Linda Lake
Short Stories
A Lorry-Load of Herring
The sea was a calmer beast by dinner time. Our stomachs had stopped bucketing and heaving and we felt well enough to sway into the restaurant. The captain stood aside, opening the door for us. “Evening,” I said. He growled, failing to establish a smile.
“Miserable bugger,” Sam said.
You could smell the wafting jewels as we ambled by the captain’s table. At our own table, Perkins was already seated, pontificating, as usual. He pointed a bread-roll at Mrs. Warren.
“Oh, yes, they say it’s easier…drowning.”
“Easier than what?” I whispered to Sam.
“Easier than listening to Perkins,” Sam whispered back.
Perkins’ words stuck to Mrs. Warren, like barnacles. She attempted to prise them off, one by one. “Yes, well…I’d rather not find out.”
“Well, you puff up, of course. But that’s after.”
Mrs. Warren attacked her lobster, ferociously.
“Perkins,” Sam said. “Shut it.”
“Only saying.”
“Well, don’t. Wrong time, wrong place.”
Perkins’ salty old eyes peered suspiciously at Mrs. Warren’s lobster.
“That’ll be hell on the dentures, that will.”
Mrs. Warren’s lips puckered.
“Sudden death’s best, of course,” Perkins said to his soup. “One minute you’re here, and then…pouf! Great, if it happens in your sleep.”
“Great,” I pouted.
“Oh, yeah. Terrific,” said Sam.
“Better than drowning,” Mrs. Warren muttered into her lobster.
Perkins’ soup spoon clinked in the bowl. “Oh, yes. Better than drowning. Unless you’re a kid, of course. Kids shouldn’t die. Not of anything. Ever.”
“No. Children shouldn’t die.” Mrs. Warren looked sad.
We all shook our heads, in agreement.
“No, kids shouldn’t die,” Perkins repeated slowly. “Nor dogs. Fond of dogs.”
“Then we’d have a world jam-packed with dogs,” said Sam.
“You could do worse,” said Mrs. Warren. “I’m fond of dogs. Company.”
“Yes. Company.” Perkins sighed.
Our soup arrived.
“What is this?” Sam asked the waitress.
“Soup,” I said.
“Very droll.”
“It’s vichyssoise,” called the waitress, weaving towards another table.
“Nice,” said Perkins. “But cold. I nearly complained.”
“Don’t,” said Sam.
“No. Well. She’s busy. Didn’t like to. Not her fault.”
Mrs. Warren smiled smugly at her lobster.
We ate in silence for a while, listening to clinking cutlery and buzzing chatter. Some of the people in the restaurant were American, distinguished by their colourful tourist clothes and softly droning chant.
“Hurn-hurn-hurn’,” I said to Sam.
“What?”
“Listen. A roomful of Americans. Sounds like ‘Hurn-hurn-hurn’. Was it Peter Sellars who first noticed that?”
“Quite likely. This soup’s good. Cold, though,” he smirked, with a winning wink at a smiling Mrs. Warren.
“Dogs are very loyal,” Perkins was saying.
Mrs. Warren nodded. “Yes. Very loyal. And loving. I once had a spaniel...”
Perkins nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. So did I. Only it wasn’t exactly a spaniel, it was a mix. Bit of spaniel in it, though, I reckon, from its looks. It wasn’t actually mine. Belonged to the old lady who lived down the road. I took it out for her. When I was a lad. Didn’t have a dog of my own, you see. Sheba, her name was.”
“The old lady, or the dog?” smiled Sam, reaching for the wine bottle.
Perkins ignored him. “Funny old duck, she was. Funny family, altogether. There was an odd story going the rounds about her sister and her husband. My old lady’s husband, that is…and her sister. In the `papers, and everything.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sam yawned.
“Some sort of murky shenanigans. Never really got to the bottom of it. But then he died, like. Sudden death it was. One minute, you’re here, and then…”
“Pouf!” I said, somewhat more vehemently than intended.
Mrs. Warren flinched and dropped a clinking piece of lobster shell on to her plate.
Perkins looked thoughtful. “Yeah. Pouf.”
“So? What happened?” I asked. “Revenge killing by the wife?”
