Here's part two of chapter 1. It's all still early days, but I figure, with 5000 words a chapter, the novel will end up around 90,000 word. None of Chapter 1 appeared in my original notes so it may just be me writing my way into the novel. I'm also not sure if it has enough depth at this stage. Any writers among you will recognise these early signs of early date nerves as writer and novel get to know one another, with the writer working hard not to compare his latest literary squeeze with the last one he just finished with.
Anyhow, as a special request from Sofia, here's what happens next. (I repeated the last para from Part 1 for context.)
Chapter 1 – The First Time (PART 2)
The following Tuesday evening, I arrived at Maggie’s class. I wasn’t even sure what class it was at first. Over the next seven weeks I learned about meditation and the symbolism of my dreams, I practised moving imagined spheres of energy and I started to notice look at people differently. Everyone seemed to have a set role. There were the bright ones, the needy ones (I was the crossover kid), the devout Christian who nonetheless wanted to see what was on offer, the one with his own preconceived ideas that he always wanted to share and the ones looking for a date.
I stayed behind after the second class and helped today the furniture away. It wasn’t as if I had anywhere pressing to go.
“Do you need a lift?” I gripped my car keys like an amulet.
“That’d be great.”
One thing I’d learned from Stacey was that Americans tended to see the world in bright colours. Things were awesome, great, fantastic or crap and bullshit – no middle ground.
I soon realised why it would be great, as we crossed the Thames – aka the great divide – into the labyrinth of South London. Psychic she might be, but Maggie had no sense of direction at all. It gave us a chance to talk, as we meandered back and forth through Deptford. I told her about my intended trip to the US and she offered some sagely advice: “The Mid-West, in December? Pack a sweater because winter is a bitch.”
By the time I navigated my way safely back to North London, where I also managed to get lost on my own, it was close on eleven. As I got inside the door, murmuring apologies for waking anyone up, the phone was ringing.
“Where have you been? I’ve called you four times now,” Polly pouted down the phone.
I didn’t say much beyond ‘hello’. I learned from the whole Stacey / visa incident that telling Polly what I was doing felt like giving away little pieces of myself – and I was still trying to collect a new set.
“So,” she sniffed, as the silence extended, “Where were you?”
“Just out.” I stared at the wallpaper and wondered whether tonight’s exercise to close down the aura could be used to good effect.
“Well, we went round to Nathan and Kate’s and you weren’t there.”
‘We’ – had they gone there on purpose, a sort of emotional badger baiting?
She picked up on my silence. “Anyway, I felt like talking and I wanted to see you were okay.”
What I should have said was, “I’m fine,” and politely put the phone down. But no; what I actually said was something along the lines of, “I think Nathan and Kate were getting little tired of me talking about how my girlfriend left me a few weeks ago, for some friend of hers.”
Then Polly started crying and I felt like a prick, again. And before I knew it, I knew more about her relationship with Jimmy than could ever have been good for me.
September’s warmth was overwhelmed by October and my thoughts turned more and more to my trip. I spoke to Stacey every week or so and she filled me in on all the people who wanted to meet me. Green Bay, Wisconsin didn’t get many visitors in December, apparently. Stacey would introduce me to her world – a cavalcade of bars, parties and bands. The only band I’d ever seen live was Tears For Tears at Hammersmith Odeon, and that had been at someone else’s invitation.
The closer I got to my trip, the better Polly and I seemed to get on. In truth, I was probably just absorbed with my own plans, but it did the trick. Once I even managed a short conversation with Jimmy, when we all ran into one another at a health food shop, our staccato sentences flying between us like daggers. It had never occurred to me up until then that he might be insecure about me. Somehow Polly had privately canonised me after the break-up, the way people do with their beloved dead.
I had continued with Maggie’s classes - it was a different way of seeing the world, but it made sense to me. If I really could create my own reality then surely I stood a chance of creating a better one for myself. I was also getting more into meditation and into writing. The combination of all of these influences not only made me more entertaining, probably, but it meant my conversations were often about something other than myself. Which explained why Nathan and Kate now welcomed me with open arms.
I was now Maggie’s regular ride home and enjoyed being her confidante. She told me about a gorgeous Italian she’d met at the start of the year in Rome, and how he was visiting for a few days. Consequently, there’d be no class the following week, because Maggie was hoping to get more physical than metaphysical.
At a loose end and all meditated out, I dropped in on Nathan and Kate unannounced. They seemed surprised to see me, on a class night but had made enough nut roast to go round. I thought then how much I liked the couple. We’d met at a fundraiser presentation of The Animals Film, and even though they thought most of the things I was learning at Maggie’s class were barmy, we got on well now. For my part, I never quite got my head around their fondness for Wilhelm Reich, but we all had Kate Bush in common.
After dinner, with chocolate soya dessert to follow, Nathan brought out a bottle of scotch, explaining that they were expecting visitors later, but I was welcome to stay. Kate opened her mouth to stay something, but Nathan silenced her with a glance. It didn’t take a degree in rocket science to guess who was coming over later.
“So, can I tempt you?” Nathan gave a nervous chuckle and held out a whisky for me.
I didn’t drink – one of the many things that had irritated Polly towards the end. ‘Couldn’t you just try and be a bit more sociable and a bit less superior?’ had been a regular query before Jimmy had showed up on the horizon. I shook my head; nothing had changed.
Then Nathan rolled a joint and offered it to me. I declined, and wondered whether a syringe was next on the list. Looking back, maybe Polly had a point. So, as Kate and Nathan smoked and drank, I sat there like a eunuch at an orgy.
