I’ll lose my three occasional visitors, me included, if I don’t update this today.
Christmas passed in a fairly incident-free way. We kept it Nuclear again, kept the usual rhythm of stockings before dawn, church, lunch afterwards (ham sandwiches pending turkey at around fiveish), and then got into some serious paper-ripping.
We dispensed with the traditional walk (truly traditional, much feared by the kids, but what I see as the Rasselass Requirement) – a few colds and proto-colds around enhanced the allure of the fire in the sitting room.
The afternoon passed, marked by the first few rounds of Simpsons Monopoly. P lost her crown as our very own von Hoogestraten. I took her advice, transferring out of free cashflow and into property, often at considerable risk, but I hit pay dirt – hotels on the browns did it.
First sherry at 5.14pm, GMT, and then into the final straight of feast preparations, featuring ham and grand marnier stuffing (inventor: E Curley), bread sauce, roasties, thothageth, bacon, cranberry sauce, brussells (or petits cabbages as they call them in East Dulwich), carrots, swede and famous extra thick gravy, much loved by I and J (inventors: L Thompson / A Hands).
After that depth charge, a bottle of fizzy and a bottle of Viognier, we retreated to the sitting room to watch Dr Who save the world from the Christmas Invasion. The new Dr took to his new skin in much the same manner as Jon Pertwee, much beloved of my seventies youth – he didn’t talk a great deal for the first bit, playing the ill card, I suspect partly out of concern that the Eccleston Lobby would rebel. He was also on ITV recently, playing a very convincing psychopath, so I suspect that he felt he had something of mountain to climb to enter the realm of our affections. I think he made a promising start and the Earth was duly saved from the monsters who had arrived mid-afternoon in mile-wide space ships that looked much like burnt Yorkshire puddings.
Whilst on the subject of uddings, the Christmas variety (creator: P) arrived during or just after Dr Who (the mind plays tricks after a few Viogniers) and was sheer pleshurrr, despite her concerns about the temperature.
After all that, the day became a bit ragged, not in a bad-tempered way, but in the way that a sustained episode of grotesque indulgence tends to quell the spirit somewhat, like one too many logs on a young fire. I can’t honestly recall what happened after that (partly due to one of my ever-popular sofasnoozes), other than to say that we came from the day with the sense, expressed first by P, that perhaps next year we might think about reinventing how we spend the day, perhaps to get a little closer to the broader peace and goodwill aspects of it. There was plenty of goodwill indoors (if not masses of peace), but maybe there’s a bit more to Christmas, whatever your position, than a quiet day in the suburbs, so we’ll see.
Anyway, to cool off after cooking over the coals I took a few minutes on the back steps before dinner. The air was cold and smelt clean and the clean branches of the trees etched against the blue-black sky looked like a million bare arms reaching upwards. Did more for me today than the 9.30, if I'm honest.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Christmas Eve is here...
Here's the view from the summit of Ben Fiver, looking northwest towards Skye this summer, so-named to guarantee a moan-free ascent by I (13) and J (10). It's all part the stringent physical regime in our house.
If by the second occurrence you’re able to refer to it as such, then we’ve just returned from our traditional Christmas Eve four-mile rampage, along Marshalswick Drive past the architectural grotesques (driveways and doorways are the new fake stone cladding), down to the local shops, left round the Ridgeway, up the snaking hill past J’s future school (where he now does breakdancing classes) and then a few lefts and rights to home.
The sun has been out all day, the suburbs, relatively free of cars, gleaming in the low buttery sunshine. Most people are out panic-buying or en route to Christmas encounters, love-ins stand-offs, escapes or rows. In fact the air smells clear and old as it will tomorrow when we all stay still (is it the stillest day of the year?).
So the rampage, or run to be more accurate, which last year was initiated to make it easier for us all to get to bed, is over, the endorphins are a-coursin’, we’ve had our ham sandwiches, the breadcrumbs are drying, the coal, logs and cat in. J is calling me to come and look at something he has unearthed from last year’s Christmas detritus – sounds like a laser blaster – and from the stairs I can hear Carols from King’s on Radio 4.
The weather is due to be clear and cold tomorrow. Snow is on its way from Moscow, we’re told, but it won’t reach us until Tuesday. The next door neighbours have driven back from Winchester to rescue their cat. Well, the bloke has returned in fact, on his own. We had to call them this morning to break the news (rather than break the window) that he had given us the wrong keys. So he had to sacrifice the better part of his Christmas Eve with his parents-in-law to drive home and let us in so that we could feed the cat. He seemed quietly phlegmatic about the 300 miles round trip.
