Category Archives: Writing

Decline

The beach house he had rented for the week had spent a century facing the sea and gradually getting closer to it.  The hill on which the house stood, forty years earlier, had slipped and the house had come to rest leaning towards the beach in front of it.

But there was no warning sign in the house,  or mention of this deviation from the norm on the website. So Jack was unaware as he entered the house through the front door into the hallway.  His calves felt the gradient as he crossed the hallway to the kitchen. It was like switching the treadmill at the gym to an incline.

He noticed that all the doors either hung wide open, or were shut.  There were none ajar. It was all or nothing. He opened the door into the kitchen and felt its weight leave his fingers and swing fully open as he walked through.

He went through the back door into the sloping garden and looked at the side of the house.  The horizontal boards of the clapboard wall clearly sloped towards the sea. He shuffled along the uneven stone path around the side of the house.  Nothing in this place was straight, level or vertical.

The gulls screeched.  He felt dizzy and had to sit down quickly on the step at the entrance to the glass-sided porch.  The sea was pulling him in. He wanted to slide down over the pebbly beach into the high tide and down to the bottom of the estuary.

He had come to calm down and take stock, not slip away.

The View

Arthur sits alone at the oak dining room table looking at black and white family photos on the wall. Autumn sunlight from the French windows makes them glow orange. Library books lie in neat piles, unread. Crosswords cut from The Daily Mail but left undone are clipped onto a board behind a sharpened pencil. A pork pie from yesterday lunchtime sits on a side plate, half-eaten.

There is a knock at the door, followed by the clicking of a key turning in the lock. His daughter, Sue, comes in smiling, carrying an armful of clean laundry.

Hi Dad.’

Oh, hello dear… was I expecting you?’

Yes, you were. Of course you were. It’s Tuesday.’

Is it?’

She sighs and looks out of the window to see the last remaining leaf on the sycamore tree in the back garden fall onto the lawn.

You need to get dressed Dad. We’re at the doctor’s in fifteen minutes’.

Right-oh dear.’

At the surgery, they sit in the waiting room until the nurse calls them in.

Hello Mr Saunders,’ says the nurse.

Have we met?’ he says.

Oh yes. We see each other every week. Don’t you remember?’ she says. ‘For me to check your blood pressure.’

Do we?… Yes, so we do!’ He smiles.

Sue can’t help rolling her eyes and gives her bobbed hair a wipe over, her palm coming to rest propping up her forehead. The nurse glances at Sue as she takes Arthur’s blood pressure and the machine bleeps.

As they get up to leave she touches Sue on the arm gently.

Are you alright?’

Sue looks at her. A tear beads in the corner of her eye.

Thought not,’ says the nurse. ‘Cup of tea?’

Arthur tucks into a chocolate digestive biscuit and sips his tea. ‘Mmmm,’ he says.

Sue and the nurse talk about what the nurse calls ‘difficult choices’. Arthur listens without appearing to. In the past month, it’s been getting worse. Sue doesn’t know how much longer will he be able to live on his own. He drives her mad, but she can see no way out of his living with her and her family.

Couldn’t you get a carer in?’ the nurse asks.

We can’t afford that. Anyway, I’m not sure he would like a stranger coming in,’ says Sue.

Depends on who it is,’ says Arthur, cutting in.

Wait a minute,’ says the nurse, picking up a local paper from the table in the waiting room. ‘What about this?’

She shows Sue a small box ad towards the back of the paper.

Caring Sharing

Home Share Agency

If you are a senior wanting company

Or a young person wanting a room

Call us on 010-244-6231

Sue decides to call the number when they get home. She finishes her tea, pulls Arthur away from the biscuits, and they go out to the car.

Back at Arthur’s there’s no time like the present. She calls the number. A polite young man answers straightaway and he tells her all about the home share idea. It’s brilliant. Young people can’t afford to buy or rent their own places so close to London, and older people on their own want company and some help with the chores. Matches made in heaven. She makes an appointment for the next day.

They set off in Sue’s Volvo. He’s dressed in the clean clothes she laid out for him on his bed. A clean handkerchief pokes out of his pocket. His hair is brushed.

You’re sure you’re OK with this Dad?’

Yes. I’m looking forward to it. Nice trip out.’

They’re going to ask you lots of questions. Please try to sound normal,’ she says.

Arthur turns and gives her a look. ‘What do you mean normal?’ he says.

He wonders if he’s ever been normal.

The young man on the phone is at reception. He’s maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, skinny, smiley, with smooth, coffee-coloured skin and tight, curly, black hair.