By the time Polly and Jimmy turned up, the party was in full swing for at least two thirds of us. I felt like a prize exhibit as the joint passed around the circle of friendship, skipping me every time. I suffered polite, nonsensical conversation and they suffered me sat there, po-faced. They had intense conversations about nothing at all, about bands I’d never heard of and films that Polly and I would have scoffed at, a few months before. Not that I ever took Polly to the cinema. In more ways than one, it was time to go.
Maggie’s classes continued through November and we met some weekends for coffee. Except that I didn’t drink coffee either. She told me about her East Coast upbringing and the side of American life that wasn’t shown so much on TV – dysfunctional families, divorces, abusive relationships and how sometimes the only answer was to start a new life altogether. Maggie wasn’t that much older than me, but my life felt positively pedestrian.
December arrived and I counted down the days. (Okay, I had been counting down since October.) I said my goodbyes to the family, boarded the tube and patted my bags affectionately. Yes, it was only ten days away, but as far as I was concerned, it was the beginning of new vistas. Every tube station passed was another little bit of distance from my self and another marker towards this shining ‘other self’ I expected to become. And wasn’t I creating my own reality right now?
Heathrow was like a town in turmoil. I was used to the chaos of London, but the airport reeked of the battle between order and chaos. By the looks of it, chaos was winning on points. I found where I needed to go, went through the formalities and went through security. I had an hour to kill and sat down to write in my journal – a habit I’d picked up from Maggie.
I stared at the blank page and remembered all the rows with Polly, towards the end. The way she’d said I stifled her because I’d been stifling myself for years; no mean feat for someone not yet twenty-two. I must have been an early developed repressive – I think we’d bought a book on that sometime.
I put my notebook away, checked my boarding card and passport for the fifteenth time and just drifted around. I found my way to the bookstand and scanned the titles, wondering if one of mine would ever be among them. Polly used to say I was more interested in talking about writing than in actually putting pen to paper. I always promised to use that in a book…
The flight took nine hours and I relished every minute of it (except the bits when I was asleep.) – the sanitised movies, the forlorn vegan meal and even the man across the aisle who wore a hat for the whole flight and snored for most of it – this was living all right.
For the last half hour I was glued to the window, even though it was dark outside. As we descended below the clouds, the whole world looked like one giant Christmas tree; it took my breath away, beads of lights extending in all directions and scattered starbursts of colour. I felt like I was coming to magic land. And I wanted that moment to last forever. It didn’t, of course; the spell broke and the lights became a runway.
I came down with a bump on two counts, firstly with the rough landing in what looked like a blizzard and secondly at the hands of the Immigration and Naturalization Service, although it certainly wasn’t service with a smile.
I don’t know how the INS recruited its staff, but it certainly wasn’t a love of humanity that drew them to the job. The surly old-timer I had the good fortune to meet at his booth was like a caricature of the word sour. By the time I’d answered my twenty questions, flashed my credit card, return ticket and confirmation of where I would be staying, I was starting to panic about making my connecting flight to Milwaukee. I nodded attentively at the dire warnings about outstaying my visa and the severe consequences, shifting from foot to foot as I waited anxious for the return of my papers and passport. Finally, with the reluctance of an ageing Samurai, he stamped by passport and handed everything back to me. I like to think he mumbled, ‘Have a good stay,’ as I walked through. But it may have just been the wasp he was chewing, breathing its last.
I was here though, America; I’d pierced the bubble and stepped through from black and white to Technicolor. Even if it was black sky and white snow through the glass. I knew nothing about Milwaukee except The Fonz had lived there back in the fifties, on the TV anyway. And I liked not knowing anything, that delicious feeling of uncertainty that’s only fun when you’re travelling solo.
The connecting flight was aboard a tiny plane that seemed to struggle to get off the ground and struggled even more to stay in the air. The word turbulence doesn’t do it justice – disturbulence is closer to the mark. But I was tired and elated, and I had my eyes shut.
Milwaukee Airport was largely deserted. Looking back at the weather, it was a wonder that we’d made it in at all. As I walked through, Stacey was waiting for me. It wasn’t difficult to spot her – the pink mohician was a bit of a giveaway.
“I’ve changed a little, since last we met,” she chuckled to herself, at the look on my face.
In the time that I’d known Stacey in London, she’d been many things. She was a talented artist and made the transition to creative writing easily; in succession, she loved the metaphysical poets and punk and philosophy. Her hair had somehow reflected each of these personas – a pre-raphaelite red head, jet black and a strawberry blonde. I was intrigued to see who this pink lady was now.
We embraced and she grabbed one of my bags. She didn’t ask about my flight or go in for any small talk. I figured she was trying to beat the weather because she seemed like a woman on a mission. I wasn’t big on geography, but I hoped Green Bay was very close to Milwaukee. If I’d bothered to look at a map, I’d have seen it was about a hundred miles.
It was bitterly cold outside, but inside I was glowing. She led me to an Oldsmobile and dumped my stuff in the boot, sorry – trunk. The snow came in horizontally, but that didn’t seem to worry Stacey any, or slow her down. She was a seasoned winter driver and took no crap from the elements. I remember few details from that drive over to Green Bay, other than the constant thud-thud of the wipers to fend off the snow and Stacey’s constant conversation. She changed channels effortlessly, plotting out our itinerary one moment and discussing Sartre the next. Along the way she stopped for fuel and told me, “I guess you’re pretty tired so we’ll only make a small detour on the way to mom’s.”
