Category: Writing

London, March 1959

Writing

Mr Johnston is late because he spent too long polishing his Italian leather shoes. He is carrying an attaché case containing a camera. He is walking rapidly up Regent Street from Piccadilly Circus where he emerged from the Tube into pale Spring sunshine a few minutes ago. His  Borsalino Fedora is jammed down tight on his head against the wind, his trouser legs are flapping as are the panels of his trench coat.
He frames images in his mind’s eye as he moves swiftly through the crowds, the classical architecture providing a perfect curved backdrop of honey-coloured stone accented with soft shadows in the pale sunlight.
A spotted ribbon lies forlorn on the pavement, an unexpected flash of blue with white spots in a scene of muted colours, on a whim he picks it up, thrusts it deep into his pocket as he rushes on his way.
Coming towards him twenty yards away are a child and her mother, white gloved hands joined between them, he hears the girl sobbing and her mother’s comforting words spoken with a soft French accent, ‘I’m sure we’ll find it before we reach Piccadilly darling, it must have blown away just as we came round that first corner. ‘
Mr Johnston knows right away that they are searching for the ribbon he has found, ‘This must be yours I think’  holding it out to the child. With a smile and a wipe of her gloved hand to dry her tears, she mutters a shy “Thank you” turning to look up at her mother, “You’re very kind”.  Mr Johnston’s  sees the red lipstick, dark curled hair and the green eyes, nods with a smile and walks on.
With every step he takes away from her, the image of her face is brought into sharper contrast until that moment of full focus when he remembers her. The face he has not seen since the summer of 1950, the memory buried deep to lessen the longing, the woman who had meant, still means so much to him. Mr Johnston has to choose, there is everything at stake in this instant.
In one direction lies the most important meeting of his career, an appointment with the Magnum photographic agency, in the other direction the lost love and a girl –  who must be his daughter.
He stops and looks back after them, the words of Cartier Bresson resounding in his brain,
“When events of significance are taking place, when it doesn’t involve a great deal of money and when one is nearby, one must stay photographically in contact with the realities taking place in front of our lenses and not hesitate to sacrifice material comfort and security.”

Dragging his camera from the case as he runs towards them, he calls her name and is ready when Gloria and his daughter turn around and he captures the image that takes him across the dividing line between the involved and the witness, no longer a father or lover but a photographer.

The Langland Bay Annual Tennis Tournament

Writing

That morning as we had come round the steep hairpin bend on the number 8 bus from town, the bay shimmered below us, the sea lay unnaturally still and a heat haze had thrown the scene out of focus.

I was hot, way too hot, I could feel the prickling of sunburn starting on my arms and moved further into the shade, my head throbbed. A drop of sweat meandered down my back to join its allies in the waistband of my shorts. “aren’t you hot?’  Jessica, who always looked cool and perfect, shook her head.

We were sitting on the decking step at the back of one of the beach chalets overlooking the tennis courts, waiting for the match to start. I watched Jessica eating an ice-cream, her tongue scooping the dripping stuff round the edge of the cone and sucking the chill sweetness with her unfairly generous lips. I wished I was Jessica.  I licked my fingers, sticky from the ice-cream drips of a 99 flake and rubbed them dry on my blouse. A smear of the white cream on my leg was only slightly paler than my skin despite my having spent all day, every day at the beach all summer, though I did have plenty of freckles on my nose. We lit and shared a No.6 cigarette, one of the two singles we’d bought from the local newsagent, he was always happy to split a pack for teenagers.

Langland Bay was packed that day, it was the annual August Tennis Tournament and all the boys were taking part. I wasn’t interested in tennis, just the boys, just one in particular. Andy Brown was the one, we’d been going out since the 19th of June  and it was our Summer of Love. But this day was his day, he was going to win the tournament.

I was in love in the way that 17 year olds are, I thought I knew all about love and that Andy was ‘the one”. Six foot one, blonde with clear blue eyes and soft lips framing the whitest teeth, his skin the golden brown that only blondes turn in the sun, with the fairest hairs lying along his sinewy arms. He was funny and charming and when he looked at me I felt special, made important by his approval of me. He was in peak condition, when he played he was energetic, fast and he glistened with sweat, it was a sign of heat regulation not stress. The heat was his ally, other contestants found it enervating but he blossomed, the hotter the weather the more he sweated and the better he played, he knew he could win.