He says, ‘Arthur! Can I call you that?’

Arthur nods.

Cool! I’m Karl. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

Arthur’s eyes open wider. ‘Erm… Good morning… Karl.’

Karl steps round the reception desk and takes them over to some plush armchairs arranged around a coffee table. Once Arthur has arranged his coat and stick by his chair, Karl passes him some papers.

OK Arthur, I just need you to fill out these details for me,’ he says. ‘I can do it with you if you like. No problem.’

Arthur smiles thinly at Sue. Karl explains that it’s a bit like a dating agency. They will try to match Arthur up with someone suitable for him. For the best chance of a match he should only tick the attributes he feels most strongly about. Each tick narrows down the field.

Sue surveys the many testimonials on the walls. Successful matches did occur somehow.

Karl pulls up to Arthur’s chair and reads out each attribute to him, then ticks it if Arthur wants to specify it. Karl certainly has a way with him. They chortle together as they work down the sheet.

A week later Arthur gets a call from the agency. They put all his ticks into the system, and the perfect match turns out to be Karl the receptionist who is looking for a place himself.

Arthur, Sue and Karl meet in a pub the next day. Arthur likes pubs. Sue says it’s the only time he comes alive. She has a Pinot Grigio, Arthur has a glass of house red, and Karl has a Malibu and Coke. She goes to the ladies’ room before they settle down.

Arthur leans over to Karl. ‘She’s told me not to talk about you being black.’

That’s good,’ says Karl. ‘Because I’m not black. I’m mixed race.’

Arthur raises his eyebrows. ‘Oh… any Anglo-Saxon in there?’

Anglo-Saxon is about as common as you can get actually,’ says Karl. ‘So yes, probably.’ He looks Arthur in the eye.

Yes… I suppose you’re right, now I come to think of it.’ Arthur leans back as Sue returns to the table.

Sue is keen to set some boundaries, as she calls them. Karl calls them rules, but he goes along with it. They talk about (not) coming in late, (not) bringing friends back, chores, TV, noise, use of the garden, laundry, cooking and money. Karl listens as she goes down the list, nodding. Arthur says nothing.

Karl says,’ OK, and what about my boundaries?’

What do you mean?’ she says.

Well, I reckon you’re getting a pretty good deal here, Sue. I look after Arthur here for you. You don’t have to be around so much. He gets some company (and trust me, he will now). So, don’t I get some boundaries too?’

Arthur puts his glass down, smiles to himself, and looks at Sue.

Well yes,’ she says. ‘I suppose so…’

And shouldn’t our boundaries be about me and Arthur? Rather than about you?’ says Karl. He turns to Arthur. ‘Is that OK with you, man?’

Arthur says, ‘Yes… That’s OK with me… man.’

A week later Karl moves in. He chooses the room looking down on to the garden – he likes the idea of waking up to the sounds of nature. He carries a suitcase, a laundry bag (half full), a huge, bubble-wrapped flat-screen TV, a crumpled lampshade with burn marks on it, a laptop in a case and a plastic packing box full of pens, pencils, crayons, brushes, paints and paper.

Arthur is sitting in the hallway watching these items as they pass by and up the stairs. Sue stands next to him shifting her weight from foot to foot.

Mind the paintwork, Karl!’ Arthur says.

Don’t worry Arthur, I’m good at this. I’ve been moving this stuff around for years,’ says Karl.

Arthur and Sue hear bumping upstairs as Karl sets things down and shoves them into place. He’s talking to himself very quickly in a syncopated monotone.

What’s he saying?’ asks Arthur.

I think It’s rap, Dad.’ says Sue.

Crap?’

No! RAP.’

They have a month to see how it works out. The next day Arthur gets up as usual at seven. Karl doesn’t. He has to get to work by ten and ends up rushing out of the front door eating a piece of toast at nine-fifty. Arthur gets up to close the door behind Karl, shaking his head. Karl leaves a smell of coconuts in his wake which Arthur quite likes.

When he gets back from work at five, Karl carries in some groceries in plastic bags.

Ready for some tea Arthur?’ he says.

It’s a bit early for me to be honest. I usually go up the pub for a glass of red before dinner. Could we do that first?’ says Arthur.

OK, as long as I can have a bag of crisps – I’ll be starving otherwise,’ says Karl.

The pub is too far to walk but not really far enough to drive. Nevertheless, they go in Arthur’s blue Fiesta. As they walk in under the gaily-coloured flower baskets the chatter inside goes down a notch.

Usual, Arthur?’ says Tom the barman. Arthur nods.