“What? No!” said Perkins. “Heart attack, probably. Never heard any mention of foul play, anyway. The manner of death wasn’t the weird thing, as it turned out.”
“What was, then?” asked Sam, reluctantly enticed into the story.
“W.e.l.l…apparently, after the old bloke up and died, his old lady didn’t bother burying him. Or having him cremated. Or organising any kind of funeral, in fact.”
“Come, again?”
“Left him sitting in the armchair, for days and days. Weeks, even. Possibly.”
“But, why?”
“Well, to begin with, she didn’t realise he was dead, or so the story goes. Never much of a talker, you see. Not where his wife was concerned, anyway. Tended to ignore her, most of the time. Just hid behind his broadsheet. So, easily done…not to notice he’d snuffed it, that is. When she finally twigged, she sort of...kept him.”
“Kept him?”
“Yeah. Kept him. For company, like.”
Sam choked on his bread-roll. I patted him on the back. “Company? Company? What sort of company was a corpse, I’d like to know?”
“As much as he was when he was alive, by the sound of things,” said Mrs. Warren, beginning to enjoy herself. “So, Mr. Perkins; what happened?”
“Well, nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Not for a long while, anyway. When he went stiff, she used his hands to wind her balls of wool.”
“Oh, come on,” said Sam.
“Yeah, well, so they say. I’m only telling you what they say. When he went all floppy again, and became a bit high, she wrapped him in cling-film.”
I put down my soup spoon. “Wrapped him in what?”
“Cling-film.”
“Why?”
“To keep him fresh, of course,” said Mrs. Warren. “It makes sense. After all, he was meat, then, to all intends and purposes. And you have to be very careful with meat.”
Sam waved his arms, mock-dramatically. “Meat? Meat? Is that all he means to you…meat?”
Mrs. Warren looked offended. “No, well...I didn’t actually know the gentleman.”
“Yeah. She’s only saying,” said Perkins. “And you can’t be too careful.”
“No, you certainly can’t,” said Mrs. Warren. “Not with meat.”
Perkins nodded. “It can cause all sorts of digestive problems can gone-off meat.”
“She wasn’t going to eat him, was she?” I asked.
Perkins looked enigmatic. “No. Well. Although, some do say...”
“Never!” exclaimed Mrs. Warren, delightedly aghast.
“Bollocks!” said Sam.
“Mm…well...could be a delicacy,” I said. Mrs. Warren shyly averted her eyes but allowed herself a sly grin.
“Neighbour discovered it. Him, I mean,” said Perkins. “Knocked on the door. No answer. So, she pokes into the letterbox and peers. Well. The smell. Hit her full in the face. No hall, in those houses, you see. Straight into the sitting-room, off the street. And there he was.”
“Good God!”
“Yeah. Higher than a lorry-load of herrings, they said. Winter, too. Made it worse.”
“Worse?” I said. “Better in Winter, surely? If you’re going in for corpse-keeping as a hobby, that is.”
“Not if you light the fire.”
“Oh, I see. No.”
“All bluey-green, he was. Phosphorescent.”
“Phosphorescent?” asked Sam.
“So they say.”
“Perhaps like old, dead fish,” ventured Mrs. Warren, looking at the remains of her lobster.
“Yeah, that’s it. A lorry-load of herrings, they said it smelled like. A whole lorry-load.”
“That’s a lot of herring,” said Sam, shaking his head.
“And a lot of cling-film,” observed Mrs. Warren.
Perkins buttered the last of his bread-roll, crammed it into his mouth, letting words drip dreamily through. “Too right. A lot of cling-film and a whole load of herrings, for sure.”
The waitress came back to our table. She looked at Sam’s empty soup bowl. “Ready for the fish, sir?”
* * *
As we came out on deck, the sea resembled thick pleats of treacle, slow waves tipped with scattering moonbeams. The ship heaved, creaked, making soft ‘quopping’ sounds in the swell. Across the bay, shore-lights rose and fell, rose and fell.
Sam gazed at the sea; shivered. “They’ll be dead men lurking down there.”
“And women.”
“No. Just men. All wrapped up in their wives’ skeins of wool.”
“’Old Man’s Acre and Dead Man’s Pool, all left behind, as they danced through Wool….’” I quoted.
“What?”
