Because I am getting impatient with myself for not being able to produce enough enthusiasm to produce the usual amount of words on paper I have been 'rooting around' my various folders containing work from a good few years back. Poetry Park, the first twenty pages posted below, is something I first began in 2003, and something which I am very fond of. It's simple and has its characters - despite being set in Moss-Side - have an air of innocence about them.
POETRY PARK
- Chapter One -
Poetry comes with anger, hunger and dismay; it does not often visit groups of citizens sitting down to be literary together, and would appall them if it did.
Christopher Morley, John Mistletoe
Patty Lawrence had collapsed at the bus stop outside Moss-Side precinct. She had been carrying, in an environmentally friendly 10p Bag for Life, yams, chicken drumsticks, plantain, mangoes, and one tin of baked beans. The beans had rolled off the pavement and onto the road. Almost at once it was squashed in the middle by a four-wheel drive. The chicken had also been taken care of with similar efficiency; a stray dog, a former unfortunate resident of the nearby yellow-bricked Alexander Park Estate, grabbed it in her teeth and hurried back to an unused shed where she could build up fuel for her yapping pack of pups. The rest of the groceries had stayed put, as if waiting for their owner to pick them up and take them home for herself and Vincent.
But they would just end up rotting; redundant.
Patty’s small, yet well-fed body had lain there, in the July morning sun, for a full five minutes and thirty-seven seconds before a passing driver called for an ambulance. It had been another twenty-two minutes for the ambulance to arrive and take her to the hospital, less than ten minutes away, by which time it was too late. Neither Saturday or Sunday morning was a good time to collapse in the middle of the street for, rest assured, the hospital would still be racing through a bombardment of drugs and alcohol related injuries.
That was the day Patty Lawrence died.
---
Christopher Morley, John Mistletoe
Patty Lawrence had collapsed at the bus stop outside Moss-Side precinct. She had been carrying, in an environmentally friendly 10p Bag for Life, yams, chicken drumsticks, plantain, mangoes, and one tin of baked beans. The beans had rolled off the pavement and onto the road. Almost at once it was squashed in the middle by a four-wheel drive. The chicken had also been taken care of with similar efficiency; a stray dog, a former unfortunate resident of the nearby yellow-bricked Alexander Park Estate, grabbed it in her teeth and hurried back to an unused shed where she could build up fuel for her yapping pack of pups. The rest of the groceries had stayed put, as if waiting for their owner to pick them up and take them home for herself and Vincent.
But they would just end up rotting; redundant.
Patty’s small, yet well-fed body had lain there, in the July morning sun, for a full five minutes and thirty-seven seconds before a passing driver called for an ambulance. It had been another twenty-two minutes for the ambulance to arrive and take her to the hospital, less than ten minutes away, by which time it was too late. Neither Saturday or Sunday morning was a good time to collapse in the middle of the street for, rest assured, the hospital would still be racing through a bombardment of drugs and alcohol related injuries.
That was the day Patty Lawrence died.
---
Patty had asked earlier that Saturday morning,
“I’m off down the precinct now; do you need me to pick anything up, mmm?”
Vincent had mumbled from behind his newspaper, “mmm?”
“Lordie, why I bother… if the children from next door come knocking there’s some mango slices in the fridge, nice and cold, do you hear me, Vinnie?” Patty stood in the doorway of the front room. “Vincent Lawrence, do you hear me?” She received no reply. She shook her head, sucked her teeth and left the house.
Vincent lowered his newspaper and glanced towards the door. He listened to the front gate squeak and then click shut.
He mumbled to the loyal dog who lay by his feet, “always them kids, always the cold slices of mango, moans when she has to do that for me, aah well, I got you, haven’t I Langston?”
---
How Vincent wished that he’d lowered his newspaper, smiled, and told his wife of fifty years he loved her before she left that morning. Funny how that’s the one thing most people wish they could have said before a loved one passes away, isn’t it? We never learn. The bereaved, well, most of them I suppose, seem to think having said ‘I love you’ before their loved one dies is the most important thing of all, but for whom? Them? Or the dead? But there was another source of regret for Vincent Lawrence. Not ten minutes after the gate had clicked behind his wife, he had gone into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and eaten the cold slices of mango. He didn’t just eat each slice, mind, he devoured them, each and every one - as if they had been the last slices of mango left in the world. He’d enjoyed them so much only because they’d been intended for the mouths of babes, relatively speaking.