The little detour turned out to be a party, and not the ice-cream and jelly kind. The music caught up with us a block away from the house. Cars littered the one end of a street and a few brace souls were milling about outside. Stacey turned off the engine. “Ready?”
Jetlag was beginning to kick in with a vengeance as I shouldered the car door and stepped outside, glad I’d decided to put boots on in London. Stacey set off at a furious pace and I trudged behind her like a frantic child. A woman was standing in the yard, where the yard would be, under all that snow. She rushed up to greet me as if we were old friends.
“And you must be Alex – I’ve heard so much about you – I’m Mesi, like the drink.”
I’d never heard of it, but even in m semi-conscious state, I had to agree that she looked edible. We went inside, arm in arm, as Stacey disappeared through a haze of smoke and people. People emerged from the swarm to shake my hand or to say hi to Mesi, mainly the latter. She seemed to know everyone there. I caught sight of Stacey periodically as she weaved from group to group, a few words here and there before she moved on, like a restless hummingbird. I couldn’t hear what was being said; the only things I could hear were the bass from the speakers and Mesi whispering to me.
A beer bottle was handed in my direction; Mesi waved it away. “He doesn’t drink,” she bellowed. I swear that one or two people near us swooned.
“Come on, she said, let’s go outside where we can talk.”
We walked around the side of the house and it was relatively quiet. She let go of my arm and put her tongue out, catching snowflakes. “Doesn’t matter how old I get, catching snowflakes always makes me feel like a child again.” I shivered a little as I watched her, but I didn’t feel like going anywhere. “We’ve all been so excited to meet you – Stacey’s special British friend.
I gave her a quizzical look and tried not to look her over too blatantly.
“Stacey doesn’t have many spiritual friends,” she explained. “Talk about meditation around here and most people will think you’re talking about jacking off.”
I must have blushed because she started laughing.
“I could just roll you in the snow and rub it in your face,” she said, bright-eyed and mischievous. She had a sad kind of a smile; the sort that burns bright then fades quickly. She blew a breath towards me and it seemed to hang there; I stepped towards her, inhaling it, tasting the tobacco flavoured vapour. Then we were standing toe-to-toe, underneath the twinkling stars, as if I was in my very own movie.
“Hey!” I turned to see Stacey stomping across the snow. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. We’re leaving. I missed Leo by about half an hour.” It felt like an accusation in my direction. “I’m gonna get a smoke for the drive then we’re out of here.”
Mesi walked me back inside so I could find the loo. “Stacey’s lovestruck on this guy from Appleton – it’ll pass.”
She waltzed me though a room of strangers and offered to stand guard because the lock was broken. I stood pissing into the void, with the music pounding through my ribcage and Mesi on the other side of the door. And this, I told myself, was only day one. Stacey met us at the front door and the three of us marched arm in arm to the car, off to see the wizard.
“Are you coming with us?” I said, a little too eagerly.
“Sorry, I’ve got people I need to catch up with.” She leaned in and kissed me on the tips of my lips. “Be seein’ ya soon though I hope.”
Stacey didn’t speak for the first ten minutes or so then it all came out in one great burst. “Did Mesi tell you about Leo? It’s not like we’re dating or anything. Only, well, there’s like this deep connection and it’s really tough to deal with right now. And anyway, did you bring your tarot cards like I asked you to?”
I nodded.
“Great.”
She seemed to relax a little after that and told me a little about Mesi. They’d met at a club where Mesi was promoting one of the bands. She was maybe seven years older than Stacey and looking to set up in talent management. Meantime, she studied, tended bar and put on events. Stacey also said that she and Mesi were tight and that Mesi was inviting me into her inner circle. She laughed when she said it although I didn’t get the joke at the time.
We drove straight to Stacey’s mom’s house, where we were staying. Her dad had moved to another state for (I never found out which one), for work and wouldn’t be back until New Year. She filled me in with more details on the way. Stacey’s other major should have been journalism – she liked to get down to the facts. Mom was a quiet person who liked her TV and home cooking. She didn’t know that Stacey had been a vegetarian – this was cattle country after all – and she also knew pretty much nothing about Stacey’s life in London. And Stacey wanted to keep it that way. That was me, told.
Her mom met us at the door – it was getting late now and my body clock was shot to pieces. Stacey took my bags in and steered me into the kitchen where her mom had made cookies. Her mom threw a motherly arm around Stacey and they stood together in front of me, Stacey’s pink mohician making her seem about a foot taller.
“It’s lovely to meet you dear,” she smiled and left us to it. “I’ll be in the parlour if you need anything.”
“So,” Stacey snapped a cookie in half and handed me one piece, “Welcome to America!”
Saturday, 28 August 2010
Thursday, 19 August 2010
Scars & Stripes - a work in progress
I've finally dragged myself back to my US notes and resumed hacking back the paper jungle that was the opening for Scars & Stripes - Memoirs of a Failed American. And even though my US colleagues at A Word With You press hated the title, it's staying.
Here's the beginning.
Chapter 1 – The First Time (PART 1)
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Polly whispered breathlessly. “And you’re not going to like it.” Her eyes veered away from mine then sharply back again, as if to check my progress.
I knew what was coming: the fights, the angry silences, the mysterious disappearances – they all pointed to one thing. My mind raced back, picking out clues, like the end of a murder mystery – wisdom in hindsight. Polly, suddenly smoking again; Polly, listening to new music all the time; Polly, changing.
“There’s someone else.”
Once it was out in the open, neither of us spoke for what seemed like ages. I stood there in tears while she looked on in mute embarrassment. I’d like to say that I handled it well, but that would be a lie. I was twenty, with the emotional maturity of a troubled eight year-old, and my secure little world had just been shattered.
