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davidastbury · 5 years

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April 2019

Old Bank Street

Someone once told me about Old Bank Street - he knew all about local history. I nodded politely and let him ramble on.

I did not tell him that it is part of my history too - that I have a claim to a modest proprietorial pride. That some fragments of my happiness are still pulsing in the atoms of the brickwork. I can look at the paving stones - the same paving stones - and hear the quickening sound of her shoes - getting louder!

It’s a pleasant conspiracy. Old Bank Street, narrow, undistinguished and gloomy, remembers with pleasure, how it was once lit up by her smile.

How it was

5.30 pm - Friday - 30th September 1955 - California - Junction State Route 46 and State Route 41.

Porsche Spyder in collision with a 1950 Ford Tudor. The aluminium bodied Porsche shredded like flaky pastry.

5.281 miles away a ten-year-old secretly kept the newspaper articles and tried to imagine the speeding car and what the crash must have been like - the low sun, the blinding metallic shine and then the silence afterwards.

He imagined the empty highway to Salinas, the loneliness of death and James Dean in a box.

On the Plane

Cool kid slumped in window seat. He had to be told by cabin crew to fasten seatbelt - slow blink and then a slow smile. Sour black hoodie, grey trackies, hi-tech watch with rubber strap, reversed baseball cap. He slept for an hour or so and woke with a jerk. Waived for the stewardess, the one who told him to fasten his seatbelt - asked her for a bottle of Bell’s whisky. He doesn’t look eighteen, but she gets it for him.

There’s a girl looking at him and she fancies him something rotten - but she’s wasting her time, he’s so cool - he doesn’t give a flying fuck.

All at Sea

A beautiful day - a cloudless sky marked only by the crumbling white trail of a vanished jet - freshly rinsed ochre beach; but the sea (I was the solitary swimmer) was cold. I only lasted ten minutes or so and my hands became numb.

As I came out of the water I was approached by a young black woman. For a second I thought I had drowned and was caught up in some sort of afterlife. She moved with the fluidity of a dancer or athlete - much taller than me, slapping the sand from her shoes, wearing only a turban and a green bikini.

'L'eau est froid?'

'Oui, bien sur'

'You are English'?

'Yes'

'You are a strong man.'

So we had a chat! Everyone on the beach was watching. Vanity of vanities; illusion is everything. Elderly, sun-tanned film producer - hillside villa in Positano - the girl laughing, showing perfect teeth, her shiny shoulders, her sand peppered legs.

And I breathed the beauty of this perfect day - the locals repairing the damage of Wednesday's storm, the barbecue smoke drifting over the railings and the white-jacketed waiter holding my drink on a steel tray.

Mother's Day

A Kurdish friend once said to me that love, like water, runs downwards; it flows downwards through the generations. I didn't fully agree with him but the following (totally true) story would appear to substantiate his theory.

The daughter said to her mother - 'I am thinking about a family holiday'.

'That would be really nice' replied the mother - 'Do you have anywhere in mind?'

'Yes - the Seychelles'.

Next day the mother eagerly made enquiries - which airports, dates, flight times, choices of hotels etc.

She telephoned her daughter and started to give her the details. The daughter interrupted her - 'Oh - I didn't mean you coming. I said we wanted a family holiday- you misunderstood me.'

The mother got through the next minute or so - put down the phone - not sure what day it was.

Overheard in restaurant

We slightly know the woman at the next table - she more or less lives here in the hotel and the waiters are planning a birthday surprise for her next week; she will be eighty.

Woman: ‘Where’s my water? You’ve taken away my water!’

Waiter: ‘No problem Madame, I’ll bring you some more’.

Woman: ‘That’s no good - I had dissolved my tablets in that water.’

Waiter: ‘I am sorry Madame ’.

Woman: ‘If I get pregnant it will be your fault!’

My hearing started to crackle and fizz as it was buffeted by the noise in the hotel swimming pool. The cacophony of screams and shouts and splashes all melding into a mangled mess.