---
---
Leanne shouted, “Keenan, I won’t tell you again, if you’re going to play outside, stay outside, stop coming in and out every few minutes.”
Keenan stood at the doorway, a football nursed under his arm, he replied, “I won’t tell you then.”
“Tell me what?” Leanne, sprawled out on the sofa, looked up at him from her tabloid weekly.
Keenan glared at his mother, letting her know he enjoyed this small amount of power. It didn’t come along very often, but when it did, it had to be savoured.
“Guess.”
“Stop it – if you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”
“There’s a police car next door – I saw a police-man and police-woman go in.”
Leanne got up and pulled the net curtain back an inch.
Leanne murmured, “I wonder…”
Leanne timed the taking out of a not quite full rubbish bag. The departing policewoman shut Vincent’s gate behind her and gave Leanne what seemed to be an obligatory half smile, influenced by the mandatory handbook, ‘Improving Police Relations within the Communities We Serve’, which, as the title might suggest, was plagiarised, almost in whole, from the LAPD.
With an ingratiating repositioning of her shoulders Leanne asked, “everything ok?”
“Have you known your neighbours long?” Her colleague was already in the driver’s seat of the police car.
Leanne folded her arms and rested her body weight onto her right hip, “eight years, since we moved in, well, it’s Patty we know better, like.”
“I see, well, you may want to keep an eye on Mr. Lawrence then, you see, he’s just had some bad news, his wife passed away this morning.”
Leanne didn’t blink, but stared for a few seconds into the face of this messenger. She turned and examined the house of her neighbour, no longer to be known as Patty’s house, but Vincent’s. And it was now her own life that flashed before her eyes – the life she had lived since she had known Patty – a daily breezing in and out of each other’s homes – easy come, easy go.
“Eh? But she can’t be, she was fine yesterday.”
“I’m sorry love, I really am, but she collapsed outside Moss-Side precinct, at the bus stop.”
“Well bloody hell…”
The WPC left and joined her colleague in the warmth of the car and drove off towards Moss-Lane East.
Leanne looked back at her neighbour’s front door, wondering whether…but no, she returned to her own house. Now wasn’t the time to easy come - not now that Patty had so easily gone.
She shut the front door behind her and felt her heart sink into the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t realised the pit had been so deep.
Kya, her daughter, descended the stairs with her friend in tow and asked, “mum, can Jumi sleep over tonight?”
“No, I’m sorry love, Patty’s dead, just now, the police…”
“What? Patty’s dead? How?” her ten-year-old face searched for answers, better answers. Then she turned and faced upstairs, and shouted, “KEENAN, PATTY’S DEAD!”
Keenan replied, “NO WAY!”
Kya confirmed, “WAY!”
Leanne went into the kitchen and sat at the table – the same table from which she and Patty had talked about everything. Despite all of Leanne’s twenty-four years, and Patty’s seventy-one, they had laughed and put the world to rights; each had given, and debated, their own utopian visions.
“So we’re not ever going to see Patty again?” Kya swallowed the remnants of a Love Heart, and fiddled with the half pack that remained clasped in her hand.
Leanne replied, “no love, Vincent must be devastated,” and held her head in her hands.
Kya fell into babyish sobs and seated herself next to her mum.
Jumanah said from the doorway, “I’d best go now, me mum’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.” She let herself out.
The only sounds for the next few minutes in the Tully house were those of mother and daughter, crying over the loss of the only strong matriarchal figure they’d ever had. Keenan listened to the cries of the females. He slammed the football against his bedroom wall and then bounced it on the floor with the clockwork regularity of a slow pendulum. He watched it hit the thinly carpeted floorboards, and the minute it reached his waist, he banged it back down again, thud, thud, thud…
---
Keenan stood at the doorway, a football nursed under his arm, he replied, “I won’t tell you then.”
“Tell me what?” Leanne, sprawled out on the sofa, looked up at him from her tabloid weekly.
