Caliban: May 2011

It's May and we have just had the result of the AV referendum (it lost, horribly).

I was very unsure about which way to vote. I liked the idea of voting for a smaller party which more closely represented my views, and also being able to nominate my second choice who stood a realistic chance of being elected.

But - It was very clear that AV would mean more coalition governments. Which is of course why the Liberal Democrats insisted it was part of their price for joining the current government. So that would mean more instances of the party with with the least votes deciding which party would be in government.

So it's not the 10 million who voted Conservative or even the 8 million who voted Labour who decide the party of Government - it's the 6 million who voted Liberal Democrat. And this is decided not by the voters, but by politicians doing deals - with each other.

The referendum itself was a prime example. We were denied a referendum on the EU Constitution/Lisbon Treaty which many people felt quite passionate about. But we get one on voting reform, which most people do not care about at all. Why? Because of a coalition agreement, made entirely between politicians. Doesn't seem right to me. Which is why I finally voted - No.

Onto May's showcase work. This is a piece from the Family Life page. A domestic story of ordinary people and an eccentric, rather troublesome neighbour who is less than he says, but more than he seems.

All His Works

When Old Joe was taken ill they called me. Silly really, after all I hardly knew him. But then again, nobody really knew him. At least nobody ever visited that run down old bungalow. And I found out afterwards that they couldn't trace any relatives. So, as chairman of the local Residents Association, they called me.

"What can I do?" I said to Wendy, my wife. "I can't just say no, can I? I mean, he's ill; maybe it's serious."

"But it's none of our business," she said. "We don't know him. It's not an Association matter."

She was right of course. In fact old Joe and I had had words on several occasions about the state of his garden. What a mess! Weeds as tall as your shoulder, no wonder the other residents of the Close complained.

But it was no use complaining to Joe. Several times I hacked my way up the overgrown path to that green front door. I suppose once it was a nice glossy green but now it was blistered and dull. Such a shame I thought, to let it go to rack and ruin that way. Of course the bell did not work, so each time I had to hammer and bash on the door until Joe finally responded.

Nobody knew how old Joe really was, but he looked about eighty to me. He was short with a great mop of silver hair. I never saw him without a little black beret on his head, and he always wore the same baggy corduroy jacket. Our conversations never really got very far. Sometimes old Joe would be a Great Sculptor, sometimes a Great Engineer, sometimes a Great opera Singer. At least he was consistent in one thing; they were always Great. Joe had no truck with the second rate.

It's difficult to have a serious discussion with a Great Fighter Pilot about the state of his garden. I suppose it all seems a bit trivial to him, what with the fate of whole nations depending on the success of his next mission. In some ways I could see his point of view, but it didn't cut much ice with the Residents Association. At times the meetings got quite heated. As I said to Simpson at one of our recent gatherings;

"If you feel that way about it, why don't you say something yourself. You see him walking by often enough." And do you know what Simpson said?

"Every time I try to speak to him, he just goes on about his latest painting or statue or mission or something else damn silly." Well, of course, I replied:

"Well there you are then! It's just the same for me. What do you expect me to do?"

Although I got the support of the meeting to move onto the next item on the agenda, it was a bit grudging I felt. The discussion on the new street light for the corner was a little strained.

"It's all very well Mr bloody Simpson getting all hot and bothered about the weeds blowing into to his garden," I said to Wendy afterwards, "but it's not him who has to go and represent the Association."

"You encourage him" she said.
This was too much. I was frankly annoyed.

"Simpson is a pompous overbearing ninny, how could I possibly encourage him."

"Not Simpson; Old Joe!" She said, rather scathingly I thought. "Something really ought to be done about him. That old bungalow must be a public health hazard. And as for all his silly talk about that Great Novel he's writing, I don't believe a word of it."

I suppose I did have a secret soft spot for the old boy. After all it's not often that you get the chance to meet a Great General and Great Author in the same day, let alone the same man. And not every suburban street can claim to have a Great Painter in residence.

So I went to see him at the hospital. As always, the hospital was a foreign country. The long windy walk from the car park to the usual antiseptic maze of corridors with incomprehensible signs and closed doors to worrying rooms. And of course, that Smell. I suppose people who work there get used to it, but to the casual visitor it's the trademark of sickness. That special blend of boiled cabbage and antiseptic, accept no substitute.

I finally found the ward where Joe was supposed to be. By the time I got there it was late and very few visitors remained. The trouble with modern hospitals is they don't have fixed visiting hours, so you have to invent some important appointment, or pretend that you are overtaxing the patient in order to get away.

Fortunately the patient is usually as bored as you, so it works out all right, but some of these visitors, poor devils, looked trapped. They stared at me as I walked down the ward, willing me to announce the end of visiting for today. I peered embarrassingly up and down the rows of beds trying to recognise him. He was right at the end. So, feeling conspicuously vertical in this horizontal world, I walked to his bedside. Lying in those totally alien stiff white sheets poor old Joe was smaller, diminished. He also looked very, very, ill.

