Wednesday, March 09, 2016

In the Place of Miracles

Here is Richard Finch: a bony Englishman, forty-five years old, in earth-tone slacks made out of some kind of stretchy fabric and a polo shirt from Marks and Spencer, hunched over a pushchair amongst the white marble miracles of Pisa, birthplace of his second wife. Their child, almost two now, is curled asleep in the pushchair, sucking at the fleecy ear of a toy rabbit. She has never been allowed a dummy. Finch checks his watch every thirty seconds and his wife, clearly annoyed, tells him they have plenty of time. Her attitude may well be all que sera sera, he thinks, but he likes to get to the airport early, to be at the front of the inevitable queue, and they still have to retrieve the suitcases from her mother's, which is not exactly between their current position and the airport, and she almost certainly hasn't taken into account how protracted the leavetaking is likely to be, particularly now the long-awaited grandchild has to be said goodbye to as well, and all the snuggling and tears and promises of an almost immediate return entered into, and the fact that there is probably going to be rush hour traffic, yes even here, where no-one rushes to do anything at all. He twiddles his fingers on the crossbar of the buggy, to stop himself looking at his watch but also as a subtle yet unmistakeable indication of his ongoing impatience.

Mrs Finch - smaller, slightly younger, and possessed of a honey-eyed, aquiline beauty which makes Finch the envy of his friends and colleagues - is altogether more relaxed. She walks alongside her husband and child smiling at the folly of the tourists, duelling with selfie sticks to position themselves at a position of greatest advantage for the same photo that everyone takes when they come to this small corner of the country she left behind. Nice to see the place anew, she thinks, through his eyes. And when Isabella is a little older, through her eyes too.

“Don't they drive you mad?”
“Why should they? Everyone is behaving very well.”

This is true, more or less, Finch thinks. No-one is actually throwing punches, but it's a scene, nevertheless. It was her idea, this. To have a leisurely lunch and wander down to marvel at i turisti, marvelling at the marvels. All good fun, but they're now half an hour behind the schedule he had outlined in his head. Perhaps he should have told her about this earlier.

“Laura,” he begins. His wife raises a hand. Across an angle of lush grass, perhaps fifty or sixty yards away, a crowd has gathered, and a woman can be heard shrieking. Finch can't see what is going on, exactly. His glasses are at at home on the narrow table in the hallway. Laura takes his arm. “Do something,” she says. He checks his watch again, finding himself somehow helpless, through no fault of his own. They're not even supposed to still be here, according to his own, silent reckoning. She is pushing him now, towards the fracas, away from the airport. He steps over the low swag of black chain and starts to jog across the grass, his gait long yet inefficient, like an old, lame wolf. The scene before him sharpens into a kind of sense. A Japanese couple and their son, all in matching golf visors, the father, with some expensive looking camera equipment slung over his back as he kneels behind the boy, who is three or four years old, and whose face is the livid purple of a drunk's cheek. The man has his arms around the boy and is snatching them upwards in an effort, Finch assumes, to dislodge something in his airway. Trachea, is it? The kid is flopping around noiselessly like a dead thing.

The crowd see the tall Englishman coming and back away in expectation so that when he arrives dozens of pairs of eyes settle upon him. The mother is still screaming and shaking. This response does not seem disproportionate to the situation, Finch acknowledges, which does appear to be rather grave, but he is surprised by it nevertheless, perhaps, he considers, because of the woman's nationality, and the Japanese reputation for calm stoicism. He stands there for a moment, panting slightly, and remarks to himself that the reason that we have a word for stereotypes is probably something to do with their unreliability, otherwise there would be no need to discriminate between generalisations of this kind and actual fact. The noise the woman is making, whatever his feelings about it, isn't helpful, so he puts a hand on her shoulder and flaps his other hand up and down, as if testing the buoyancy of a hotel pillow, in an effort to calm her down. The father, who seems to be conforming wholeheartedly to Finch's possibly somewhat bigoted expectations looks up at him and says “Medico?” Finch shakes his head and points towards the squat mediaeval gateway to the piazza through which he and his own family had entered minutes earlier and beyond which are visible the chequered markings of an emergency vehicle. “No, ambulancia,” he says, complete with a bad Spanish accent. “Ambulanza.” He looks into the eyes of the father and realises that the man's implacable exterior is a lie, white marble over brickwork, and that he is as panicked as his wife, still moaning to Finch's left, but at a manageable volume.