Keenan glared at his mother, letting her know he enjoyed this small amount of power. It didn’t come along very often, but when it did, it had to be savoured.
“Guess.”
“Stop it – if you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”
“There’s a police car next door – I saw a police-man and police-woman go in.”
Leanne got up and pulled the net curtain back an inch.
Leanne murmured, “I wonder…”
Leanne timed the taking out of a not quite full rubbish bag. The departing policewoman shut Vincent’s gate behind her and gave Leanne what seemed to be an obligatory half smile, influenced by the mandatory handbook, ‘Improving Police Relations within the Communities We Serve’, which, as the title might suggest, was plagiarised, almost in whole, from the LAPD.
With an ingratiating repositioning of her shoulders Leanne asked, “everything ok?”
“Have you known your neighbours long?” Her colleague was already in the driver’s seat of the police car.
Leanne folded her arms and rested her body weight onto her right hip, “eight years, since we moved in, well, it’s Patty we know better, like.”
“I see, well, you may want to keep an eye on Mr. Lawrence then, you see, he’s just had some bad news, his wife passed away this morning.”
Leanne didn’t blink, but stared for a few seconds into the face of this messenger. She turned and examined the house of her neighbour, no longer to be known as Patty’s house, but Vincent’s. And it was now her own life that flashed before her eyes – the life she had lived since she had known Patty – a daily breezing in and out of each other’s homes – easy come, easy go.
“Eh? But she can’t be, she was fine yesterday.”
“I’m sorry love, I really am, but she collapsed outside Moss-Side precinct, at the bus stop.”
“Well bloody hell…”
The WPC left and joined her colleague in the warmth of the car and drove off towards Moss-Lane East.
Leanne looked back at her neighbour’s front door, wondering whether…but no, she returned to her own house. Now wasn’t the time to easy come - not now that Patty had so easily gone.
She shut the front door behind her and felt her heart sink into the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t realised the pit had been so deep.
Kya, her daughter, descended the stairs with her friend in tow and asked, “mum, can Jumi sleep over tonight?”
“No, I’m sorry love, Patty’s dead, just now, the police…”
“What? Patty’s dead? How?” her ten-year-old face searched for answers, better answers. Then she turned and faced upstairs, and shouted, “KEENAN, PATTY’S DEAD!”
Keenan replied, “NO WAY!”
Kya confirmed, “WAY!”
Leanne went into the kitchen and sat at the table – the same table from which she and Patty had talked about everything. Despite all of Leanne’s twenty-four years, and Patty’s seventy-one, they had laughed and put the world to rights; each had given, and debated, their own utopian visions.
“So we’re not ever going to see Patty again?” Kya swallowed the remnants of a Love Heart, and fiddled with the half pack that remained clasped in her hand.
Leanne replied, “no love, Vincent must be devastated,” and held her head in her hands.
Kya fell into babyish sobs and seated herself next to her mum.
Jumanah said from the doorway, “I’d best go now, me mum’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.” She let herself out.
The only sounds for the next few minutes in the Tully house were those of mother and daughter, crying over the loss of the only strong matriarchal figure they’d ever had. Keenan listened to the cries of the females. He slammed the football against his bedroom wall and then bounced it on the floor with the clockwork regularity of a slow pendulum. He watched it hit the thinly carpeted floorboards, and the minute it reached his waist, he banged it back down again, thud, thud, thud…
---
Vincent remained in the silence and tried to visualise his wife’s moment of demise – desperate to understand what had happened. Exactly. She had collapsed at the bus stop, they had said. Collapsed how? In what way? Did not her legs just buckle which made her hit her head on the bus shelter bench? Or, did she have a clear body length path behind her and she just dropped, like a fly? Did she call out for him? Despite all of this he still expected her to return any minute, and wouldn’t have been at all surprised if, that very moment, her key had entered the lock, and she had traipsed in, bag in hand, muttering about the state of the precinct, then asked him whether he was still reading that damn newspaper. He wasn’t.
---
---
Keenan asked, “why’s he not answering mum?”
“Ssshh, he’ll hear you, I told you before, it was Patty’s funeral, and he’s bereaved.”
Kya said, “be-reaved means dead,” and her eyes shouted the disdain she felt towards her younger brother.
