Resurrection - As someone once said, nostalgia is not what is used to be.
The Archbishop Calls - East meets West, with uncomfortable results.
Another Life - The past which creates us, but to which we may never return.
Mad Jack -Damaged people break my heart. Kids can only see the funny side
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Resurrection
It was about 9.30 when the phone rang. I was just finishing an article on preparing the garden for winter. It was Frank Whirral, editor of The Crayford Advertiser.
"Charlie how are you? I've got a wonderful piece for you. Great fun."
"Hello Frank, what's the story?"
'The Sixties! Good eh? You should be able to get a great angle. You know, mini skirts, the Beatles, all that stuff."
Christ! What a bore. Didn't Frank realise every paper and magazine in the country had done a hundred pieces on the Sixties. I must have done a dozen myself. I could churn out all those old clichés in my sleep.
"What do you think Charlie? Great, eh?" I tried to sound enthusiastic. I needed the money.
"Yeah . . . Yes. Great idea Frank" But he smelled a rat.
"Look if you don't fancy it I can always get a staffer to knock it out." He sounded a bit hurt.
"No, no, Frank, it's a nice idea, really. I'd love to do it. What's the deadline?"
"The twenty fifth. Need it for the month end issue." A bit sulky.
"That's, er, almost three weeks! Loads of time! I can do a really great piece with that much time."
"Thought you'd need some time for research." Frank was cheering up.
"Yes you're right. Listen Frank, I can do you a fantastic number on this one. I've already got some angles."
"Really? Tell me.'
"Spoil the surprise. I'll let you see a draft in a couple of weeks. Look Frank, this research could take a lot of time, about the fee. . ."
"Knew you could do it Charlie, see you in a couple of weeks. Bye." He was gone.
I was left with a profound sense of depression. When you're freelancing at my level, that is the bottom, you can't afford to be too scrupulous. But, the bloody Sixties again! I finished the gardening article and slipped a dauntingly white sheet of paper into the typewriter.
'The Sixties. Has there ever been a decade quite like it? The excitement of that time still lives with us today. Will anybody ever forget the Fab Four? Those loveable mop headed lads from Liverpool who gave us great songs like. . .'
I ripped out the paper and screwed it into a ball. It curved in a low graceful arc toward the wastepaper basket and landed on the floor beside it.
"Bugger!"
As the hours passed many others joined it. I picked up the phone and rang Gillian. The snooty receptionist put me through, but I still had a tussle with her secretary. Eventually I won through sheer persistence.
"What is it Charlie?"
"I just wondered if you fancied a drink tonight?"
"No, I don't."
"You're still upset over that business with Shelia."
"Yes."
"I've said I'm sorry."
"So you have."
"And when we got back. I think I must have been a little drunk."
"A little!"
"Look Gillian couldn't we talk about it?"
"Of course Charlie. Ring me in a couple of weeks."
"Hold" The phone went dead ". . . on a minute."
Again the typewriter assumed its burden of white virgin bond.
'The swinging sixties! And how they swung! London was the centre of the Universe and England was the only place to be. Mary Quant was dressing the Mods and Vidal Sasoon was the darling of the débutantes. In Liverpool those fab four were writing great songs that would set the world by its ears. Songs like. . .'
Another ball of paper began its journey to the bin and joined its companions on the floor. I had had enough for the morning. It was time to adjourn to the Kings Head.
The Kings Head is an excellent place at lunch time. In the evening it changes character like a pubby Jeckle and Hyde and becomes very young, trendy and loud. But at lunch time it's full of local business men, shop workers and housewives out shopping. It's lively but unassuming. I was chatting with Bill, the manager of the Ford showroom and Henry who ran the building society branch in the High street. My usual lunch time dining club.
"People go on and on about the sixties." Said Bill. "But take the old Cortina. I mean, good enough in its way, but it just doesn't compare with your modern Mondeo. Performance, ride, and economy, well, don't talk to me about economy."
"The Mini." Said Henry. "You've got to admit that was a bit special. My Sarah still wants one now!"
"OK. OK. The Mini was a good idea in its time, but look at your Fiesta. Better finish smoother and I can get her a good price. Tell you what Henry, get her to pop in the Showroom on Saturday I'll see what I can do. I've got a nice little used. . ."
"Look! I don't want to write the history of the bloody motor car. Can't you blokes think of anything else?" I needed help.
"All been done to death. I would have said." Henry was not being helpful.
"You got any ideas Bill?"
"Why don't you go down to the Advertiser and look up some of the old back numbers from the sixties. You might get some inspiration."
