Poguemahone, p.27
Poguemahone, page 27
enjoying a full plastic beaker
of tangy
Kia-
Ora
juice,
which was nice.
As he tried not to think about Yvonne and what her
parting words had been that morning
Alex I’m sorry, but we really have to talk.
A heart-to-heart, you know?
Because it really has – it’s gone on too long.
Then the Pearl & Dean concerto
came starbursting onto the screen.
And a whole new feature began to unfold.
With hands being flexed inside of shiny black gauntlet-
style leather gloves – as a beautiful college student in a
flimsy pink negligee came running across the
glistening cobbles of a courtyard, trying to scream but
not being able.
With skin so fresh and fair it might have been that of
the biggest pink doll.
Yes, a large smooth babogue.
Then on the soundtrack you could hear
the hoarse wheeze of the killer drawing
his breath.
Or so the former signalman thought.
But you couldn’t.
It wasn’t.
Because it was he.
He, yes, he.
Corporal ‘Sexy Lexy’ Alex Gordon himself.
Dutiful caretaker of Brondesbury Gardens.
Yes, Brondesbury Gardens, No.45.
And who, with those great big triangular sideburns to
which he was partial, might have been mistaken for an
extremely popular cabaret entertainer, Engelbert
Humperdinck.
Which was, perhaps, what made him think of a
light going on – only to find his wife, not an audience
looking up at him centre-stage – but standing there
quaking in the bright sudden blaze of their bedroom,
shaking a tattered and creased magazine.
‘Come Play With Me’ read the caption on the front.
What’s this? she asked, who’s this Mary Millington?
Come *choke* Play With Me, was the feeble response
offered by her shamefaced husband.
Do you realise – I *choke* mean do you realise –
that inside of this disgusting publication – inside here
there is a picture of me
how could my photograph possibly have got in it,
she demanded
even if she was only wearing a bikini
a degraded image from long ago.
From a weekend she’d spent
with him in Brighton
how could that be, she wondered
how could Yvonne ‘Vonnie’
Gordon have succeeded in getting herself into
Playmates?
It wasn’t me, her husband choked.
He hadn’t put it there, he insisted.
He really hadn’t.
He really
&
truly hadn’t,
he sobbed repeatedly
the one and only star of
Confessions Of A Lonely Caretaker
Alex Gordon.
I really
&
truly didn’t
so help me
he stuttered
someone, I swear,
is interfering with things
endeavouring to destroy
us
so help me God
so help me God
my good Christ
he repeated
before, at that very moment,
sitting there in the back row
of the theatre
he couldn’t seem to bear it
anymore
flinging himself
blindly into the rain
towards a bar filled with
grimy Paddies in moleskin trousers
& donkey jackets –
where, feeling so trapped
&
miserable
&
downcast
he
didn’t
even
seem
to
notice
that the tune that he’d been
whistling
in a vain attempt
at trying to seem
nonchalant
that it was, in fact,
an Irish jig
which was why all the patrons
appeared to be greeting
his presence with approval.
With that being, of course,
a longstanding habit of the
former Sigs corporal
the very same as Donald Trump, in fact
pursing his lips in the shape
of a gooseberry
& permitting
a little line of notes to go wavering
& wafting away off
wherever they
might take the notion
Yes, Alex ‘Sexy’ Gordon
the whistling birdie-man
The londubh
The blackbird
the fáinleog
or the swallow
absent-mindedly
sweeping up leaves
ti-ti-pu-ti-ti-pu
tootle tootly
whistling away
Except not anymore.
You see, craythurs,
for some time after a relative calm
had reasserted itself within the confines of
The Mahavishnu Temple
in the aftermath of the poor Duchess’s demise
Sexy Lexy Gordon had persisted with his habit
of being ag feadógach
that is, of course,
whistling
while in the course of sweeping up more
leaves in the garden
or clattering with a sweeping brush
in and out of the banisters along the stairs.
Where, through the landing window,
you could look out directly onto the courtyard
where the unfortunate act of
self-defenestration
had occurred.
And across which, every morning without fail
at least up until now
that self-same caretaker
in his petrol-blue overalls
could be viewed pedalling
along, insouciantly, on his bicycle
with his little fold-up ladder tied to the crossbar.