Andy was about to play  the final match, standing at the gate to the court having a last fag before he began, smiling with confidence he soaked up the attention from his young girl fans. He was their favourite, all the 10 to 16 year old beach girls knew him, he was their heart-throb. The crowd was eager for the duel, people were restless in their seats, the hum of chatter broken now and then by single shouts of support.
The air felt thick with heat, the smell of sun oil, cigarettes and greasy food from the beach cafe. There was no breeze today. The umpire called for the match to begin, Andy threw me a look and shouted ‘Watch me, I’m going to win‘ and sauntered onto the court.

Jessica was the kind of girl Andy should have been with, she matched him just right, with the long brown legs and luscious blonde hair.  Jessica had other ideas though, she liked older men and Andy liked me for all my chubby whiteness, mousey hair and tendency to overheat.
We stood up straining to see the action over the heads of the people in the court-side seats. Andy intimidated his opponent, he was casual, assured and served a succession of aces. I knew he was going to win but I couldn’t bear to watch. “I’m going for a walk, I’ll be back”

I wandered off and sat on the wall over-looking the bay, out of sight of the court. I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds and breathed in the smells that made up the place. Squeals of delight from children, turning to moaning when they got hot and tired, the smells of pasty and chips with plenty of vinegar, the feel of gritty sand stuck between my toes and the hot tarmac under my feet, my hair stiff with tangles and dried sweat and sea-salt. This place felt full of excitement, the promise of good times to come, it was going to be the best summer.

Hearing the crowd cheering  the end of the match and the chanting AnDy, AnDy, AnDy, I walked back to the court to see not just the Triumphant Champion but my boyfriend tangled in the embrace of my best friend. Jessica seemed to have set aside her penchant for older men in order to bask in the reflected glory, posing as the girlfriend of the winner of the Langland Bay Tennis Tournament.
Neither of them looked up from their embrace or noticed me as I walked past trembling with the shock of the betrayal. I stood in the shade by the pines and watched from a distance, they’d forgotten me. They wandered off in the opposite direction as though they’ve always been together.
I could feel the shame rising into a blush spreading up and across my face, I felt even hotter, though I was in the shade, my blouse was soaked in nervous sweat and I felt sick. I refused to cry, I would not let the tears come, I crossed my arms and pinched the soft flesh inside each arm and bit my lip.

Later on, alone on the number 8 bus, I sat right at the back upstairs, tears seeped down my cheeks on the long ride back into town. If only I had pulled myself together sooner I could have taken appropriate action. I remembered the sand bucket that always sits beside the court, supposedly to put out fires but always full of cigarette stubs. I should have picked it up and thrown it over their heads. I imagined what all that dirty sand mixed with cigarette ash and stubs would have done to his white shorts and Aertex shirt and her smug pink lips and teeth filled with grit. I lit the last No6 and enjoyed the pleasure of not having to share it with Jessica and blew perfect smoke rings with every puff.

Postscript
Langland Bay was never the same after that day, I would go back there every now and then and wonder what had happened to Andy and Jessica, I had not seen either of them since. When my daughter was about 5, I took her with my mum and we sat on the beach making sand castles. As I was looking out to sea a man walked by, slightly stooped, a beer belly and thinning hair. It took me a few seconds to see, it was indeed the champion of the 1967 Tennis Tournament, that perfect specimen of youth and beauty reduced to a dreary Mr Average. I would like to report that I laughed so much that I cried but the only tears that day were my daughter’s when she dropped her ice-cream in the sand.

Neighbourhood Watching – The Final

Writing

This series of tales from suburbia is being withdrawn from the public domain within the next few days as I have sold the Rights to a Swiss Film Producer for a ton of cash. So I’m off to the South Seas to while away the time sipping margarhitas, swinging in a hammock over-looking the bluest of seas. I may, or probably not, be accompanied by a suitably gorgeous man, wafting me with a cool breeze from one of those gigantic fans made from banana leaves and discussing the merits of the various creative pursuits I have been exploring.

Come back soon to read more tales from my imagination . . .

Anyone who can’t bear to on go living without having read them could get in touch.