"You know - that's a bloody good idea!" I said. Bill looked modestly into his pint. "A bloody good idea. Let me buy you a pint old son"
That afternoon I visited the offices of the Crayford Advertiser. Frank Whirral was delighted to see me paying such diligent attention to his pet project and showed me into the dusty room where copies of the newspaper stretching back to its founding in I893 were kept. The 'Sixties' started a lot later than I expected, but I soon came to the familiar stories and pictures that typified that explosion of youthful confidence that seemed to ripple on for so long in our popular culture.
But it was all the same old stuff. Until I stumbled across an article about a bus load of Hippies passing through Crayford who ran into a bit of parking trouble with the local police. They were going to some kind of festival of love in the West Country. As I stared at the yellowing photo, the flowery shirts and the flared jeans I wondered what they were doing now. These children of peace and love. Maybe that was the story? What did become of those naive young men and women?
The following day I started work in earnest. I began to feel quite enthusiastic. I studied the photocopy of the article. But it was more difficult than I expected. Fortunately the writer of the article had kept meticulous notes. Still in tact after twenty five years! From these I managed to trace the policeman and the bus hire company. And finally got hold of five names. By a little careful wheedling, friends in the local police and DHSS office had set their computers in motion now all I had to do was wait. It was three fifteen. I had missed the Pub. I picked up the phone.
"No. I can't tell you what it's about, it's personal."
"Miss Fullerton is very busy at the moment can I ask her to call you back?"
"No it's urgent. Tell her it's Charlie Winters."
"I'll see if she's free."
"Thank you." Heavy sarcasm.
"What is it Charlie?"
"Gillian, I want to talk to you."
"Yes that's usually why people telephone me."
"Eh? Oh. Yes. Look Gillian, could we meet up, I really need to see you. I er, I've got something I have got to tell you."
"What Charlie?"
'Well that's what I want to see you for, to tell you."
'Why not tell me now?"
'Er, no time, how about tomorrow, pick you up at eight. OK?"
"No Charlie. I'm busy."
"Well, all right, how about" The line went dead. ". . .Thursday."'
It was about half an hour later when the phone rang. It was not Gillian. My contact at the police station said three of my five names were dead.
"Two suicides and one misadventure. Who are these people Charlie? They're a bit of a strange bunch aren't they? Going down like flies. I've got an address for the one called Gerry White though. Had a bit of trouble back in Seventy Three. Nothing serious mind. Vagrancy Charge."
The phone number turned out to be St Bruce's. One of the few remaining residential mental hospitals. I had driven past often. It was a modern glass building, high and wide like an office block, but with wide and sweeping grounds that had a slight air of dereliction. I stood in the reception area watching the staff bustle to and fro. Patients with eyes that saw, who knew what, ambled through. I felt uncomfortable. This was not my beat. There was real pain here, this was not the 'kitten up a tree, thieves steal boys bicycle', stuff of my daily routine.
Still. I had to follow through. This might just be the big one. The breakthrough. I could see it now:
'Hippies in suicide pact. What tragedy lurked behind those carefree flower children. What sinister pact drove these young people to their grisly deaths. Charlie Winters reveals the truth behind the deadly etc etc.'
Should be good for the Observer. Might even make a documentary with a bit of work. This could be big time. A nurse arrived leading a small shambling man.
"There you are Gerry.' She said cheerily. 'This is your nephew, Charlie Winters.' The man looked at me with small, eyes, screwed up as if against a bright light.
"Don't know him." He said.
"It's been a long time Uncle. I've often wondered what became of you."
"I'll take you to the lounge." Said the nurse, leading the way. Before I entered the room she took me aside. "Don't be upset that he doesn't recognise you. He really is quite seriously ill."
For a long time I could get nothing sensible at all out of Gerry. We sat there as our tea slowly cooled, watching the other patients drifting in and out of the world while their visitors sad, resigned, irritated or bored shared their despair for a few hours. For some reason I could not get Gerry to talk about the bus or his friends or anything to do with that time so long ago. It was only when I started to tell him about the suicides, that he became animated. And then he started to flap his arms like a seal and honk!
"Dead, All dead. Dead. Dead. Dead." I tried to calm him down, all this row was starting to attract attention. Then, in a sudden moment of lucidity, shocking in its way as the previous ranting, Gerry White quietly said,
"Vince. He's your man. He'll tell you. Ask Vince. Find him at the White Hart, Harlesden. Acton road." He scrambled to his feet knocking a cup to the floor and shambled as quickly as he could out of the room.
