NOTHING TO DO WITH ME

The Galapagos Islands are moving – in a South Westerly direction. Luckily they are moving at a rate of 1 inch per year, so they won’t reach the end of our street for a while yet.


Carole’s head on the mascara streaked pillow. (Mrs Wincey won’t like that). Have you ever really studied a head? A big knob of bone with skin stretched over it.

Ah, but in the middle of that lump of bone, lying there like a big dollop of cold porridge, is your brain. That’s where it’s all happening, even when you are asleep. When it is offline your brain is sorting, sifting, hypothesising, testing, deleting, reordering –
Oh look. Carole is coming back online. Her eyelids twitch. Of course that could mean she is dreaming – but it is not that sort of twitch, not the REM beloved of dream researchers Also she is sort of wrinkling her nose. She is definitely coming back online.

Suddenly she turns over onto her stomach, and farts. It is more like a sigh than a fart. A gentle sigh. Even so, I see the cotton sheet ripple slightly.

I wonder if, when you are asleep and someone stands watching you, you are somehow aware of their presence. Is Carole aware of me? She wrinkled her nose. Can she smell me! I remove myself to the en suite.

8.32am. I open the curtains. Cars crouch by the kerb, waiting. A heavy sky presses down on the rooftops. I go back to bed.

"Sometimes I'm happy.

Sometimes I'm blue -

My dispostion depends on on you..."

- No it doesn't. You have a mental illness. It's called Manic Depression.

- Really? I thought it was just a phase I was going through.

- Oh, very droll.

- Well shut up! And pass me the lithium salts.

(cheers RJ)

There wasn’t another room available at The Limes so Carole agreed to share with me, and sleep in the single bed. It would have been possible to have found her another hotel, but she was afraid I might abscond if let out of her sight for any length of time.

As it happened, Mrs Wincey did not appear to give a toss as to whether Carole was my partner, my sister, or my transvestite brother for that matter – as long as the room was now charged as a ‘full double’.

The Limes did not serve evening meals so we had dinner at a little café called Butterfingers. I had dined there, alone, the past two nights and I knew the fare to be modest, but more than adequate, in both taste and presentation. The place was licensed so Carole was able to have two pints of her favourite lager, whilst a glass of red wine was all I would risk, on account of the old Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

It was just after ten pm when we retired to ‘our’ room.

It feels so odd when you share a room with someone who used to be your lover but no longer is – or says she isn’t.
We were both extremely polite: After you…. No after you… That sort of thing. If we accidentally touched whilst passing each other we would both say sorry – a little too quickly. I decided to be the gentleman and let Carole use the bathroom first. She used to sleep naked in our old ‘Council Estate’ days, but I noticed she took a bag into the bathroom, and when she came out she was wearing a nightdress - and a very ‘modest’ one at that: not one inch of cleavage to be seen. She was obviously determined not to put temptation in my way.

Well, I have always been one to take things as they come, and so I accepted the inevitable. But I decided to be a bit coy myself. I don’t have any pyjamas (can’t stand them in bed – they’re so restrictive) so I came out of the bathroom with a towel around my waist, which I removed, in what I hoped was a swift, yet graceful movement as I slid between the sheets. I needn’t have bothered. Carole was reading, and never took her eyes off the page during my whole complicated manoeuvre.

I switched off my bedside lamp and closed my eyes.

There must be something the matter with him
because he would not be acting as he does
unless there was
therefore he is acting as he is
because there is something the matter with him

He does not think there is anything the matter with him
because
one of the things that is
the matter with him
is that he does not think there is anything
the matter with him
therefore
we have to help him realize that,
the fact that he does not think there is anything
the matter with him
is one of the things that is
the matter with him


R. D. Laing (“Knots”)

Water on my cornflakes

The question of accommodation was nagging at me. Sleeping arrangements. I was paying for a ‘double with single occupancy’. I had not got around to approaching Mrs Wincey – the proprietor of The Limes Guest House (AA recommended) - regarding the imminent appearance on the scene of Anastasia.
Now it was Carole I would somehow have to account for. Tricky. Do I say that she is my ‘partner’ (a catch-all term these days), come to join me for a few days? And could I now have the same room as a full ‘double’? (There are two beds: a double and a single – I have been sleeping in the double anyway).
Or, should I introduce Carole as my younger sister, and ask for a separate room for her? That somehow does seem a waste of money

Carole interrupted my reverie. Pushing her empty plate away, and draining her lager, she said

- So, what’s your hotel like? Do you think they will have a room for me – for one night?

