It's Linus Whiteley's birthday next week. He's going to be eighty-eight years old. I tell him every afternoon over our game of cribbage, but he keeps on forgetting.
"Eighty-eight?!" His face unfolds to reveal his delight. "Am I going to have a party?"
"Yes, of course you'll have a party. Everyone has a party on their birthday."
"Really? Do they?"
"Yes. We'll have cake and tea and biscuits."
"Oh, that sounds lovely. Will John and Jessie bring us breakfast in bed?"
"No, Linus."
"Will we go for a walk in the afternoon across the Heath? Will we have lunch at Kenwood House? Will we sit outside on the patio?"
"No, Linus."
"Will we go out to the club for a big fancy dinner? Will the Newtons come over before we go? Will Julia Carter be there? And Eric and Martin and Cornelius Quentin?"
"No, Linus."
He smiles at me sadly and I can see that he understands.
The smile disappears.
"You've got lovely hair," he says, listlessly. I squeeze his hand and shuffle the deck.
Monday 27 September 2010
Wednesday 22 September 2010
Geoffrey's Castle
Geoffrey returned to his castle one day to find that half a turret had disappeared.
He hadn't heard of any storms nor had he noticed any signs of structural weakness, so the sight of the stunted turret as he cycled down the driveway came as something of a shock.
He made his way inside and ran up what was left of the spiral staircase to take a look. The break was clean; the top section of the tower had been meticulously removed, brick by brick.
But by whom?
Geoffrey asked Ablett, his retired butler, to come in overnight and keep an eye out on the CCTV for anything untoward.
His lordship slept well, reassured by the presence of a guard, but awoke to the news that the portcullis had gone. (Ablett had slipped out the back for a fag around three.)
Nothing further vanished throughout the next day. As evening fell, Geoffrey joined the contrite Ablett to take the onus off the tired old man. The night ticked by, but the thieves did not return. Perhaps that marked the end of it, thought Geoffrey.
As the Sun rose over the castle, he sent the butler on his way and slowly dropped off to sleep. By the time he awoke, the moat had been drained, the oak trees uprooted and the second half of the turret taken apart.
The castle had stood for four hundred years, but was gradually being dismantled, dissected by a determined and elusive band of anti-builders. And Geoffrey had no idea how to stop them.
He hadn't heard of any storms nor had he noticed any signs of structural weakness, so the sight of the stunted turret as he cycled down the driveway came as something of a shock.
He made his way inside and ran up what was left of the spiral staircase to take a look. The break was clean; the top section of the tower had been meticulously removed, brick by brick.
But by whom?
Geoffrey asked Ablett, his retired butler, to come in overnight and keep an eye out on the CCTV for anything untoward.
His lordship slept well, reassured by the presence of a guard, but awoke to the news that the portcullis had gone. (Ablett had slipped out the back for a fag around three.)
Nothing further vanished throughout the next day. As evening fell, Geoffrey joined the contrite Ablett to take the onus off the tired old man. The night ticked by, but the thieves did not return. Perhaps that marked the end of it, thought Geoffrey.
As the Sun rose over the castle, he sent the butler on his way and slowly dropped off to sleep. By the time he awoke, the moat had been drained, the oak trees uprooted and the second half of the turret taken apart.
The castle had stood for four hundred years, but was gradually being dismantled, dissected by a determined and elusive band of anti-builders. And Geoffrey had no idea how to stop them.
A Goose at the Gate
Every day at half past four a Canada goose wanders past my garden gate. I see her in my window as I'm doing the washing up.
It's a reassuringly regular routine. As the minute hand clicks into place at the six, there she goes, waddling complacently along from right to left, beak forward, belly proud.
Only once in the last six months has she not appeared, when I went down to the bottom of the garden and waited at the vegetable patch. She didn't come by that day.
Since then, I have resumed my previous position, drying the dishes with the wildfowl teatowel, and everything has returned to normal.
I've promised myself I won't disrupt the routine again. I don't want to drive my distinguished friend away.
It's a reassuringly regular routine. As the minute hand clicks into place at the six, there she goes, waddling complacently along from right to left, beak forward, belly proud.
Only once in the last six months has she not appeared, when I went down to the bottom of the garden and waited at the vegetable patch. She didn't come by that day.
Since then, I have resumed my previous position, drying the dishes with the wildfowl teatowel, and everything has returned to normal.