He reaches out to the child and puts two long hands under the boy's armpits. The kid has the surprising density of the unconscious, and Finch lets the small body flop onto his shoulder as he turns to run towards the gate. As he does so a small, sand-coloured object, wet with the boy's spit and phlegm, flies out of the kid's mouth, marking a gentle, curved descent before nestling atop the impossibly green grass. Almost immediately the boy comes to and starts to cough and cry. Finch has only taken five paces. He stops and with considerable care lowers the kid, lighter now by a more than the mass of a half-eaten rice cake, down onto the lawn. The father gathers his son into an embrace shuddered by sobbing. People are taking pictures or applauding. The boy's mother is thanking Finch, over and over again and pulling at the Englishman's sleeve, which is annoying, because all he wants to do is check the time, though he knows that the reward that awaits him is a missed flight, or at the very best a long, snaking queue at the airport, and him at the back of it.  

Monday, December 29, 2014


Along the Embankment in a white Transit knees knocking like marbles sun on the water flashing low H with the Star shielding his eyes can't see my mirror put it down man before you get us all kill dead blood in the gutter blood. 40 Mayfair on the dash The Autobiography of Malcolm X fading neath the windscreen droll old black men and me libertarian types doing removals. Not so old physically active older than they look but with the stoop of the weight of what they are and what they have lifted eyes rheumy from the low bright sun and marijuana don't defer to no-one least of all me drinking Lucozade for energy. Salt marks on my shirt Royal Hospital Fulham Road High Street Ken shit crashin around in the back motorcyclist death wish he an organ donor. This is work because things have to be moved arranged with great care 3D jigsaw puzzle get it all in save a trip then a speed bump and the sound of violent sundering behind our heads only me sweating and knowing the names of things free through an accident of parentage of second generation West Indian vagueness about facts and details. Overladen the Transit in stately transit up Campden Hill Road need a Sherpa for this. Unloading, stopping. Almost done. This is work slowing now as the sun and the effort wear on the bodies of lean-armed almost down stone steps backwards one foot arm in Idi Amin lean-armed wear on the bodies of lean-armed black-skinned men. Slow. Cigarette. Breathe now. Back in the van.

Monday, October 06, 2014

Tell It Again (Chapters I and II)


There was a time, which seems distant but really was not so very long ago, when very few people lived in cities. Back then people lived in small villages or in solitary houses a long way from anywhere. We tend to think of olden times as being more friendly and more simple but really people went to great lengths to keep out of each other's way. Take, for instance, the family who are at the heart of the story I am about to tell. The father, well, he was either dead or working abroad for the king, depending on who you listened to. The grandmother was so keen to avoid the rest of her family that she had installed herself in a remote cottage in the middle of a forest which was populated by rowdy woodcutters and crafty, talking wolves. The mother, meanwhile, thought so little of her only child that she was willing to send her off into this parlous labyrinth of trees unaccompanied, and dressed in bright clothing which was bound to draw the attention of any ill-intentioned passer-by. The little girl? It seems that she was a simple, beautiful soul, rather as we imagine little girls to be in stories like this. So that's a relief.

She was, like small people are to this day, prone to fads. Her mother, in a rare fit of affection, had sewn her daughter a bright red cape with a hood, and the girl wore it all the time. The villagers thereabouts called the girl “Little Red Riding Hood”, because it was remarkable that she always had the same garment on, and because they couldn't be bothered to remember her real name; they had problems of their own, after all, what with blighted crops and talking wolves and suchlike.

One day, Little Red Riding Hood's mother (a name she resented, she was a person after all, with an identity of her own) learned from a passing tinker that the girl's grandmother was ill. She had some leftover cakes and a small pat of butter that needed using up, which she wrapped hastily, and put in a small basket. “Little Red Riding Hood,” she called into the garden, “Take these things at once to your grandmother in the forest!” The little girl, delighted that her mother had embraced the nickname theretofore used only by the faceless populace of the village, skipped to the kitchen step, collected the basket and set out on her way. Her mother readied herself for a trip into the village, to do some leisurely shopping, and to perhaps get her hair done. She saw the floating crimson form of the child's riding hood dwindle out of sight amongst the long grass at the forest's edge. Then it disappeared altogether into the darkness of the wood. “Mmm,” the mother thought. “What's the worst that can befall her?”