When Polly spoke again, I wished she hadn’t. “It’s Jimmy – it’s been going on for a month now. I thought it was time we were honest about it.”
Jimmy, the just a good friend that I’d had to swallow my suspicions about, because I was ‘obviously insecure’. Too right I was.
Naturally, I was a complete arsehole about everything. I pleaded my case in a predictable fashion – swearing, shouting and recriminations – all the greats. Polly bore it all stoically; I suppose I could even say she was generous about it. She could afford to be though – she’d got what she wanted.
“So, erm,” she chewed her lip, “I’m gonna take off for a couple of days. Mum says you can come round any time over the weekend to pick your stuff up.
“Where will you be?” I sniffed, blinking slowly to try and take it all in.
“Folkestone. Jimmy’s folks have a place out there.”
Next thing I knew, I was at the front door, and Polly was whispering ‘sorry’ as if I’d just failed an interview. The door closed behind me and I stood there for a moment, watching the traffic. Then I heard her mother’s voice through the glass. “About bloody time – I thought he was never going to leave.” She may as well have popped the champagne.
I didn’t sleep well that Friday night, tortured by the thought – well, the reality – of Polly and Jimmy together in Folkestone. On Saturday, I went out shopping for goodbye presents, and on Sunday morning, I went back over and collected my things. I left her two parting gifts: The Egyptian Book of the Dead (it would have been a Christmas present) and a Madonna single, Crazy for You. It was the autumn of 1985 and, as far as I was concerned, my life was over. Little did I realise that it was just beginning.
My Civil Service job wasn’t much of a comfort, and not just because of the boredom. It so happened that Polly and I worked in the same building. We hadn’t met there, but it was a quirk of fate that when I applied, that’s where they sent me. I’d catch glimpses of her in the foyer sometimes and she always wore a pained expression whenever she saw me; the kind that people reserve for a beloved pet in its dotage. Occasionally we would try and have civilised lunches together, with me trying not to play twenty questions about the past. While Polly, swinging between concern for me (because we were friends now) and someone in the first heat of a relationship, wanted to share how great life was with Jimmy, with all her friends. It was a shit situation, seeing Polly. I longed to see her, but every time I did, I felt as if I was making payments on a car I was never going to drive.
We divided our friends like possessions – it wasn’t a difficult split. Those people I’d known before we met, I kept. Everyone else sided with her, but I had access rights. I felt I was being squeezed out of my own life. However, I had a secret.
Nine months before the split, I had met Paul’s new girlfriend (he was one of my originals). He went out with an American exchange student, Stacey, for a few months and we’d staged in touch after Paul inevitably cheated on her.
Two days after Polly set off to Folkestone, I rang Stacey in Wisconsin to share the bad news. She was fatalistically philosophical. “I knew it would happen eventually. It’s a shame we can’t meet up.”
“Yeah,” I sniped, “I’ll just get the bus.”
“You could always fly – they have planes these days…”
It was a lifeline and I grabbed at it. I’d never been anywhere before, unless you included a family trip to Malta. All I knew about the USA was what I had gleaned from TV and films, and the time spent talking with Stacey. As far as I could see, it was full of bold, fascinating and talkative people. And I was going.
I felt a tremendous sense of power in holding this back from Polly during our friendly lunches, for the whole three weeks I managed to keep my mouth shut. But I grew tired hearing about Jimmy’s car, his sensitive side and how they were just so good together. I was about as subtle as a lump hammer. “I can’t meet for lunch next Friday – I’ve got an appointment.” Naturally, Polly took the bait.
“Is it a job interview?” Her voice dipped a little.
“No, I need to get my visa sorted out.” I was reeling this out, yard by yard, and loving it.
“Oh?” she lowered her hummus sandwich.
“I’ve got to be at the American Embassy for 12.15.” I passed then added, like a child bragging about the toy it’s already holding. “Because I’m going to America.”
Polly looked at me in a different way. I’d become exotic, decisive even; perhaps a little more like the interesting person I had been when we’d met. And yes, that is a quote.
My sense of superiority didn’t last long, once I’d got my visa. Stacey and I had arranged a date in December – nearly three months away. Meantime, I was still in Polly’s gravitational pull – bumping into her at friends’, passing on the doorstep in opposite directions (did I mention she was very organised?). I saw Jimmy for the first time like that and we did that awful nodding acknowledgement – the recognition that we each wished the other under a bus and the only thing we had in common was that we’d slept with the same woman.
Friends tried to be patient. But the truth was that I hadn’t moved on. I’d listen as they told me I ought to see new people. I’d tilt my head against the words and spend the rest of the evening showering my gloom and despondency on everyone around me.
I took to spending more time on my own, taking myself off at the weekends to wander around London like a spectre. I often gravitated towards Covent Garden – it was like a different world, where boutiques and design shops rubbed shoulders with new age emporia and veggie restaurants. I loved it.
The new age shop where I bought Polly’s Book of the Dead was a particular favourite. And where better to figure out what to do with my life? The shop manager, a kindly looking man with a bushy beard and glasses – like a cross between a Maharishi and an accountant – peered down a list.
“I can do you a tarot in half an hour or a palm reading after four.”
I checked the clock on the wall – the one festooned with angels. It wasn’t yet two. I opted for the tarot reading, left my name and payment upfront and went for a walk.
“Don’t be late back,” he called after me. “The cards don’t like to be kept waiting.”
I left the shop smiling. I felt good, as if I was doing something positive about my situation, beyond spending a tenner I mean.