I've promised myself I won't disrupt the routine again. I don't want to drive my distinguished friend away.
Thursday 16 September 2010
Jefferson Marlowe, Hero
Jefferson Marlowe woke and sat up. He did not know where he was or how he'd got there, but he was sure that he was awake.
"Hello Jefferson."
He turned around. There was a very tall, very blurry figure floating a few metres away.
"Um...hello," he replied.
"Do you know where you are?"
"No."
"Do you know how you got here?"
"No."
Jefferson's eyes began to adjust to the light. The figure's features started to come into focus. He saw that it was a woman, a beautiful woman, long black hair draped over her shoulders and framing her unfathomably delicate features. He could see now that she was not floating, but appeared to be standing on an invisible box.
"I'm going to leave you now, Jefferson."
Now he could see her more clearly, he wanted her to stay. "No. Stay."
"I just want to say thank you, Jefferson. I know you don't remember, but we owe it all to you. No-one here will ever know what a hero you were, how you slew the mighty Jagalath, how you saved all our lives. But we won't forget. Good luck to you, Jefferson Marlowe. You can find your own way home from here, yeah?"
"What happened? What did I do?"
It was too late. The speaker had disappeared.
Jefferson looked around. He appeared to be in a big hole. No, now he could see that it was a quarry. There were miners chipping away at the huge chalky white wall not fifty metres away from where he was sitting. Little lads in purple uniforms. Must be the Quinto Rock Mining Collective, he thought. So that's where he was: Quinto Rock.
One of the miners put down his tools and ambled over.
"Hello! How did you get in then?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know, eh?"
"No."
"Well, come on. Make yourself useful. We've had a couple of fatalities recently. Could do with some new staff."
"Aren't I a little tall?"
The miner looked him up and down, and tried to suppress a laugh.
"Nah, mate. You're just right."
Jefferson picked up a loose chisel and wandered over towards the rock face. Typical, he thought. He'd finally done something magnificent, the huge deed that he'd been preparing to perform for his whole life... and neither he nor anyone else could remember the first thing about it.
"Hello Jefferson."
He turned around. There was a very tall, very blurry figure floating a few metres away.
"Um...hello," he replied.
"Do you know where you are?"
"No."
"Do you know how you got here?"
"No."
Jefferson's eyes began to adjust to the light. The figure's features started to come into focus. He saw that it was a woman, a beautiful woman, long black hair draped over her shoulders and framing her unfathomably delicate features. He could see now that she was not floating, but appeared to be standing on an invisible box.
"I'm going to leave you now, Jefferson."
Now he could see her more clearly, he wanted her to stay. "No. Stay."
"I just want to say thank you, Jefferson. I know you don't remember, but we owe it all to you. No-one here will ever know what a hero you were, how you slew the mighty Jagalath, how you saved all our lives. But we won't forget. Good luck to you, Jefferson Marlowe. You can find your own way home from here, yeah?"
"What happened? What did I do?"
It was too late. The speaker had disappeared.
Jefferson looked around. He appeared to be in a big hole. No, now he could see that it was a quarry. There were miners chipping away at the huge chalky white wall not fifty metres away from where he was sitting. Little lads in purple uniforms. Must be the Quinto Rock Mining Collective, he thought. So that's where he was: Quinto Rock.
One of the miners put down his tools and ambled over.
"Hello! How did you get in then?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know, eh?"
"No."
"Well, come on. Make yourself useful. We've had a couple of fatalities recently. Could do with some new staff."
"Aren't I a little tall?"
The miner looked him up and down, and tried to suppress a laugh.
"Nah, mate. You're just right."
Jefferson picked up a loose chisel and wandered over towards the rock face. Typical, he thought. He'd finally done something magnificent, the huge deed that he'd been preparing to perform for his whole life... and neither he nor anyone else could remember the first thing about it.
Wednesday 15 September 2010
The Perfect End
A brawl broke out as we left the party, on a small patch of grass by the newly-moored boat.
I might have joined in if I'd had a little more to drink. As it was, I simply stood back and admired the efficiency with which the evening was ruined.
No-one in the mob of enthusiastic spectators seemed to know quite what it was all about. We agreed that someone had done something to someone at some point between Putney and Hammersmith, but who had done what to whom when was not clear. Whatever the excuse, it no longer mattered: we were all taking far too much pleasure in the violence to care.
