Then Call the Fire Brigade.
-The photo albums; the paintings; the recordings of me. Then call the Fire Brigade.
Before the Sunday morning mirror: White cotton, top and bottom. She turns for a side profile. Up on the toes, enhancing the calves, just so. Checks out the curve of the spine, just so. Hands smooth the stomach flat. A flick of the finger positions the elastic into just the right place, just so. Once more up on the toes. Sunday morning mirror ritual, just so. She sees I’m awake and watching.
“Did I wake you?”
- Toasty soldiers and tomato soup mugs in bed.
- Fried beans in Rainworth.
- Bridlington fish and chips.
- Goose Fair Doughnuts.
- Liverpool Sushi.
“Did I wake you? What are you writing?”
She makes no request to read it. Kindred spirits indeed.
- Spirits: Vodka, spiked and not stirred. Beyond the whirling pit and into the realm of vertical jumping picture interference. Any level beyond that is simply marked “unknown” on the map.
- Beer: Newcastle Brown. Whirling pit only, but with a shaft of light from the door onto upright posture in bed, with drooling jaw over yellow plastic bucket trimmings. Attractive.
Last night, like every night, in those moments when cautious reservations float down the safe duvet valley between reality and sleep, she had made plans: Take a chance; step forward; seize the moment.
This morning, like every morning, those plans disappear with the shower gel down the drain. She dresses for the day, as a shroud of tiny hesitations slip back into place. Life for her continues to be filtered like sunlight through net curtains, somehow once removed.
-The emerald green diary; the aspidistra she gave me; then call the Fire Brigade.
“If you go on staring at those nets, you’ll wear a hole in them.”
Rowdy and Clint reached the bridge. Clint said “Have you still got that chocolate egg in your pocket?” Rowdy turned pale. Only two minutes from the shop and already he’d forgotten about the egg. He’d only taken it for a joke. The old lady was always so slow coming to the counter, he’d snatched it from the display and into his pocket to make Clint laugh. He had no intention of stealing. He’d never stolen anything in his short life. He anxiously gripped at his pocket, wishing the egg shaped bulge would somehow just not be there. But it was.
Trying to explain to Clint the innocence of his intentions, he threw the cream egg as far as he could down river. Quite an impressive throw for a young cowboy not known for any particular sporting skill beyond maypole dancing. Then, hoping all feelings of guilt would travel as quickly as the egg downstream, they mounted their imaginary ponies and galloped away.
Before nightfall Clint snitched on his partner. Rowdy was sent to bed without being allowed to watch “Rawhide”. He would have preferred a smack and got it all over with.
“What is it you’re writing?”
-The sketchbooks; my kid sister’s hand print; the signed Everly Brothers CDs. Then call the Fire Brigade.
If there was one person I strived most to catch as she dropped towards the rye it was Ruby. But she always faltered at the last minute, stepping back from the edge. Did she lack the courage to take the plunge? Or did she lose confidence in my ability to catch her? I would have made the catch. I really would. Anyway, I wrote a song about her.
“Tell about that initiation thing that happened at the newspapers.”
-It wasn’t the newspapers. It was the place which printed the
newspapers.
“Okay, tell about that.”
-I never tell that.
“You told one person.”
-Yes, and she told about fifty!
“Not that many. I doubt she had fifty friends to tell. Anyway, I wouldn’t let it bother you. It probably marked you down as a hero.”
-It doesn’t bother me. It’s different for guys.
“Weren’t you embarrassed?”
-I just went along with it for a laugh. A good sport; one of the crowd and all that.
“Do you reckon it still goes on?”
-No. The printers closed down, and nobody uses those little letters for printing anymore.
- I had a John Bull printing press like that once. Perhaps I should include that with the black plastic hairbrush; the stone bird table. Then call the Fire Brigade.
Sunday morning comes around, its mirror in the same place. White cotton, top and bottom. She turns for a side profile, checking the curve of her spine. Hands smooth the stomach flat, just so. Once more up on the toes, enhancing the calves, just so. A flick of elastic into just the right place. Sunday morning mirror ritual. Sunlight filters through the net curtains. Like life, somehow once removed. She sees I’m awake, watching.
“Did I wake you?”
-Sundays are different from other days of the week, but not special enough for my list.
“What are you writing?”
- Call the Fire Brigade.
All artwork & text copyright Ian G Craig.