When I returned, I was shown through to the back of the shop. “Number 3,” he assured me, pointing down some steps. As I walked past numbers one and two, I could hear a low muttering as the psychics and seers plied their trade. Don’t get me wrong - I wasn’t a sceptic; far from it: I had a set of my own cards. For all the good they did me. Polly and I had gone through a mystical phase, just after the political phase and just before the alternative psychology phase. But my expectations weren’t great; I just wanted something to happen and this was all I could think of.
I knocked on the door marked ‘3’ and the taped paper flapped against the wood. The door eased in a little so I went inside. A woman was sat opposite a table, facing me. One hand was clenched around a can of coca cola and the other rested by a spread of cards, as if she expected one or the other to make a break for it. A cigarette burned lazily on the edge of a saucer, four spent companions in the centre like a family grave.
I glanced at the cigarette and coughed involuntarily. She took the hint and stubbed it out. That, or she really was psychic. She smiled, proffered her hand and said, “Hi, I’m Maggie – take a seat.”
I sat and she scraped the cards together and passed them over. I knew the drill, shuffling them quietly, trying to focus on ‘the matter at hand’ without making eye contact or asking questions about her accent. Irish? Canadian? American?
She laid the cards out face down, in rapid succession, pausing only to finish the last of her cola. One ten cards were in place on the baize, she started top left and turned over the two of cups, upside down from where I was sitting. She smiled and looked straight at me. “So, your relationship has just ended.”
I let out a stilted sigh and shifted in my seat. That was how I came to meet Maggie, although I didn’t know at the time how important that meeting would become.
It was less of a psychic reading after those first few words, and more of a meeting of minds. We were like old friends, swapping favourite authors and laughing about the incongruities of life. And for what it’s worth, most of what she said was accurate. Towards the end, she wrote something on a piece of paper and said, “I teach at Old Street – you should come along.”
I waggled my head noncommittally, picked up the note and shook her hand. She had already lit up another cigarette before I got out the room.
Outside, the sun was still shining and for once I was smiling. Nothing had really happened in half an hour; I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly, but I felt like I had just managed to scratch an itch I didn’t even know I had.
The following Tuesday evening, I arrived at Maggie’s class. I wasn’t even sure what class it was at first. Over the next seven weeks I learned about meditation and the symbolism of my dreams, I practised moving imagined spheres of energy and I started to look at people differently. Everyone seemed to have a set role. There were the bright ones, the needy ones (I was the crossover kid), the devout Christian who nonetheless wanted to see what was on offer, the one with his own preconceived ideas that he always wanted to share and the ones looking for a date.
I stayed behind after the second class and helped tidy the furniture away. It wasn’t as if I had anywhere pressing to go.
“Do you need a lift?” I gripped my car keys like an amulet.
Here's the beginning.
Chapter 1 – The First Time (PART 1)
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Polly whispered breathlessly. “And you’re not going to like it.” Her eyes veered away from mine then sharply back again, as if to check my progress.
I knew what was coming: the fights, the angry silences, the mysterious disappearances – they all pointed to one thing. My mind raced back, picking out clues, like the end of a murder mystery – wisdom in hindsight. Polly, suddenly smoking again; Polly, listening to new music all the time; Polly, changing.
“There’s someone else.”
Once it was out in the open, neither of us spoke for what seemed like ages. I stood there in tears while she looked on in mute embarrassment. I’d like to say that I handled it well, but that would be a lie. I was twenty, with the emotional maturity of a troubled eight year-old, and my secure little world had just been shattered.
When Polly spoke again, I wished she hadn’t. “It’s Jimmy – it’s been going on for a month now. I thought it was time we were honest about it.”
Jimmy, the just a good friend that I’d had to swallow my suspicions about, because I was ‘obviously insecure’. Too right I was.
Naturally, I was a complete arsehole about everything. I pleaded my case in a predictable fashion – swearing, shouting and recriminations – all the greats. Polly bore it all stoically; I suppose I could even say she was generous about it. She could afford to be though – she’d got what she wanted.
“So, erm,” she chewed her lip, “I’m gonna take off for a couple of days. Mum says you can come round any time over the weekend to pick your stuff up.
“Where will you be?” I sniffed, blinking slowly to try and take it all in.
“Folkestone. Jimmy’s folks have a place out there.”
Next thing I knew, I was at the front door, and Polly was whispering ‘sorry’ as if I’d just failed an interview. The door closed behind me and I stood there for a moment, watching the traffic. Then I heard her mother’s voice through the glass. “About bloody time – I thought he was never going to leave.” She may as well have popped the champagne.
I didn’t sleep well that Friday night, tortured by the thought – well, the reality – of Polly and Jimmy together in Folkestone. On Saturday, I went out shopping for goodbye presents, and on Sunday morning, I went back over and collected my things. I left her two parting gifts: The Egyptian Book of the Dead (it would have been a Christmas present) and a Madonna single, Crazy for You. It was the autumn of 1985 and, as far as I was concerned, my life was over. Little did I realise that it was just beginning.
My Civil Service job wasn’t much of a comfort, and not just because of the boredom. It so happened that Polly and I worked in the same building. We hadn’t met there, but it was a quirk of fate that when I applied, that’s where they sent me. I’d catch glimpses of her in the foyer sometimes and she always wore a pained expression whenever she saw me; the kind that people reserve for a beloved pet in its dotage. Occasionally we would try and have civilised lunches together, with me trying not to play twenty questions about the past. While Polly, swinging between concern for me (because we were friends now) and someone in the first heat of a relationship, wanted to share how great life was with Jimmy, with all her friends. It was a shit situation, seeing Polly. I longed to see her, but every time I did, I felt as if I was making payments on a car I was never going to drive.