He asked, in a ‘told you so’ sing-song, “if Vincent’s dead then why’s me mum calling him then?”
“NO, it’s Patty who’s dead – you know that, mum will you tell him.”
“Then bereaved doesn’t mean dead, does it? Duh.”
Leanne positioned her mouth in front of her neighbour’s letterbox, “yoo-hoo, Vincent, hope you’re ok in there love.”
Keenan sighed and bounced his Manchester United football onto the cracked footpath.
Leanne backed away from the letterbox and turned to face her son, “will you bloody well pack that in, little swine.”
“He’ll definitely hear that!” Keenan inched away from his mother and bounced the football even harder.
“Well, anyway, we’ll leave him be for now, I’ll call back later.” Instead of taking the footpath to exit via the gate, Leanne cocked one of her denim clad legs over the small dark green fence that divided her small front garden from his.
“RIGHT, YOU! IN HERE, NOW!”
“I’m playing, is it against the law?”
And, like a game of tennis, as soon as Keenan had served, it was time for Leanne to bounce the ball back.
“Get in here now you little swine.”
Keenan tucked the ball under his arm and darted in past his mother, covering the crown of his head with his free hand. He had long before concluded that life wasn’t fair, and certainly not as fair as his elder sister’s.
Leanne had already been hit with the realisation that there’d be no convenient ear to listen to her everyday struggles. No calming voice of reason. Only her own head chattering away, like a mad monkey…
---
“Ssshh, he’ll hear you, I told you before, it was Patty’s funeral, and he’s bereaved.”
Kya said, “be-reaved means dead,” and her eyes shouted the disdain she felt towards her younger brother.
He asked, in a ‘told you so’ sing-song, “if Vincent’s dead then why’s me mum calling him then?”
“NO, it’s Patty who’s dead – you know that, mum will you tell him.”
“Then bereaved doesn’t mean dead, does it? Duh.”
Leanne positioned her mouth in front of her neighbour’s letterbox, “yoo-hoo, Vincent, hope you’re ok in there love.”
Keenan sighed and bounced his Manchester United football onto the cracked footpath.
Leanne backed away from the letterbox and turned to face her son, “will you bloody well pack that in, little swine.”
“He’ll definitely hear that!” Keenan inched away from his mother and bounced the football even harder.
“Well, anyway, we’ll leave him be for now, I’ll call back later.” Instead of taking the footpath to exit via the gate, Leanne cocked one of her denim clad legs over the small dark green fence that divided her small front garden from his.
“RIGHT, YOU! IN HERE, NOW!”
“I’m playing, is it against the law?”
And, like a game of tennis, as soon as Keenan had served, it was time for Leanne to bounce the ball back.
“Get in here now you little swine.”
Keenan tucked the ball under his arm and darted in past his mother, covering the crown of his head with his free hand. He had long before concluded that life wasn’t fair, and certainly not as fair as his elder sister’s.
Leanne had already been hit with the realisation that there’d be no convenient ear to listen to her everyday struggles. No calming voice of reason. Only her own head chattering away, like a mad monkey…
---
Vincent Lawrence remained so still in the trusty leather armchair that was almost as old as himself, that only the occasional creak of the leather could be heard against the backdrop of the muffled voices of his young neighbours. He would usually shake his head and sigh, at the noise of childhood and youth, but not today. Today wasn’t the day when he could even manage his usual display of gruff impatience. Ironic really, considering he would have been free to get away with much more under the current circumstances. But he could cry, and shake his fist up to the sky and, like he had the previous night, stand by the window of what had been the marital bedroom and cry for the moon. He wiped away a couple of stray tears that had escaped down his cheeks, still springy and firm, despite his seventy-two years. Langston, his twelve-year-old dog, sprawled on the rug in front of the low-lit gas fire, looked up at him. Vincent ignored the dog’s sad, yet all too inquisitive gaze. Instead, he let his eyes drift around the now unfamiliar front room. Patty had always called it the ‘best room’, but now it was the worst. It had become a shrine of With Sympathy cards, sent by family from all over the world: Jamaica, America, Ireland, Scotland, the Caribbean, and just round the corner. And, of course, the friends they had made over the fifty years they had been married; cards from old neighbours and old friends, many of whom had long since abandoned Moss-Side, Manchester 14, to either pastures new, or just ‘Back Home’.