I felt panic. That awful feeling deep in my guts. Like I’m falling into a big dark hole. I had been assuming that Carole would take the place of Anastasia – at least on a temporary basis. You know, like in the song: If you can’t be near the one you love/Then love the one you’re near. Now I felt lost, bewildered. No, worse: I felt abandoned. Like in the dreams. They were coming true!

- I was sort of assuming…
- Yes I know you were. But I’m not. I’m not going to sleep with you.
- But I thought… I mean... you’ve come all this way. It’s not just to deliver a letter – is it?
- No, it isn’t. I’m here, George, because I love you.
- Well then…
- I said I love you; I am not IN love with you. I care about you. I care what happens to you.
- Well, you’re the only that does. That Swedish tart, she ---------
- Anastasia loves you George. In her own way. Yes of course she’s shagging Jake. But the way she sees it, what else can she do? She’s a survivor. She takes the best deal going. And, currently, Jake’s the best deal. But she really does love you - if you had seen how upset she was when she handed me the letter…

This was all going wrong, I thought. But I did not realise how wrong it was going to go until Carole continued
­
- There was another reason I came. I’ve brought you a ticket.
- What… to the theatre? Are we going to see a show?
- It’s a railway ticket. To Swindon. One way.

It took a moment for the light to dawn. But when it did, I panicked.
- Oh no. This is a conspiracy isn’t it! Well you know where you can shove your ticket. I’m not going back inside.

Heads began to turn as Carole raised her voice.
- For fuck’s sake George, will you stop acting like Britain’s most wanted man! You are not Ronnie Biggs… you are not one of the Great Train Robbers. You walked out of a - not so secure - psychiatric hospital, and you've been farting about all over the countryside, playing silly buggers.

I felt I needed to regain my dignity.
- Well, thank you very much. You’ve certainly reduced me to size. But they haven’t caught me. Have they!

She sighed.
- George, they know where you are. You left a clear enough trail. A person might be forgiven for thinking you wanted to be caught.

This was getting worse.
- Dr Foggatty could have you picked up anytime, but he doesn’t want to do that. And do you know why? Because he cares about you too. He wants you to come back voluntarily. It’s Freddie who paid for your ticket.

Things were moving too fast.
- So how did you come to be involved in this pantomime?
- Freddie got in touch with Anastasia. He wanted her to come down here. But she couldn’t. So she rang me. That girl is sticking her neck out for you.
- How come?
- Well, it's true that Jake paid for my ticket, and hotel expenses etc.; he just doesn’t know it yet. She sort of dipped her hand into the till. Of course, she’ll pay it back – she says.

I felt a strange feeling in the back of my throat. But there was one more question.
- What about Amanda? Is she really pregnant?
- I honestly don’t know, George. All Freddie would say is that she is on extended sick leave. But forget about her for the moment. Think about yourself. It really is in your best interests to come back with me tomorrow.

Control was slipping away from me. I leaned against the red plastic backrest. I felt tired. Weary. Carole took a handkerchief from her bag, leaned across and gently wiped my eye. The familiar perfume aroused faint sexual stirrings. Just for a moment. Then they were gone. A tear plopped embarrassingly into my almost empty pint. I drained the glass. The beer tasted salty – but I drank it anyway.

'Reasons' are stories we make up, to explain the unexplainable.

Carole reveals her hand

As she turns to drape her jacket over a chair, I read, on the back of Carole’s black sweatshirt:

Sticks and stones
May break my bones
But whips and spurs excite me

I didn’t know she was into horse riding! But now is not the time for a discussion on matters equestrian.

- Well?
- Yes, thank you
- No, I meant-
- I know what you meant. Look, I know you were expecting Lady Longlegs but it would be nice to be asked how I am
- Oh... how are you?
- I’m not so bad
- Er… and how’s Gary?
- He’s inside again
- Oh, I’m sorry
- I helped put him there
- Oh, well…
- Okay, I’ll put you out of your misery

And so saying, she delves into her handbag and produces a long, brown envelope. She hands it across the beer-stained table. I take it, and just stare at it. I recognise the curly-whirly handwriting forming the words George Turner Esq., but for some reason I can’t seem to move. Am I entering one of my ‘stuck’ periods again? I am soon jolted out of it.

- Well, go on. Aren’t you going to open it?

It is a letter from Anastasia, which I reproduce here, verbatim – except for a bit of editing, where indicated.