I drove to Harlesden that night. Acton road was a shabby run down region, railway tracks ran down one side of the road and an ageing industrial estate filled most of the other side. The White Hart was like its surroundings, drab and grubby.
I went into the public bar, ordered a pint of bitter and asked the barman for Vince. The barman looked at me slowly, he must have decided I was not a policeman or some other undesirable and pointed to a man in a far corner. The man was dressed in a dirty raincoat pulled tightly round him despite the stuffy warmth of the pub. I sat down at his table. He ignored me.
"Hello Vince."
"Who're you?"
"Gerry White told me I would find you here." The man looked up, his eyes were a piercing blue, deep set in an unshaven face.
"Gerry." The man's tone was flat, unemotional. Gerry told you did he?"
"Look, I just want a chat, can I get you a drink?" I went to the bar and got him a large whiskey.
"Gerry told me most of it." I said. An old trick but it often works. I just wanted you to fill me in on a few details. Tell your side of it. And I don't mind paying a few bob, what shall we say, twenty?' I reached into my wallet and held out two ten pound notes.
"Money!" Said Vince, with a sort of snort. Then again sadly, "Money." But he took the cash and stuffed it into his raincoat pocket.
"I suppose it had to happen one day. Someone had to find out. Tell you the truth, I'll be glad to tell someone. In a way." His voice was quiet, resigned. "It's quite a story!"
"It all started when I met a girl in a pub. Seems funny now-a days but then, that sort of thing happened. There were two girls, and a bloke. They were going to a party and they invited me along. It was a great party, loads of booze, funny cigarettes; you know the kind of thing.
"The guy who was throwing this bash was a bit of a strange one, or so it seemed to me then. He was tall, thin, great mop of black hair. But really black I mean, like you hardly ever see."
He leaned back in his chair and peered into the air, eyes half closed.
"He was thin too, skinny really. But the girls loved him. Like flies round a honey pot, you know? He always wore a funny canvas coat, big, like a robe or something. Charisma! Don't think the word had been invented then, but he had it. In spades! At around Three o'clock things were quietening down a bit. This guy who they all call Jago, sweeps up four girls who are sprawled over the furniture and disappears into a bedroom. He was a randy bastard.
"I stumbled over to the girl who had invited me and we found ourselves a spot behind the sofa. She was, well, something else."
He looked at me from under the brim of a dirty hat, and ran his hand round an unshaven cheek.
"Yeah, I know I don't exactly look the part now. In those days, before, well, before. . ."
He was starting to dry up, and his eyes had a pink look. For a moment I thought he was going to cry!
"Like another drink?" I said.
"In a minute. Anyway, in the morning I found out her name was Terry. She was blonde, cute and bubbly. I wanted to see more of her and we spent most of that day together. We went to Kew Gardens, She loved the herb garden. I just thought it was of those Hippy things. You know, peace, love, flower power, all that stuff. We got talking and it turns out that Mr bloody Charisma, is a witch!
"Yeah, for real, a real live witch. only they call it a Warlock. Because he's a bloke I suppose. His name is Jago Tallack, and they have some really fun times and do I fancy joining up? So I think, well what the hell. And I go."
The eyes were no longer pink, and I noticed for the first time that intense pale blue. Somehow the pressure of his stare made me feel distinctly uncomfortable.
"We had some times! You would not believe. What a bloke, that Jago Tallack! He explained to me that you can't just become a witch or warlock. You have to born into it. Did you know that? Yeah, he came from a long line of witches and stuff going back for, well, years and years. They believe in the power of the body, and of course the most powerful force in the body is - sex. The meetings were pure joy. Jago used to book a hall in Willesden, I think it was a church hall, would you believe it! We all used to meet in the Railway Arms before the meeting for a few pints while Simon went on ahead to prepare the Hall.
"We were all pretty relaxed by the time we arrived. Jago drew this funny diagram on the floor with this white tape and we all had to stand in special places on it. Then we had to chant this weird stuff. Then it got better. We passed round this great big old horn cup. It was like a cow's horn but with silver round the rim. The drink in it tasted herbal, but the effect was pretty strange. everything seemed sharper, more colourful, full of hidden meaning Probably had Acid in it. Then we all stripped naked and danced round in the candlelight. All those girls! I got so horny I could have burst. Then finally you just grabbed the nearest girl and screwed and screwed till you couldn't screw any more. Heaven!
"Nothing ever happened mind. Nothing strange I mean. No devils popped out of the floor or anything. Just one hell of a good time."