Nice lad, the barman. I’m not sure about that tattoo on his neck though,’ Arthur says, a bit too loudly, to Karl over his shoulder. ‘What would you like anyway?’

Oh… just a Coke please,’ says Karl. ‘And a packet of cheese and onion.’

They take the drinks over to a table in the bay window next to a log-effect gas fire.

I love it here, ‘says Arthur. ‘It’s a real village pub. Not many of those left you know.’

Karl takes this in. Everyone looks well-off, well-fed and white. A group of late-middle-aged men crowd at one end of the bar. They are wearing garish, multi-patterned sweaters and trousers. They greet Arthur.

Oh my God. What have they got on?’ says Karl.

Arthur laughs. ‘They’re golfers.’

Do you play golf then?’ says Karl.

Oh, I used to, yes, of course. Not for a bit now though. My knees can’t take it any more.

In that gear?’ says Karl, sniggering.

Arthur doesn’t want to go into how you can tell a lot about a man from his choice of golf clothes: it has got him into trouble before in here.

On the way home in the car, Arthur suddenly thinks how quickly today has gone.

Inside, Karl cooks them some sausages and mash which Arthur tucks into, making this-is-tasty noises. They chat about Arthur’s family. His wife of 60 years died three years ago. Sue is their only child. She can be a bit edgy, intense even.

Karl says he thinks Sue is lucky. He doesn’t know who his father is; never met him, doesn’t know anything about him. His mother lives in Brixton with his younger brother and sister. She is a cleaner. He doesn’t see much of them. His mother works long hours and the children go to his auntie’s most of the time.

Arthur says, ‘I’m sure she’d like to see you, even so. She must get lonely sometimes.’

I s’pose,’ says Karl, picking up the remote. ‘What’s on TV tonight?’

On Friday night, they are in the pub again. Karl is starting to enjoy this part of their evenings. Arthur is not saying much and gazes out of the window. Karl says, ‘Alright?’

Yes. Yes. I was just thinking about our chat the other night. Look, would you like to see your mother tomorrow? I mean… we could go. In the car. You know? It’s not that far.’

Karl looks up suddenly. ‘Look! I haven’t been back there for over a year now. There’s a reason for that. Leave it, man, OK?’

The golfers fall silent for a few seconds, twisting round to look at them.

Arthur puts his hands up. ‘OK, OK!’ he says, trying to contain his voice in a whisper.

Karl sucks his teeth and shakes his head. He finishes his Coke and stands up. ‘I’m going to walk home. Don’t wait up for me.’ He strides out of the door.

Arthur finishes his red wine and gets in the car. Oh dear. He was only trying to be helpful. There’s no sign of Karl on the way home. He lets himself into the dark house. He doesn’t feel like eating, but there’s no point in going to bed. He won’t sleep anyway. He turns on the TV and sits with a rug over his knees. The evening has become heavy.

Arthur wakes in his chair. Eleven o’clock. No Karl. He goes upstairs to bed.

In the morning, he goes down to make a cup of tea. Should he knock on Karl’s door? He doesn’t think so. That was one of the agreed boundaries. What if Karl doesn’t come back? Or what if he decides to move out? Arthur rests his head in his hands on the table.

Just then, there is movement upstairs. Arthur lets out a long breath and looks up. He hears footsteps coming down the stairs, and Karl walks in. They look at each other. Karl nods hello. He sits down opposite Arthur. ‘You gonna make me a cup of tea then?’ he says. He smiles.

I’m sorry I upset you last night,’ says Arthur, avoiding eye contact. ‘It’s none of my business. I should never have brought it up.’

No, Arthur. I’ve thought about it. And you are right. I should go and see her. It’s been too long.’

Arthur raises his eyebrows.

Anyway. I thought you weren’t good at remembering conversations the next day.’

Oh no. I remember them. If they’re worth remembering, that is.’

They find themselves outside in the Fiesta at ten o’clock. Karl says he knows the way from Brixton station, so they are going to head there first. Arthur gets the map out of the glove compartment and puts it on Karl’s lap. ‘Pretty straightforward really,’ he says, pointing out the route with the end of his car key.

We’ll see!’ laughs Karl, who has not done much map reading before, except on the tube.

How can you get through life without looking at a map?’ says Arthur.

Arthur hasn’t been to South London for a long time. He was born, and grew up there.

Karl can’t imagine Arthur as a boy.

They reach Brixton without mishap.

Arthur, do you mind if we stop for a coffee before we get to my mum’s?’ says Karl.

