Poguemahone, p.34
Poguemahone, page 34
thinking to herself
what odd characters you met
in places like the Kilburn High Road
continuing on her way
past Kilburn Square
down to the end of Salusbury
Road
shouldering the back gate of
Brondesbury Gardens open.
& then who should she see, standing
on the landing by the upstairs
window, blowing a kiss
as she gave a little wave –
why, Sandie of course!
But not Sandie Shaw, sweet-voiced
chanter
of ‘Monsieur Dupont’
but the other one
yes, Sandie Greene, all the
way from Hull.
Who had arrived in London
been hoping to break into acting or dance
but had left suddenly, without
even bothering to say goodbye.
It’s been suggested
that the singer Sandie Shaw
was not unlike her contemporaries,
the actresses Rachel Roberts
& Rita Tushingham
who had featured in so many of
the early sixties
black-and-whites.
In the sense that what she
made you think of
more than anything
were those carefree out-of-town
beatniks to whom something happened
that always made them seem tragic.
Maybe getting pregnant at seventeen
and for the rest of her life acting
out her private, unspoken tragedy
– you could see it in her eyes
all the disappointment of girls
outside London, looking in.
Sandie Greene was a bit like that too,
thought Tanith.
But she really had been so fond of her,
her friend ‘the lonely girl from Hull’.
Becoming so excited now in her enthusiasm
to get back inside to talk to her friend
that she almost knocked over the caretaker
standing outside the tool shed,
furtive in his overalls.
‘Oops! I’m sorry, Mr Gordon!’ she apologised.
But Moody Alex didn’t answer.
Not that she’d expected him to.
No – just muttered something about
‘bikes being left unattended’.
But Tanith didn’t care about any of that
being far too exercised by
the prospect of chatting with Sandie
& hearing all the ‘goss’, as they
called it
in a somewhat uncharacteristically
really quite old-fashioned way.
‘Sandie!’ she called,
ascending the stairs
the half-flight first
leading towards the small landing
with its oval window
from which you could see
straight through into the
house next door
the exact equivalent of
landing and half-flight
scarcely three feet away
where Butley Henderson’s shadow
passed fleetingly
hello, she called, are you
up there, Sandie,
Sandie is that you
pausing to catch her breath
on the second flight
rather exhausted
when she could have sworn
she heard her name
just as Butley commenced his descent
on the exact equivalent of landing
and half-flight next door
as she released from her lungs
another delighted cry: Sandie!
propelling herself forward
& flinging the door of the
apartment open
only to find
– why, in actual fact,
nothing.
No,
nothing at all.
Because Sandie wasn’t there.
She searched the house from top to bottom
without success.
No sign of Sandie.
Working herself into an extremely agitated state
before, in the end,
persuading herself there was
only one thing for it,
& that was to call her number
the only one she had.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the voice on the
other end of the line
‘I’m sorry but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.
Sandie’s gone to America,
and has been for quite some time, in actual fact.
Who is this? Are you one of her London
friends – is that who you are?’
She decided it must be her mother,
replacing the receiver
& returning to the spot
where she just knew she’d seen Sandie.
And stood there for a while,
idly plying the toggle of the blind.
& it was just at that point
she heard it again
top o’ the morning to ye, ma’am
ah aye, top of the morning to ye, ya
wee bitch
only this time
to her surprise
finding herself
almost absurdly calm
as she made her way
towards the source of the
rustling noise
which appeared to be coming
from the direction of
the air vent
remaining there quite still as
gradually the sound increased
then, remaining quite composed,
sank to one knee
as she reached out to touch the
pleated white metal grid
but then, of a sudden, the
rustling noise stopped.
Outside someone was calling
across Queen’s Park
as she waited and waited
quite certain there would
be a recurrence
of the whispery-ish susurration
that made you
think about grasshoppers.
There wasn’t, however.
No, nothing at all until
much later on
she found herself awaking
in the quiet, small hours
& wondering how could it be
was there any explanation
she could find for the rustling
and, as well, for what was
happening now
something that might, in some
small way,
relieve her
by providing a reason
as to why a grey mist and the sound
of lapping water
should somehow appear
in the early hours
before her eyes
yes
in the pre-dawn
murk.
Gradually forming
in her mind
at first
so unthreatening
in its own way beautiful
like a rudimentary cut-out
from a shadow-play
child’s cartoon
at least
until the barge, for that’s what it was,
came gliding ever nearer
so close, eventually,
that you’d even fear for your life
until you were distracted by the sight
of three figures
all of whom were attired in black
like marble statues, one of whom
was veiled
& which provided her with a great
deal of relief, at least when the lace
covering was raised
because she knew she was recalling
a Winter scene from the Venice of
Don’t Look Now
& which was saying: so beautiful
until she realised that what
she was looking on was not the
face of Julie Christie
but that of her dear departed father
Adam ‘Addie’ Kaplinski
& that the funeral barge was
not carrying Donald Sutherland
laid out in black crepe
with orchids
but her
yes, none other
than Tanith Kaplinski herself
who now heard her estranged mother
moaning softly,
with bitter regret,
as a tugboat hooter sounded in
the distance
& she heard her mother sobbing
to no one other than the gulls
an abyss opens up between
you & your children
you may try to bridge it
but then you realise
it’s already too late
just as it was for the convulsing
figure that was Kaplinski
as she reached out now to
touch her mother’s hand
in recognition
& remorse
finding nothing
however
only vine-slender tendrils
of a mist already almost
entirely dispersed.