“One of my favourite poems, when I was a child. ‘And Wool gone by, like tops that seem to spin in sleep, they danced in dream...’ Walter de la Mare. That’s Wool as in the place; not the knitting material, so you couldn’t get wrapped up in it. Unless you liked it very much, of course. I believe it’s in Dorset.”
“Oh, right.”
“What was the name of the farmer who drowned himself?” I gazed at the wavering crowds of stars for inspiration.
“What farmer? Must have missed that one.”
“In the poem.”
“Search me. Did you believe that story?”
“About Farmer Turvey’s drowning, and then living happily in the sea with harp-twangling mermaids, you mean?” I laughed. “No, not really! Although I probably did when I was a child. Or half-believed it, anyway. Or wished it to be true, or something.” I quoted another extract from the poem: “‘And Farmer Turvey, on twirling toes, ups with his gaiters, and in he goes…’”
“Not the story about Farmer Turvey! I mean Perkins’ story about the dead man sitting opposite his wife for days…or possibly even weeks.”
“Don’t know. Probably, on balance. But only because I want to. It’s quite delicious, as stories go, albeit it in a horribly sick sort of way. Do you believe it?”
“No. Perkins is full of crap.”
“Quite interesting crap, though, isn’t it?”
Sam squinted at the skulking sea. “Look at that dark shape. Dolphin, porpoise or body?”
“Body, probably. Or a very large hat. ‘Bates and Giles on the shingle sat, gazing at Turvey’s floating hat. But never a ripple nor bubble told, where he was supping off plates of gold...`”
The air hung, dripped. I breathed in the heavy salt tang. Licked it, fresh and chill, from my lips. Tried to clear my head of rippling verses.
Sam peered over the rail. “I don’t know. I don’t like the look of that shape.”
“Don’t like the look of it? It’s only a shape. What sort of a shape would you prefer?”
“Not that one, and that’s a fact. It’s a very sinister shape.”
“Could be a body, I suppose. ‘Us knows not, dreams not, where you be, Turvey, unless in the deep blue sea….’”
“Bit thick, then, weren’t they, Turvey’s friends, if he’d just dived in?”
“Can’t remember if they actually saw him diving in.”
“His floating hat must have been a clue, though.”
The dark shape slinked towards, bobbed back, slithered nearer, danced, spun, rolled in ripples. Log? Too softly undulating. Dog? No, not a dog. Too far out at sea for a dog. And too big. Cloak? Coat? Too thick; too substantial. Man? Must be.
Must be a man.
Coming up behind us, Mrs. Warren asked, “Where’s Mr. Perkins?”
o-O-o
Whisperings
Storytelling and a vivid imagination are not gifts with which I have been endowed; otherwise, I dare say I might have created a passable tale out of the following, true incident. As it is, I must relate events simply as they occurred, without the aid of any of the literary accomplishments granted to those with an ability for word-weaving.
If the following appears fragmented, that will, I trust, simply serve to underline the true nature of the account; for, in life, experiences are rarely as tidy and neatly bound as those fables squeezed between the pages of a book.
Never before had I taken a trip in a hot-air balloon. The wisdom of the venture remained somewhat dubious to certain shadowy portions of my psyche, but there could be no doubting that the prospect also engendered much excitement. What had caused me to book the flight persists in being something of a mystery, even to myself. Maybe it was the freedom of a whole day with nothing planned or the attraction of a rich blue and gold, lapis lazuli sky; or perhaps it was the ruffling zephyrs gliding a delicate tincture of Spring aromas through the countryside. All I know is that, no sooner had I booked, I was buoyant with light-hearted exhilaration, my spirit already airborne.
I awaited my companion and aviator in a small hut at the edge of the field in which lay the half-animated balloon. Through the window, I watched men racing around it, pulling ropes, burning gas. My excitement surged with each burst of flame. I waited. And waited. At length, in stately resplendence of purple and silver, the balloon arose ceremonially into the air, while the men strained on the hawsers, to prevent it soaring out of their grasp. Involuntarily, I gasped, elevated with an exhilarating mixture of enthusiasm and agitation. In a salvo of birdsong, I left the hut to look for my fellow-traveller. Having strolled a few steps, I noticed a long, lean, hooded figure, dressed all in black, walking slowly and deliberately in my direction. From this distance, he resembled a rather disheveled jackdaw. On the trunk of a nearby oak tree, a nuthatch, crawling vertically down in search of insects, started – at either the figure in black, or perhaps at myself - and flew away.