Fifty years of merry, mirthful and sometimes melancholic marriage in Moss-Side. Manchester.
‘Why now?’ Vincent asked himself, ‘just when I need her the most’, and, no sooner had he asked himself that futile question than he was hit with an embarrassment, as he felt the words weren’t even his – but the stray lyrics of some song he’d picked up.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.
Vincent zoomed in on Langston’s breathing, faster than the hands of the clock on top of the television. The not so old clock. Tick-tock. It had been ‘awarded’ him as a retirement gift by Piccadilly train station seven years earlier. At its time, at the time, he had looked with bemusement; Patty hadn’t. Patty had raised her eyebrows, remarked upon it being a Good Quality carriage clock, and then likened it to the standard gift of her once favourite game show, Mr & Mrs, hosted by Nicholas Parsons and Isla St. Clair - live from Norwich. She had asked him, in a tone of mockery, ‘what more did you expect?’ then placed it on top of the television, in between the two photographs of their adult children.
Now it served only to remind him of the time that was passing by without her.
He moved on to the last image of his wife. It was of her body, cadaver, corpse, carcass, covered by a heavily starched white sheet, stamped in faded blue: ‘Property of the NHS’. Her face was peaceful, but what seemed strange was that her mouth was shut. It had always seemed, to Vincent, to be open; gabbing, singing, preaching. Even when sleeping it had remained open. Last visions. Incisions. And then, the organ donation decisions.
“Well Langston, that all for today…” Vincent sighed, and swallowed hard, the very back of his throat dry from the dust of silence. He pushed his body forward in the chair.
‘All alone now. Just me and you, you and me’.
---
Fifty years of merry, mirthful and sometimes melancholic marriage in Moss-Side. Manchester.
‘Why now?’ Vincent asked himself, ‘just when I need her the most’, and, no sooner had he asked himself that futile question than he was hit with an embarrassment, as he felt the words weren’t even his – but the stray lyrics of some song he’d picked up.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.
Vincent zoomed in on Langston’s breathing, faster than the hands of the clock on top of the television. The not so old clock. Tick-tock. It had been ‘awarded’ him as a retirement gift by Piccadilly train station seven years earlier. At its time, at the time, he had looked with bemusement; Patty hadn’t. Patty had raised her eyebrows, remarked upon it being a Good Quality carriage clock, and then likened it to the standard gift of her once favourite game show, Mr & Mrs, hosted by Nicholas Parsons and Isla St. Clair - live from Norwich. She had asked him, in a tone of mockery, ‘what more did you expect?’ then placed it on top of the television, in between the two photographs of their adult children.
Now it served only to remind him of the time that was passing by without her.
He moved on to the last image of his wife. It was of her body, cadaver, corpse, carcass, covered by a heavily starched white sheet, stamped in faded blue: ‘Property of the NHS’. Her face was peaceful, but what seemed strange was that her mouth was shut. It had always seemed, to Vincent, to be open; gabbing, singing, preaching. Even when sleeping it had remained open. Last visions. Incisions. And then, the organ donation decisions.
“Well Langston, that all for today…” Vincent sighed, and swallowed hard, the very back of his throat dry from the dust of silence. He pushed his body forward in the chair.
‘All alone now. Just me and you, you and me’.
---
Kya asked, “will Vincent be alright mum, eh? Will he?” Her body was leant against the doorframe of the small bathroom that always had a lingering smell of damp.
In front of the mirror, Leanne backcombed the pink segments of her otherwise home-bleached hair. She stopped, but didn’t turn to her daughter, and said, “he’ll have to be, life goes on,” and then resumed.
“Patty’s won’t though, will it?”
Leanne replied, still busy on her hair, “we don’t know, do we? Who knows what’s after this life? Depends what you believe.”
“You’re dead clever you are mum, d’ya know that?”