And who always seemed to be in good humour
whistling & trilling along
to a song by, perhaps,
Max Bygraves or The Beatles
Max, in fact, being one of
his favourites
with that happy-go-lucky cheeky chappy
way he had
& which, up until now,
Alex Gordon would often do his
best to emulate.
There could be no mistaking that upbeat
sprightly singalong manner that he had.
At least, as I say, up until now.
As a certain Troy McClory
was to discover one particularly grim
and extremely wet Wednesday afternoon
when all his lectures were finished for the day
& he’d arrived home, breezing through the
door in his Afghan coat
with him actually whistling too
as up he came, bounding along the stairs
taking them one two three at a time
& finding himself being quite taken aback
when he made his sudden discovery on the landing.
It was as if the caretaker had been lying in wait.
Yes, that was definitely how it had appeared
with that thin, ungenerous expression
seeming not a little vindictive, as he remained
there in silence
on the landing
holding a brush.
‘Come here you!’ Troy heard him say,
‘What have I ever done to you?’
to which the student pronounced himself
‘really quite flummoxed’
as the caretaker reacted by literally shouting into
McClory’s face.
‘Don’t you give me all that!’ he snapped,
‘Because I’m well aware – don’t think, my friend! Don’t
think for a second I’m not aware! So come with me!’
Subsequent to which, & somewhat to his
amazement, Troy McClory found himself kneeling
alongside Alex Gordon
as the wheezing ex-serviceman
ferreted away furiously
with his oil-covered hands working like pincers
poking relentlessly underneath the fleecy layers
of dust surrounding the small hole in the wall of
the apartment.
The student could just about make out the tiny object
inside.
‘Wait a minute!’ the caretaker demanded sourly.
Still scowling as he returned,
armed with a pencil
which he used to pry out the concealed wad of
cotton.
‘Why did you do it?’ the student heard him cry. ‘What
have I ever done? All I ever do is try and make things
better. I do my job, that’s all I do. Yes, I clean the
windows, occasionally mend pipes or fix the
heating. Now this, you hear? How did this get
here? Don’t you know I’ve been searching for it for
weeks?’
With the object in question turning out, in fact,
to be his wedding ring.
‘I thought I’d lost it somewhere in town,’ he went on
to explain, ‘maybe in the cinema. I was petrified when I
realised it had disappeared. But then what happens – it
turns up in here! What’s going on? Is there a plot to destroy
me in this house?’
Then he confided in the student that in a moment of
madness he had done a terrible thing. ‘You know the
Irish girl Una, Miss Pasty-Face with the
freckles? The awkward overweight one that comes and goes
at all hours, I think she maybe works as a chambermaid
or something?’
‘A contract cleaner,’ Troy corrected, ‘she’s with an
agency – they give her work.’
‘Contract cleaner,’ sighed Alex
absent-mindedly. ‘Yes, well that’s her – the one I know
that you sometimes laugh at, calling her
Fudge. Well, I gave her one, you see – one week she
was here on her own. Said she wasn’t going to be able
to pay her rent, so I helped her out.
It was just a one-off, mate, that was all it was. In the
services, pal, we’d have thought nothing of it.’
At that point he looked like he
was about to whoop or cry or bawl.
Or do something far more irrational – like turn around and
just jump straight through the window, landing in the
courtyard.
But Alex Gordon didn’t – just sat there morosely, on one end
of the bed, turning the gold wedding band between his
fingers.
‘She was the loveliest, kindest, sweetest woman you ever
seen, my Yvonne,’ he wailed, ‘and now she looks at me like
I’m nothing but a piece of dirt. Like the lowliest creature that
ever walked the earth. How has this happened? I mean, as a
general rule, like the next man, I don’t mind a bit of blue, I
mean, I’ll watch whatever’s on BBC2 late at night. But this?
Have you had anything to do with it – was it you that gave
Playmates my personal details?’
‘No,’ replied Troy, not knowing what the man was talking
about.
As the caretaker groaned and leaned directly over
straining himself, pitiably, in an effort to produce any kind of
sound – something that might, however tenuously, resemble a
casual whistle.
But nothing emerged.
Before he slunk off, broken.
So wasn’t that a queer old turn-up for the
books?
I’d be inclined myself to say that it was.