I began to think this might be one for the Sunday Sport or maybe The News of The World. But it was a bit old. I had a feeling there might be more.
"Something must have happened, some time?"
"Yeah. It did." His gaze dropped and he seemed reluctant to go on.
"Let me get you that drink." I bought him back two large whiskeys. He downed the first one in a single swallow and cradled the second in loving hands.
"Yeah, something happened all right. The first I knew of it was when Jago introduced a new girl. to the group. Megan her name was. She was something else. I have never ever seen a girl so beautiful. Slim and blonde, pale blue eyes and a figure, well, like an angel. Naturally every bloke in the group wanted to get alongside Megan. But it was forbidden. Yeah forbidden! Everybody fucking everybody else; but Megan was off limits. Even Jago never touched her.
"Looking back I can see that the meetings changed too. I don't know if I realised it at the time but Jago got more fussy about the chanting. No giggling. Everything had to just right. He got quite angry if you got it wrong. I just thought he was showing of for the lovely Megan. God, how I used to lust after that body as she danced naked round the ring.
"Then Jago announced that we were going to hold a special ceremony to mark the summer solstice for the year of Dubaraith, he didn't explain what that was and I for one didn't ask."
Vince looked up at me as if seeking some kind of justification. I just mumbled something and he continued.
"I was just having a good time. Booze, girls, the odd trip. It was just fun to me!" He sighed.
"Anyway, he said we needed a few things to do it properly. I was never part of the Inner Circle as they called it, so I don't know what they all were. But I was involved in one part of it.
"Jago got a car from somewhere and we drove for miles to a little town outside Nottingham, I can't remember the name. We drove to a little museum and he and another bloke from the group called Gerry, went inside for a look. I had to wait in the car. When they came out, they explained that the museum had an old sword that we needed and we were going to come back that night and nick it!
"I had pinched the odd pork pie from Tesco but this seemed a bit out of my line and I said so. It turned out all I had to do was keep look out and drive the car, but I was a bit jumpy I can tell you! We came back about eleven. Gerry reckoned if we were caught we could claim to be drunk. It would certainly have held up in my case. I sat in the car while they slipped up the drive. The museum was like a large converted house, they seemed to be gone for hours. But no alarms sounded, no lights went on and it was only actually ten minutes before we were away back to London with our prize. It made me wonder what Gerry did for a living.
"The so called sword was a disappointment to me, although Jago seemed delighted. It was a corroded bit of metal about two feet long and vaguely leaf shaped. It hardly seemed worth a journey to Nottingham and risking a spell inside for. There were other bits and pieces he needed, pots, herbs, a pearl, but I didn't get involved with those. I don't think he stole any others anyway.
"Then we stated to practise for the big event. We had to move from the church hall in Willesden, somebody had got wind of us. Jago found a new place that was even better. It was in Acton over a car showroom. It was warmer than the church hall and had carpet. It was also very secluded so we did not have to worry about the neighbours. The new ceremony was even better than the old ones. there was a bit more drinking and dancing. And quite a lot more chanting which was a bit of a drag, but then Megan came on in this cloak which was slowly removed. Then she just stood there nude while Simon chanted some mumbo jumbo and touched her up. By the time we got round to the sexy bit I was really gasping for it I can tell you. And, more importantly, so were the girls!"
Once again his eyes fixed on the middle distance, as he evidently remembered the pleasures of times past. As the pause lengthened, I interrupted his thoughts.
"So what was this big event then?" He came back, and staring at me again, shuddered slightly.
"It turned out that Jago had got this crazy idea that he could - well - raise a God."
My incredulity must have shown. "Yeah I know it sounds balmy, but that's what he thought. We were all going to go to Tintagel and perform this ceremony and up would pop this old God who would make us all rich and powerful and famous and any other thing you happened to want. Well, if that was what he wanted, it sounded OK to me.
"It was midsummer when Jago decided we were ready. He got a bus from somewhere, one of those all painted with swirls of colour and slogans, Jesus Saves, Make love Not War, that kind of thing. We loaded the bus with beer and started out for somewhere in the West Country. It took nearly all day but what a great journey. I was sitting beside Terry and we sang and talked and drank the day away as the bus played Sergeant Pepper and Their Satanic Majesties over and over again.
"We finally arrived at the place. It was a long way down some narrow lanes that the bus could only just squeeze through. We parked at the edge of a wood and all clambered out. We made a rough camp and lounged around talking and smoking until the night came. It was not until nearly midnight that we set out on foot through the wood and across a meadow to the Standing Stones.