It took a while for the small girl's eyes to adjust to the light beneath the forest's canopy. As soon as she had finished squinting she saw a large, low figure approach. A wolf it was, wearing a pair of small round spectacles and a yellow waistcoat which was a little loose, where he was hungry. He was otherwise dressed much as you would expect a wolf to be. He stopped a few feet from the girl, sat up on his hind legs and spoke.
“Good morning, delicious child. Where are you off to?”
“Good morning, sir,” said Little Red Riding Hood, politely. “I am going to see my grandmother a short distance hence. She has been unwell and I am taking her victuals which I hope will restore her health.” The wolf eyed her quizzically, not least because of the child's diction, which seemed rather old-fashioned, even in those days.
“Okay,” said the wolf. “I won't keep you, but I would advise, since you've gone to the trouble of entering this here forest, that you take time to admire the beautiful wild flowers that lie just off the quickest path between here and your Granny's house.”
“Oh, do you know whereabouts my grandmother's house lies?” The wolf thought for a moment. He wondered if the girl was perhaps not as na├»ve as she appeared. His avid yellow eyes looked into hers, which were blue and trusting. The situation was developing. His initial ruse was simply to get the girl out of earshot of a crowd of unruly woodcutters who were chopping things, wood presumably, in a nearby clearing. Now he saw that his plan might be easily adapted into an eat-one-get-one-free opportunity. He was tremendously hungry.
“Remind me?”
“It's half a league from here, as the crow flies, due west. A compact, picturesque rustic-style property with its own mature nuttery.”
“Made of gingerbread?”
“Made of bricks,” said the little girl, firmly.
“Right you are,” said the wolf. “I'll let you be on your way, don't want to keep the old girl waiting. Don't forget to smell the flowers, and maybe pick some. They're gorgeous.” And with that he fell gracefully onto his forepaws and trotted off westwards.

The forest was indeed full of beautiful flowers, most of whose names her grandmother knew or had invented. The dew wort, the badger lily, the philanderus. In places the sunlight pierced the the leaves overhead in narrow beams, illuminating small patches of the forest floor, and revealing every small thing in the air above. Little Red Riding Hood lost herself in the splendour of the moment, of the then and there. She quite forgot about her mother and her grandmother and the wolf and her poor father, either lost or dead or in France or somewhere even more horrendous. She pulled her hood down and danced to the music of the forest, which was mostly just crickets.  

Sunday, December 08, 2013

Mandela and Me

The plan, I imagine, was for a night in town, but we never made it that far.  We stopped into the Thresher at the bottom of the hill and Mass bought a packet of More (not the Menthol ones) and then we went over the road to The Rose of Mossley, and drank dark mild, which, at 75p a pint, was not significantly more expensive than the Carnatic bar.  The bar was closed for the Valentine's Ball.  My girlfriend at the time, a psychology student at the Queen's College, Oxford, could not be persuaded to attend.  If I even invited her. Massimo was terminally single, and neither of us had the cash to buy a ticket.  We had a few and walked up the hill picking at chips and gravy, steaming in the February air. Noise came from inside the main building. Posh kids having fun.

We crashed a lot of balls that summer, travelling as far as Leeds in order to do so.  On one occasion Mass was completely without formal clothing, but managed to acquire a long black cape from somewhere, which he wore over his reeking jeans.  This was the first such undertaking.  Security lapsed after eleven o' clock, and we slid in.

I think of my first spell at university as a time of immense and concentrated egoism, I suppose everyone does.  I didn't have much time for politics, though I did march against student loans and poll tax in Glasgow, because I wanted a look at the place again, and there was a girl I liked who was going.  I disliked Thatcher and wanted her out, if only because she was all I could remember.  A limited horizon behind me.  I deplored the fact that there existed, in my lifetime, in my present moment, the idea and practice of Apartheid.  I didn't eat their apples.  I disliked the accent.  I knew who Nelson Mandela and Steve Biko were, but I didn't have a poster up.

The DJ played this song:

And I pogoed up and down for three minutes or so along with everyone else.  I was wearing Doctor Steve's dinner suit, which was a little long in the arms, I remember.  Then the music stopped.  The DJ, who was at least as drunk as everyone else shouted "(unintelligible) FREE...!!!  NELSON MANDELA IS FREE!!!" We were all very pleased, of course, even the posh kids, and we shouted and swore.  Then the DJ played this song:

And we fell about the place in a boozy hopeful rapture.

