At 12 years old I had my own room. It had been my granddad’s study at the front of the house on the first floor; bigger than any room I had slept in before. The house faced onto the main shopping street and I could watch the people and the traffic. At closing time, around 11 o’clock every evening, I would lie in bed and hear the pub-goers wondering home – some more sociable than others, most of them noisy. The street lamp lit up the thin curtains. I liked the patterns the light and the curtains made on the wall.

The place is Bude, North Cornwall, the date is 1960. We had moved here three years earlier from a bungalow a few miles up the coast (close to Steeple Point!). The house was a three-storey Victorian terraced house, it was built half way up a hill. We would have been able to see the sea but they put a very large hotel on the land across the road. The house attached to us up the hill had been converted into a haberdashery, their small garden was now part of the shop. The house down the hill was an accountants’.

We lived upstairs on the top two floors because downstairs was my dad’s dental suite – surgery, waiting-room, admin office. This meant he could hear we children banging on the floors of the rooms upstairs – in the drawing room and, you’ve guessed it, my bedroom. Day-time was tip-toe time.

This was a Victorian house, therefore the main rooms were tall and large, the space ample. Perhaps not entirely – the bathroom was small, the bath smaller, and, as for the kitchen . . . At this stage, there were my parents, we four children and our uncle who had been living there with his parents (our grandparents) before they passed away. A few years later, the uncle got married and moved out and we four children became five with the birth of another sister.

There was no back garden to the house but a narrow backyard, one side of which was a series of sheds where we kept our bikes and the coal and logs and a lot of stuff nobody wanted but never got round to throwing away. On the other side of the yard was the garage. This opened onto the road behind the house and we would use the garage doors as goal posts. On top of the garage was the dental laboratory. In the laboratory worked two dental technicians who were never happy about us kicking a ball at the garage doors below them.

From my bedroom, I could go next door to what was grandly known as the drawing room with its open fire and tall bay windows facing the street and the hotel. Diagonally over the landing was my parents’ bedroom. Stairs immediately on the left led to three bedrooms upstairs and a loft in the roof above that. Straight out of my room, across the landing, a short flight of stairs led down, turning sharp left down again to the ground floor. If you didn’t turn sharp left, you went straight on past the bathroom into the dining room and then via a small landing to the kitchen. There was a bedroom above the dining room and another above the kitchen. The steep back stairs (up and down) led off the small landing. Downstairs at the back were two scullery rooms, one used for ironing, the other for washing. Their floors were made of Delabole slate, much sought after now but merely common and practical then.

Upstairs there were several creaking floor boards which the younger ones learnt to walk along – (well, they did tip-toe on them), and satisfying dark wood banisters up the front stairs. The stairs down had been walled off – tip toe time again! The ground floors were tiled in patterns much admired by all who saw them. The waiting room was extravagantly furnished with a large snooker table holding journals and magazines, with, arranged around it, old fashioned, black-lacquered high-backed chairs that would have looked good in a hunting-themed pub. I don’t know what his patients thought but we had lots of happy family parties in that waiting room when they weren’t there.

My mother didn’t like the house. Firstly, she had always lived with a garden and there was nowhere she could plant plants or sit outside; secondly, there was nowhere to hang washing properly; thirdly we lived ‘above the shop’ and my father would come up for a coffee at various intervals during the day, which was fine sometimes but not always; and fourthly, the choice had been taken away from her – we lived there for practical reasons. Yes, it was a house with no less than seven bedrooms – (or seven by the time they had converted other rooms) and where can you find a house like that? But it was my father’s father’s house, she wasn’t fond of him and found herself constantly reminded of him. Nevertheless, she made it a great home and we loved her for it. As children, this was where we lived, we didn’t know any different.

 

Dear Gin

I am writing to you because I recognise you as being on the edge of my life for the whole of my life.

I always liked the bottles you came in – your Gordon’s version a comforting deep green, your Plymouth version with the ship in full sail on the label, (don’t I remember an anchor too? Maybe not). When I was born, you sat in the cabinet in the bungalow. When I first started to walk your bottles were about eye level, tantalisingly close but locked out of reach.

It’s your smell that I remember most. When I drink you now, it brings up memories of my parents. Partying or not partying, they drank you. Mum would have a gin and tonic, Dad would have a pink gin, a drink he had grown to like in the navy during the war. The Angostura bitters have a special place in my memory too. But they drank you in greater quantity than we would consider now – whether to forget or to remember or to enjoy, I never knew.

As a child, being kissed goodnight by someone who has had a couple or more of gins was always a hit or miss affair – not unpleasant, just hit or miss.

When I stopped being a child – (I never entirely stopped to be honest), you were still around. I remember one incident at university . . . no, perhaps I won’t go into that. You have never been my preferred drink, just a special one.