"The Moon was full and high when we came there. The Stones cast a moon shadow on the grass and the place was quiet. It seemed to me unnaturally quiet. The Stones were in a huge ring, they were not very tall, not like those at Stonehenge, about four feet I suppose. With lots of smaller ones scattered about.
"We formed our circle and began the chant. Suddenly I felt very afraid. I can't explain it, but it was really frightening. The Moon, the Stones, the chanting, whatever the reason, I was scared.
"Then the Horn came round and we all drank. It was even more potent than normal, and I began to relax a bit. I think the others must have felt the same because I had never seen the horn refilled so often. Jago stood at the head of the semicircle. He had a helmet with horns on and he was holding the old sword in his left hand. Under other circumstances he would have looked ridiculous. But with the silver light of the moon glinting on the metal, with his arms raised in homage to some unknown God, to us he was a priest, a saviour, maybe even a God himself.
"As we danced naked and raised our own arms in praise of we knew not what, Megan entered the centre of the circle. Jago signalled the dance to stop and the chant rose in speed and intensity, then abruptly stopped. A young man stepped forward to a low stone that lay where Jago stood and sat down. He faced towards the circle and lay back on his elbows, his phallus like an iron mast rising from his body. Jago gently led Megan to her tryst. She straddled the man and lowered her body onto his. I found I was holding my breath and as I released it, took heady gasps in time with the rhythmic, shrill cries that signalled the rise and fall of that perfect body in ecstasy. For minutes the company was transfixed, then as the cries reached their climax, I felt Terry grip my arm and shudder, then for me and for many others too, sexual overload took its delightful toll.
"As Megan reached her moment of truth, I saw Jago reach a gentle hand for her golden hair. He stoked it back from her forehead as she writhed in pleasure, and with sudden devastating violence jerked her head back and swung the sword at her throat. Her body flung backward in a convulsive arch and blood, blackened by the silver moonlight sprayed like a fan into the sky. I was too stunned to scream. My head was spinning, my stomach convulsing. I fell to my knees and was sick on the ground. As I raised my head my eyes ran with tears and my nose and throat were blocked with vomit. And I saw a God. I swear to you, I saw a God.
"He was misty, a vague shape, but real. Real to me as you are now. A figure of a man, but huge. Twenty feet tall. Dressed in leather armour with bronze plates on his breast, and a bronze helmet. The helmet covered his face with a mask of jointed plates. In front of him he had a great bronze sword that reached to his chest and he rested his hands on the hilt.
"All the company were grovelling on the ground like me, they all seemed struck dumb. Like me. Too scared to speak, too confused to think. Only Jago, astride the body of the girl he had just murdered, was able to stand and confront what he had done. He spoke something I could not understand and this fearsome God actually answered him. After all these years I remember the exact words. Not that I really heard them, as such. They were in a strange language, like English, but not like it. I couldn't understand the words, but I knew exactly what they meant.
'Who calls Bel from his long home?' Jago spoke some words I could not hear.
The figure lifted his head and seemed to stare into the sky, looking at something we could not see.
'Help you, Man!' It Said. 'I am Bel. I am of the forest and the field. My power is the earth and the wind and the rain. Men now have no use for my spells.'
Jago tried to say something, but the God did not listen.
'Do you not understand? For warmth you burn the Earth's breath. For shelter you have buildings that rake the belly of the sky. In war you can call down the sun. In your machines you outrun the wind. You fly in the air! Raise the dead! I thought the Moon a bauble in the sky, you have walked upon it. I thought my dear England the World, you have shrunk it to a tiny island and speak across the oceans.'
His voice became low and sad. 'Could I do these things? No. Nor could I dream of them in my deepest sleep. I cannot help you as I helped your fathers. You shape the very world in your own image.'
"Next thing I remember it was morning, early, and I was cold. I had a terrible head ache, the light hurt my eyes and I was filthy. As I started to recall the previous night I felt a dreadful gut wrenching terror, then I saw Megan. She was crouched low, hiding her nakedness, hurrying to where her clothes had been discarded. She looked white and pinched, not attractive at all. Must have been the cold I suppose. But I never really fancied her again. Funny.
"Well. we all got back on the bus. Nobody said much. Gerry mumbled something about a bad trip and we all agreed in a non-committal sub verbal sort of way. Jago took it very hard. He did not speak at all on that ride home, and I heard that soon after they found his body in the river at Putney. He must have fallen off the bridge.
"I didn't see any more of the crowd after that. I didn't even see Terry. She didn't want to see me any way."