South Africa remains a troubled and divided nation, from what I can tell, but this moment was one of very few from my youth which history has been unable to tone.  Its lustre is undimmed and its promise consummated, all because of one man. When one apparently impossible thing is achieved it tends to make us believe that other impossible ends might be reached, and maybe distant notions of a fairer world aren't so impractical.  Hope persists.  Nelson Mandela is free.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

At Heathrow

When I was a kid, he tells her, fourteen, younger probably I suddenly became conscious of what my face looked like. What? she says. He laughs at himself, What I mean is, look obviously I'd stand in front of the mirror when I was brushing my teeth, and I'd seen photos of myself but I never really disassociated, until that point, the me that I thought about, from the me in the mirror. So I'd stare hard into the mirror, maybe it was when I started to shave, with my face covered with ludicrous amounts of foam, like a skinny Santa, so just my eyes were visible and I'd stare deep into my eyes until there was nothing there I recognised as me, or even as something human. If you stare at a word long enough its meaning dissolves and I was trying the same thing. Maybe.

Sometimes people see her on the tube and then recognise her later and they give her a look which says, Well, how interesting that we ended up in the same place! But of course they're flying onwards and she's still here and she'll get the same tube back from the airport.

A blur cannot be accepted or understood as what it is. Slowing into the platform other passengers, scarce at this hour, try to read posters or pick out faces. Flickering eyes you never see elsewhere. The train emerges into a blueblack dawn at Barons Court, westering over flatlands, gulped below ground at Hatton Cross. Her long fingers tapering about an old paperback chosen from a banana box under Waterloo Bridge. Standing on the escalator still reading, might as well finish the chapter, p. 129 her womb was coming open with rosy ecstasy. She tuts at Mr Lawrence, replaces her bookmark and moves into the great low sweep of the Terminal, where everything is gleaming. It is still early.

She is x-rayed and patted down wondering every morning if they go easy on her because of her face, her eyes reflecting mountains and her skin like a desert at dusk. The boy from the portable electronics shop who she sees some mornings eating his breakfast at same time that she does says it's no worse than working outside the airport where they search you if you're going out of the building for a fag – he doesn't smoke himself – at least in his trade. She thinks they're in the same trade though it doesn't look like it, him in a short-sleeved shirt, polyester tie, and her in her preposterous lab coat. Beauty is a science, of course, and while she doesn't know a great deal about that science, biochemistry presumably, the boy does know about cellphones and laptops and other media devices. Perhaps he should wear the coat. Milkmen wear white coats too, he reminds her, but she doesn't necessarily remember this to be true. And butchers, too. It's all the same trade, she thinks, no matter what you're selling. But the boy, in a white coat, would look more like a butcher than a scientist. She doesn't tell the boy this.

He is talking, he has good teeth, she concedes, straight at least and not too yellow. He needs a haircut, his hair veers undecidedly about his ears, and he needs to look into her eyes. Her hair is hidden so it's all she has, her gaze. When he looks at her he looks away immediately, and it seems more like guilt than shyness. Perhaps he has a girlfriend. He wears a ring on the third finger of his right hand. Like an almost married ring. Too young, parents don't approve. Maybe if you made something of yourself.

A flight is announced, the same flight that prompts them both to finish their breakfast and start work, which has prompted them separately, five mornings out of seven, to finish their tea or coffee or juice, to dust pastry crumbs from their uniforms and walk slowly to their respective retail positions, via the loo sometimes, and the same flight that she acknowledges they will never take together, or apart.

Monday, August 26, 2013


He came out of the supermarket having forgotten what he went in for, holding only an apple. At the bus stop outside a woman was attempting to wrestle a small girl into a push chair. The child, whose hair was styled into discrete knots all over her head performed a can-can of resistance. He was a scientist now, he supposed, nineteen years old and up at Imperial doing physics. He cared more about pleasing his parents than his painting, and that, presumably, was what separated artists from dabblers, regardless of their ability. He wore shorts and a polo shirt with the name of his hall of residence embroidered on the chest. His name was Lee Chen and he had never had a girlfriend.

