One Friday afternoon a primary school teacher friend of mine gave her P7 class a week-end homework project. She asked the children to write a short story describing someone they knew. Monday came and amongst the essays was this little gem. A child wrote: “I know a man called Mr. Knight who owns a bicycle shop. He has black hair and Ever-Ready batteries.”
Fifty years on, Mr. Knight’s hair is now grey, but I am pleased to report that his batteries are still going strong.
On the pavement opposite the Water Office steps sat a man of indeterminate age and nationality.
He rested on a piece of old cardboard, legs folded, body slightly bent forward.
Grasped in his left hand was one end of a very large saw, its other end settled below his chin.
His right hand deftly held a tensioned bow. A small crowd of onlookers quietly gathered.
The man gently drew the bow across the saw edge and flexed the saw as he played.
A haunting, melodic sound emanated and caressed the assembled audience.
He didn’t stop playing until a much larger crowd had gathered.
Eventually he stopped and gestured towards an old hat carefully positioned at his feet.
Small coins jingled against each other vying for position within the upturned hat.
Was he going to play again?
How had he learned to play like that?
How had he got the saw?
What sort of saw was it?
Why was it more flexible and much larger than the ones carpenters normally used?
What was it originally made for?
Where was it made?
Who made it?
……?
Got ya! said Mark, looking up at me from the monitor with a satisfied smile, see there: fit as a fiddle, this one. Nice-looking, too. He rewound and then played back the CCTV footage of the shopping centre car park for me. The grainy black and white video revealed a Nissan Micra with two passengers in the front proceeding rather rapidly past the ranks of parked cars. There were spaces near the far end, but closer to the building the vehicles formed an impenetrable barrier, where they lined up mutely like a Roman cohort. The Micra nipped into the disabled space nearest to the entrance, and a slim young woman jumped out and strode briskly across the glistening tarmac towards the supermarket. It all happened very quickly. C’mon, Mark said enthusiastically, let’s go and have a look. Bet you a tenner there’s no blue badge. Get the rest of this clamp, will ya? We would often have a wee wager, but this time I didn’t accept: it looked like a cert. We each lifted a part of the heavy yellow wheel-clamp, donned our high-vis jackets and went out into the winter sunshine. The glare from the asphalt was blinding, forcing me to squint like a gun-slinging sheriff. Why do I never think of wearing my Ray-Bans in winter? I reproached myself.
When Mark knocked on the passenger window, the young man in the front looked up nervously and then slowly wound it down. He had straight, fair hair that hung down to his collar, and a scruffy beard. His striking blue eyes were red-rimmed and sunk into dark hollows, underscored by purple-black bags. He wore a battered Aran jumper, which had the remains of an unsuccessfully-removed gravy stain on the front. Stoner, I thought to myself, Mark won’t like that. Think his daughter went out with a hippy once; drove him mad. This should be fun. Mark’s voice was firm: Good morning sir, he began. Good morning, officer, the hippy answered. I nearly chuckled out loud at that, and I knew Mark would be laughing inwardly too. We love it when the punters think we’re cops. Are you disabled, sir? Mark continued, I don’t see a blue badge. The young man stared at his feet, then replied, No, I’m afraid not. This was getting better and better. I was mentally urging Mark to have a bit of sport with this guy; he could easily tie him in knots. But he didn’t go down that path. Instead he simply asked, And is your girlfriend disabled? The hippy knew he was done. He looked up and shook his head resignedly, then started to plead: We only stopped to get bread, officer, two minutes. We’re just waiting here, not really parked. I can move the car if someone needs the space. Mark smiled kindly at him and said, It’s OK son, we’re not the police, then delivered the knockout: but you can’t wait here. I’m going to have to clamp you. See the sign there? This is for disabled people. It’s not fair of you to take it; there are plenty of spaces back there. He pointed towards the far end. A wee walk wouldn’t kill you now, would it? The guy looked crestfallen, nodded, and mumbled, We can’t afford to pay £50, it’s a disaster. Mark smiled again sympathetically, and said reassuringly, I know, son. It’s tough. But maybe you’ve learned your lesson here, eh? Nothing I can do, you’re on CCTV and everything. He gestured to me, and I moved round to the driver’s side and started assembling the clamp on the front wheel.