"Hello Joe." I said, "How are you feeling." I think he recognised me, but it was hard to be sure. He turned his head to me,

"It's my greatest work, you know."

"I'm sure it is, but how are you. What happened?"

"Not too good. It's my heart they say. But what do they know. Young kids most of 'em. Now when I had my practice. . ." He stopped and drew a long, laboured breath.

"All the residents back in the Close wondered what had happened to you" I quickly lied.

"Those bastards, they wouldn't recognise great art if it bit their bum. All they care about is their bloody front lawns." He gasped, getting a bit red in the cheeks. "Fascists all of 'em, we fought a war to keep England free of Simpson and his kind. He relaxed back onto his pillow.

"Little shit." He said more quietly. A Nurse arrived she looked about thirteen.

"Is everything O.K. Mr Greenslade?" She said briskly. Joe grunted something.

"Please take care not to over tire him. He needs lots of rest." She said to me in a rather pointed manner, and bustled off.

I sat by the bed not quite knowing what to say. I certainly did not want to provoke another outburst. But I could not think of a damn thing to talk about. Soon Joe came to the rescue.

"It's my greatest work you know" he said again. "Not that the other stuff was bad. Oh no. It's just that this is my, er, whatchamacallit. . . you know."

"Masterpiece?"

"Yes, that's it. Masterpiece. Now they'll have to take notice. It's a conspiracy you know. They're all against me. But I'll show 'em, you mark my words." Once more the colour was starting to rise in old Joe's cheeks.

"Yes, a conspiracy" he said, starting to warm to his subject. "They want to keep me down, you know. I know things. But they won't do it you know. You can't suppress Great Art. . ."

"Don't tire yourself Joe." I said hastily, but his breathing had become very laboured and I started to panic. I pressed the bell push by his bed and then started to walk down the ward to get the nurse. She arrived quite soon and looked accusingly at me. Before I could properly explain she drew the curtain around the bed and went inside, a few seconds later she emerged and swept rapidly off down the ward.

She soon returned with a young male Doctor and the two of them disappeared into the tented city. After a very long five minutes he came out and said he had something rather serious to tell me, and would I follow him. As it was pretty obvious that poor old Joe had finally departed this world, I started to get very nervous. Was he going to tell me Joe had some dreadful infectious disease and I was going to have to spend weeks in isolation while they carried out tests to see if I would live?

We went into a tatty waiting room filled with those steel tube and Rexene chairs that must be specially designed for National Health hospital waiting rooms. You never seem to see them anywhere else. But then who else would buy the awful things? The doctor put on a special sincere look.

"Were you and your Father very close?" He said. I was momentarily confused. Then I realised this was the new sympathetic 'bedside manner' programme recently introduced to the Health Service. I read about it in the local paper. I quickly explained that Joe was really just an acquaintance. The Doctor looked a bit put out. I suppose he wanted the practice.

I felt a bit guilty; after all he was only trying to help, so I tried to look deeply moved. The trouble was, all this play¬acting somehow rather got in the way of the real sadness I felt about poor old Joe finally ending his days in this place. It was not exactly a fitting end to a Great Artist. I had the vague feeling he should have died in a hut on a south sea island, or in a plane crash or even a motorbike accident, something with a bit of glamour. I tried to explain to the doctor, but it was a mistake. I could tell by the way he looked at me, that he thought I was as barmy as old Joe. Eventually I made a few sheepish excuses and left the hospital feeling a bit of a fraud.

When I got home and told Wendy that old Joe had gone, we both went through the familiar and comforting routine. Had a good innings, did not suffer, best way to go, and many other hackneyed and true clichés were aired as they must be. I went to bed suitably depressed.

The next morning was a Saturday and I woke feeling in oddly good spirits considering the events of yesterday evening. It seemed in rather poor taste to appear too jolly so I tried to look a bit subdued. But I could feel Wendy's disapproval, so I don't think I made a very good job of it.

"Poor old Joe." She said pointedly. "We shall miss him you know."

"Look, I'm sorry he's gone," I said, "but we didn't really know him that well, and with the best will in the world I can't help feeling a tiny bit relieved that I won't have to go through all that nonsense at the Residents Association again."

I could tell Wendy was shocked. She pursed her lips.

"You must get the Association to buy a nice wreath. I wonder when the funeral will be?" Wendy seemed to like Old Joe a lot more now he was dead, I thought. No doubt many others would feel the same. Still most great artists had to wait until after they were dead to get the recognition they deserved.

We had just finished breakfast when the doorbell rang.

"It's the Milkman," shouted Wendy from the kitchen, "I didn't pay him last week and I haven't got any cash, will you deal with it? I'll settle up with you later."
I quietly grumbled my way to the door but when I opened it, it was not the Milkman. A young man in a tweed jacket stood there and announced he was from Social Services or some such, and he had come about Mr Greenslade. It took me a moment or two to realise that he was talking about Old Joe.

