on the ferry,
smashing Tommy’s car up
to break the cuffs
he’s cuffed her to the door with,
driving it off the ramp into the sea
when Tommy hurries down the steps to stop her
hands on both rails,
maintaining his expression.
and I love the way the car sinks,
tyres first, falling in slo-mo through the clear water,
And when they both break surface,
even though Ashley cronks Tommy good
on the side of the head with a .38,
you can tell
she doesn’t want to.

Maybe the film wouldn’t have such a hold if it didn’t have
Bruce Greenwood holding a cigar to his mouth at a bachelor auction;
an art dealer in a bow tie saying Kandinsky;
a corpse in a coffin like William Burroughs
smacked-out at a book reading,
and a sad bartender passing Ashley a red umbrella
across the counter as the cops come in,
‘Take this’ he says. ‘Get outta here.’

but there’s something else
something in the way she smiles
as clear to me and cold
as the water the car falls through,doublejeopardy
as sensible as the hat
her mother wears
trowelling around in that dusty garden
passing her a tin
of dollar bills
she’s buried
under the tomatoes
for some reason

 

fishing trip

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

sometimes dad took me fishing
to his favourite spot
the south bank of the river
opposite the old brewery

we’d cycle over there
set up on the bank
and sit side-by-side
minding the floats
thumbing bread into pellets
(one for me, one for the fish)
the river and the morning
sliding past

it was quite a spot
thrilling, in a groin-aching way,
to feel such a bulk
of water running
so close to my feet

we’d sit for hours
till dinnertime at least
not saying much
putting my ear
to the grill
of the maggot tin
to hear them rustling
or shielding my eyes
from the sun
to watch the swifts
flash low on the water
dipping, turning
embroidering the air
with their screams

strange, to think dad
was my age then
he seemed so old
such a part of things
stranger still to think he’s dead
or that anyone dies, come to that
lying awake at night
going over thingsbrewery
how a river feels
sliding just a hand’s width
from the waggling
soles of my boots