Looming ever nearer, my companion rumbled an unfathomable greeting from somewhere deep in the recesses of his throat, and, without pausing for a reply, beckoned me to follow. The balloon, as we neared it, was frisking and cavorting like an implausibly airborne colt, impatient to be away. I introduced myself, thanking my companion for assisting me into the basket and in anticipation of his taking me on this predictably memorable journey.
“’s nothing.”
This was in answer to my thanks, of course, but seemed, for a bizarre and disorientating moment, to be a comment on the irrelevance of my name.
And then, wind-borne and mercurial, we were pulsing upwards; the men miniature automata…Lilliputian...tiny black ants, beneath us. The wind’s velvet-mouthed whisperings rose into clamorous chants. As we ascended, the tumult grew in resonance, blew itself into a blacksmith’s mallet, hammering on the balloon’s hot-fume forge, making all speech, save shouts, impossible. I ventured a nervous smile in the direction of my companion. He regarded me for a serious moment, head inclined, then blinked himself away, concentrating on releasing more ballast from the basket. Enthralled though I was at the commencement of our journey, something in his manner was disquieting.
The air rode, bucking, through cantering clouds. If there were reins, they were held in the teeth of the wind. Our function was merely to cling to the wind’s mane and sweep and whirl through the ever-widening sky; a prancing, sparking accompaniment to clanging kettledrums and shivering cymbals. We might swish and hiss and breathe fire but, to the wind, that was of no consequence.
On the ground, the day was mild. Up here, in spite of my scarf and greatcoat, it was cold. My face was numb from continual squally slappings. My companion stared straight ahead, apparently impervious to either cold or emotion. We drifted into a cloud. For a moment, entangled in a white cocoon of silks, we could see nothing. Then we pulled away, and all was blue and gold again. Another veil of cloud shrouded us, dispersed. Another. Then another. And yet another. This last, a wall of cloud, bricked-up my companion, refused to disentangle. The envelope of the balloon was sealed in a vaporous sepulchre. This billowing haze seemed more mist than cloud. I became alarmed.
An irrational desire to reach out and touch my jackdaw friend, to reassure myself that he was still there, all but engulfed me, but I decided this action would be embarrassing and cowardly.
The wind dropped, a little, taking us down with it. The noise lessened. We must be enveloped in mist; otherwise, we should have dropped out of the clouds by now, surely?
“The finest things are those you cannot fathom...”
Relief rushed through me at the sound of my companion’s voice, swiftly followed by annoyance at my former, unreasoning disquietude - for how could he have left the basket without my knowledge? This sensation was, in its turn, replaced by perplexity. What did the fellow say?
“I beg your pardon?”
Silence.
I tried again. “Er….do you think we are caught in a mist, by any chance, or is this just more cloud?”
“Just listen to the colours of the air.”
If this was a reply to my question, it hardly suited my purpose. Draped in this dark advice, which was no advice at all, I grew distracted again; some part of my being seeming to come adrift with the man’s confusing medley of words. The strange fellow must be unhinged. Mad, even? I was ensnared in a hot-air balloon with a madman!
Faltering: “Er……do you have any idea where we are……at all?”
There was a long pause before he informed me, “We have dreamed ourselves into an elemental drift. But it’s unfinished, like our thoughts.”
Sensations struggled for supremacy within me: a tickling wish to laugh at the absurd man; a craving for home; a fancy to recount this tale, for the amusement of family and friends, in front of a cosily tame fire; all surpassed by an uncoiling fear.
And, all the while, the white mantle of mist swathed and wrapped and muffled.
A wing - no, no…surely an arm (the subjugation of my sight serving to expand my normally under-developed imagination) - flapped against my side. A thin claw of ice clasped my nervous fingers. I tried to withdraw, but my hand was sealed in a rigid grip. Within my mind, the claw clutching my hand appeared grotesque, although I could see nothing but the fingertips of clouds.
Slowly, stupidly, I perceived this to be a gesture of compassion.