Vince sat at the table, head supported in his hands staring at the empty glass in front of him. His voice had become so quiet I found it hard to hear what he was saying. And in any case what do you say to a man who has seen a God. He had crumpled in on himself, and looked small and sad.
"Can I get you another?" I said.
"Yeah" he said. "You don't understand, do you?"
"Understand what?"
"We are Gods. All of us. Not just the Bishops and the Priests. All of us! The bombers, the rapists, the murderers, the dictators, all of them. That's it. We are Gods, we can do anything, and look what we are doing with it. No-one is going to save us. This is all there is." He swung a drunken expansive arm around the pub. "How do you like it?"
"I'll get you that drink." I said. But when I got back Vince was gone. Clearly the story was nonsense. Just the ravings of an old drunk. All the same, you know - Vince really believed it. Man as God. He really believed it. That much was certain. The rest was obviously fantasy. I found the phone in the corridor leading to the Gents.
"Gillian, don't hang up."
"Do you know what time it is?"
"I know it's late. Gillian, I need to see you. Please."
"What's wrong Charlie?"
"I can't explain now, you'll think I'm mad. Honest Gillian, I need to see you."
"Are you all right Charlie?"
"'No. . .I'm not"
"You'd better come round."
Despite the warmth of the night I felt cold to my bones as I turned the ignition key and started the engine.
The Archbishop Calls
It was the afternoon of my eighty first birthday, and I was in bed with my catamite when Ali announced that the Archbishop had come to see me.
As usual in these circumstances Ali tapped gently on the bedroom door and whispered, maintaining the elaborate charade of 'the Abbot's afternoon nap'. A pretence that had, for long years, drawn a discreet veil around my sexual peccadilloes. The afternoons are so much more friendly to those of us with more sophisticated tastes in the all too corruptible flesh. No difficult absences to be explained, no inconvenient morning visitors to be hastened discreetly away. And in the hubbub of a Rabat afternoon a cry of pain will pass quite unnoticed.
More from the artist: http://j-turner-art.blogspot.com
A problem of growing old is the jading of the palate. Simple pleasures no longer seem to tempt an aging body, or is it mind? One is lured onto ever increasingly exotic processes to stimulate a response once conjured so very, very, easily.
I quickly shoo ed this new lad out the rear door of the bedroom, which led to a convenient secluded stairway and thence to a quiet alley. And as I pulled on my cassock I wondered whether this visit might be related to his predecessor.
The monastery of Our Lady is an urban institution. Standing by the teeming bazaar it is an island of the Christian west in the Islamic eastern sea that washes to its very doors. I met the Archbishop in my study. A room of elegance and charm, although I say so myself. A relic of French colonialism quite unabashed by its eastern context and making not a single concession to the native culture. Although from a purely personal perspective I found this approach rather unbending. (No vulgar calembour intended, of course).
"My dear Abbot, how pleasant to be in your wonderful monastery again." The archbishop spoke. Greeting, I could not help but note, the building rather than me. Not, I felt, an auspicious beginning. I replied in similar vein.
"How good to see that Rome considers even its least worthy outposts suitable for such an eminent visitor, your Grace."
Soon the initial sparring was over. Ali bought coffee, strong and oriental in tiny cups. As we sipped at the acrid liquid the archbishop delicately approached the heart of the matter. It was as I expected, but I felt strangely composed.
"The body of a young boy has been found." His voice was sombre. A subject, after all, of some gravity, but I felt an urge to laugh. Was this the approach of madness?
"A young boy known to you, I believe." I could only nod. Please God, I was not smiling.
"Upon investigation we find there are rumours. More than rumours. There have been rumours before Abbot. Talk in the bazaar."
"They are an ignorant and misguided people, tongues wag, it signifies nothing." I could hear myself, as if from a great distance, why deny it now?
"Mother Church has been tolerant, perhaps we were in error. However even Christian forbearance has its limit, and that limit has been overstepped. How could you do this Abbot?"
"The flesh is weak, Archbishop."
Pretence was pointless. Now it had come to it, I could not even pretend to shame. A man is what he is. The archbishop rose from his chair and towered in anger.
"In God's name, you wretch, you claim mere weakness! This is evil. You a man of God, a representative of Holy Church, you have bought disgrace on your cloth, on the very name of the holy Father!"
"It is interesting that you do not include in your list of calumnies the murder of a young boy." For a moment I thought he might strike me, but the moment passed and he became calm.
"You are an old and very possibly evil man. I will not allow you to destroy the work of so many years here in Rabat."
"I am what I am, Archbishop. As you would say, as God made me."
"On your lips it is blasphemy."