I invited him in and introduced him to Wendy. I must say I got a certain smug satisfaction in seeing Wendy going through the deeply moved act that I had performed for the doctor yesterday. This time I felt no obligation to perform.

The young man explained that he wanted to go to Joe's bungalow and go through his papers to see if he could identify any next of kin. And for some reason he wanted me to go with him. Perhaps he thought it would take two of us to fight off the bacteria. More likely, he thought I might have a key. I didn't. He said we should probably call a policeman to help us get into old Joe's place, but that seemed a bit excessive to me.

"You don't really need the police to get into Joe's old Bungalow," I said. "You could break into that place with a penknife and a piece of string. I'll come with you if you think you should have a witness."

"I'd be very grateful if you would" said the young man.

I popped out to the garden shed to get a screwdriver so we had something to prise open a window and off we strode down the Close to old Joe's place. Word had already got round about Joe's death, and several residents asked about him as we passed. I felt quite important for a while, escorting this young chap to the bungalow, it was like approaching the tomb of some long dead Egyptian Pharaoh, passing all the natives aghast at the great archaeologist about to defy the curse of the overgrown garden and enter. But when we got there it was just poor old Joe's tatty old home with its green front door and peeling paint. I pushed at the door and it opened easily. It wasn't even on a latch; Joe did not have much worth stealing. There were two rusty bikes in the hall and a significant collection of old milk bottles.

"We had better take a look in the front room first, and then work our way round the house." Said the young man. I actually hated the idea of rummaging through this sad house, now like its owner, lifeless and still. But I could not think of a better plan, so I agreed.

The front room door was ajar, and as well as his masterful collection of milk bottles I could see Joe was also something of a connoisseur of old newspapers.

Perhaps, I thought idly, he was a Great Collector too. The young man interrupted my reverie.

"Bit of a DIY man was he? Your friend?"

I never really thought of Joe as much of a do it yourself enthusiast, what with the state of his bungalow. Not to mention that garden!

"Er, not exactly. More of a don't do anything man I would have said."

"What's all this then?" he said, pointing to a large pile of cans in the corner of the room. I walked over and peered at dozens and dozens of empty paint tins. There were gloss and emulsion, even some of that thick stuff you put on the ceiling to cover those horrible little cracks. And every colour you could think of.

"He must have had a very unusual colour scheme in mind." I said.

"It looks like he's already done it," said the young man, "most of these are empty."

We looked in the bureau in the corner of the room and in all the cupboards. It was just the usual sad detritus of a life now over. There were papers galore. Joe obviously did not believe in throwing anything away. There were gas bills going back twenty years, but certainly not in chronological order. The young man from the Council looked a bit glum.

"It's going to take weeks to sort through this lot," he said. "To be honest it looks more like a job for the refuse department than for my lot."

He picked up a pile of papers and peered at them with a sort of forlorn look.

"I mean," he said "how am I supposed to find anything about his next of kin from this lot? Look at this! It's a petrol coupon! Must be fifty years old."

"There might be some more up to date stuff elsewhere." I really just said it to make him feel a bit better. Knowing Joe, it was more likely that the rest of the house was also full of interesting curios from the distant past.

We went into the back room. I suppose it was once the sitting room. But it was hard to recognise it as anything very much now. The carpet was strewn with some of Joe's comprehensive newspaper collection and the furniture, floor and just about every other available surface had something on it. There were buckets, cups, vases, an old teapot and of course plenty of milk bottles. The curtains were drawn and it was very gloomy

"What on earth has he been doing in here?" Asked the young man.

"Search me." I said. "Open those curtains; I can hardly see a thing." He stumbled noisily across the floor to the window. The curtains dragged jerkily open and light flooded into the room.

"That's better," he said. "Now let's see what's been going. . .on. . ."

His voice trailed away as he stared over my shoulder into the room. I turned to see and there on the far wall was a large piece of hardboard about eight feet square, and on it was a painting.

I was quite astounded. I am not an artistic person; I don't visit art galleries and that sort of thing. But even I could see that this was indeed Old Joe's masterpiece. There was a forest, dappled with a hundred shades of green. It seemed to glow where the sunlight touched the leaves. And yet other parts were dark and seemed almost threatening. The forest ran almost down to the seashore, and the sea and the rocks sparkled in the sunshine. It was so beautiful I admit a tear came to my eyes. I moved a step closer and now I could see clearly the figures in the foreground.

They were lying on the beach naked. A man and a girl in an embrace. It was not openly explicit, but it was clearly sensual and certainly erotic. They were obviously lovers in this paradise, this English Eden.

Smiling gently from the painting I could now recognise Joe in his youth, strong and beautiful. But the naked girl in his arms, strange how memory can play tricks, it could almost have been Wendy, thirty years ago.

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Caliban

MY STORIES

An Introduction to Caliban

Monday 30 May 2011

Wales in May

Saturday 14 May 2011

AV and all that