Neighbourhood Watching – Part 4

Writing

Its been a week of chopping it seems. Having been away for 6 days I was struck by my changed surroundings when I turned the corner outside No22. The tree, as high as the roof of the two story house in whose garden it resided, opposite the front of my house has been reduced to a 6ft tall stump. To be fair, it was dying, there had only been one branch with leaves this year, 90% of it was dead.  The 20ft radius of its arbour was now brightly sunlit.

This morning men are back, properly attired in hard hats, ear defenders and tough trousers with tool belts. Now the twinned sounds of two chain saws, their pace and pauses just slightly varying, are loud outside my window, one man working on the stump, the other on the finer branches of another still-living tree, one of those self-seeded nondescript trees that seem grow a foot each time you turn your back.
There is a triangular metal sign set across the pathway, reading “Tree Cutting” – helpful if you are deaf but otherwise redundant, though one supposes a legally required warning.
I hope the blind couple who often walk this way are not inconvenienced by the sign across their route.

More cutting has been done in the back garden of the Stomper’s old house. I noticed that one of my shrubs looked odd, it was leaning forward as though it might have been blown by the wind. It is a pyracanthus, tiny evergreen leaves on long waving stems, with equally small white flowers just now, in late June. I planted a dark red flowered clematis at its foot hoping that it would entwine itself through the shrub – it did for a while but no longer. I saw from the bedroom window, looking down onto the pink concrete garden, remnants of my clematis lying wilting on the pink slabs. How sad that the Landlady didn’t discuss it with me, I would have been happy to train it back my way. It is hard to believe that people are such haters of greenery that they must chop away every single bit, whether it belongs to them or not.

A note about walking versus catching the bus : yesterday as I was coming home with a heavy (wheeled) suitcase, I pondered whether or not to catch the bus for 2 stops to save some energy (mine not the bus’s) I saw a young woman with sturdy legs and a Topshop bag waiting there at the stop. As it was a lovely sunny day and I had been cooped up on the train for 5 hours I thought walking would be pleasant and “good for me” and indeed it was. The linden trees that line the route are in flower now and the scent is delicious, light and a wee bit citrussy. All the lawns had been cut and all seemed peaceful in the afternoon sunshine. As I turned into my walkway, the young woman with the sturdy legs crossed in front of me, she had caught the bus the two stops but had not got here any faster. Perhaps, had she walked more often, her legs would be trimmer or perhaps it was all muscle from all the times she too had walked, I don’t know.

The Assassins have cut their front lawn just in time, it was wild with dandelions just about to burst forth their heads of downy-tufted seeds ready to be blown across the neighbourhood.

The roses that surround the corner lawn at No.22 are glorious this year, the best I’ve ever seen them and the scent is strong and lucious with attar. I wonder if Stan would mind if I cut some for a vase?

Neighbourhood Watching – Part Three

People, Writing

I made another cake yesterday for my lawn-mower, not my lawnmower. He was out fishing all day but came round later to say thanks for the cake, we had a chat about the landlady about to move in next door (between us). He let slip a gem or two – his wife Candy is a Mason – (oh gosh)  the Landlady found out and asked to be nominated, she was desperate to join. She got her way and was inducted into the sisterhood. Not long after that her trouble-making character worked its way to the surface and she accused Candy of slashing her car tyres. Hard to imagine as Candy is fairly round and doesn’t bend in the middle easily, so she would have to use a long-handled knife to reach down to slash.

When I awoke this morning, it was quiet, no-one else was awake and it was silent next door. I remembered that Stomper had gone from number 45, he had saved up his empty bottles to throw into the recycling at 1:21am the night before last and I had seen him cross his back garden in the late afternoon yesterday but no goodbyes, I was up a ladder painting the bathroom ceiling and couldn’t have run down in time. I had hoped to wish him well, thought he would knock to say goodbye but I guess he had plans.
All the pots of dead plants have gone from the garden, if you can call it that, its more like a car park really, 5 years ago the Landlady had every blade of green removed and replaced with pink concrete car park, reaching from the house to the garage at the end and from fence to fence, side to side. Not a good look for a suburban back garden but mercifully the pinkness is less shocking now, lichen, dust and moss have arrived and made it their own. Although now there are numerous circles and squares of brighter pink where the pots once stood, to remind me of his time there, that and the welcome silence in the small hours.

