Poguemahone, p.21
Poguemahone, page 21
toiling away at a canvas
effected in the familiar and now popular
style of Roger Dean
with a great big green pterodactyl
emerging from the top left-hand corner
with a wingspan so vast that it almost blocked out the sun.
but then, sad to say
found himself looking down
having been disturbed yet again
by who else only that great big dew-eyed
lump who went by the name of Una Fudgy
Wudgy Fudgy
gazing up abjectly
& and asking him all sorts of irritating questions.
What brushes are you using, what species of bird is that.
But that, if he had only bothered to give it some consideration, was
because there simply didn’t seem to be anything left inside of my
poor little innocent sister’s mind that she hadn’t already gone and
shared with ‘Mr Fixit’.
And whose face she was still dwelling on as she made her way northward that very same morning towards Middlesbrough,
where she would remain for a few days
with the contract cleaning firm she worked for.
For his part, Troy hadn’t bothered going into college – preferring to
lie there as a means of getting rid of his hangover and his somewhat
understandably fuzzed and fucked-up head.
He groaned and turned over, smiling as he thought of her
remarks – all those daft, incessant questions – so innocuous.
Instinctively, he found himself reaching under the pillow for his
smokes – before, suddenly, becoming privy to what, initially at
least, was a muffled and somewhat indistinct sound, albeit close by.
Before it gradually began to increase in volume – until, hilariously,
he realised what its actual source was – a bird, for heaven’s sake,
trapped underneath his discarded britches.
His precious blue Oxford bags – so admired by poor old Fudge.
And which he now shook out, before releasing the swallow – for
that’s what it was
from its fluttering captivity
out into the bright blue yonder,
through the open window of the bedroom.
As he sat on the edge of the bed, lighting up a joint
wondering, somewhat aimlessly, might it make a good subject for a song.
My little swallow
swallow can you fly
to freedom can you make your way. . .
Having decided it was a little
too much like ‘Blackbird’
by the Beatles
& Paul McCartney
being somewhat startled & taken aback
when he heard the sound of a knocking of some kind
which appeared to be coming from
behind the wardrobe door.
‘Who’s that?’ he called out, puzzled because
he wasn’t yet stoned. ‘Is that you, Una?’
How could it be, he snorted, shaking his head
because she would be halfway to Middlesbrough by
now.
Is that you, he repeated.
Una. . .?
It was still quite dark so he tried the light switch, but it
wouldn’t work.
I must fix that, said Mr Fixit.
Yes, I must remember to fix that, he repeated.
As he flung the door of the wardrobe open
only to find – he couldn’t believe it!
the tattered old remnant of:
an American baseball glove!
Where on earth could that have possibly
come from? he wondered
because he hadn’t remembered ever seeing it before.
Man, but it was funny – I really do have to admit
& say that.
As I stood there, looking over his shoulder
& felt like tapping him on the cheek once or
twice.
But nothing was funnier than him
acting as if he wasn’t perturbed
there were even tears in his eyes
for heaven’s sake
och, Troy, ye cod ye, he exclaimed aloud
ye’ll hae to ease up a wee bit on the ganj
as he reached down, lifting it up &
stroking its chapped and weathered leather,
acknowledging how much he liked
its shape, the suppleness
& the soft yielding texture of the worn brown fabric.
It was almost, in fact, as if he was back there
leafing through all the mags
in Mr McVittie’s imaginative wonderland
his tobacco-smelling fragrant emporium.
Mr McVittie’s Morningside shop.
Where he used to love reading the Valiant comic
especially The Steel Claw
which was where, he assumed,
his particular little ‘head-picture’
had come out of right this minute
so colourful and real, inside his mind.
O man, he repeated, this really is far out.
It’s way too much, he said, as he continued
to stroke the bashed calf-leather object in his hands.
Only to discover, upon momentarily looking
down that, in fact, it was no longer there!
With both hands open – but
bewilderingly, now containing nothing.
And that was when I made a little form
of identification
electing to warn him, as best I, civilly, could
that if he ever so much as laid a hand
on my sister again
or even went near her
that I’d. . .
well, I wasn’t in a position,
not as yet, to
tell him what.