James and I vicariously enjoyed the ruckus throughout its opening exchanges: small pockets of participants slugging away, sometimes three on three, occasionally five on one; a young man with spiky blond hair crawling out of the battle, shirt bloodied, face blackened, trying hopelessly to light a cigarette; a young woman with ponytail half-undone, mud smeared harshly across her cream dress, standing on the deck of the boat and throwing a table, with a guttural howl, off onto the hordes below...
Once the adrenalin of the pugilists had begun to give way to shame, James and I sloped away for the bus, passing and briefly consoling the devastated birthday girl on the way.
At the stop we sat and we waited and we quietly reminisced, smiling in awe at the frenzy that we'd seen. The occasional shout could still be heard in the distance, and, approaching from afar, the faint sound of a siren. We had had our fill - it was time to go home.
I might have joined in if I'd had a little more to drink. As it was, I simply stood back and admired the efficiency with which the evening was ruined.
No-one in the mob of enthusiastic spectators seemed to know quite what it was all about. We agreed that someone had done something to someone at some point between Putney and Hammersmith, but who had done what to whom when was not clear. Whatever the excuse, it no longer mattered: we were all taking far too much pleasure in the violence to care.
James and I vicariously enjoyed the ruckus throughout its opening exchanges: small pockets of participants slugging away, sometimes three on three, occasionally five on one; a young man with spiky blond hair crawling out of the battle, shirt bloodied, face blackened, trying hopelessly to light a cigarette; a young woman with ponytail half-undone, mud smeared harshly across her cream dress, standing on the deck of the boat and throwing a table, with a guttural howl, off onto the hordes below...
Once the adrenalin of the pugilists had begun to give way to shame, James and I sloped away for the bus, passing and briefly consoling the devastated birthday girl on the way.
At the stop we sat and we waited and we quietly reminisced, smiling in awe at the frenzy that we'd seen. The occasional shout could still be heard in the distance, and, approaching from afar, the faint sound of a siren. We had had our fill - it was time to go home.
Friday 10 September 2010
The Course is Closed
The flags will not be needed again until the spring. The holes will be filled and the greens left to grow. I'll be breaking the news to the staff in the clubhouse: they'll have to find new work until March - there just isn't the demand.
Still, one or two folk will drop by that I know. Mr Jarvis will come in for his lunchtime pint every day, as will Derek Drake and Mrs McBride. There might be the odd game of bridge or Canasta on a weekday afternoon - Phillipa Reynolds will come in and make up a four. They'll sit in the bar and I'll serve them sandwiches and nuts and drinks. Mrs McBride will invite me to play, but I'll politely decline, say I've got to go and change a barrel, trusting them to mind the bar while I go upstairs and lie back and think.
When I come back, Derek will be looking at the photographs on the wall, asking me who this is and that is and if I remember when he went around the Old Course in 64. I'll smile and say yes, and he'll stroke his moustache proudly and return to the table.
They will sit in the bar until it closes, and then Derek and Mrs McBride and Mr Jarvis will be off to their homes, and I'll call a taxi for Phillipa Reynolds because she lives fifteen miles away. And while we're waiting for it to come, and the others have left, Phillipa and I will go and sit by the fire and hold hands and I'll wonder silently about what might have happened if we had met twenty years earlier, and I'll kiss her goodbye on the cheek, and watch from my room as she gets in the cab and goes home.
Yes, it will be just the same as ever this winter - the old routine - they'll be in every day. But they won't be going on the course. Oh no. The course isn't open in the winter. The course is closed.
Still, one or two folk will drop by that I know. Mr Jarvis will come in for his lunchtime pint every day, as will Derek Drake and Mrs McBride. There might be the odd game of bridge or Canasta on a weekday afternoon - Phillipa Reynolds will come in and make up a four. They'll sit in the bar and I'll serve them sandwiches and nuts and drinks. Mrs McBride will invite me to play, but I'll politely decline, say I've got to go and change a barrel, trusting them to mind the bar while I go upstairs and lie back and think.
When I come back, Derek will be looking at the photographs on the wall, asking me who this is and that is and if I remember when he went around the Old Course in 64. I'll smile and say yes, and he'll stroke his moustache proudly and return to the table.