Richard Finch headed south towards the river in a convertible Saab he had bought for his father with his first bonus. It was too big for the old man's garage, the door sat at thirty degrees from vertical, nestling on the bonnet. The bungalow in Hove wasn't built to house a man with a large Scandinavian sports car so the big black thing had gone back to London, whence it came, replace by a silver grey Nissan Micra which Dad drove twice a week, to the cemetery and the cinema in Brighton. Finch saw the lights change ahead of him, accelerated and passed through the bollards before they were red, and across the junction to Beaufort Street.

The car missed him by half a metre, travelling at twenty metres per second and accelerating, its wing mirror still closer. Lee knew the driver had seen him, he saw a hand of apology raised almost instantly. He wasn't the type to shout. He was infuriated by that hand, though, there was something careless about it. The hand of someone who lived a life without consequences. Without thinking he turned and threw the apple at the back of the car. He misjudged the trajectory completely. The apple flew higher and further than he intended. Could adrenalin act so quickly, he wondered, almost certainly not. The apple descended in a shallow parabola and struck the driver on the left temple. He saw the man twitch at the steering before the car thumped irreversibly into a parked UPS van. Glass exploded, the car's airbag deployed with a great puff of powder and an unpleasant smell that was unfamiliar to Lee. The van's alarm sounded. People ran towards the accident. Lee walked.

The man's face was misshapen but he was breathing and alert. Lee stood and looked at him for ten seconds. He counted. Then he walked back away from the river, picking up the apple, bruised now on two sides, from the gutter.

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Dead Man's Jeans

A Ghost Story

She found them in a charity shop, run for the local hospice. An old woman arranging nick-nacks in the window and an unhappy looking girl in her late teens at the till. It wasn't the sort of place where she'd normally look for clothes but she had wandered in while waiting for a prescription to be filled at the chemist two doors along. Everything else on the rack was labelled, and far too small for her husband, a tall man, and oddly shaped now, after too many years sat at a desk looking at numbers. The jeans were new, she thought, or at least barely worn. One belt loop was unstitched but Imelda, who helped around the house three days a week, could sort that out. The girl asked the old woman to price them. She handed over a fifty pound note and got two twenties, plus change, in return. She had done a good thing, she thought, but left the rather tatty little place with a feeling of unease.

They were a super fit. Comfy, yet flattering. He tucked his shirt in and they walked down the lane to the Two Brewers for dinner. Dennis seemed more relaxed than usual. He lingered at the bar while refreshing her gin and tonic, and said something to Sally, the landlord's niece, which made her giggle and blush. She watched him walk back, glass in hand. The jeans seemed to narrow his hips, which in turn made his shoulders appear broader. His habitual stoop had gone, or had she imagined it? Seated, he smiled at her more than she was used to. He tipped generously and they walked home, his long arm around her waist. They kissed on the doorstep then he pulled her inside, slapping her backside like a teenager. She brushed her teeth, agitated and aroused. Stepping from the ensuite she saw the jeans at the foot of the bed and her husband asleep, his body twisted into a awkward shape, as if he'd been shot.

He only wore them at the weekends, at first. He took to leaning against things with an unconsidered air. One foot off the floor, like a cowboy, she thought. He whistled when he wore the jeans, but not at other times. He stood taller still when he had them on. Women noticed him, and she noticed them noticing him. Soon he began to change into them as soon as he got home from work. The evenings were lengthening and he found excuses to be away from her, dogwalking, hedge-trimming. But she told herself that nothing had really changed.

“So we've decided to start having casual Fridays at work,” he told her. “Relax a bit. Clothes do not maketh the man, after all. Or woman.”
“Whose idea was it?”
She watched him move in his armchair.
“It was my idea,” he said eventually.

She pulled the washing machine out from the wall and smashed the pipes off the back of it with a glass candlestick. She put her laundry into the back of the car and drove into town. It took three hours to wash and dry everything at the laundrette. Five pounds for parking and handfuls of coins for the machines. She smoked a cigarette outside, watching the clothes dance in the dryer, then threw the packet away. Folded everything and put it back in the basket, in the boot. Except the jeans which sat on the passenger seat as she drove half a mile to other end of the high street. She walked in to the hospice shop and put the jeans on the counter. The old woman recognised her as she turned to leave.
“Didn't fit?”
“No,” she said. “Not quite.”

“Would you like to exchange them for anything?” She shook her head and walked back to the car.