Arthur looks at him. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

Yeah, yeah. I just need to get my shit together first, man. You know.’

They park in a side road and find a small cafe on the corner. They sip cappuccinos and Arthur tackles a slice of Victoria sponge. He watches Karl as he looks out of the window at the passers-by. ‘Nervous?’ he says.

Not really. It’s just … a lot’s happened round here for me,’ says Karl.

Me too,’ says Arthur. ‘I used to cycle past here every day on my way to school. I don’t think I would do that nowadays.’

Karl smiles. ‘I used to walk to school. When I went, that is. I hated it. Most of the time we just used to bunk off.’

Arthur says, ‘On the subject of bunking off, Sue’s a bit put out I think.’

Oh, why?’

I think she is surprised I’m with you… doing this. I normally go over to hers today. I spoke to her while you were getting ready.’

Maybe she’s jealous,’ says Karl.

Karl’s mother lives in a council tower block a few minutes away from the cafe. They pull into the parking area. Arthur has never been in a tower block before and he’s looking forward to the ride in the lift.

You’ll be lucky!’ says Karl. ‘It’s never working.’

But it was.

When she answers the door, Karl’s mother is short but large, in a floral apron. Her round, red-rimmed eyes open wide and her mouth sags, soundless. She has no phone. She had no idea Karl was coming.

Hi Mum,’ says Karl.

She is crying, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her whole body seems to heave with her sobbing. Her ample arms fold Karl’s head into her neck so that he is bent over as if at a drinking fountain.

Mum. This is Arthur. Arthur, this is my mum, Lydia.’ He hadn’t really thought about what to say next. ‘Erm… Arthur is my…’

friend,’ says Arthur. ‘Look, I can wait in the car, Karl. It’s no problem.’

You will not!’ says Lydia, standing back from the door and wiping her cheeks with the apron. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime. You must stay. Karl! Move those toys off the sofa so your friend can sit down.’

Can I look at the view first?’ says Arthur.

They stand in a row: Arthur on the left, then Lydia, then Karl, looking out of the wide east-facing window. She holds both their hands.

They stand staring at the scene below in silence, connected. A sycamore leaf wafts past the window, caught in an up draft.

Lydia squeezes their hands. ‘When you’re down there it’s pretty ugly and dirty. From up here it always looks beautiful.’

Sorry folks

I am sorry I haven’t been on here for a bit.  There are many reasons for that, but none of them really good ones.  So I am back.

I submitted the final assignment on Monday and got the feedback, as usual, very quickly from my tutor.  YAY!  She likes it.  So now I will update the version on here to reflect her suggested amendments.

Next I am doing screenwriting.  Looking forward to it enormously.  Here are the details of the course if anyone is interested:

https://www.oca.ac.uk/courses/creative-writing-courses/creative-writing-1-scriptwriting/

 

What friends are for

The lift said “Sixth Floor.” I walked along the corridor in the neon light which always reminded me of a Travelodge. I hadn’t been here for ages. I hoped Robert would be alone. It would be awkward otherwise. But let’s face it, it was going to be awkward anyway.

I got to his flat. I didn’t have the key any more so I would have to knock. I hoped he would be awake. Would he answer the door? I’d tail-gated into the foyer behind a neighbour so I hadn’t buzzed up. I knew he didn’t like surprises like that, but at least this way I would get to see him face to face. The worst that could happen would be him telling me to fuck off.

I knocked. Silence. Then the pat of feet inside. The spyglass in the door darkened. This was it. He knew it was me now. The door opened, the chain still on and visible in the gap. His face sagged, his eyes screwed up against the light from the corridor.

“Hi.” I said. “Can I come in?”

He shut the door. He hesitated, then undid the chain and opened it again. He was wearing Calvin Klein pyjamas and bare feet. The smell of lasagne reached me on the warm draft from inside the flat. Tonight’s dinner and always cooked from fresh.

He sighed. “Yes. You can come in I suppose… Let’s go in the living room.” He stepped aside to let me in.

I stopped just inside the door. “Surprised to see me?”

He shook his head. “Only you would turn up unannounced at this time of night, so not really, no.”

“Sorry… Is this a bad time?”

“If you mean is there anyone else here?… No.”

How did he always seem to know what I was thinking? He shut the door and we went along the hallway past his bedroom.

I saw we were not alone. “Wow! You’ve got a cat! Amazing!” I said, as I walked into the living room. Thank God the fire was on.

Robert looked down. “Yes he was Dave’s. I look after him now.”