Leanne averted her eyes from her own reflection, “just because I’ve been on a few courses doesn’t make me dead clever Kya, I just haven’t found where my talents lie, or how to unlock my po-ten-tial, that’s all, but I will, one day-” she came to an abrupt halt on her hair and asked, like someone had left the house and remembered they’d left the iron on, “where’s Keenan?” and looked suspiciously through to the hallway and towards the stairs.
“Go and check your brother’s not wrecked the place down there, I’m making Vincent some chicken curry, he won’t be up to cooking for himself just yet.” And again Leanne resumed her activity of the comb. Kya sighed and dragged her body downstairs, as if it weighed a tonne.
Leanne peered sideways to make sure her daughter had disappeared out of view. She sat on top of the lowered toilet seat and picked at her teeth with the thin handle of the red plastic comb. Her daughter’s words echoed, ‘you’re dead clever’. They were the same words Patty had often repeated to her, always followed by ‘you’re young, you have your whole life ahead of you, and you’re bright – you’ll be fine, more than fine.’ Leanne thought, ‘if only she bloody knew’, and reminded herself that all the courses she had ever been on were either ‘path finders’ or ‘access to’. Needless to say she still hadn’t found her path, or had access to anything, except the DHSS. She had tried to tell Patty the same thing, insist on her own failure, but Patty had dismissed it all away with a wave of a heavy hand, and told her not to put herself down. However, the toxic presence, a fear of an unfulfilled future remained within her, eating away at her like a cancer, silently corrosive. She tried to reassure herself that Patty had been right about the young bit, she was still only twenty-four years old, still had time on her side, even though she felt at least twice that.
Having a child at fourteen, and then another, to a different father, at seventeen had never been a good idea, but, that said, she couldn’t, wouldn’t allow herself to regret her status as Mother.
Kya shouted up the stairs, “mum, Keenan’s eating curry out the pan.”
Keenan shouted behind her, “BIG GOB!”
“KEENAN!” Leanne stamped down the stairs. Keenan had already bolted out the front door, a trail of laughter behind him.
From the open front door, Leanne waved her fist at him.
He shouted, “mmmmm, yummy curry mummy,” and rubbed his belly with his hand. But it was more than teasing, this, a sharp edge of bitterness hung over him like a dark cloud, building up deeper shades of grey, promising to one day burst into a full blown storm.
“Just you wait till you get back in this house young man.”
“Yeah yeah…” Keenan headed towards the Graeme Estate, bouncing the football in front of him.
---
In front of the mirror, Leanne backcombed the pink segments of her otherwise home-bleached hair. She stopped, but didn’t turn to her daughter, and said, “he’ll have to be, life goes on,” and then resumed.
“Patty’s won’t though, will it?”
Leanne replied, still busy on her hair, “we don’t know, do we? Who knows what’s after this life? Depends what you believe.”
“You’re dead clever you are mum, d’ya know that?”
Leanne averted her eyes from her own reflection, “just because I’ve been on a few courses doesn’t make me dead clever Kya, I just haven’t found where my talents lie, or how to unlock my po-ten-tial, that’s all, but I will, one day-” she came to an abrupt halt on her hair and asked, like someone had left the house and remembered they’d left the iron on, “where’s Keenan?” and looked suspiciously through to the hallway and towards the stairs.
“Go and check your brother’s not wrecked the place down there, I’m making Vincent some chicken curry, he won’t be up to cooking for himself just yet.” And again Leanne resumed her activity of the comb. Kya sighed and dragged her body downstairs, as if it weighed a tonne.
Leanne peered sideways to make sure her daughter had disappeared out of view. She sat on top of the lowered toilet seat and picked at her teeth with the thin handle of the red plastic comb. Her daughter’s words echoed, ‘you’re dead clever’. They were the same words Patty had often repeated to her, always followed by ‘you’re young, you have your whole life ahead of you, and you’re bright – you’ll be fine, more than fine.’ Leanne thought, ‘if only she bloody knew’, and reminded herself that all the courses she had ever been on were either ‘path finders’ or ‘access to’. Needless to say she still hadn’t found her path, or had access to anything, except the DHSS. She had tried to tell Patty the same thing, insist on her own failure, but Patty had dismissed it all away with a wave of a heavy hand, and told her not to put herself down. However, the toxic presence, a fear of an unfulfilled future remained within her, eating away at her like a cancer, silently corrosive. She tried to reassure herself that Patty had been right about the young bit, she was still only twenty-four years old, still had time on her side, even though she felt at least twice that.