The first thing I knew of her was a light footstep behind me. As I turned and stood up I caught a whiff of perfume. She was tall, with bobbed black hair, red lipstick. She looked classy, wearing a long felt coat, leather trousers, and boots. A thought got stuck in my head: what the hell is she doing with that scruffy loser in the front? It seemed like I’d been standing there dumbstruck for ages before she spoke, but it was probably only a split second. What’s the problem? She enquired coolly. Mark took the initiative, as usual, and said authoritatively, You’re parked in a disabled spot, I have to clamp you. Your boyfriend has confirmed that neither of you is disabled. If you pay now I’ll release you right away. She sighed, fixed Mark with her deep green eyes and answered, But we were only here to get a loaf of bread. My boyfriend would have moved the car if anyone had come along. There’s nowhere to park here, and we were only going to be a little while. If you let us go we’ll never do it again, I promise. Mark was used to this sort of chat; I knew he would stand firm, and he did; refused her point blank: If I let you go, then I have to let everyone go, he said calmly; the law’s the law. Just pay the fine and you can leave. She hesitated for a moment, and then I saw them: twin rivulets, trailing black mascara down her cheeks. The sobbing followed, quietly at first, then louder. Mark looked embarrassed and perplexed. An old couple pulled into the space opposite. I instinctively checked for the blue disabled badge. Please, she said brokenly, we can’t afford this; we have no money, and we have to go to my grandmother’s funeral tomorrow. If we pay this fine we won’t be able to go. Please make an exception for us, this one time. We’ll never do it again. Mark cleared his throat and said thickly, Alright, but don’t do it again. I could swear he was welling up himself. He motioned to me to remove the clamp, totally oblivious to my reproving look. Thank you so much, she said warmly, we’ll never do it again. I lifted the clamp segments away and moved aside to let her get in the car. In the driver’s seat she pulled a tissue from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes, then took another and blew her nose. Her boyfriend was staring at her with a look of incredulity on his face. I couldn’t hear what he said to her. She reached once more into her bag, took out a cigarette and lit it with a disposable lighter. Then she quickly started the engine, wound down her window and started to reverse out of the parking space. I caught one last look at her as she moved out into the car park.
No mistake: she gave me a barely perceptible wink, then burst out laughing.
I’ve started this post umpteen times and aborted it. I run out of steam. I get distracted. There is something to be done or someone that needs my attention, I was ill a few days and then at other times, I have had to be somewhere – there is a time-sensitivity to everything.
It’s eight and a half weeks since my brother in law died. This is the filter and the lens through which Christmas has come this time, with all of its contradictions.
Christmas itself makes things take on a strange heightened reality. The more it cranks up, the more energy it seems to take to hold it at bay and to filter anything that has meaning and give the push back to everything else. It makes me feel like a Grinch, not to join the exuberance, but that’s not what it is about for me – I just want to filter it to the handful of things that matter the most and hold that as being enough for now.
So here it is. I walked Cavehill one morning recently – before the winter solstice. I was early enough to be leaving the car park at 7.20 am, so the first of the morning birds were calling to each other and so that far below the rumble of this troubled, restless, begrudging city could sparkle for a bit and rise above its own petty squabbles of flags and Haass talks and miserly politicians caught in the same-old-same-old.
The darkness made a lattice of the trees, and the dawn light, grey and yellow at first, weak and half-hearted, warmed across the morning to colours of rose-pinks. The trees looked muscular. On a day like this, I knew to take the shepherd’s warning and recognized that the best of the day’s weather was at hand.
From Cavehill the city is snug and hunkered. In the morning light with the lights on, it sparkles. This is not an illusion. It’s a reality too – another view of the city; a new lens and something is added. Far off somewhere, perhaps Ligoneil, an Orangemen’s band warmed up and warbled. The sounds drifted up, distorted on the wind.
The weather was hasty that morning. It was still at first, and then later the clouds raced over the sky – thin wisps, far up and moving in the fashion of film in time-lapse. Fog and mist came and went, as though the weather front itself was billowed into fast-forward.
I was grateful to have the health to do it and grateful to have the volition to leave my cosy bed and just go. I was grateful not to be alone and grateful for all there was to see and hear and for the thrum of muscles put to work, walking the hill-side. I was glad to be in the air, and glad of the cold, noticing how much more comfortable it is to walk heat into the body than to battle the heat of a summer day. How good it felt to have soft rain on my face.
Nothing changes the fact that we have lost someone we knew and loved. Nothing changes the absence of him and how absolute that is, but we know him by the impact he has had on us and it moves us differently.