“There’s no need to be afraid. You’re safe, inside these lacy catacombs.”
This husky enunciation was the croak of a raven. I shuddered. My pulses fluttered; my mind broke open, gaping into dark, cavernous entries. I felt the windings and unwindings of my soul.
Tremulous, coaxed by a reprise of the wind’s melodies, the basket quavered over the crest of the cloud, rippled itself free. We thumped into shrill flashes of clangorous blue and amber, rolled towards the swaying beacon of the sun.
A sparrowhawk hovered with hostile grace just below us. We descended, flew parallel. Sparrowhawk and ‘Corvid’ scrutinized each other with unblinking regard.
The wind relaxed, hushed, maundered aimlessly above fields and a remote blur of tree tops. A woodpecker thrummed in lonely syncopation. We hung above a church. No……a church no longer……a roofless ruin. A congregation of starlings kept vigil, prattled a paean, circled, melded; shot an intercessory arrow into the Sun. On the crumbling steeple, a skeletal weathervane whined a torn, weather-beaten prayer. The graveyard drooped with tangled stones. I drank deep draughts of Spring-sanctified air. My mind, still half-muffled in a dome of cloud, was riven by the lament of a single bell.
A heave and a shiver, a sudden dip and rise, a dip again, and we had landed. Or had we? I felt as if I were still floating. I had anticipated a sensation of intense relief, but what I experienced, upon landing on the bewildered earth, was a reticence to leave the basket; an indefinable yearning. For what? During that balloon flight, something imageless and unknown, something infinitely silent and aware had scorched my consciousness, tied me with strong cords into an envelope of shadows.
I wanted to hold on to this uncharted otherness, but it distanced and dissolved; too light, too insubstantial to grasp, too weighty a burden to bear. Yet, it held on to me. Holds me still.
My companion offered his hand. I shook it. Just an ordinary, commonplace hand. Not a claw, after all. I thanked him. He smiled.
“’s nothing.”
And, in his voice, I heard the murmur of lapping breezes; felt the hush of dropping mists.
o-O-o
Just a Bit of Business
Couldn’t help but open it. Just begging to be looked at, it was. Anyone would have done the same; not just those of us of the wheeling, dealing, ducking and diving fraternity, who maybe aren’t averse to dropping the odd box of mobile phones off the back of a lorry, or supplying the occasional “Amani” suit to the designer-label-hungry, status-invested yuppy. I always sez to meself, “Joe, you must be on the look out for the main chance, in this life, feller.” That’s my philosophy, and it serves me well. Keep well ahead of the game, I reckon.
It was kind of wedged, like, down one of the wooden seats inside a motorboat moored by the jetty where I’d been doing a bit of fishing. No idea who owns that boat. I’ve never seen anyone in it but there’s always a good supply of handy teabags and water on board, with a fully working kettle and gas freely available whenever I turn on the hob, so someone must visit it, from time to time.
Anyway, never noticed that package wedged in there before, but I couldn’t have lived with meself if I hadn’t pulled it out and unwrapped it.
Bleedin’ goldmine, it was; that’s all. Straight up.
No, not money, exactly, but better than that. Photos. Real, clear ones. Well-known M.P. with his extra-mural perk. Name escapes me, but you’ll have heard of him. Often on the telly, shooting his mouth off about the sanctity of marriage and family and all that sort of bollocks. You won’t have set eyes on her before, though. I’d almost guarantee that; not unless you get down the Soho Clubs on a regular basis.
Well, I can tell you, `im and `er, they weren’t exactly counting votes, if you get my drift. What do they call it? “In flagally delectable” or summat. Being a decent, family man meself, I don’t hold with that sort of thing. Unnatural, I call it. Far too much flagally going on for my taste. And some of them weird positions! Still, you got to admire the old geezer. Amazing, really, to be so athletic at his time of life. Couldn’t manage all those knotty poses and postures meself, I’m sure, and I reckon he’s been knocking around, so to speak - no pun intended - a good twenty years longer than me.