They will sit in the bar until it closes, and then Derek and Mrs McBride and Mr Jarvis will be off to their homes, and I'll call a taxi for Phillipa Reynolds because she lives fifteen miles away. And while we're waiting for it to come, and the others have left, Phillipa and I will go and sit by the fire and hold hands and I'll wonder silently about what might have happened if we had met twenty years earlier, and I'll kiss her goodbye on the cheek, and watch from my room as she gets in the cab and goes home.
Yes, it will be just the same as ever this winter - the old routine - they'll be in every day. But they won't be going on the course. Oh no. The course isn't open in the winter. The course is closed.
Wednesday 8 September 2010
To Summer
I twisted the spoon, wrenched out a dollop and put it into my mouth to melt.
The cool mint mixture lined my throat; chips of chocolate wedged themselves between my back teeth. I didn't bother to fiddle them out.
"Who finished it?" Jess looked angrily at the tub and accusingly at me. "I bought that."
"Pip did." I wiped my mouth and turned towards the door.
I stepped out onto the balcony, hearing the wheeze of a bottle being opened behind me. Jess appeared with two glasses of lemonade.
"To summer."
I put my hand in hers.
"To summer."
She turned to me and kissed me. She smiled and said I tasted of mint.
The cool mint mixture lined my throat; chips of chocolate wedged themselves between my back teeth. I didn't bother to fiddle them out.
"Who finished it?" Jess looked angrily at the tub and accusingly at me. "I bought that."
"Pip did." I wiped my mouth and turned towards the door.
I stepped out onto the balcony, hearing the wheeze of a bottle being opened behind me. Jess appeared with two glasses of lemonade.
"To summer."
I put my hand in hers.
"To summer."
She turned to me and kissed me. She smiled and said I tasted of mint.
Tuesday 7 September 2010
The Dandelion Field
Jefferson Marlowe took a swig of papaya juice. It had been a long trek back to Batahausen - he was hot, sticky and in need of a sit down.
The view from the top of Mount Devesham was really quite something: fields stretching back as far as he could see, out across the valley and up the other side.
But there was one in particular which really caught his eye, standing out against the green and brown. At first it looked as if it was covered with snow, but, as Jefferson scrambled down the mountain, he realised that the field was, in fact, full of dandelions, the heads of every flower blurring into one, stitched together like a thick silver sheet.
_________________________________________________________________
As Jefferson sat down, he felt the dandelions on his bare knees, flicking idly against his canvas shorts. This was the perfect place for a bit of kip, he thought, as he lay back.
He pulled out a flower and blew on it carelessly.
As he did so, a tuft of silver particles flew away, the Sun disappeared behind a cloud and the sky got suddenly darker.
Jefferson shivered.
Before he'd had the time to question himself, he'd blown away another clump.
The night got darker still. He wrapped his arms about his chest and looked up at the sky. The moons were quite visible now, Juliet and Portia, two crescents in the gloam, and the stars were piercing into sight.
He looked at the flower, a few dusty fruits still clinging to its stalk. He brushed them away and the darkness completed its descent.
Jefferson remembered everything at last. The world was coming to an end and it was all his fault. The hoot af an owl signalled that the time had come: Jagalath had awoken and was ready to emerge.
The view from the top of Mount Devesham was really quite something: fields stretching back as far as he could see, out across the valley and up the other side.
But there was one in particular which really caught his eye, standing out against the green and brown. At first it looked as if it was covered with snow, but, as Jefferson scrambled down the mountain, he realised that the field was, in fact, full of dandelions, the heads of every flower blurring into one, stitched together like a thick silver sheet.
_________________________________________________________________
As Jefferson sat down, he felt the dandelions on his bare knees, flicking idly against his canvas shorts. This was the perfect place for a bit of kip, he thought, as he lay back.
He pulled out a flower and blew on it carelessly.
As he did so, a tuft of silver particles flew away, the Sun disappeared behind a cloud and the sky got suddenly darker.
Jefferson shivered.
Before he'd had the time to question himself, he'd blown away another clump.
The night got darker still. He wrapped his arms about his chest and looked up at the sky. The moons were quite visible now, Juliet and Portia, two crescents in the gloam, and the stars were piercing into sight.
He looked at the flower, a few dusty fruits still clinging to its stalk. He brushed them away and the darkness completed its descent.
Jefferson remembered everything at last. The world was coming to an end and it was all his fault. The hoot af an owl signalled that the time had come: Jagalath had awoken and was ready to emerge.
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