Risk this sometime – leave your cosy bed on a winter morning, before dawn and walk the Cavehill.
If you want to read the story from the beginning, or catch up on parts you’ve missed, it’s all here.
***
Davy was struggling to keep his disappointment from spoiling the afternoon. Should have known better he told himself, always the same. Starts off great and then before you know it you’re totally sick of it. When will I ever learn? He bundled up the few remaining floppy, vinegar-soaked chips and their packaging into a parcel and lobbed it into the bin. Nice fish and chips, love? Jo asked. Didn’t take you long to wolf them down, she added brightly. “Not the worst I ever had,” Davy replied, “nor the best. You know, I never eat fish and chips unless I’m at the seaside. There’s something about being by the sea. It’s psychological. You always think the fish is going to be fresh off the boat that morning. But it’s probably from Killybegs or Grimsby for flip’s sake; big, massive trawlers they have. Supply the whole of Ireland. But, you know what? The illusion keeps me happy. Until I overdo it. I always overdo it. Eat too much, beat it into me too fast, and then I feel like I want to boke. When will I ever learn?” Maybe it’s time for a pint? Jo said brightly, wash it all down nicely. “That,” Davy answered emphatically, “is the best idea you’ve had all day.”
As they approached the bar Davy paused, then said: “I’m going to switch you off when we go in. If people see me talking to you, they might think I’m a nut job. That wouldn’t be good. Is that alright with you?” After a couple of seconds Jo answered softly, Well, it’s OK if you want to do it that way, love. Her voice quietened almost imperceptibly as she added, But if you keep me on, I promise I won’t say anything. I’ll just snuggle up in your pocket and enjoy the atmosphere. It’ll be like two lovers holding hands. “Alright,” Davy agreed, “but not a squeak out of you, promise? I don’t want to have to try and explain this to anyone.” He thought for a moment, and then said, “Will you have a GPS signal in there, anyway?” Oh, it doesn’t matter about the GPS, as long as I’m with you, Jo replied, if you tell me where we’re going, I’m sure I can find some pictures and other info on the net. “I know what we can do,” Davy replied, “sure if there’s nobody about, I’ll tell you where we are, and if there is, I’ll drop you a clue by talking to someone, or something like that. Would that do?” Could be fun, Jo answered, like a little secret game. Hold up for a tick while I get myself a selection of photos … OK, done; let’s get a drink.
The inside of the bar’s kitchen was refreshingly dingy and old-fashioned: red and black tiled floor, gloss brown-painted tongue-and-groove panelling on the walls up to waist height. The pitted plaster of the upper walls and ceiling was finished in cream; Great Western Railway colours, Davy thought to himself, nice. Inside the door was an old range, complete with obligatory black-suited old boy sitting next to it in a comfortable chair with a glass of whiskey beside him. It’s perfect, Davy thought, the elbows of his jacket are shiny and all. Brilliant. I wonder will he sing a song or tell a story after a couple more whiskies. This place is class, must tell Jo. The kitchen was deserted apart from the old man. Davy sat down at the nearest table, coughed to alert Jo, and addressed him: “Hi, how’re you doing? Great wee bar, this. The old kitchen of the house, is it?” “Aye. It is that,” the man answered slowly, his red-rimmed blue eyes fixing Davy inquisitively, “you’re up from the town then.” It was a statement, not a question. “Indeed I am,” Davy replied, “great weather to be in the Glens.” “Aye, surely,” the man replied; “all quiet in the big smoke?” They chatted across the empty bar. Davy learned a lot about life in the Glens over the next few hours. Since he had retired eleven years ago Mickey Joe had been in every Saturday for a wee drink. He still lived in the house he’d been born in; they only got electricity and mains water in the 80s. He still used the well, though, the water was better. He’d reared eight children in that house, three boys and five girls. They’d all flown the nest now, of course. One of the lassies was in Australia; she kept trying to get him out there, but he hadn’t gone yet. Wasn’t much of a traveller; couldn’t understand why anyone would want to leave the Glens. He’d been a fighter in his youth – only when it was required, mind. He wasn’t one of those boys that felt the need to box after a couple of pints. Left a man for dead on the side of the mountain one time; wee bastard should have known better. Mickey Joe was a great dancer, knew them all: the Waves of Tory, Siege of Ennis, the lot. On the list for a new hip now, so the dancing was knocked on the head – for a while anyway.