We divided our friends like possessions – it wasn’t a difficult split. Those people I’d known before we met, I kept. Everyone else sided with her, but I had access rights. I felt I was being squeezed out of my own life. However, I had a secret.
Nine months before the split, I had met Paul’s new girlfriend (he was one of my originals). He went out with an American exchange student, Stacey, for a few months and we’d staged in touch after Paul inevitably cheated on her.
Two days after Polly set off to Folkestone, I rang Stacey in Wisconsin to share the bad news. She was fatalistically philosophical. “I knew it would happen eventually. It’s a shame we can’t meet up.”
“Yeah,” I sniped, “I’ll just get the bus.”
“You could always fly – they have planes these days…”
It was a lifeline and I grabbed at it. I’d never been anywhere before, unless you included a family trip to Malta. All I knew about the USA was what I had gleaned from TV and films, and the time spent talking with Stacey. As far as I could see, it was full of bold, fascinating and talkative people. And I was going.
I felt a tremendous sense of power in holding this back from Polly during our friendly lunches, for the whole three weeks I managed to keep my mouth shut. But I grew tired hearing about Jimmy’s car, his sensitive side and how they were just so good together. I was about as subtle as a lump hammer. “I can’t meet for lunch next Friday – I’ve got an appointment.” Naturally, Polly took the bait.
“Is it a job interview?” Her voice dipped a little.
“No, I need to get my visa sorted out.” I was reeling this out, yard by yard, and loving it.
“Oh?” she lowered her hummus sandwich.
“I’ve got to be at the American Embassy for 12.15.” I passed then added, like a child bragging about the toy it’s already holding. “Because I’m going to America.”
Polly looked at me in a different way. I’d become exotic, decisive even; perhaps a little more like the interesting person I had been when we’d met. And yes, that is a quote.
My sense of superiority didn’t last long, once I’d got my visa. Stacey and I had arranged a date in December – nearly three months away. Meantime, I was still in Polly’s gravitational pull – bumping into her at friends’, passing on the doorstep in opposite directions (did I mention she was very organised?). I saw Jimmy for the first time like that and we did that awful nodding acknowledgement – the recognition that we each wished the other under a bus and the only thing we had in common was that we’d slept with the same woman.
Friends tried to be patient. But the truth was that I hadn’t moved on. I’d listen as they told me I ought to see new people. I’d tilt my head against the words and spend the rest of the evening showering my gloom and despondency on everyone around me.
I took to spending more time on my own, taking myself off at the weekends to wander around London like a spectre. I often gravitated towards Covent Garden – it was like a different world, where boutiques and design shops rubbed shoulders with new age emporia and veggie restaurants. I loved it.
The new age shop where I bought Polly’s Book of the Dead was a particular favourite. And where better to figure out what to do with my life? The shop manager, a kindly looking man with a bushy beard and glasses – like a cross between a Maharishi and an accountant – peered down a list.
“I can do you a tarot in half an hour or a palm reading after four.”
I checked the clock on the wall – the one festooned with angels. It wasn’t yet two. I opted for the tarot reading, left my name and payment upfront and went for a walk.
“Don’t be late back,” he called after me. “The cards don’t like to be kept waiting.”
I left the shop smiling. I felt good, as if I was doing something positive about my situation, beyond spending a tenner I mean.
When I returned, I was shown through to the back of the shop. “Number 3,” he assured me, pointing down some steps. As I walked past numbers one and two, I could hear a low muttering as the psychics and seers plied their trade. Don’t get me wrong - I wasn’t a sceptic; far from it: I had a set of my own cards. For all the good they did me. Polly and I had gone through a mystical phase, just after the political phase and just before the alternative psychology phase. But my expectations weren’t great; I just wanted something to happen and this was all I could think of.
I knocked on the door marked ‘3’ and the taped paper flapped against the wood. The door eased in a little so I went inside. A woman was sat opposite a table, facing me. One hand was clenched around a can of coca cola and the other rested by a spread of cards, as if she expected one or the other to make a break for it. A cigarette burned lazily on the edge of a saucer, four spent companions in the centre like a family grave.
I glanced at the cigarette and coughed involuntarily. She took the hint and stubbed it out. That, or she really was psychic. She smiled, proffered her hand and said, “Hi, I’m Maggie – take a seat.”
I sat and she scraped the cards together and passed them over. I knew the drill, shuffling them quietly, trying to focus on ‘the matter at hand’ without making eye contact or asking questions about her accent. Irish? Canadian? American?
She laid the cards out face down, in rapid succession, pausing only to finish the last of her cola. One ten cards were in place on the baize, she started top left and turned over the two of cups, upside down from where I was sitting. She smiled and looked straight at me. “So, your relationship has just ended.”
I let out a stilted sigh and shifted in my seat. That was how I came to meet Maggie, although I didn’t know at the time how important that meeting would become.
It was less of a psychic reading after those first few words, and more of a meeting of minds. We were like old friends, swapping favourite authors and laughing about the incongruities of life. And for what it’s worth, most of what she said was accurate. Towards the end, she wrote something on a piece of paper and said, “I teach at Old Street – you should come along.”
I waggled my head noncommittally, picked up the note and shook her hand. She had already lit up another cigarette before I got out the room.
Outside, the sun was still shining and for once I was smiling. Nothing had really happened in half an hour; I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly, but I felt like I had just managed to scratch an itch I didn’t even know I had.