Now I read that you are becoming fashionable again. There are new gins, in fancy bottles, with distinct tastes. And new tonics to try with them – the same Angostura I hope. Be(a)ware of fashion. Fashion is good, but the undertow speaks of competition, economies and corporate survival. One day you are there and on top, the next you are sinking and having to try harder. You tinker with the details. From the outside comes admonition from the pinch-lipped. “So much is enough”, “this is excess” and regulation distract you. And you lose your original reason for being.

This is not about excess. This is about special moments. All I ask is to sit with with one or two friends and you in your fine glass, early in the evening, perhaps outdoors as the sun sets, and to taste one of the defining tastes of my lifetime.

Thank you for the pleasure you have given me over the years.

Sincerely

Bill

 

 

A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.

~~~

Just one more time they said. We know you retired ten years ago but this is important they said. The man is still free and you are the only person who saw him they said. Well, they were right about that. I did get a close look but he disappeared and hasn’t been seen since. It was twenty years ago. I was old then, I’m a lot older now. My eyes aren’t so good. I can’t remember things like I used to. I don’t know if I would recognise him again. Nasty man, nasty murder, though, they said. We think it might be him but we need some help. We were watching this man for another reason then we saw the scar on his neck. It might match but we can’t arrest someone for having a scar. There’s been a young woman with him this past week. So, if it is him . . . Please try they said. I liked the ‘please’ so here I am.

Of all the park benches, they picked the most uncomfortable one. Can’t they see I’m bonier now? A cushion would have been kind. And it’s such a quiet part of the park. Would an old woman come and sit here by herself? I would go where I could see people. Love watching people me. That’s why I joined the force. I liked people and didn’t like the trouble they got into. I was good too. They all said so – even though I was a woman. What do they call that now – sexist, isn’t it? Then it just happened. Nobody to complain to, just had to work round it and made darn sure I was better than everyone else. And I was. But now . . . well, it was a long time ago . . . And here I am, sitting on a park bench, knitting!

Here comes the couple now, just as they said they would. The man’s on my side. He’s talking to her quite loudly – deep voice – yes. Now, let me see. Not too obvious a stare but . . . I can only see him from the side . . . I think I do recognise him. He’s almost bald now . . But head held forward, those thin lips, that big ear, the straight nose. Tall, thin, big feet and smart shoes . . And I do remember he always wore smart shoes. Can’t see the scar but that was on the other side. Deep voice. Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s him. Now what did they say? Put you knitting in the basket, stand up and walk away to your left. He is very clever and might be dangerous. We don’t want you hurt . . . Well, amen to that!

~~~

Just once more then I will stop. It’s been a good run but the other day I thought I might be being watched. I should disappear again right now. I know I should. But there is something about this young woman . . .

That first time was an accident. It was twenty years ago and that policewoman almost caught me. She had a good look anyway. That was before I decided to disappear. Then I thought I’d do it again – properly – all over Europe – the money, the women – so easy to come by. Now I am older – a bit slower but still capable. Do I want to prove it just one more time? The opportunity is here.

Funny thing . . . I’m more emotional now. What is that? I never used to care. Straight forward, that was me – do it, disappear, no sweat. That’s why I got away with it. But Joan here, I really like her. Maybe I am getting old, maybe I do want to settle down. Must be quick then.

“This is a beautiful park. I’m surprised you haven’t been here before.” Did I just say that? Do I care whether she’s been here or not? Yes, I do. Would I like to come here again with her? Yes, I would. But that means . . . I’ve never felt like this before – well, isn’t that a cliche! . . . Is it true?

“Would you like a coffee over there?” What? . . . This is all wrong.