Its Jubilee Weekend, so in traditional British fashion, the weather has turned grey, damp and cold. All plans to strim the 3ft long grass in my back garden have been put on hold and I have retrieved my winter cardigan from the back of the wardrobe.

On Saturday I went to a party and met a woman I hadn’t seen for 30 years, she had been a spinster whilst we were all marrying and having kids. Dilys looked almost the same, at 25 she had looked 50, now at 60 she looks comfortable as though she has reached her proper age. Later I found out that for 15 years she’s had a lover, with whom she doesn’t socialise but keeps entirely to herself. He is a one-eyed Jamaican ex-convict.

I felt around in my bag for the  turquoise rubber pod that keeps the keys from scratching anything. At midnight, there I was at my door, worse for wear after more than a few glasses of red wine, no-one at home, the neighbour with my spare set always retires at 10:30pm. I tipped the contents of my bag out onto the lid of the rubbish bin, whilst waving my hand above my head to get the PIR sensor to turn on the porch light. No keys to be had, which of my neighbours could I approach for shelter, the Shouters wouldn’t hear, the “Widow” would be petrified to open the door, I didn’t want to wake the newborn twins, I was  too wary to ask the Assassins even if they had been there. Stan would still be up but I think I’d only go there as a last resort. I found my mobile phones, called a friend who I knew would still be awake, a 10 minute walk and I was tucked up safe and warm. In the morning  my daughter and I found the keys lying on the side-table just inside the door.

At the corner near the flats, there is a lamp-post, it seems out of place standing alone in the corner of the lawn, a while ago, maybe two years back, someone tied a child’s lost scarf around it, hoping that the owner would come past again and find it there. It too was bright pink like the paving at number 45 but has faded and greyed over time. My daughter and I see it most times when we walk past and feel the urge to just untie it and throw it away but hesitate to actually do it, somehow it would feel wrong.

Chatting to a friend about my theory of the Assassins, explaining how they each have an eye that looks odd, she suggested “maybe they spend too much time peering through telescopes  or down the barrels of shotguns, watching and aiming and their eye muscles have become contracted causing each of them to squint”.

The quiet of Thursday afternoon was broken by a flurry of noise and motion. The Landlady had turned up with her kind, quiet husband and was shouting about something, we couldn’t make out what exactly. My daughter noticed that Shouter was out there too, ‘minding his own business’, kindly cutting the hedge of the father with the broken shoulder, as a cover for eaves-dropping on The Landlady. The gap between the hedges has been improved but now that it rains everyday, the pink flowers of the opposite hedge spray you with water if you get too close.
My dog-walking friend called today asking if I’d like to join her on a walk. We set off and on the next corner met the very short man coming back from a run in a gaudy orange and black track-suit. Despite many attempts I have never managed to engage him in conversation. Today was no exception, the tersest of nods and he was gone. My friend had challenged me to stop and ask him about his overgrown hedge but I didn’t have the nerve.

When Ken came to thank me for the cake, I mentioned that I was nervous about getting embroiled in confrontation with The Landlady, she can be difficult, we have adjoining gardens and my fence is very dilapidated, I’m waiting for a friend to help me replace it. The thought of trouble brought out Ken’s macho New Zealand  character  “If she gives you any trouble at all, just let me know and I’ll sort her out” Ah my knight in shining armour.

On Wednesday morning as I left the house I met a woman walking past, we grumbled together about the hedge. She lives around the back and across the road on the ground floor of some council flats. It used to be filled with couples and a few families who’d all been there for years, they kept it clean and filled the beds with flowers and helped each other out. Now she, at 86, is the only one who clears the drain so that the tarmac area doesn’t flood. And it is she who puts up with someone from the flats above throwing nappies out of the window aiming for the communal bins – and missing. Her parting remark, typical of that generation who suffered the hardships of WW2, “I feel so sorry for all those people who lost everything in the floods last week.”

There’s a man I often see out walking, he walks with an odd gait, very short steps, almost a shuffle. He has only a few teeth and habitually smokes roll-ups, in rhythm with the puffing on the fags, he puffs out his chest like preening bird. He is a jolly man always happy to pass the time of day with a smile and a toothless chuckle.