"I don't doubt it. But are we not all made in God's image? If there is a God, what a joker he must be!" I could see I had shaken him. But he came back fighting.
"Even as we speak the Rabat Police are investigating this crime. I will personally ensure no small gifts are allowed to divert them from their duty this time Abbot. At best you will spend your dotage in some filthy Moroccan cell. At worst...well you know this country better than I."
A long time seemed to elapse. He was, of course, quite correct. Except that the worse was probably worse than he could imagine. So, the time had indeed arrived. It was time to beg for Christian mercy.
"I feel sure you did not come all this way to gloat, your Grace. So unworthy an emotion for one so elevated." For a fleeting moment he looked discomforted, had my tiny barb struck home? Christ's Blood! Was that really what he was here for!
"No Abbot, I am not here to gloat." A relief! "I have a proposal to, as it were, complete this vile business."
"Complete. Complete. What an interesting choice of words your Grace. And what is your solution?" Again that fleeting discomfort.
"We can learn from the ancients. Their dignity, pagan though it was, still speaks to us today of honour and courage."
"I learned a little from the Greeks myself, but let it pass. What is this dignity you speak of?"
"I have bought you a final parting gift."
He passed me a small pillbox, and even as I opened it realisation dawned, the phial within was no surprise.
"Ah.... Socrates. The hemlock. I am to die in mortal sin."
"Repugnant as is it to me I will hear your last confession."
"I hope this…potion, is not too quick, this may take some time."
Why not? As I detail my colourful past and wait for the poison to take effect and I take my final revenge on this priggish priest with the detailed, intricate, accuracy of my recollections, I believe that oblivion waits. But after all, I have been wrong, so very wrong, before.
Although I am calm as I wait for that eternal sleep. I confess, I hope there will be no dreams.
Another Life
It was hot, even for August. The London streets had a dry dusty flavour, a taste of flint in the nose and mouth. Even the birds seemed to have deserted the roads, although a desultory song could occasionally be heard hanging in the still air. The children should have been there. It was holiday time. But the heat had driven them to the shade of the park or the small squares of earth that served as gardens to these urban villas. The road was empty as Mrs Drover walked its shimmering length.
She had walked from the station. The bus would have dropped her slightly nearer, but she had been unable to face waiting at the bus stop in that relentless sun. The Tube had been little better. Shut in that tight metal box she had felt the heat pressing in on her like a physical presence embracing her in a sweltering, suffocating bear hug.
'At least it's not crowded in the afternoon.' She thought. 'But my goodness it's hot; all the same.'
When she got off, the platform, in the depths of the earth was blessedly cool. She had stood a moment feeling the breeze that flowed from the dark tunnel lifting the warmth from her skin. But as she rose up on the escalator the heat flowed down to meet her and by the time she had reached the street, the cool air was just another fading memory.
She had managed the long walk from the station without real difficulty. Although her parcels, once crisp in their brown paper, had become limp with perspiration. Their contents were becoming unruly and these dishevelled packages that held so much of her life, were awkward and clumsy in her arms.
An exhausted, languorous calm lay over the little parade of shops. There were not many, but it was home. These little shops with their familiar frontages were a landmark in that welcome country. Mrs Drover was very pleased to be back. It might not be grand, but it was the part of the city where she had been born. Her childhood had been spent in these streets, she had been married in the church that stood at the corner of the road. Her children had gone to the local school, just round the corner from where she was standing now.
Nowadays, people moved. Her son lived in Hertfordshire and her daughter in Surrey. Every few years they seemed to migrate a little further from the city, spinning slowly away from the centre of her life.
'That was how it was today,' she thought, 'but you loose something with all this shifting about. A sense of time, of attachment and belonging. A feeling that this place is your place.'
Not that she had any illusions about the area. Like many of the districts that fringed the inner city it was shabby and bedraggled. These Edwardian terraces had seen better days. Once they had, no doubt, been the proud dwellings of successful artisans, now they were divided and sub divided into flats and bed-sits.
Mrs Drover continued down the long hot street and at the end made the familiar turn into the road where she had played out so much of her life. It was not the same.
Shocking devastation met her gaze. Much of the road was gone and in its place was rubble. Huge yellow trucks sweltered in the heat and dust hung everywhere in the air. Her house was one of the few still standing. Uncomprehending she walked to the short flight of steps that led to her door. It was, as she remembered, still green, sage green, although now coated with the dust of the dying street. Mrs Drover stared around; what had visited such destruction on this innocence?