The point is, you’ve got to take advantage of this sort of opportunity. Breaks like this don’t grow on trees, you know. After all, I’ve five kids to feed - two of mine, three of hers. And you should see the amount of food that mob can put away! Munch their way through the ‘fridge like a swarm of locusts, they do. And then they all want posh clothes, and the older ones hanker for a car each - the usual sort of thing, these days. Don’t know they’re born, they don’t. But you daren’t say a word against ‘em - especially not her three - or she’s down on you like a ton of bricks! So you shut up, and you get on with it, and you grab yer blessings with both hands, whenever they’re presented.
The old geezer was quite decent about it, really. Nice enough, in an uppish “It’s a fair cop” sort of way. Anyway, he’s seen me right. Turns out he was being blackmailed by some bloke, but the poor bastard got knocked off before he could retrieve the photos from the hiding place in the boat. He’d shoved `em there when he knew he was being chased by the Big Boys, or so His Nibs thought. Didn’t see me in the same light, though, I could tell. No actual blackmail about our little deal, really; more of a couple of gents doin’ a bit of trade, beneficial to both. No funny business with me. Not like the other feller; trying to bleed the poor old lad dry. Be a right mug to bite off the hand that feeds you, I reckon. I gave the photos back just as soon as he handed me the cash. Pays to be honest, in the long run.
Bought one of them new, large, family cars with part of the proceeds. More like a small mini-bus, to be honest. Funny-looking-ossity, but it gets all the mob in, including Grandma. They’ll even be space for the new baby when it bothers to put in an appearance. And we’ve booked four weeks holiday in Majorca next summer.
They’ll be no more sitting out on that cold jetty in the pouring rain and blasting wind, bored silly, just ‘cos Marjory has a fad on fresh fish. From now on, I’ll buy all the blimmin’ fresh fish she needs, I can tell you. Still, credit where it’s due, that old jetty changed my life. If I hadn’t been out there, that day, and stopped for my usual cuppa on board the motorboat… Well, that doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? It’s like I sez, gotta keep yer eyes open, in this game. “No sleeping on the job,” as the M.P. probably said to his mistress.
I know her, by the way. Seen her, down Soho way. Nice girl.
But, let’s face it, you never know when a rainy day might strike. That’s why I’ve kept hold of a tincy-wincy negative. Or two. He’ll never miss them. I probably won’t ever use `em, of course, but it’s just a bit of insurance, like.
o-O-o
SITUATION CRITICAL
Yet the fingers switched switches, pressed buttons, turned dials. Something to do. Hope is hope. Not dead, yet. Tenacious bastard, hope.
Nothing we can do, Lamb. I’m afraid you’re on your own.
Thanks, Ground Control……(Thanks….?). Over and……
Out.
You’re afraid…but am I? On my own. Try it aloud. On……My ….Own. Words quavering. Not my voice. Some other bugger’s. I’ll make tea. English panacea. Squashed under a bus? Make tea. Wife left you? Have a cuppa. Lost in space…? Where has that plastic stuff gone?
Warm the pot, dear.
No-one warms pots these days, Mum. You’re living in the past. It’s all teabags in cups.
Teabags in cups, dear?
Or mugs.
Oh, dear…dear.
And not a tea-cosy in sight. Not anywhere in all of space.
Dear, dear…dear.
Poor old dear. She’d miss me. If she remembered who I was. And Mary? Well. Another story. Another life. Another world. Another bed.
You understand the danger involved in this assignment, Lamb?
Yes, sir.
You understand you won’t be back for a long time?
Yes, sir.
You understand you may never be back?
Yessir. Yessir yessir yessir. Leave room for someone else in my bed, sir. One bag full, sir. Where’s that damned tea?
Warm the pot, son.
Can’t, Mum. Told you. It’s plastic. A plastic mug. See? It’s floating. I’m floating.
Floating, dear? Oh, dear…dear. Dear, dear, dear. Floating; fancy that.
Not much. Don’t fancy it one little bit. Not anymore. Seemed fun, once: a lifetime ago. But now I’m stuck with it. That, and a few hours…days ...however long it takes before rations run out…..or the air…….or my nerve…or my mind….whatever goes first.
Should anything go wrong, Lamb - most unlikely, of course - there’s a pill. You know……
Yes, sir.
Not that you’ll need it.
No, sir. She’s on the pill, sir. No problem, sir. So the Major needn’t get involved, sir. Anyone for tea…?