The cat jumped onto the sofa next to me, tail up and sniffed my jeans pocket.

“I love cats.” I stroked the black velvet-soft head. “What’s his name?”

“Coriander… after his eyes. Black coffee?” he smiled for the first time.

“How did you guess?” I smiled back.

“How could I forget?” Robert went into the kitchen. We could hear him opening the fridge door and running the tap.

Coriander settled on the sofa and looked up. “So. How do you know Robert?” he asked.

“Long story. Let’s say we were friends once. Then more than friends for a bit. I haven’t seen him for ages.”

“Oh, so you’re another of his waifs and strays then.”

“You could say that, yes.” I looked into the acid-green eyes and smiled.

“And what are you after?” said Coriander.

I looked away and out of the window. Cheeky little bastard. “Nothing! I just came over for a catch up innit.”

“Yeah, right.”

I turned back. “I could ask you the same question Corry.”

“It’s Coriander.” The cat dug his claws skilfully into my thigh, just far enough to penetrate the denim and make contact with the flesh underneath. “What do you mean? Ask me what question?”

“What are you doing here? What are you after?” I did my arching- eyebrows thing.

Coriander detached a paw from the denim and licked it gently like a cowboy blowing smoke from the muzzle of a gun. “Honestly?… Dave was off his trolley all day and night, having random people round all the time. He brought me here one weekend when he went away. I’ve been here ever since. Robert likes me, it’s warm here, there’s food and water. He doesn’t bother me much”.

I looked down at my leaking trainers; the dirt on the bottoms of my jeans; the battered bag at my feet. The cat was eyeing me up, ears back, tail swishing.

“Oi! You can stop looking at me like that. You’re no better than I am you little fucker.” I said.

“Don’t think you’re going to be moving in here mate. Robert might have fallen for your crap in the past, but things are different now. He’s got me for a start.”

Shit. Was it that obvious? “We’ll see.” I pushed the cat off the sofa as Robert came back in with the coffee.

“I hope he isn’t bothering you. He can be a bit full-on sometimes.” he said.

“No, no. Coriander and me were getting on just fine weren’t we little fella?” I winked at the cat.

Coriander turned his back to me, sat on the carpet, and licked the other paw.

Robert sat down next to me. “Black coffee, with a little cold water in it…. I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too man.” I did my looking-up-open-eyed thing. He always was a sucker for a pretty face. Especially mine.

Our lips brushed each other. My hand was on his thigh. The cat flap slammed shut behind Coriander as he went into the garden.

“Well that’s told us!” Robert said laughing.

“A bloke on the TV said that cats and dogs can sense all kinds of things around them. You know. Like ghosts and shit.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s true. They know when there’s tension in the air that’s for certain.”

“Sorry. That’s probably me that’s upset him.”

“No don’t worry. He is a bit edgy, that’s all. Who can blame him after that upbringing?” He smiled again.

I drank some coffee. It was a treat to have the real stuff. Robert never used instant. In the distance a siren whooped.

“So… What have you been up to?” Robert said.

“Oh, same old same old.” I looked out of the window again, trying hard to hide my raw eyes. My cheeks felt damp when I put my hands up to cover my face.

“Come on love. I can see you’re not OK. What’s been going on?”

Right there – that was the reason I had come to him. After everything that had happened, and despite all my fears, he still cared about me. There wasn’t anyone else, family or friends who I could rely on like this. I knew I didn’t deserve it from him either. Why was I such a twat? I couldn’t let him see me crying now. I swallowed hard, trying to push it all back inside. But it wanted to come out and there was nothing I could do about it. This was not how I had planned the conversation.

He put his arm round my shoulders. “Oh sweetheart. It’s OK. It’s OK.”

Why was he so lovely? Why was he letting me back in? Come on. You’ve got him where you want him. Ask him! Ask him! ASK HIM!

No.

“Look… Sorry, “I said. “Maybe I should go. I don’t want to lay all this on you. After all this time. You must think I am such a piss-taker. I’ll go.” I picked up my courier bag and shifted forward on the sofa.

His arm tightened round me. “No, It’s OK. Stay where you are. Do you really think I am going to let you go back out there in that state?”

“Maybe you should. You’ve got Coriander now. You really don’t need me back in your life.”

“Maybe. But what are friends for? Stay the night, you look exhausted. Let’s talk about it all over breakfast tomorrow. Then we can decide what to do, OK?”

And that was it. As easy as that. The past was forgotten, he didn’t care about it. I wanted to tell him everything but he kept saying he just wanted to talk about the future.

I did want to tell him. Really, I did.