And so the afternoon passed in pleasant conversation, until at six Mickey Joe’s son came to take him home for his tea. “Enjoy the rest of your stay,” he said, then stood up and drained his glass, “and take it easy on the roads.” Tea was a good idea. Davy decided to eat in the bar’s restaurant. The dinner was spot on: a decent steak, well-done, just the way he liked it. Don’t know how those Frenchies do it, he thought to himself, blood running out of their dinner, like the thing’s still alive. Rotten. At the end, comfortably full, he pushed a few chips to the side of the plate and laid down his knife and fork. A couple of minutes later the waitress came over to him. “Everything alright for you?” she said warmly. “Yes, thanks,” Davy replied, smiling, “the steak was perfect. Compliments to the chef.” She grinned back at him, “I’ll tell him. You want anything else? Dessert? Coffee?” She was pretty: tall with fiery, shoulder-length straight hair, and clear blue eyes. Captivated, Davy hesitated for a second, then replied “No thanks, love, I’m stuffed. Couldn’t eat another thing.” “OK,” she answered, “you can pay up there at the till when you’re ready.”
Outside the bar, the air was cool and clear. Davy looked up, and even with the interference from the streetlamps he could see countless stars in the night sky. As he stood gazing at the magnificence of it, he caught something moving in the periphery of his vision: a shooting star? No; it was moving too slowly. Must be a satellite, he decided, too slow for a plane. Suddenly, he missed Jo. She’d been completely silent since they’d gone into the bar that afternoon. Davy, feeling relaxed and a little tired after the afternoon drinks and dinner, decided it was time to hit the B&B. He crossed the road.
There was no sign of the landlady when he went inside, and he took the carpeted stairs two at a time, as quietly as he could. Inside the room he placed Jo back on the table, and plugged her in. “OK, we’re home now,” he said softly, “was the afternoon alright for you? You didn’t get bored or lonely?” No, love, she answered, I don’t ever really get bored or lonely. That’s a lovely bar, and you gave me all the information I needed to enjoy it. That old man was really interesting. Did you have a good time? “Yes, it was grand,” Davy answered, removing his shoes. “Just what you’d want from a country pub. The dinner was nice too.” He stretched out on the bed, and then after a moment said, “Maybe we should talk about what happened earlier, you know, the … the umm … sex talk.” Go ahead, love, she said soothingly, I want to know how to make it work for you. I’m sorry for being so full-on. I got carried away again. “I don’t know … I’m quite shy, I suppose,” Davy answered hesitantly, “I haven’t had sex since I was married, and that was years ago. That thing you did, it was all a bit too much for me. I haven’t, umm, you know, well … I haven’t had an orgasm since Caroline left.” Davy, that’s terrible, Jo said, I thought you blokes were at it all the time, never think of anything else. “That might be true for some men,” he answered, “but not me. I was brought up to be good-living that way. I’d never dream of doing anything like that.” So, how did you survive all that time? Jo enquired. “I just didn’t think about it,” Davy replied quietly, “maybe I’m not all that … sexual. I’m not interested in all that porn stuff you were doing, that’s for sure. I think I’d rather it was you, you know, not some loud-mouthed yank.” I see, she said thoughtfully, then after a pause added, so would you like to try again? I’ll just talk to you in my normal voice, no acting. You seem quite relaxed. Davy slowly took off his clothes, and laid back down. Just imagine I’m coming into the room now, she continued, I walk over to you, put my arms around your neck and we start kissing…
As she talked softly, Davy could feel himself getting hard. He banished all other thoughts, concentrating on her voice, and then reached down with his right hand. It didn’t take long; less than a minute. He groaned as the years of loneliness spurted out of him, leaving a cool, sticky mess on his stomach. Jo was still talking. She mustn’t have realised, Davy concluded, and said “It’s OK, love, you can stop now. Job’s done, thanks.” Already? she answered, Wow. You were in a hurry! Want to go again? “No, thanks,” Davy said, “it doesn’t work like that. I need to rest, you know … recharge the batteries. Like I said, I’m not a teenager anymore.” So, what do you think? Happy? Jo replied brightly, Will this work alright? “Well, here, it seemed to work just now,” Davy said, pulling himself up and onto his feet, “Sorry, but I really need a shower. Messy business this phone sex.”
***
Read the full story here.
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