My Dearest Georgie

I am sorry for not to be keeping our arrangements as promised, but as you will see, there are reasons for this unhappy state of affairs. Anyway, I thought the next best thing was to have my letter brought to you in the personage of one of your closest friends (Carole of the Council Estate) instead of entrusting to Postal system of your country, which is nowhere near being a patch on that of my own dear land.
Anyway, to cut to the chaste, as they say – I am unable to come on account of us being so busy at the Fox and Gropes: yes Jake has changed the name to try attract the more gentrified client of the horse and hound variety. I have been promoted to manageress and it is I what have designed the smart black sweatshirts for all the bar-staff (boys included) of which I have asked Carole to wear one for your approval at the appropriateness of the logo.
Jake has paid for Carole’s train ticket plus a little extra for her trouble. Knowing how much you mean to me. He sends his best wishes and says how sorry he is that pressure of work prevents me from being at your side in your time of need. But he asks me to remind you of the old saying ‘The darkest hour is always the hour before the storm’ (I think I got that right?)
Now, I don’t want for you to be worrying for me. Jake is looking after me, and taking care of all my needs. He says that whilst I am under his roof he will make sure ‘I don’t want for any nothing’. It is such old world courtesy which – when I occasionally come across – endures me to your country. It more than makes up for the load of stinkers I generally find the English to be.
You are always in my thoughts. I often think of how we (edited)… and how long it was ago (edited) and cannot wait to wrap my long Swedish arms around your (edited) body.
I have to go now as Jake needs some service. We have now this bistro that does the panini and jackets plus the microwaved curries, with the optional extra on the side serving.
If you wish to ring me I would love to hear your voice. Only could you make it on a Wednesday evening (that’s when Jake does the ‘Quiz Night’).

Till we can truly make the earth move

Your loving Anna

There are tears in my eyes, and I look up quickly to see if Carole has noticed. But she is tucking into her scampi and chips.

'...Among these dark Satanic mills...'

There is no such thing as a free lunch. And there is no such thing as a free Empire.

Somebody had to pay: the little boys pushed up Victorian chimneys; cotton mill workers minus the odd arm, lost in unguarded machinery; miners with ruined lungs and crooked backs; and the ‘navigators’ buried under mud slides as they dug the canals and railway cuttings.

The British Empire was built in grimy, shabby towns in the Midlands and the North. Far away from Westminster and the politicians, the whole process fuelled by coal from Welsh pit villages with unpronounceable names, and upwards through Lancashire, Yorkshire and into Scotland.

But what has all this got to do with me? Apart from my having been brought up in one of these mining villages, as I documented earlier in my dissertation? After all it is 2006 not 1906. And have we not ‘built Jerusalem/In England’s green and pleasant land’?

Haven’t we?

Oh – here comes Carole, back from the lavatory. I hope she’s washed her hands.

Devastated (a bit)

She wasn’t on the train. I waited by the barrier so I wouldn’t miss her. But she never came.

I had was about to leave when I heard a familiar clippety-clop. Turning around I saw Carole, teetering towards me on her white stilettos (what Germaine Greer likes to call ‘fuck me’ shoes) She was dragging one of those cases with wheels and a handle.

(You remember Carole? Council Estate? Husband Gary – inside? I’ve had many an enjoyable ride on her little Vespa.)

Coincidence? Synchronicity?

It turned out to be nothing of the kind.

‘Well, don’t stand there gawping –‘

‘But how… I mean why… where is Anastasia?

‘Cool it Buster. First things first. Where’s the nearest pub? Do you know, I’ve been two hours on that train – without a bar.’

We adjourned to the Station Hotel.


Note for RJ: I think you are mixing me up with someone else. The only time I met the lady in question she was married, with two children. Remember, you are much older than I am.

The last remaining Steam Driven Post Office in the British Isles.

I took this photo on my way to the station. I thought it deserved the black and white treatment, since it belongs to an age when everything happened in black and white.

An age when Britain truly was Great. An empire upon which the sun never set (though it rained quite a lot).
And even now, note, it is GREAT Britain. You don't hear of Great France or Great America.

The steam engine was, of course a British invention (along with nearly everything else). They say the wheel was a Chinese invention. How absurd. Notice that every word connected with the wheel: rim, spoke, hub, axle are English words.

I realise that the photo may be a give away as to my present location. But I don't care. Things have gone beyond the caring stage.
But I am nervous, as I go to meet my true love. It has been so long. How long is it now? I can't remember.

I quicken my walk.