Catherine comes home

Adapted from “Grace Notes” by Bernard MacLaverty*

Sound of muffled street noises from outside. Catherine going up steps to the first floor. Sound of chatter behind kitchen door. 

Catherine knocks on the door. 

Mrs McKenna: Come in.

Chatter stops. Sound of door opening. Sound of women sitting at the table buttering stacks of bread. Mrs McKenna gets to her feet. 

Mrs McKenna: Catherine!

They hug and both start to cry. 

Catherine: Ma!.. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Mrs McKenna blows her nose loudly.

Friend: We’d better make ourselves scarce, girls.

Mrs McKenna: Stay where you are. We’ll go into the other room

They move out on to the landing.

Catherine: Where is he?

Mrs McKenna: In there. Your old room. But we’ll go in the living room first. Come on.

Sound of a young woman cleaning, tipping ashtrays into a bin.

Mrs McKenna: Geraldine, can you finish this place later?

Geraldine: Surely Mrs McKenna… Catherine!

Catherine: Geraldine Scully!

Geraldine: The very one. I’m awful sorry. About your father… Oh, and sorry, I’ll see you later… She leaves

Mrs McKenna: Would you look at this place? Bottles and ashtrays everywhere. There was some crowd in last night.

Catherine: Did you stay up all night?

Mrs McKenna: No.. till about two. The doctor gave me a pill to knock me out. I just went to bed and left Paddy in charge

Catherine: Paddy?

Mrs McKenna: Paddy Keegan, our barman. He’s been great. Just took over. One of the world’s most genuine men. I don’t know what I’d have done without him. He put the notice in the papers –worded it nicely and all –got Carlin’s, the undertakers –drove the whole way to Cookstown to register the death. Aw, Paddy’s been great –he’s away home for a sleep now.

Catherine: When’s the funeral?

Mrs McKenna: From here tonight at seven. Then in the morning at ten. From the church… How are you?

Catherine: I’m fine.

Mrs McKenna: So you’ve moved off the island?

Catherine: Yeah.

Mrs McKenna: To Glasgow?

Catherine: Yeah… How did you get my number?

Mrs McKenna: Paddy spent the whole day on the phone, contacting everybody. He’s a gem.

Sound of a lorry climbing the hill outside in low gear. Hammering.

Catherine: What happened?

Mrs McKenna: A massive heart attack. He’d had one or two wee warnings but . . .

Catherine: Where was he?

Mrs McKenna: He said he wasn’t feeling great. Yesterday morning. Was it yesterday or the day before? God, I don’t know which end of me is up. Anyway, he felt sickish and had a bit of a pain across the chest here. And he’d been having these pains in his upper arm, of all places. I told him to take his tablets. And off he went, down to open the bar. The next time I saw him he was dead. They’d put him on two tables, rather than leave him on the floor. Malachy McCarthy and Jimmy were the ones who were with him. The early drinking crew.

Catherine: Oh mum. Come here.

They hug.

Mrs McKenna: This is getting us nowhere.

Catherine: That was terrible about the bomb.

Mrs McKenna: I like the way you phoned to check we were all still alive.

Catherine: There’s days go by, weeks maybe, when I never see the news. I just didn’t know.

Mrs McKenna: We missed the worst of it. It went off further up the street. Your father was so angry about it. “It’s our own kind doing this to us”. That’s what he kept saying.

Catherine: The IRA?

Mrs McKenna: Who else?

Catherine: It’s awful.

Mrs McKenna: It’s a policy they have now. Blowing the hearts out of all the wee towns… You’re looking well.

Catherine: I don’t feel it.

Mrs McKenna: Is anything wrong?

Catherine: No –no . . . apart from my father being dead.

Mrs McKenna: You’d better come in and see him.

Catherine: I don’t know whether I can. Whether I want to. I’ve never seen anyone dead before.

Mrs McKenna: Did you not see Granny Boyd?

Catherine: No. You wouldn’t let me.

Mrs McKenna: Well . . .Maybe a cuppa tea, first?

Catherine: Yeah.

They go back into the kitchen. Sound of knives and an awkwardness in the silence.

Geraldine: Is that you two finished in there?

Mrs McKenna: Yes, love. I’m making more tea.

Geraldine: Some of us have work to do…. How’s the piano playing going?

Catherine: Fine.

Mrs Gallagher: Open another tin of salmon there. We’d be far better off giving everybody a couple of quid and sending them down to the Chinaman’s for chips with curry sauce.

Everybody agrees.

Catherine: ‘What’s it like?