Anyway, he’s gone now and we’ve given our kids permission to climb over the fence and hack into their holly bush for decoration for our pudding.
If by the second occurrence you’re able to refer to it as such, then we’ve just returned from our traditional Christmas Eve four-mile rampage, along Marshalswick Drive past the architectural grotesques (driveways and doorways are the new fake stone cladding), down to the local shops, left round the Ridgeway, up the snaking hill past J’s future school (where he now does breakdancing classes) and then a few lefts and rights to home.
The sun has been out all day, the suburbs, relatively free of cars, gleaming in the low buttery sunshine. Most people are out panic-buying or en route to Christmas encounters, love-ins stand-offs, escapes or rows. In fact the air smells clear and old as it will tomorrow when we all stay still (is it the stillest day of the year?).
So the rampage, or run to be more accurate, which last year was initiated to make it easier for us all to get to bed, is over, the endorphins are a-coursin’, we’ve had our ham sandwiches, the breadcrumbs are drying, the coal, logs and cat in. J is calling me to come and look at something he has unearthed from last year’s Christmas detritus – sounds like a laser blaster – and from the stairs I can hear Carols from King’s on Radio 4.
The weather is due to be clear and cold tomorrow. Snow is on its way from Moscow, we’re told, but it won’t reach us until Tuesday. The next door neighbours have driven back from Winchester to rescue their cat. Well, the bloke has returned in fact, on his own. We had to call them this morning to break the news (rather than break the window) that he had given us the wrong keys. So he had to sacrifice the better part of his Christmas Eve with his parents-in-law to drive home and let us in so that we could feed the cat. He seemed quietly phlegmatic about the 300 miles round trip.
Anyway, he’s gone now and we’ve given our kids permission to climb over the fence and hack into their holly bush for decoration for our pudding.
Friday, December 23, 2005
SCENE FROM 1995: THE HOME MOVIE
Short story
Here's a story by me. It's called 1921
Tommy Bolitho got buried the day he should have got married. He was due to marry my older sister, Gwen, but he didn’t get to it in the end. In fact, to be straight, he ought to have married her the day that he died down the pit - but at the last minute the wedding was put back by a week and he took the extra shift instead.
It was all to do with what happened to Gwen's dress, made by Tommy's mam. Tommy's mam, who made for all occasions.
Tommy almost had his hand on the shoulder of his morning suit when the word came through that the wedding was off. So he cwtched the suit back in the wardrobe in the front room of his mam’s house in Pritchard Street . Then he went to the drawer where his mam always put his washed dungarees and put them on instead.
I was down at the tram-road at the time, flapping, catching my wind and biding my time, fretting. I’d been up to no good.
There’s a way that mourners walk towards a fresh grave. It’s something like the way that magnets resist one another. Perhaps it’s their remorse, but maybe it’s also fear of the final pit. They never walk straight. There’s a swaying, delaying motion. We’d come across by Top Road, that sodden morning, under the weep of the trees on the hillside, like a sliding seam of black from Edwardsville. The mud was sucking the soles of our boots as we stood around the shallow shaft, sunk for the coffin in Quaker’s Yard.
A part of the plot was reserved for the men that died young. Back then it was half-full. It filled up in 1953 after the explosion in the Deep Navigation that killed eight men and three ponies.
He passed our house on the way to the colliery the day he died. He spent a few minutes with Gwen in the garden, calming her and telling her that one Saturday was as good as another and that he’d enjoy it all the more for the extra helping of anticipation. And yes, he could see that all should be perfect and how lucky they were to have the chance to shift it. He was a boy, such an optimist. Anything broke, he’d fix.
Tommy was killed in a slide a mile underground. Half of the seam he was cutting under came down on him, flattening him like a flower in a book. “He’d hardly have known, gal” the doctor told Gwen, later, with me cwtched in secret behind the Lumber Room settee. “Maybe just a rumble and that was it. Out like a light.”
After the burial, we all walked back to Mr and Mrs Bolitho’s house, slow as men with dusted lungs, for a cup of tea and a bit of cake. All the small circle that knew him were there. I remember Mrs Lewis Pembroke, Jones the Oil, the Thomases, Mr Lewis and Shinkin Miles the Bobby (who tended the graveyard for beer money). Miss Price, Mrs Bolitho’s feeble-minded sister with eyes like skyrockets, did the rounds with the sandwich tray, making the smallest of talk: “Nice now” (though it was raining). The cups chinked and the mantle clock ticked and the day that should have bloomed, withered.