The following Tuesday evening, I arrived at Maggie’s class. I wasn’t even sure what class it was at first. Over the next seven weeks I learned about meditation and the symbolism of my dreams, I practised moving imagined spheres of energy and I started to look at people differently. Everyone seemed to have a set role. There were the bright ones, the needy ones (I was the crossover kid), the devout Christian who nonetheless wanted to see what was on offer, the one with his own preconceived ideas that he always wanted to share and the ones looking for a date.
I stayed behind after the second class and helped tidy the furniture away. It wasn’t as if I had anywhere pressing to go.
“Do you need a lift?” I gripped my car keys like an amulet.
Saturday, 14 August 2010
Don't bank on it
I think I must be the only person I know who keeps a bank account as a keepsake. It's a little connection to my late brother - it was his account, before it became our account, before it became my account - and it's also to remind me of possibly the worst customer experience I am ever likely to have.
If you read this blog regularly, you may know that my brother and I had a close if contentious relationship. One thing I will say for him though is that he was a meticulous planner. So, when he became seriously ill, he added my name to his staff account at the bank. That way, when the inevitable came, the funeral arrangements could be made without a fuss. Once it was done, we didn't discuss it again, except when he saw that they'd printed my name before his on the chequebook and got it changed, or when he told me that he'd received my bank card at the flat and had cut it up. Life can be complicated for brothers.
After David died (and even now, those three words have a crushing finality about them), I went through all the processes like an automaton, guided by a close friend of his. Living in Cornwall, she kindly arranged some flowers for me for the service and I wrote her a cheque from 'the account'. You can imagine her distress when her bank bounced the cheque and returned it as 'Account Holder Deceased'. I ranted at the bank and they explained it was procedure, even though it was a joint account and I was not only alive, but seething. I was also told that I'd have to go to his local branch to deal with it, which I did after collecting the ashes - I have to say, not my best week of all time.
In the branch, the manager spoke to Supplier Liaison and determined that not only had the cheque bounced, but the account had been frozen. Supplier Liaison don't make mistakes, apparently; and neither do they write to account holders when they've frozen their accounts like this. The branch manager, to her credit, raged almost as much as I had and the account was reinstated with the promise of a written explanation within two weeks. I'm sure you all know the banks well enough now to realise that the letter never arrived.
So far so bad. Well, David had three savings bonds which he'd taken out less than a year before he died. Each was for a different term and, naturally, these all had to be redeemed as part of the resolution of his estate. Bonds 1 and 3 were closed in a timely fashion, but I had to chase the middle Bond for another two weeks because, '...it seems that the paper got stuck to the bottom of the first sheet and was mislaid or forgotten.'
The final insult came when, having dealt with most of the bureaucracy which has to be attended to in such circumstances, the bank contacted me to offer their services, in the processing of his will and effects. And, lucky me, because he'd been an employee of the bank, they could do it all for a mere £4000 or thereabouts. This, for a single man with a flat and few complications. Generous to a fault, the bank even offered me an extra discount on the day (they sent a representative to my home, on a no obligation basis), when I was walking said rep back to her car. Consistent to the end.
And now, every time I go to a local branch, they look at the account and see that I'm 'staff' and ask me if I'm retired (a London division banking sort code) or on holiday. I smile sweetly and tell them I've never worked for the bank and that the bank has never worked for me.
If you read this blog regularly, you may know that my brother and I had a close if contentious relationship. One thing I will say for him though is that he was a meticulous planner. So, when he became seriously ill, he added my name to his staff account at the bank. That way, when the inevitable came, the funeral arrangements could be made without a fuss. Once it was done, we didn't discuss it again, except when he saw that they'd printed my name before his on the chequebook and got it changed, or when he told me that he'd received my bank card at the flat and had cut it up. Life can be complicated for brothers.
After David died (and even now, those three words have a crushing finality about them), I went through all the processes like an automaton, guided by a close friend of his. Living in Cornwall, she kindly arranged some flowers for me for the service and I wrote her a cheque from 'the account'. You can imagine her distress when her bank bounced the cheque and returned it as 'Account Holder Deceased'. I ranted at the bank and they explained it was procedure, even though it was a joint account and I was not only alive, but seething. I was also told that I'd have to go to his local branch to deal with it, which I did after collecting the ashes - I have to say, not my best week of all time.
In the branch, the manager spoke to Supplier Liaison and determined that not only had the cheque bounced, but the account had been frozen. Supplier Liaison don't make mistakes, apparently; and neither do they write to account holders when they've frozen their accounts like this. The branch manager, to her credit, raged almost as much as I had and the account was reinstated with the promise of a written explanation within two weeks. I'm sure you all know the banks well enough now to realise that the letter never arrived.
So far so bad. Well, David had three savings bonds which he'd taken out less than a year before he died. Each was for a different term and, naturally, these all had to be redeemed as part of the resolution of his estate. Bonds 1 and 3 were closed in a timely fashion, but I had to chase the middle Bond for another two weeks because, '...it seems that the paper got stuck to the bottom of the first sheet and was mislaid or forgotten.'
The final insult came when, having dealt with most of the bureaucracy which has to be attended to in such circumstances, the bank contacted me to offer their services, in the processing of his will and effects. And, lucky me, because he'd been an employee of the bank, they could do it all for a mere £4000 or thereabouts. This, for a single man with a flat and few complications. Generous to a fault, the bank even offered me an extra discount on the day (they sent a representative to my home, on a no obligation basis), when I was walking said rep back to her car. Consistent to the end.