Mrs Gallager: ‘Very handy. He’s open all hours. He didn’t do chips in the beginning –but it was the only way he could stay in business.

Mrs Steel: There you are now. That’s the wee cakes done. A feast fit for a king. She shakes an empty carton. Aw, don’t tell me… Would you look at that. There’s only one left. And I’ve another two trays to do. Imagine having only one hundred and thousand left. They all laugh. Our kids call them prinkles… Look at that.. The sole survivor.

Mrs Gallagher: The individual matters… I was that hundred and thousand… Sorry love. I hope we’re not upsetting you with our gabble.

Catherine: No, no.

Mrs Gallagher (whispering) : We’re here to get your mammy through it.

Mrs McKenna makes tea. Mrs McKenna pours the tea and hands the cup to her daughter.

Mrs McKenna: There you are… Milk?

Catherine: No.

Mrs McKenna: Sugar?’

Catherine: No.

Mrs McKenna: Changed times. I mind when you took three. I was always washing the sugar out of the bottom of your cup.

The sound of a Hoover whining and roaring from the living-room.

Mrs Gallagher: That Geraldine’s a great girl. She can do the work of ten.’

Sound of general agreement from the ladies.

Catherine: I’ll get my sleeves rolled up later.

The room falls silent. Next door the sound of the Hoover goes on and on.

Mrs Curran: Your da had a way with words, Cathy, didn’t he? Do you mind the night there was the fight in the bar –the night Barney Neary was in . . .

Mrs Gallagher: Barney Neary’s a dwarf from Newtownstewart. Not that height.

Sound of all the women smiling and chuckling.

Mrs Curran: And a battle royal started. Bottles and ashtrays were flying all over the place. And Brendan said, “The only man who hadn’t to duck was Barney Neary”. I can just hear him saying it.

They all laugh now.

Mrs McKenna: She’s an oul model and there’s no parts for her. That’s what he said about Nan in the Post Office. He heard all these sayings in the bar. There’s manys the one can hear the things but never tell them the way Brendan did.

Mrs Curran: Your father was a character.

Catherine: Maybe I should go and see him…Get it over with.

Mrs Gallagher: You’d never forgive yourself

Mrs McKenna: Who’s in with him now?

Mrs Gallagher: Bella.

Mrs McKenna: Do you want me to go in with you?

Catherine: I’ll be all right. Stay where you are.

*MacLaverty, Bernard, Grace Notes, Vintage: London 1998

Black coffee with some cold water

“How lovely. You’ve got a cat!”
Robert turned round at the door. “Yes he was Danny’s. I look after him now.”
The cat jumped onto the sofa next to Alan and sniffed his jeans pocket, tail up.
“I love cats.” Alan stroked the velvet-soft head. “What’s his name?”
“Coriander… after his eyes. Black coffee?”
“How did you guess?” He smiled.
“How could I forget?” Robert went into the kitchen. They could hear him opening the fridge door and running the tap.
Coriander settled on the sofa and looked up. “How do you know Robert?” he asked.
“Long story. Let’s say we were friends once. Then more than friends for a bit.”
“Oh, so you’re another of his waifs and strays then.”
“You could say that, yes.” Alan looked into the acid-green eyes and smiled.
“And what are you after?”
Alan looked away and out of the window. “Nothing. I just came over for a catch up.”
“Yeah, right.”
Alan turned back. “Well I could ask you the same question Corry.”
“It’s Coriander.” The cat dug his claws skilfully into Alan’s thigh, just far enough to penetrate the denim and make contact with the flesh underneath. “What do you mean?”
“What are you doing here? What are you after?” Alan arched his perfectly shaped eyebrows.
Coriander extracted a paw from the denim and licked it gently like a gangster blowing smoke from the muzzle of a gun.
“Honestly? Danny was high all day and night, having random people round all the time. He brought me here one weekend when he went away. I’ve been here ever since. Robert likes me, it’s warm here, there’s food and water. He doesn’t bother me much”.
Alan looked down at his threadbare trainers, the dirt on the bottoms of his jeans, the frayed courier bag at his feet.“Coriander. You can stop looking at me like that. You’re no better than I am you little fucker.”
“Don’t think you’re going to be staying here, Alan. Robert might have fallen for your crap in the past, but things are different now.”
“We’ll see”.
Alan pushed the cat off the sofa as Robert came back in with the coffee.
“I hope he isn’t bothering you. He can be a bit full on sometimes.”
“No,no. Coriander and me were getting on just fine weren’t we little fella?”
Coriander sat on the carpet with his back to the sofa and licked the other paw.
Robert sat down next to Alan. “Black coffee, with a little cold water in it…. I’ve missed you Alan.”
They kissed gently on the lips. Alan’s hand was on Robert’s thigh. The cat flap slammed shut behind Coriander as he went into the garden for a shit.