But if that was the case, it was nothing
to the burden
Troy McClory found himself
bearing
the very next day when he received the
letter he’d been waiting for, in the post.
And which informed him, bluntly: I
regret to say this but you’ve failed
all of your exams.
Every one, in actual fact.
He had looked like death when he left
down the envelope.
Both Iris and Joanne had extended their
sympathy.
With Joanne by the window
quietly disrobing while trying not to think anymore about it –
as her turtleneck sweater fell to the floor and she emitted a
little groan, unbuckling the belt of her brown suede skirt.
How neat and well-cut was that fashionable, feather-cut
hairstyle.
She removed her octagonal glasses and smiled – gently
stroking the small of Iris Montgomery’s soft white back.
Miss Carew wasn’t chubby – o yes, that much we have
established.
In fact, she boasted a rather shapely figure.
Was rather attractive, indeed – even if on this occasion she
was attired in a somewhat shabby knitted pullover and jeans,
as if she had just come in from weeding the garden.
But which she most certainly wasn’t doing now, indeed even
giggling a little, but when who appeaed in the doorway of the
bedroom, only His Majesty Mr Troy McClory,
gripping the base of his bud as he tumbled
in on top of them
yes, alongside the two sicíní in the leaba
doing his best to forget his failures
and ease the pain of his confused
& somewhat disordered mind
because it’s not every day your whole
world comes crashing down
& you emerge as no genius
no, not one at all
in fact, an abject failure
who didn’t even secure one pass
as he laughed
& laughed
pretending not to care
before plunging his livid
bata deep inside of Iris Montgomery.
Christ, girl, that was great, they
heard him moan.
That old mickey-jump-jubbly.
For there’s nothing to compare with being ‘ag marcaíocht’.
And then going – phléasc! – exploding inside of a warm
waiting colleen.
‘O, chomh hálainn ata se, macushla dílis
deas!’ moaned Troy,
however he had managed that
like those
unsolicited voices
from before
and which meant:
‘O how I love this motherfucking fucking!’
as he bounced up and down,
shedding literally gallons of sweat.
As, somewhere not so very far away
that great big tub of lard that they
called Fudge
yes, Fudge Fogarty she
chewed on the sheets
as she listened through the wall
to absolutely every single thing
that was going on –
pretty much
devastated, really.
Yes, more or less briste,
it would have to be said.
A destroyed mess of emotional jelly.
Like a bundle of old sticks that you’d
throw on the fire.
Before hearing Troy
strumming his trademark
Sandy Denny ballads: ‘Who Knows Where The Time
Goes?’
as Una imagined them kissing him all over.
Especially his bud.
That, in particular,
splintered her heart.
With her tearing, in the end,
her treasured little mawla bag to pieces
out of frustration.
Yes – believe it or not
her precious mawla bag
that she treasured why nearly
as much as her Lourdes
miraculous medal
& which, if I didn’t happen to tell
you about, at least kind of proper,
well then – I will now.
Because Fudge, do you see – Fudge or
no Fudge
at the end of the day Troy McClory
he wasn’t the only one
who was good
at telling a story
& maybe even not the best
as he might think
for, glory be, & if it didn’t come as
quite a surprise
when he discovered, yes found himself
considerably taken aback in his tracks when this
particular day it became apparent
that, given the fairest of
circumstances
one might say
an even playing field
that a certain Miss Una McCloona
like all of us Fogartys,
i ndeireadh na dála
at the end of the day
there was no one who could match her
when it came to relating a little
fireside yarn
or
tale
or
schkale
what with it being,
I suppose,
bred in her blood
and every single one of those Fogarty
bones.
Especially when she unlaced
her embroidered bag
yes, popped it right open
that little wee bag of memories.
No wonder Troy was mesmerised.
By the Fogarty magic, o yes ha ha.
As out they came waltzing
performing figure eights
of blissful recollection
all around the room
where the lovers lay together
underneath posters of the
San Francisco scene
Ralph Bakshi’s Fritz The Cat
Easy Rider
&
The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown.
Arthur who sang, in his hat
made from tongues of flame
insisting he was a god
but he wasn’t no was he
because that was just about as far as
you could get from the blissful state
in which Troy and Una found themselves
now
in Una Fogarty’s Mawla Bag
Of Wonderland Imaginings