And now, every time I go to a local branch, they look at the account and see that I'm 'staff' and ask me if I'm retired (a London division banking sort code) or on holiday. I smile sweetly and tell them I've never worked for the bank and that the bank has never worked for me.
Monday, 9 August 2010
Shades of grey
Usually, when I start a post, I have a clear idea of what I want to say or at the very least some semblance of a point I want to make. Not so today. I haven't even figured out where I stand on the following situation, but it grabbed my attention and now it's all yours.
On Radio 4 today, there was a short piece about cuts to the Arts Council's budget. I missed the beginning, but I gather from other sources that the Arts Council has to reduce its overall budget by £19m. This will mean a direct cut of £1.8m of funding, affecting around 800 arts organisations.
The radio interview was with one of the owners of Flambard Press (http://www.flambardpress.co.uk/) - I'm afraid I didn't catch her name. Flambard Press has a reputation for innovative authors and I've submitted material to them this year without success. That's not relevant to this post; it's just some context.
So, the owner explained that Flambard Press has been going for 20 years and has received Arts funding since its inception, and currently receives £21,000 a year. She made a convincing case for the importance of independent publishers like Flambard and that £21k is a small sum in the great scheme of things. (I was reminded of the £78m of National Lottery funding given to the Royal Opera House, back in the 90s.)
I came to the arts arena after leaving my corporate job, with two unpublished novels in hand and the promise of publication within a year. Over a year later, I'm come to see the arts world in an entirely different light. Different rules apply and it is a hand-to-mouth environment. Success, it appears, is judged different criteria. It seems to be more about fulfilling a niche need and it definitely helps to tap into the right networks. Some things have changed though. There are people will go out of their way to help you while there are others will smile as they pull up the ladder behind them and make sure that window of opportunity is securely locked.
So the idea that a publisher can be funded for 20 years was something of a revelation. I wish them every success and I'm flabbergasted, all at the same time. Mainly, I started to wonder. Could a writer get that kind of patronage?
On Radio 4 today, there was a short piece about cuts to the Arts Council's budget. I missed the beginning, but I gather from other sources that the Arts Council has to reduce its overall budget by £19m. This will mean a direct cut of £1.8m of funding, affecting around 800 arts organisations.
The radio interview was with one of the owners of Flambard Press (http://www.flambardpress.co.uk/) - I'm afraid I didn't catch her name. Flambard Press has a reputation for innovative authors and I've submitted material to them this year without success. That's not relevant to this post; it's just some context.
So, the owner explained that Flambard Press has been going for 20 years and has received Arts funding since its inception, and currently receives £21,000 a year. She made a convincing case for the importance of independent publishers like Flambard and that £21k is a small sum in the great scheme of things. (I was reminded of the £78m of National Lottery funding given to the Royal Opera House, back in the 90s.)
I came to the arts arena after leaving my corporate job, with two unpublished novels in hand and the promise of publication within a year. Over a year later, I'm come to see the arts world in an entirely different light. Different rules apply and it is a hand-to-mouth environment. Success, it appears, is judged different criteria. It seems to be more about fulfilling a niche need and it definitely helps to tap into the right networks. Some things have changed though. There are people will go out of their way to help you while there are others will smile as they pull up the ladder behind them and make sure that window of opportunity is securely locked.
So the idea that a publisher can be funded for 20 years was something of a revelation. I wish them every success and I'm flabbergasted, all at the same time. Mainly, I started to wonder. Could a writer get that kind of patronage?
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Number 8*
As many of you will know, I've been reporting on the growing backlash against opportunities for writers which offer no pay but promise exposure and a writing credit. There's a lot of debate over what constitutes an internship, where a website or printed publication offers a reasonable prospect of developing a readership and when someone else is just earning at your expense.
In all of those discussions and ballista exchanges, the common feature has been that the owners of these websites and publications have been upfront about the lack of paid prospects at the outset.
Today, in a quiet moment when I needed a break from editing Line of Sight, I did a plagiarism search using http://www.plagiarismchecker.com/
Imagine my surprise to find my writing repeated on this link - http://www.zimbio.com/member/ajiis54/articles without any permission on my part or crediting me with the authorship. I've written to http://www.zimbio.com with my own version of a Cease & Desist email so watch this space.
How and why did this happen?
A good question. It all seemed to start when I answered an add to write a blog post containing the name E-r-k-i-n B-e-k-b-o-l-o-t-o-v. And they paid me, too. The blog-thief (a novel title if ever I heard one) only appeared after my E-B posting so maybe it was a sprat to catch a mackerel, or in this case, my content. It could be completely unrelated though. Whatever the case, it's made me more vigilant about my content and where it ends up.
* Number 8 = thou shalt not steal.
In all of those discussions and ballista exchanges, the common feature has been that the owners of these websites and publications have been upfront about the lack of paid prospects at the outset.
Today, in a quiet moment when I needed a break from editing Line of Sight, I did a plagiarism search using http://www.plagiarismchecker.com/
Imagine my surprise to find my writing repeated on this link - http://www.zimbio.com/member/ajiis54/articles without any permission on my part or crediting me with the authorship. I've written to http://www.zimbio.com with my own version of a Cease & Desist email so watch this space.
How and why did this happen?
A good question. It all seemed to start when I answered an add to write a blog post containing the name E-r-k-i-n B-e-k-b-o-l-o-t-o-v. And they paid me, too. The blog-thief (a novel title if ever I heard one) only appeared after my E-B posting so maybe it was a sprat to catch a mackerel, or in this case, my content. It could be completely unrelated though. Whatever the case, it's made me more vigilant about my content and where it ends up.
* Number 8 = thou shalt not steal.
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