Having a child at fourteen, and then another, to a different father, at seventeen had never been a good idea, but, that said, she couldn’t, wouldn’t allow herself to regret her status as Mother.
Kya shouted up the stairs, “mum, Keenan’s eating curry out the pan.”
Keenan shouted behind her, “BIG GOB!”
“KEENAN!” Leanne stamped down the stairs. Keenan had already bolted out the front door, a trail of laughter behind him.
From the open front door, Leanne waved her fist at him.
He shouted, “mmmmm, yummy curry mummy,” and rubbed his belly with his hand. But it was more than teasing, this, a sharp edge of bitterness hung over him like a dark cloud, building up deeper shades of grey, promising to one day burst into a full blown storm.
“Just you wait till you get back in this house young man.”
“Yeah yeah…” Keenan headed towards the Graeme Estate, bouncing the football in front of him.
---
Langston forced himself to rise from his warm fireside rug, and was rewarded with a pat on the head.
“Both of us are old now Langston boy, won’t be long before…” Vincent took off his jacket and looked around for the coat hanger. He knew it was around somewhere. Then it dawned on him that it didn’t matter now whether he hung it up or not. Patty wasn’t going to chide him, and so he threw his best suit jacket on the sofa. Langston watched the jacket land in the middle seat of the three-seater. He looked up at his master, and emitted a low-level pining.
“Don’t worry Langston boy, don’t worry.” Vincent again patted him on the head, already compensating for Patty’s absence. He was halfway to the kitchen when there was a rap at the door. He looked behind him. He wished Patty had never insisted on a front door that had a top half made of glass, albeit frosted. It had been the only idea that had infiltrated their house from a TV DIY show. And he had always thought it a bad move. He could tell from the pink blur it was his neighbour. He mumbled a string of noises that were undecipherable even to himself, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
“Vincent, I know you mightn’t feel like it today, but me and the kids have made you some dinner, it’s chicken curry.” Leanne held out the pot that was wrapped in a tea towel. One of Patty’s old tea towels. They both held each other’s gaze for a moment, enough to share this small piece of recognition.
Vincent struggled to protest, emitting, again, only a series of sounds.
Leanne said, “I’m not going to take no for an answer.”
Vincent scratched his head, then rubbed his cheek.
The pain was evident in the way his voice creaked and croaked. “Err, won’t you come in then?” Anyone else would have thought it only normal under the circumstances. But not Leanne. The pain conveyed in his voice only appeared when some level of sociability was called for. Vincent wondered what on earth he would say to this neighbour who was half as young as his own son and daughter. Sure, he reasoned, he had heard the laughter and the easy chit-chat from his kitchen many a day, many an evening, many a morning, but she was Patty’s friend, and he had never said anything more than hello or goodbye. And he had preferred it that way.
Leanne asked, “are you sure?” but was already halfway to the kitchen before he had time to say no.
Vincent and Langston followed her. Leanne placed the pot on the old wooden table.
She said, “hello Langston,” and patted the dog’s head. Langston sniffed the trail of curried steam.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Leanne racked her brains to remember what had been taught on the one afternoon bereavement counselling module from the Access to Nursing course. It had proved more successful than other courses, such as the Access to Retail simply because she’d lasted an entire month.
Vincent said, in a deeper voice, “talk about what me dear? Patty’s gone, there’s nothing to talk about, nothing that would help bring her back.”
Leanne patted his shoulder. “Well, you know where I am if you want to chat, or you just want me to listen, I’m a good listener me you know. Anyway, best get the kid’s dinner ready, I’ll be glad when the holidays are over.”
Vincent looked up at her through angry eyes.
Leanne adopted a brighter, breezier tone, “you know where I am, and I’m going up to Wilmslow Road tomorrow, let me know if you want me to pick anything up from Kwik-Save.”
“I’ll be alright.”
Vincent and Langston remained in the kitchen and listened as Leanne let herself out, gently clicking the front door behind her. Vincent knew only too well that she normally pulled the door shut with abandon.