Back home, later, Mam and Gwen retired early to share a bed. Dad sat in quiet rage by the whistling fire and I fiddled on the settee, wishing it could be different, wanting the silence to break. He got up now and then to pace a bit, to tinker, to exercise his tendency to fastidiousness. But once in a patch of contained fury he opened the face of the grandfather clock and wound the hands back hard until something snapped and they flopped down to the six like dead arms.
After a time, I feigned tiredness, though I knew it would be as elusive as a repair to this tear in our lives.
*********
Let me take you back. Let me fold the hours.
It starts with a chase. Like a pebble down a dry gully a boy careers down steep streets between grimy houses. He falls now and then, mostly without incident, but once he catches his already tatty trousers on a mud scrape by the side of the pit manager’s door no less and wrenches a long tear against the grain of the fabric. The tumble and tug threaten to disrobe him in front of the young girls attending to their Saturday errands but the force pulls through the strong seam on the cuff.
He’s up again in a flash, not a smile in him as he pushes off past the all the flowers and the bread and the flesh. His trousers are flapping now as he pelts, like a loose sail in a gale. He’s lost a moment or two in his stumble and the wind’s been partly knocked from him. He hears the loudening, clomping boots of his pursuers, knows that they’re too close by now to allow even a cursory glance over his shoulder.
His ears, after all, are built for hearing to the fore. Knows this, he does, from years on the mountains with his old man, mostly in the dark, draining the hills for sounds as he stalks his quarry. “Moth”, they call him, though perhaps it should be “the cup”, with ears like that. Moth, because he’s always dirty with dust and flapping into things he oughtn’t.
But now it’s tables turned and Moth’s running for his life, or most of it. Are those bumps he senses at the head of his back someone’s fingers? Thank God for his lice-short hair he thinks as he spies the sheep stop at the end of the road that will see him onto the flat land before the allotments and then the tram road and then perhaps, if needs be, the river. There’s no destination fixed in his mind. It’s just not here.
There’s time to think a bit on the straight, and he’s counting on his younger legs to see him through this. He makes out that there are three of them, all sounding as big as cliffs from the percussion of their boots, and he’s taking in their protests, black as death, and their snorts, like horses in the final furlong. They mean to kill him, he’s sure. All this in return for a small practical joke.
He prepares to hurdle, remembering the lie of the path beyond the looming gap. How many paces? Forty perhaps? It’s a long, straight run. But as he does, he sees the dog snout end of Jones the Milk’s van edging out of Tyn-y-banwen Road, like a liner out of port and the approaching black beetle of Mr Bolitho’s car, chattering up the road. It must be the only traffic jam in the whole of south Wales and it’s about to close his path.
He hears a joyful note in the yelps behind him, as though the hounds sense they have the fox cornered. The only way out will be audacity. Speed or youth won’t get him out of this. Or will they? He feels the weight of a hand on his shoulder, the fingers closing around his thin clavicle. He finds a burst.
Jones is out of his van that now fills the road, leaving Mr Bolitho to wait, jittering in his banger. These are the days when the roads run on the first come, first served principle. Jones has pulled the tarpaulin by to fetch an urn. Mr Bolitho, in turn, is out of his car and killing time with an impromptu visit to the Prices, to boast about the day ahead, to glow like coal about his son.
Jones’s back is now offering itself to the boy, his white coat tightly drawn around it, like a marvellous step. He finds another burst of speed and times his steps, one, two, and three with legendary perfection. His coal-blackened boot finds a perch and he flies onto the roof of the lorry, clangs in its middle and enters the unknown space beyond.
It’s full of Mr Bolitho’s car, and mercifully the rumble seat is free of the old man’s portly mother who he’s taken to ferrying to and fro, her waving from back there on high as though it’s a royal visit. So the rumble seat it is, though he’s aware that there’s a lot of gleamy white fabric tucked in there and he cringes as he realises that it’s the dress, fresh from Mrs Bolitho’s shop, all bright and puffy and ready for the wedding. Still, he has no choice and down comes the boot, as light as he can manage it, leaving a hallmark that even the best photographer won’t be able to avoid or the wildest bouquet conceal that afternoon. Then he’s away again, thankful for the springs in the car, offering just enough lift to see him to the path and safety.
Safety that is, bar the impermeable half glance at the unmistakable form sauntering up the hill on the right. In his lens he catches the shiny, earnest face of his Mam, who for one reason or another sees all but minds her own as the players draw up short. She doesn’t let on, ever, that the mark that’s made is his; even when she’s clear, later, that the consequences will ripple forever.