Grey, dear? Tea used to be brown, didn’t it? Brown scald sweet. Burn your tongue. Blow on it, dear.
Can’t, Mum. It’s floating. I’m floating.
Like yer Gran, then. Used to pour her tea into the saucer, Gran did. There it was, floating in the saucer. In public, too. Didn’t care. Embarrassed yer Dad. Easily embarrassed, yer Dad…especially by his Mum. Embarrassed himself to death. Too embarrassed to mention the lump…..the pain…….the dying. What coffin would he like, dear? Don’t know. The oak or the ash? Don’t mind. Don’t care. But not too posh; he’ll be far too embarrassed to lie in it. Lead-lined, though. Oak before ash, you’re in for a splash.
Lead-lined? Why?
Worm-stopper.
Worm-stopper? But, why bother?
Ash before Oak, you’re in for a soak. Rained at the funeral.
Burning’s better, Dad thought.
No, he didn’t. He didn’t think. You think he did, but he didn’t. Yet he’ll be embarrassed, taking up all that space, if you ask me, but no-one asked me, so I left you to sort it all. Burning’s best, perhaps...but all that smoke! Flames, `n` everything. Couldn’t see your Dad going up in flames.
You don’t see it.
No. Still……Burning’s far too spectacular for yer Dad.
Watched him meandering out of life. Slowly, slowly, slowly. No fuss. Meek, dying eyes in a self-effacing face. Dying…dying….dead. Dead head.
Dead-head the roses, will you, dear? Your Dad would have something to say about the state of the garden.
No, he wouldn’t. As in life, so in death. Dead head. Sunken, silent mouth. No change, there. Wasted body. Wasted life. As we commit to the earth the body of our dear brother……. Nobody’s brother. Nobody’s dear.
That’s right, dear. Ash before oak, you’re in for a soak. Rain Rain Rain. All those black umbrellas. Do they keep black umbrellas especially for funerals, do you think? Aunt Joyce’s was pink. Scandal. Always a scandal, Aunt Joyce. Wore her red hat, too…at a funeral. “Red hat, no drawers,” some say. Well, she was living over the brush when you shouldn’t. And later…that baby. Not Uncle Bill’s, surely? All that red hair! Where did that come from? No red hair in our family. But there was that travelling salesman…
Are you travelling with me, Mum? All the way?
I remember when you could go all the way for one-and-ninepence.
Really? Cheap, in those days, I must say!
Oh, now, son…..don’t start……I meant the cinema. To the cinema, I meant. Cheeky! Cheeky boy. Get any sharper, you’ll cut yourself. Who are you…..again…..?
Don’t know. Feel grey. Like the chilling tea. Earl Grey. Mary liked that. But it’s gone cold. Cold, dead space. All that space to swim in. Wonder where I’ll end up. Hanging on the wing of an angel? Pardon me, Miss….er, Sir? Pardon me, but may I borrow your wing? Use less fuel. Lend me some lift. Lend me some life. In a bit of a fix, you see. Surrounded by space, drenched in dark. Not enough air. How much left? Enough to breathe in all the stars? How many angels to the square mile of space? Will another one be along in a minute? You wait half an hour and…would you believe it?…..two angels come along at once. Pardon me, Miss, Sir…Er….. Take the bull by the horns, the angel by the wing.
Two’ll come along at once, son, you can be sure of that. Not natural, all that space travel. It’ll come to no good. You mark my words. No-one in our family ever did such a……. Where’s the sense in it? We’re all doing all right, aren’t we? Sensible jobs. Clerks, Secretaries. Accountants. A Solicitor, even. Sensible.
Mark your words? All nonsense, your words, Mum! Forget your own name. Forgotten mine. Forgotten you have a son. Think the nurse is your sister. Don’t know who you are, but think you know your own sister…who isn’t. You never had a sister. Sensible insensible decay.
It’s unnatural, son. Swimming about in space. My sister and I prefer the bus.
You haven’t been on a bus in years, Mum. And you don’t have a sister.
All the same… If God had meant us to float about in space, He’d have given us…er…
Spaceships…? Anyway, you don’t believe in God, Mum.
Don’t I, dear? I forget. But swimming around in space, son. Not natural.