But it was more than enough to make him blanch
and to do so severely, as a matter of fact
a whiter shade of pale
as he might indeed have put it himself
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, stepping forward into the
light, ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’
The Little Old Man Of The Barn, we’re called
sometimes.
‘I never do anticipate any form of understanding,
Troy,’ I explained.
Impressively, he wasn’t seen to flinch.
No, he didn’t flinch.
But that may have been because he was stone-cold
numb.
Ró-mhairbhiteach, as Nano would have put it.
To such an extent that even the slightest of
movements would, likely as not, have been
quite impossible.
Because there are just some things that even
wonderboys cannot fix.
Then, when he looked again, I was gone
& what did he see
lying there between his feet?
Yes, the baseball glove
the very exact same as he remembered
it, as a boy.
Back at the ranch here in Cliftonville
the very latest is
that Una my beloved
she has recently been considering
the inclusion of an excerpt
in her show
from a popular farce
current during the period
with which we are concerned
& entitled
if you happen to remember
around the ‘Troy’ time
No Sex Please, We’re British
& I’d suggested to her maybe
we, she, should consider Sexy Lexy
Gordon
for some role
seeing as he would be absolutely
perfect for the play
if we could find him
if he happens to be still alive
only what does she go and say to me then
looking right at me in naked contempt
& utter disgust
I thought I told you
I thought I told you
you effing fool
I’ve already allocated
that part to Mike Yarwood
& before I can say anything
by way of response
I look up & realise
that my sister
she’s already left
& is sitting over on
the window seat
beside the library
reading the exact same page of script
over & over & over again
as she dabs her eyes
crying out her poor little heart
it would help of course
if you knew what it was she
was weeping about
but most of the time
like a lot of folks
hereabouts in Cliftonville
in actual fact
she doesn’t.
Anyhow, no matter what she says
I do think I’m right
about Alex being her man
although I can see straight away
why she might not be interested
because that old Moody Lexy Gordon
he really could be an irascible and
contrary individual.
Although, from his point of view,
considering what he had to put up with
from ‘that crew’ over in Brondesbury
particularly the women
was it any wonder
any bloody wonder he would say
even down to phone calls in the middle of the night.
which was true.
regarding recent ‘disturbances’ of course
what else
most notably, in his case
from Joanne Kaplan
who, as he knew, like
The Duchess Tanith,
as he had christened her,
was no stranger to late-night parties
and as well as that was a hair-trigger
emotionally
with her open sandals and great big sweeping
floor-length dresses
give you the pip so she would
– always blathering out of her,
Alex thought, brag brag brag.
Nearly as bad as his commanding officer
in The Sigs,
during the time
he had spent in Aden
which was as close as the
King Of The Blitz
could get to a proper war
& whom he had taken his share
of shit from
& so hardly was going to allow himself
to be intimidated
by yet another overeducated middle-class
diva
some hippy dolly the likes of Miss Joanne
bleeding Kaplan
or any other would-be revolutionary dreamer
who happened to ‘crash’ in The Mahavishnu
bloody Temple.
He hadn’t been overly impressed by the manner
in which she’d decorated her apartment
either,
transforming, in the circumstances,
a perfectly well-appointed
room into something resembling an Indian
ashram.
Which he didn’t object to, really – remaining
mindful that times, as they always had been, were
changing, and that he would have to move along
with them.
But then why all the fuss when he had asked
her for not one single thing other than the
tiniest of little pecks on the cheek?
& o then, all of sudden
all this talk of sharing
& ‘hanging loose’
had suddenly & mysteriously
seemed to evaporate.
& Duchess Kaplinski – for all her dancing
around the flat in the nude,
she had turned to be the very exact blooming
same.
Especially that night before ‘it’ had
happened – when, directly after yet another
blistering argument with his wife Vonnie,
he had found himself summoned once more
from his bed in Northolt
across the city to No.45 Brondesbury
for the exact same reason as per
usual
& by the same urgent & agitated voice.
Whose owner had met him, ashen-faced,
in the hallway – standing there blurting out all
kinds of hopelessly unintelligible
rubbish.