There is an old woman on that bench. She looks vaguely familiar. My God, surely it’s not that policewoman from all those years ago. Go away. I’m not like that any more. Go away, I’m becoming a different person. Go away. I might be falling in love.

~~~

Just my luck to pick another man who can’t control his emotions. I actually like men who express their emotions, but not here, not now. What is he crying about anyway? Up to now, he’s been fine. . . Different, of course, but I’ve always enjoyed men who are different. But what I really want is to be with someone who listens to me. Usually they’re busy talking about themselves.

This one’s not bad. He doesn’t talk about himself much. A bit rough sometimes. I can handle that. A bit distant, as if he’s somewhere else entirely at times. He’s sort of vulnerable – like he was somebody else before and is trying to be someone different now. Oh, that doesn’t sound like I meant it. But I do like him . . . sort of.

He says, “Would you like a coffee over there?”

I say, “Oh, that would be nice.” Yes, it would be nice to sit and talk and enjoy the sunshine.

I am holding his hand. It’s a big, strong hand. Like it’s done a lot of work.

He’s staring back at that nice old woman. Good colour –  red. Oh, she’s put it away and is walking off. He’s looking back at her – and he’s still crying.

Gosh, where did all these policeman come from . . .?

 

When we started our walk the vegetation was low salt marsh, a magic mat of pastel colours. Now we are on the edge of sand dunes covered in marram grass. The dunes hold back the wind. It is peaceful here. The estuary sand exposed by the tide is firm under our feet but the storms of the last few days have carved into it. Concentric lines of low cliffs cross our path. At one point, where the outgoing tide has swept into a small bay, we have to jump. A section of sand cliff follows us.

The sea lions we have come to see are in front of us – a safe distance, we hope. The dominant male has lifted his bulk out of the water. The sun strikes his back and gleams across to us. He is looking our way. We feel his stare. There is no doubt who is in charge here.

Behind him his extended family twist and turn in the channel. They play – and it is play, an endless game of tag. Bodies break the surface – a flipper here, a head there, a sleek black back. One teenage star almost leaps clear. The older females swim leisurely by. Others lie on the beach. They feign sleep but are awake enough to flick sand over themselves.

As we stroll past, four heads appear at the water’s edge. We can’t tell whether they want to play or to make sure we leave. Whatever . . . they have a reputation, we keep going.

We round the point onto the beach and the weather takes charge.

The wind strikes our faces. It sucks the breath from our mouths, our noses. Surprised, we stagger under the impact and lean into it. Hats are pulled down over ears. Collars are turned up and coats zipped, hands plunged deep into pockets.

The wool muffles the noise of the surf, but it’s still the surf that grabs our attention. The sea is in chaos. Foam and spume and spray lift into the air at each gust of wind. The spray seeks out what little flesh is exposed. Gulls whirl and swoop, their cries torn away. Little pied stilts, their long thin legs impervious to the wind, totter along the waterline. The only solid object is the remnant of a wreck. It stands fast while all around is confusion.

We know the expelled male sea lions are here somewhere. Each keen to be first to spot the next one, we peer along the beach. A spray-filled haze hides the far end but nearer we find that the wreck is not the only immovable object it seems. A great lump of fat lies in the sand. Longer than either of us, heavier than both of us, it . . . well, it just lies there. From downwind we creep closer. We can smell him – a pungent animal smell from the sea. We shuffle closer . . . and closer. The sand makes it difficult to tell his head from his tail flippers. Then we find out . . . he sits up, we leap back. Not interested, he settles down again. We breath. We act casual. We walk on. No fear . . .

 

“I mean it. I’ve never written dialogue before.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

 

Late morning in the city, two older men sitting in a pub waiting for their wives who have slipped away to shop for clothes. The pub is old, the furniture a traditional dark varnish, there are two partly finished pints of beer on the table – one is more finished than the other.

“What time is it?”

“Twelve fifteen. What happened to your watch?”

“I don’t wear one any more. There’s a clock on the mobile and it’s more accurate than my watch was.”

“That sounds very modern.”

“Well, the kids don’t seem to use them any more so I thought I’d try it.”

“Fine – if you don’t forget your mobile.”

“Yeah . . .”

 

“I remember my first watch. I was proud and disappointed at the same time.”

“Why disappointed?”

“It was a right-handed watch.”

“What . . .?”

“Most left-handed people wear their watches on their right wrist. The trouble is the winder then points up your arm not towards your hand. Winding it on your wrist means working backwards.”

“Show me . . . Oh, I see . . .

 

“Being left-handed was a problem for you, was it?”

“No . . . Well, sometimes. It meant having to think things through twice . . . The first time when you were shown how to do something, usually by someone right-handed, and the second time how to do it the other way round.”

“That was a problem at school, huh?”

“You bet. The teachers thought I was slow and the other kids knew I was different. One teacher insisted I held my spoon in my right hand at meal times. It was torture trying to do it. I was very left-handed then.”

“Good for playing cricket though – left-handed bowler and all that.”

“Yes, but by the time I really wanted to play sport I had got very mixed up between being left-handed and trying to cope with a right-handed world. I listened to that teacher too much. It took many years before I got my confidence back.”

“Being right-handed myself. I’ve never thought about it.”

“Yeah, well . . . It was only five years ago I discovered there was such thing as a left-handed ruler.”