'I'll get inside. Have a cup of tea. Try to think.' Confusion spun in her mind. 'The war is over. I'm sure of that. Poor uncle Billy he died in the war. But that was years ago. I think.'
"Oi!" A voice, violent and angry bellowed hollow in the open space. She stopped on the steps, her key in her hand, and looked round. A large man, yellow helmet on his head and a yellow plastic waistcoat on his bare chest was running towards her.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing of," he shouted. "Come away from there!"
He stopped short at the bottom of the steps when he saw Mrs drover, her eyes wide, staring at him like a rabbit in the headlights of a car. He saw a frightened old lady trembling in her new summer frock, parcels slipping slowly from her arms. Remorse took him and he said in a gentle voice:
"I didn't mean to startle you Love, but it's dangerous here. Don't worry." He climbed the few steps and took her arm. "Here let me help you with the parcels. That's the way. What are you doing here my darlin?"
"This is my home. It's where I live."
"But it's all comin' down luv. All this. We're building a new estate. It goes right across to the Fulham road."
She took the man's strong arm, his now kindly face smeared with dirt and perspiration. And the masculine smell of sweat reminded her of a past now buried so completely in the rubble, and broken dreams of long years, and Mrs Drover began to quietly cry.
"It'll be all right Luv," said the man. 'Don't take on. Come over to the hut and I'll get you a cup of tea. How about that?"
He put a muscular arm around her shoulder, and Mrs Drover wept quietly for the tidy towns of Hertfordshire and of Surrey, for restless movement, for the past to which we can never return; and for the kindness of incidental strangers.
Mad Jack
Mad Jack was quite a feature of our neighbourhood.
The other kids would come for miles just to see him. It gave us locals a kind of celebrity. We relished the opportunity to show him off to visitors who would stand awe inspired as he went through his routine.
First we would find a suitable hide. The small High Street that served our locality was typical of the many uneasy urban villages that are scattered through the inner suburbs of London. It had a hundred nooks and crannies where we could lie in wait. We would slump idly in some alley, kicking at the wall and exchanging desultory conversation until our prey appeared.
Mad Jack was not difficult to track. In general, his arrival would be clearly announced. In the distance we would hear the unmistakable and distinctive sound of an elephant.
Not the timid snort of some pathetic circus beast but the loud, clear and defiant bellow of a mighty jungle giant. It would rend the air and echo around our little alley. The visitor would quail. Mouths would gape. As the terrible noise drew closer, sudden urgent reasons for being somewhere else would be recalled. Until finally Mad Jack himself would be revealed.
Unfortunately this was a bit of a disappointment. Mad Jack was about fifty years old, five foot four and as thin as a wire. His face wore a permanent grin, broad and vacant. True, his eyes bulged a little, but otherwise there was nothing very terrible about Jack. He would still let rip with the occasional trumpet. While, of course, this was impressive in its own way, one could almost see the visitors preparing their youthful disdain.
“Anybody could just trumpet if they liked. That's not so clever. I could do it myself if I wanted. I don't see what's so clever about just trumpeting.”
“Go on then.”
“Go on what?”
“Go on and trumpet, I bet you can't do it like him.”
“Easy - PNAGHH”
“Call that a trumpet! Useless!”
“I was just practising, listen to this then. . .”
And so on. But we had a few more tricks in the repertoire.
“Give us a dance Jack.” We would call.
Jack's beam would become even broader and he would cavort and caper. pirouette and prance with grotesque ineptitude. Visitors had been known to collapse with laughter and be carried off to Intensive Care. The end of each performance was received with rapturous applause. Jack would bow low to his audience and trumpet his appreciation.
Just in case any shred of cynical doubt should remain in the visitors mind we would initiate the Grand Finale.
“Give us a song Jack.” We would shout. Mad Jack would start a strange atonal wailing complete with extravagant gestures that would have even the most hardened visitor weeping with laughter and crying for mercy. But by the end, there were real tears in Jacks eyes. And if we noticed, we never wondered why.
On the trip back from the High Street we danced and we sang and we relived Jack's performance wringing from it new gales of laughter with every new parody.
Many years later when I was married and had long since forgotten Mad Jack, my wife booked an evening at the theatre. it was just an amateur company at a small local place. They were playing an opera I had never heard off, called Billy Budd. Benjamin Britton is not my favourite composer, I found him difficult and tedious.
But as I sat baffled by this atonal music, a certain aria echoed strangely in my mind. I knew this song. And I found myself back in an alley off the high street, watching poor Mad Jack breaking his heart and singing Billy Budd to a troop of laughing ten year olds.