Paul Kilbride

Paul Kilbride was briefing a support staff member on some typing. Just a bit too close for comfort. Better get the lower drawer of the desk open to keep him back. Social barriers
seemed not to exist for him.
He was a big man, broad shouldered, tall, with rugby build. A few remaining
streaks of dark hair stuck to his sweaty head. His mouth stayed slightly open when he
was not talking, as if he was concentrating so much that his tongue might loll out at any
moment . The eyebrows were bushy and unmanaged.
He spoke fast, in bursts, loudly, breathily, like a puppy. There was always so
much to do, and so much to say, and so many people to say it to. His small eyes shifted
constantly beneath rimless glasses worn either on strings around his thick neck or askew
on his face. Who was going to get him next?
The back of his neck just carried straight on up to the top of his head with no
curve, giving him a squashed Spongebob appearance. His writing, done with frenzied
jerks on the flipchart, was close to illegible and always misspelt. There was nothing to be
done about that. The letters were forever jumbled in his head and in his eyes, so what
else to do but fight through it and pretend it wasn’t happening?
Colleagues came low on the priority list so they never caught up with him.
Conversations happened in passing on the staircase, him looking over his shoulder, tumbling down the stairs, a worn-out rucksack over a creased charcoal-grey suit, as if off on a lunchtime ramble round the City.
Energy, energy, energy, but the sort that saps. He needed these little
colleagues to get his work done. So he tried a bit too hard to be your best friend, while
locating your Achilles heel in seconds and attacking it with no let up. That’s how he had
got through school and university. That’s how he had got his first job and made his way up.
Clients loved him for the performance and the attention they got. For them he
was the larger-than-life fixer of all problems. But why bother to sustain the
performance in non-billable time? No amount of feedback from colleagues seemed to get
through. He had fought through life for 55 years and didn’t need comments from that lot on how to do it better.
He weekly-boarded in a Pimlico flat (Sandra, his wife needing five days rest a
week by the coast), worked late, walked in on unsuspecting colleagues on the boardroom
table, all seeing, all knowing, all using.
He was going to be rich one day from the client love, he knew that.
And he would always be a turd but so what?

Brave Jay

The young lad Jay decides to go for good.
How painful, hopeless, has his world become?
A selfish, angry way to scream for some,
For others now must live the pain he couldn’t.

What could we have done to change his mind
How could we have missed the signs of danger?
Could we have stopped the dreadful plan of anger?
What else could we have done to make life shine?

Nothing now, for he would end it this time.
So Jay the lad became that day a man,
He made his dark choice and his dreadful plan.
His pain is finished now, no life to mime.

Still for you he loved and left, yet he gave
Remembrance that your boy, your man, was brave.

Assignment 2

Ok. I got there. Assignment 2  is in and the tutor feedback is in. I would say 6/10. Although I have asked not to be assessed: I just want to do it for fun and the challenge.

Her feedback is as ever very precise and direct. I like it.

Now we have to get on with dialogue. No option for poetry here. Looking forward to it. You can see Assignments 1and 2 in the menu.

Loving it.

Why?

Why did I love him? He’s broken my heart three times.

When will I ever learn, idiot, fool?

He is vulnerable but hides it by faces and mimes

Good looking, big-hearted underneath the cool.

Wants not to be tangled in the past of ice

More than a year he strings along a man,

Me, for whom he meant the world at a price.

Hiding his real love: another sham.

It was pretty one-way I paid for him to live,

For nothing much back from him but talk and bluff,

‘Love you’ he said, but there was none left to give.

A year later he finally braves it enough

To answer my question, (never to fess up straight).

Suggests we could be a three, let’s try and see

So we meet, us three, for a night to stay out late

Which becomes a nightmare due to drink and me.

I am now the devilish bastard whore

To be erased for taking advantage  of his pet.

Surprised? He did it to me before and more

Much worse, but the high past we are to forget.

I have to forget my stupid fool’s dream.

I have to forget the laughs and times we had.

I love him still, despite what’s happened I mean.

I delete all the pc images of him the lad,

I love him still, but soulmates, best friends won’t do.

In tears I watch the pixels drain from the screen.

He’s chosen who, we now know both, me and his new.

My love too will drain and so will the pain I’m in.