as her eyes slowly closed
& she saw herself and that
very same funeral party
standing in silence
around a grave in Willesden
Cemetery
as a priest with an Irish
accent read out her name
pronouncing it
incorrectly,
as Tanith wondered
just what on earth he was
doing there
for she wasn’t Catholic
or Irish or nothing
so, someone had to be arranging it
she thought
directing her there for the purpose
of their own private sport and amusement
there beneath the swathes of soft
North London rain
in what she knew because she
could feel it
had to be the future
when along came the incomprehensible
celebrant, muttering
with his muttonchop whiskers
seeming a double for Peter Wyngarde
if that could be imagined
his thin lips softly murmuring now
a song she remembered from o
so far away
from where she did not know
& which went:
o willy waly
beneath the weeping willow
and he giving the black-and-gold crucifix
a gentle little kiss
as he bowed his head and began,
now with a baffling, word-perfect
lucidity:
we are gathered here today
to say goodbye
to Tanith Kaplinski
& the summer in which she once lived
so please will you join me
in a decade of the holy rosary
& that was what they did
except that the words which they
uttered were different
as was the water that he shook
down over the coffin
and the man in the trench coat
like a silent-movie ghost
stepped forward to mumble a brief prayer
& even though he had no face
yes, even though under his trilby
you couldn’t make out any features
at all
she still knew it was her father
who whispered she could have been anything
you know
our Tannie
but lacked application, like her mother
so goodbye my love
& the Summer Of Love that could have
been
but never was
between you and I, I mean –
yes, say goodbye to Addie,
he said,
with the rusted gate creaking behind him
as he left,
the Irish priest concluding the service
as he stepped across the roll of fake grass
which the diggers now took charge of
with each of them gripping one corner
as they set to work
now confining her forever
to an eternal Summerless darkness
yes, the last day of Summer
thought Tanith as she drifted
galactically
down along a tunnel
of darkness
on what she knew
was now
the last day of Summer
now
&
forever
&
ever,
Amen.
The skylark
The skylark
The skylark
The skylark tends
to vary his combinations
composing, improvising
and on the simplest thread
achieving great art.
The skylark is, traditionally,
a symbol of frolic –
and I hope that
explains why my dear sister Una
has selected it for her
logo
in all her advertisements and
promotion for the forthcoming
Cliftonville Bay Capers
& which Butley Henderson misses no
opportunity to laugh at
saying what would you lot know
about drama you’d be better off with a
leprechaun cor blimey or maybe an old
shillelagh.
& which you expect to be echoed
by his partner in crime
Roystone Oames
who is rarely at a loss for something
smart-alec to say
you could always rely
on him to come up with something
but unfortunately, he doesn’t appear to
be here anymore.
I think, in fact, he may have died.
Gone off to visit,
David Bowie
maybe.
Anyhow, the skylark, as I was saying
traditionally in the Royal Navy the order
‘Hands to Dance The Skylark’ was made
if the captain deemed that the ship’s company
needed livening or cheering up
perhaps on an uneventful ocean passage.
& I have to say that on many occasions
&, yes, in spite of our many arguments
and differences of opinion,
that’s what my wonderful sister reminds me of
at least when she’s left to her own devices
& permitted to run the Capers
on her own
without any slanders or interference
from Butley Egghead.
I mean, you really ought to see her
at her best
with the other day her pretending
to be Irene Cara out of Flashdance
flinging away her walker and doing
the splits right there on the carpet
much to the amusement of Rutherford
at least for a while
What a feeling! she bleats
& there might have been a glitter ball
rotating splendiferously over her head.
I do miss Oamesy
though,
I really have to say –
because, unlike Butley
Polish-The-Noggin
Henderson,
he did at least
make some attempt to join in
& I think, to be honest,
was a much better musician
with his trademark rendering
of ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’
made famous by his hero Miles Davis
now almost shockingly absent.
But I guess that’s the way.
& the show, as Una always says,
it simply will have to go on without him.
Polish-The-Nog, of course,
he could do it if we asked
but, to tell the truth,
I just wouldn’t please him.
& if you ask what’s the nature
of the ongoing quarrel
well I think it ultimately
comes down to respect.
Because I have absolutely no
difficulty at all
with people, how shall I put it,
who disbelieve
even brazenly flaunt and give voice
to incredulousness.
But it’s a different thing entirely
when someone
with whom you’ve previously
got along fine
as I did with Butley
elects to scorn not only your race
but casts aspersions on the dignity
of your sibling
who walks like a donkey with its
hooves in a bucket
I overheard him muttering
one day in the kitchen,
behind her back.
Not that being slighted
is anything new to either her
or the Fogartys
as I said when I comforted
her
because she does, I’m afraid,
take these things bad
& always did
which is why I told her
to give as good as she got
& call him
Specky Four Eyes Dickhead
the next time she happened
to meet him
in the corridor or
wherever
& after that, then,
to spit in his face
not once
or twice
but three four
five
times
maybe even more
if she fancies
& to ask him then
how
does
he
like
that
yes
how
do
you
like
that
Mr
Henderson
a nice little
gallyogue
of saliva in your
eye
does that feel
good
yes, I hope
it does
I wonder
maybe
will
that now
soften
your
cough
a little
only when she did it
– phlupp! –
right into his phizzog,
what does that old Butley
do
start to cry & sob & sniffle
until Connie The Princess
hears him & comes over
what what what
& what happens then
Margaret Rutherford comes
rushing over
& has to pull our Una off him
& so earnest did old
Rutherford look
that I have to admit
I swear to God
I near broke in two
with all the laughing