Mary’s natural. Does what comes naturally. With anyone else, everyone else…
Drifting about in space. Loveless, wifeless…
And motherless, Mum. Lifeless, too, soon. Forever flung through prowling heavens. Perhaps they’ll catch me, one day.
Easy, now. Got it! Reel it in. Do you realise what we have here?
No, sir.
This is an example of a primitive humanoid. From Planet Er…
Yes, sir.
From Planet….er….Er…Err…Erm…... possibly. Many thousands of years ago. No skin or organs, you’ll note.
Yes, sir.
So, how do you think it managed to function?
Don’t know, sir. (Don’t mind, sir. Don’t care, sir.)
Well, we are not altogether sure, but we think…we think it was operated by a Central Control.
Ground Control, here. How are you doing?
Fine. Been talking to my Mum.
You can’t have been in contact with your mother, Lamb, as well you know. Apart from the somewhat intermittent communication with us, at Ground Control, there are currently no other links…
Don’t need links to talk to my Mum, sir.
Not taking too many of those Happy Pills, are you, Lamb? Shouldn’t exceed the stated dose, you know. Just one or two…taken when…when…
When I’m in dire straits, sir. Yes, I know. I am in them. Right up to my neck in dire straits.
Er..yes…well… Any last words? Any messages you would like us to pass on?
Oh. Well. Er…Ermm……
Yes, sir.
Last words…? Er…Ermmm… Just tell the Major to take care of her.
What?
Tell Major McGee to take care of my wife. Of Mary. Assuming he hasn’t dumped her already. And make sure my mother’s nursing-home payments are made regularly……
Repeat. You’re breaking up.
Yes, probably…soon.
We’re losing you, Lamb. You’re breaking up.
Or maybe down. Maybe I’m breaking down.
Too many Happy Pills, Lamb. Need to keep your wits about you!
For what, sir…? Lungs constricted. Not much air left. Gasp….blow…..gasp…..blow. Think nothing. Become…..nothing. Just become. Can’t.
SITUATION INTOLERABLE
The pill. Remember the pill, Lamb? Not the Happy Pills, but the pill. Remember that.
Yes, sir. I remember, sir. But I can’t do that yet, sir. All that space to cover. All that stardust to polish. Sorry, but Mum can’t do it anymore.
Live in the moment, son. Just live in the moment.
Can’t live in this moment, Mum. Can’t breathe.
Open the window, dear. So warm. Need air. Fresh air. Hear the birds. Nice day. Look at all the blue sky.
All that blue. Blue, blue sky. Dark blue. Blue-black. Indigo. No birds.
No birds, dear?
No. No birds.
Sky without birds? Shame. Tut-tut-tut.
No birds, Mum. Just gauze. Silver speckled blue-black gauze.
Open the window, dear. Too warm. Make hay while the…stars shine.
The sun’s a star, Mum.
If you say so, dear. Time enough for closed windows in the winter. Time enough, then.
No summer or winter here, Mum, and not enough time. Not much time left. Where are you? Lost you in the gauze. Tell me a story, Mum. Chicken-Licken. Sing me a song. Row-row-row your boat.
Yes, but tea, first. Warm the pot. There’s a dear. Best Co-op. None of your China-scented muck. None of your plastic. None of your floating. Down to earth, that’s it. Good, brown tea.
Brown scald sweet. Tell me a story. Jemima Puddleduck. Recite a rhyme. Mary had a little….. Row row row your space-boat.
Yes, son. Then, bed. Things will look different, in the morning.
Yes, things will look different in the morning. In the morning, I’ll…
Yes, in the morning, you’ll. Shall I turn off your light, my lamb?
No, I’ll do it.
Not dying, are you, son?
Me? No. Not me. Must be some other poor bugger.
No need for language, son.
No. No need for language.
It would have been incapable of speech, of course. Except of the most primitive kind. Functional. Single syllable.
Goodnight, son. Sweet dreams.
Tell me a story, Mum. Chicken-Licken.
The sky is falling down, son.
Yes. Right. The sky is falling down. Sing me to sleep, Mum.
Row, row, row your boat, son.
SITUATION IRREDEEMABLE
Yet the hand switched switches, pressed buttons, turned dials. Something to do. Hope is hope. Not dead, yet. Tenacious bastard, hope.
o-O-o