Before racing on ahead of him and flinging the
door of her apartment open, breaking down in
tears as she once more appealed for help
with an even greater
vehemence.
However, just as before,
he could make little sense of what she
was saying,
or trying to.
What kind of sounds, he pressed her
exasperatedly
Furniture moving, she confided hoarsely
& what sounded like a table being knocked
over.
Or perhaps an armoire.
A-what? he said, but she had already moved
on – shifting from this spot to the next as she
shredded a Kleenex tissue in her hands.
O God, she stammered, o my fucking God,
covering her chest in the middle of it all
having caught him in the act
of enjoying the briefest, fleeting glance.
Christ Jesus, groaned Miss Kaplan.
Madam, thought the caretaker,
a prude for all her talk.
Just the very same as her
friend, Tanith Kaplinski
for hadn’t Alex Gordon
seen her himself
o yes, many times, through
the tiny fissure he’d discovered
quite by chance in the wall –
a cherry-sized aperture
one which had lit Miss Tanith
Kaplinski beautifully, whenever she’d
perform her private, solitary dance.
Attired in that swooshingly voluminous
orange-and-red dressing gown of hers
acting as if she was some
kind of extraordinary magic human bird.
Les Oiseaux Dans La Charmille, the
performance was called.
Cor, those bristols, Alex used to think
as he twitched in his hiding place
behind the wall
but none of that was in any way relevant now
as he sighed and
followed her friend, Joanne.
Wondering how on earth he could ever have
properly fancied her
or even bothered to ask her for a peck.
Much less give her one.
I heard the sound of laughter, Joanne said.
Yes, the sound of laughter – I heard it, after the
noise.
I see, said Alex.
Assuring her that he’d look into it.
Something else – like the sound of a drum, she
stammered.
The sound of a drum? the caretaker said.
Like a beating drum sounding – that’s what I
heard.
A tom-tom.
A tom-tom, uh-huh, he repeated
writing it down.
Before repeating once more:
I’ll definitely look into it.
And, at the time, had definitely meant it.
But whether he had or not, what with the marital
troubles he and his spouse of twenty-five years,
Vonnie, had been experiencing, he didn’t get around to
doing anything in the end.
Not that it really mattered, considering that only a brief two days later, he was on the receiving end of another nocturnal telephone call – but with a convincing note of urgency about it this time, from one of the layabouts, a longhaired Scottish artist who rarely saw water
wouldn’t have known it
if you’d upended the twat in a barrel of it.
You’ve got to come over, Troy McClory urged.
So Alex Gordon called a taxi and succeeded in arriving in
less than three-quarters of an hour.
Paying the cabbie, he looked at his watch and saw that it was approaching six thirty-two a.m.
On the cobblestones of the courtyard, he could make out the
shape of a body covered over by a sheet.
It was Tanith.
A knot of spectators stood huddled above her – gazing
upwards to the open upstairs window, where a light gauze
curtain was billowing outwards.
And it was then, for the first time, really, that Alex Gordon realised how damp his forehead actually was.
Before finally, with the deepest reluctance, raising his head to
once more appraise the wide-open window
only now noticing the outline of her form, imprinted on the
shattered glass portico through which she’d fallen – in what
was soon to be established as a suicide.
Not that,
& I am very keen to
point this out
this is in any way
to suggest,
his appetites & weaknesses
notwithstanding,
that
moody Alex Gordon
was in any way
to blame for what happened
at least
not
entirely
even if there
can be no denying
that when Tanith &
Joanne
got together to practise
their movements
(often as not in the nude)
rehearsals which were
dominated by spare piano arrangements
– with Tanith’s pianoforte excellence
being admirably complemented by
her friend’s warm & languid voice
Les Oiseaux Dans La Charmaille –
Mr Alex Gordon was always to be found
loitering nearby
watching
breathing
sometimes behind the
skirting
observing through his
spyhole
in livid tumescence
so, obviously, being
ladies
& possessed
of certain instincts
regarding such things
his behaviour was not
without some degree
of significance
Even if nothing
had ever been proved
ah yes
it’s sad thinking back on it
her poor young body
lying there in the rain
of early morning