“Did you see him?” they cry to her, oblivious in the confusion to the black stamp. But she shrugs and tells them to get back to the chapel where they’re wanted. Jones is back in his van and up the road before Mr Bolitho, long in the talk and short in the pleasure, leaves the Prices to their peace, not noticing the boy’s Mam as he sets off to deliver the dress.
By now the boy’s cut a swathe through the Evans’s prize beans, like blunt scissors through cloth, then the Lewis’s cewcs and his own dad’s tomatoes before he dares a backward glance, but there’s no sign now of the human hounds. He’s wild with thanks in the now that he’s managed it, but it won’t be long before the cloud of repercussions looms. There’s no escaping things. This world has an edge and they’ll pursue him, those repercussions, to the end.
Tommy Bolitho got buried the day he should have got married. He was due to marry my older sister, Gwen, but he didn’t get to it in the end. In fact, to be straight, he ought to have married her the day that he died down the pit - but at the last minute the wedding was put back by a week and he took the extra shift instead.
It was all to do with what happened to Gwen's dress, made by Tommy's mam. Tommy's mam, who made for all occasions.
Tommy almost had his hand on the shoulder of his morning suit when the word came through that the wedding was off. So he cwtched the suit back in the wardrobe in the front room of his mam’s house in Pritchard Street . Then he went to the drawer where his mam always put his washed dungarees and put them on instead.
I was down at the tram-road at the time, flapping, catching my wind and biding my time, fretting. I’d been up to no good.
There’s a way that mourners walk towards a fresh grave. It’s something like the way that magnets resist one another. Perhaps it’s their remorse, but maybe it’s also fear of the final pit. They never walk straight. There’s a swaying, delaying motion. We’d come across by Top Road, that sodden morning, under the weep of the trees on the hillside, like a sliding seam of black from Edwardsville. The mud was sucking the soles of our boots as we stood around the shallow shaft, sunk for the coffin in Quaker’s Yard.
A part of the plot was reserved for the men that died young. Back then it was half-full. It filled up in 1953 after the explosion in the Deep Navigation that killed eight men and three ponies.
He passed our house on the way to the colliery the day he died. He spent a few minutes with Gwen in the garden, calming her and telling her that one Saturday was as good as another and that he’d enjoy it all the more for the extra helping of anticipation. And yes, he could see that all should be perfect and how lucky they were to have the chance to shift it. He was a boy, such an optimist. Anything broke, he’d fix.
Tommy was killed in a slide a mile underground. Half of the seam he was cutting under came down on him, flattening him like a flower in a book. “He’d hardly have known, gal” the doctor told Gwen, later, with me cwtched in secret behind the Lumber Room settee. “Maybe just a rumble and that was it. Out like a light.”
After the burial, we all walked back to Mr and Mrs Bolitho’s house, slow as men with dusted lungs, for a cup of tea and a bit of cake. All the small circle that knew him were there. I remember Mrs Lewis Pembroke, Jones the Oil, the Thomases, Mr Lewis and Shinkin Miles the Bobby (who tended the graveyard for beer money). Miss Price, Mrs Bolitho’s feeble-minded sister with eyes like skyrockets, did the rounds with the sandwich tray, making the smallest of talk: “Nice now” (though it was raining). The cups chinked and the mantle clock ticked and the day that should have bloomed, withered.
Back home, later, Mam and Gwen retired early to share a bed. Dad sat in quiet rage by the whistling fire and I fiddled on the settee, wishing it could be different, wanting the silence to break. He got up now and then to pace a bit, to tinker, to exercise his tendency to fastidiousness. But once in a patch of contained fury he opened the face of the grandfather clock and wound the hands back hard until something snapped and they flopped down to the six like dead arms.
After a time, I feigned tiredness, though I knew it would be as elusive as a repair to this tear in our lives.
*********
Let me take you back. Let me fold the hours.
It starts with a chase. Like a pebble down a dry gully a boy careers down steep streets between grimy houses. He falls now and then, mostly without incident, but once he catches his already tatty trousers on a mud scrape by the side of the pit manager’s door no less and wrenches a long tear against the grain of the fabric. The tumble and tug threaten to disrobe him in front of the young girls attending to their Saturday errands but the force pulls through the strong seam on the cuff.
He’s up again in a flash, not a smile in him as he pushes off past the all the flowers and the bread and the flesh. His trousers are flapping now as he pelts, like a loose sail in a gale. He’s lost a moment or two in his stumble and the wind’s been partly knocked from him. He hears the loudening, clomping boots of his pursuers, knows that they’re too close by now to allow even a cursory glance over his shoulder.