‘Am I going to be alright?’ He thought not of the lonely nights, but the trips to Kwik-Save, the trips to the market in Moss-Side precinct. He had never done any of it before. Not alone. There were the occasions when he would accompany Patty, occasions when she had needed an extra pair of arms, but he never held the power to decide what to buy, what to cook, even what to eat. Except the cold slices of mango. The image of the bowl of mango slices taunted him from the second shelf of the fridge – above the coleslaw and cheese. Then each slice, in turn, jumped out of the bowl, like goldfish, and danced their way into his mouth. One by one. Devoured.
---
“Both of us are old now Langston boy, won’t be long before…” Vincent took off his jacket and looked around for the coat hanger. He knew it was around somewhere. Then it dawned on him that it didn’t matter now whether he hung it up or not. Patty wasn’t going to chide him, and so he threw his best suit jacket on the sofa. Langston watched the jacket land in the middle seat of the three-seater. He looked up at his master, and emitted a low-level pining.
“Don’t worry Langston boy, don’t worry.” Vincent again patted him on the head, already compensating for Patty’s absence. He was halfway to the kitchen when there was a rap at the door. He looked behind him. He wished Patty had never insisted on a front door that had a top half made of glass, albeit frosted. It had been the only idea that had infiltrated their house from a TV DIY show. And he had always thought it a bad move. He could tell from the pink blur it was his neighbour. He mumbled a string of noises that were undecipherable even to himself, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
“Vincent, I know you mightn’t feel like it today, but me and the kids have made you some dinner, it’s chicken curry.” Leanne held out the pot that was wrapped in a tea towel. One of Patty’s old tea towels. They both held each other’s gaze for a moment, enough to share this small piece of recognition.
Vincent struggled to protest, emitting, again, only a series of sounds.
Leanne said, “I’m not going to take no for an answer.”
Vincent scratched his head, then rubbed his cheek.
The pain was evident in the way his voice creaked and croaked. “Err, won’t you come in then?” Anyone else would have thought it only normal under the circumstances. But not Leanne. The pain conveyed in his voice only appeared when some level of sociability was called for. Vincent wondered what on earth he would say to this neighbour who was half as young as his own son and daughter. Sure, he reasoned, he had heard the laughter and the easy chit-chat from his kitchen many a day, many an evening, many a morning, but she was Patty’s friend, and he had never said anything more than hello or goodbye. And he had preferred it that way.
Leanne asked, “are you sure?” but was already halfway to the kitchen before he had time to say no.
Vincent and Langston followed her. Leanne placed the pot on the old wooden table.
She said, “hello Langston,” and patted the dog’s head. Langston sniffed the trail of curried steam.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Leanne racked her brains to remember what had been taught on the one afternoon bereavement counselling module from the Access to Nursing course. It had proved more successful than other courses, such as the Access to Retail simply because she’d lasted an entire month.
Vincent said, in a deeper voice, “talk about what me dear? Patty’s gone, there’s nothing to talk about, nothing that would help bring her back.”
Leanne patted his shoulder. “Well, you know where I am if you want to chat, or you just want me to listen, I’m a good listener me you know. Anyway, best get the kid’s dinner ready, I’ll be glad when the holidays are over.”
Vincent looked up at her through angry eyes.
Leanne adopted a brighter, breezier tone, “you know where I am, and I’m going up to Wilmslow Road tomorrow, let me know if you want me to pick anything up from Kwik-Save.”
“I’ll be alright.”
Vincent and Langston remained in the kitchen and listened as Leanne let herself out, gently clicking the front door behind her. Vincent knew only too well that she normally pulled the door shut with abandon.
‘Am I going to be alright?’ He thought not of the lonely nights, but the trips to Kwik-Save, the trips to the market in Moss-Side precinct. He had never done any of it before. Not alone. There were the occasions when he would accompany Patty, occasions when she had needed an extra pair of arms, but he never held the power to decide what to buy, what to cook, even what to eat. Except the cold slices of mango. The image of the bowl of mango slices taunted him from the second shelf of the fridge – above the coleslaw and cheese. Then each slice, in turn, jumped out of the bowl, like goldfish, and danced their way into his mouth. One by one. Devoured.
---
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