“How does that work?”

“Well, on a twelve inch ruler, the numbers start from the right hand side for a left-handed person. So when you want to measure, say, two inches, you automatically ‘drag’ the pencil from the right 1 . . 2. With an ordinary ruler, you would subtract the numbers 12 . . 11 and so on. I thought that’s how it was always done until someone showed me a better way. I was good at subtraction!”

 

“I suppose if there were touch screens when you were young it would have made a big difference.”

“Yes. I can arrange apps etc wherever I want them now. I suspect the querty keyboard was designed by a right-handed person but I mastered that one easily enough. In fact, it’s like a lot of things, in the end you don’t notice the difference because this is the way you have always done it. The only real problem comes with a new practical activity where the person showing me holds whatever it is one way and I try and copy it. The image in front of me . . the way my hands are placed . . . never matches the demo and I have to start all over again.”

 

“You sent me that image from your iPad the other day . . . extraordinary when you remember the Apple lle and that amazing 125 kB memory!”

“Did you ever read that comic when you were young – ‘Swift’ I think it was called? It had a continuing story of Sammy and his Speedsub. He was my hero. He could do anything with this sub including talking to people anywhere. Seems we can do that ourselves now.”

“Mmm . . .”

“When Alice broke her ankle in Crete and she went into hospital, I was able to email the insurance people and the airline and organise our trip home using the iPad. We were five days late coming home . . . I was commuting between the hotel and the hospital. It was a tense time but I never felt cut off.”

“I remember seeing you when you got back. You were both pleased with the way they looked after you.”

“ . . . from the tourist boat and the slim, dark Frenchman with the well-trimmed beard – her long-time favourite male . . . to the taxi driver, the hotel staff, the medical staff. Language was a problem sometimes, but everyone was kind and helpful. People talk a lot of rubbish about running into trouble overseas. Sounds naive, I know, and of course there are odd places you have to be careful, but generally we all have the same problems in terms of health, comfort, function, appearance. Even if we don’t speak the same language, even if the culture is different, the basic emotions are there somewhere . . . Heck, this is getting heavy. Do you want another beer?”

“Do you know something, if it’s between solving the problems of the world and having another beer, I think I’ll go for the beer this morning and we can solve the other problems tomorrow.”

“Right . . . Oh here they come now . . . How did you get on?” . . .

>

How I wish I hadn’t opened this. I can’t help myself.

‘. . . the deepest sympathy on the loss of your husband . . .’

Now I’m going to have to tell her.

‘. . . death from concussion came instantaneously . . .’

She can see me through the window. She sees my approaching tears. I see the look in her eyes.

‘We miss him very much. He was a good soldier . . .’

She is at the door, one hand over her mouth.

‘War is a hard game and we do not know from one day to another who is next. It is hard for those left at home, but ‘greater love has no man but this that . . .’

Softly, “Mum . . . It’s Dad . . .”

 

 

It is 1966. It was New York. It is humid. Buildings tower above. Traffic shuffles and hoots next to me. My baggage is getting heavier. I am walking slowly. People push past me. I am 18 years old, 3000 miles from home, in an unfamiliar country, knowing no one in this city.

Hot, sticky, tired and not sure where I am, I need to check my directions and recoup. I turn off the busy road, down a street that seems quieter. It is quieter –  a lot, lot quieter, and very run-down compared to where I was two minutes before – rubbish in the gutters, unemptied bins, peeling paint. There are people standing in doorways looking at me. Imagined or real, the mood changes from one of hustle and bustle back there to a quiet menace here, I don’t want to walk any further down this street. I need to quickly check where I am and go.

So I reach in my pocket for my address book – the one with all the the addresses and all the telephone numbers I had prepared for the planned $99/99 day Greyhound exploration of the US – the one I had checked last evening  – the one I had written directions to the bus station in – the one with the map slipped inside the cover.

No address book – not anywhere; not in my pockets, not in the outside pockets of my back-pack not in the outside pockets of my case.

You know the feeling. The mind starts to reel, there’s a tightening in your tummy just beneath your ribs, a virtual door slams, never to be opened again – a feeling that always casts a deep shadow and always seems to be the first time you have felt it. Not true, of course. Loss happens from the very beginning of our lives and part of maturing is to find ways of handling it. When I was young, I was bad at it. Now I am older I am still not good. And the losses now are big ones – family, friends, acquaintances passing on, and familiar landmarks lost to ‘progress’. They come along in a steady, unwelcome procession.

Now I am standing in a street that has danger written all over it and I find myself rummaging in my suitcase in front of the very people I am concerned about. No luck, no address book, people still staring at me.

Time to get it together – think, think, think, and get out of here. So I do.

What do I do? I remember a distant relative in Point Pleasant, New Jersey, go back to the main street, ask a newspaper seller the way to the bus station, find a phone booth with the standard mountain of phone books and eventually find their address. I hadn’t lost my bus ticket so I get on the next bus to New Jersey and out of New York pretty darn quick.

There is a moment when a loss hits you, then there is a short or long period when you come to accept it and work out how to handle it and then there is another period when you live with it.

Whatever else it does,  loss lasts for ever. What you do with it counts.

To be continued . . .