His ears, after all, are built for hearing to the fore. Knows this, he does, from years on the mountains with his old man, mostly in the dark, draining the hills for sounds as he stalks his quarry. “Moth”, they call him, though perhaps it should be “the cup”, with ears like that. Moth, because he’s always dirty with dust and flapping into things he oughtn’t.
But now it’s tables turned and Moth’s running for his life, or most of it. Are those bumps he senses at the head of his back someone’s fingers? Thank God for his lice-short hair he thinks as he spies the sheep stop at the end of the road that will see him onto the flat land before the allotments and then the tram road and then perhaps, if needs be, the river. There’s no destination fixed in his mind. It’s just not here.
There’s time to think a bit on the straight, and he’s counting on his younger legs to see him through this. He makes out that there are three of them, all sounding as big as cliffs from the percussion of their boots, and he’s taking in their protests, black as death, and their snorts, like horses in the final furlong. They mean to kill him, he’s sure. All this in return for a small practical joke.
He prepares to hurdle, remembering the lie of the path beyond the looming gap. How many paces? Forty perhaps? It’s a long, straight run. But as he does, he sees the dog snout end of Jones the Milk’s van edging out of Tyn-y-banwen Road, like a liner out of port and the approaching black beetle of Mr Bolitho’s car, chattering up the road. It must be the only traffic jam in the whole of south Wales and it’s about to close his path.
He hears a joyful note in the yelps behind him, as though the hounds sense they have the fox cornered. The only way out will be audacity. Speed or youth won’t get him out of this. Or will they? He feels the weight of a hand on his shoulder, the fingers closing around his thin clavicle. He finds a burst.
Jones is out of his van that now fills the road, leaving Mr Bolitho to wait, jittering in his banger. These are the days when the roads run on the first come, first served principle. Jones has pulled the tarpaulin by to fetch an urn. Mr Bolitho, in turn, is out of his car and killing time with an impromptu visit to the Prices, to boast about the day ahead, to glow like coal about his son.
Jones’s back is now offering itself to the boy, his white coat tightly drawn around it, like a marvellous step. He finds another burst of speed and times his steps, one, two, and three with legendary perfection. His coal-blackened boot finds a perch and he flies onto the roof of the lorry, clangs in its middle and enters the unknown space beyond.
It’s full of Mr Bolitho’s car, and mercifully the rumble seat is free of the old man’s portly mother who he’s taken to ferrying to and fro, her waving from back there on high as though it’s a royal visit. So the rumble seat it is, though he’s aware that there’s a lot of gleamy white fabric tucked in there and he cringes as he realises that it’s the dress, fresh from Mrs Bolitho’s shop, all bright and puffy and ready for the wedding. Still, he has no choice and down comes the boot, as light as he can manage it, leaving a hallmark that even the best photographer won’t be able to avoid or the wildest bouquet conceal that afternoon. Then he’s away again, thankful for the springs in the car, offering just enough lift to see him to the path and safety.
Safety that is, bar the impermeable half glance at the unmistakable form sauntering up the hill on the right. In his lens he catches the shiny, earnest face of his Mam, who for one reason or another sees all but minds her own as the players draw up short. She doesn’t let on, ever, that the mark that’s made is his; even when she’s clear, later, that the consequences will ripple forever.
“Did you see him?” they cry to her, oblivious in the confusion to the black stamp. But she shrugs and tells them to get back to the chapel where they’re wanted. Jones is back in his van and up the road before Mr Bolitho, long in the talk and short in the pleasure, leaves the Prices to their peace, not noticing the boy’s Mam as he sets off to deliver the dress.
By now the boy’s cut a swathe through the Evans’s prize beans, like blunt scissors through cloth, then the Lewis’s cewcs and his own dad’s tomatoes before he dares a backward glance, but there’s no sign now of the human hounds. He’s wild with thanks in the now that he’s managed it, but it won’t be long before the cloud of repercussions looms. There’s no escaping things. This world has an edge and they’ll pursue him, those repercussions, to the end.
Look, down on the sofa, it's Suburbman
Our hero finds himself in a wistful mood...
"It's a year, I'm sure, that will launch a thousand stories. For my part, a return visit to Terra Australis after an absence of 18 years, a fragmentary opportunity to reacquaint myself with old friends and see some jaw-dropping things. Daughter, I, becomes a teenager. Two weeks in the western Highlands. A new job (in a manner of speaking). The London bombings. The Buncefield fire. Strange non-sequitirial ring to it, that - like "The Morecombe and Wise Massacre" or "Gunfight at the OK Tearoom" or "London, New York, Croydon" or something. It's going to take a little while for me to ease into this, but I've resolved to do it, so let's give it a go."
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