Until, like sunshine bursting through clouds, my brain soothed the jagged tangle of impulses and I began to hear the massed Red Army Choir singing 'The Volga Boatmen'.

The Beach at Night

And so we talk of our happiness and fears; sometimes glancing at the sea and sky - at the lights in the sky! The individual brightness and the glowing smear of distant billions.

Mathematicians and prophets fail to impress; I am lost by page four and then return to my narrow wisdom - the victim - the rejected parent - the girl fussing her hair - the eyes of the hooked fish - the purring of a pregnant cat.

On the Beach

Young couple. Looking a bit incongruous in formal clothes; he fair-haired French; she dark Berber or Arab. The woman was holding a plastic cat basket; both of them looking down at the sand; both of them clearly upset. We walked towards them; the woman was wiping her eyes. I could see a beautiful white cat peering out through the basket grill.

Pat spoke to the man in French and he told his story.

They visit the spot because it is where they buried their pet cat. She was about to give birth to kittens when she died. They regularly visit her grave, as often as they can - and they bring their other cat with them. The two cats were devoted to each other and it seems right that he should come too.

The man, seeing that I wasn't properly following his French, said in English - 'She was going to have kittens but she died. That is why I am crying now.'

# 5 ... Winter 1965

They spent the winter of 1965 in that cold room in Whalley Range. They didn't need anyone else - it was always just the two of them and no matter how often they did what twenty-year-olds in love tend to do, they could never get enough of each other.

She once knelt beside him and said - 'Is there anything that you want? Is there something that you'd like - something you have never asked for? I will do anything for you - anything - you only have to tell me - I will do anything.'

And sadness choked him - sadness and pity.

She put a hand to his face and whispered - 'I've never said that before.'

#4 ... Winter Nights ... 1965

She was frightened of the man downstairs. Sometimes they came face to face in the hall and she would try to be bright and friendly but there was something about him that made her shiver. Sometimes at night she would lie awake listening for sounds outside her door; certain that someone was putting on gloves before working on the frail lock. There was one particularly terrifying night when a burglar was on the fire escape - she could see him through the side window.

Everything was better when her boyfriend stayed. The fears didn’t exist when another person was around. It didn’t matter that her boyfriend would have been pretty useless in a fight - all she wanted was someone with her - someone who would take away the dread of being alone.

#3 ... Winter Nights ... 1965

The boyfriend wanted to go out for a drink but she didn’t feel up to it. He asked her why she had an aversion to pubs; why she never appeared to be comfortable in them. She replied that she didn’t have an aversion - she just did not feel like going out - as simple as that.

Their conversation became a bit testy. He began to probe her past and she said more about her upbringing than she had ever done before. She mentioned her father’s oppressive, controlling nature; how she had tried to please him, but nothing seemed good enough. Strangely, the boyfriend defended her father; this totally amazed her; knowing that despite there being no chance of mutual liking or respect, there was some sort of masculine bond that over-rode everything she said. She became angry and cranked up the dispute until it became heated. The boyfriend grabbed his coat and stormed out.

Later at the pub, things looked different. He began to think that he shouldn’t have upset her. She was right and he was wrong.

Back at the flat, she regretted what she had called him - she had been unfair - she was wrong and he was right.

#2 ... Winter Nights ... 1965

Her boyfriend brought a Dansette record player and an armful of his favourite albums - mostly blues, Muddy Waters, Big Bill Broonzy and protest songs from a young Bob Dylan.

Every Friday evening she’d be invited to friends houses but, a bit guiltily, she’d refuse. Instead her boyfriend would turn up at the flat and he would break up cigarettes and sprinkle stuff from a little packet. He would re-roll them; they would share the smoke and sit listening to Leadbelly slapping his 12 string guitar.

But when her boyfriend was wasn’t around she didn’t play Leadbelly. She would brush her hair and put on a 45 she brought from home. She kept the record hidden amongst her books, so that her boyfriend didn’t see it.

(The record is in the link in the comments below)

Winter Nights 1965

Cheap rented room in Whalley Range. She’d tried to fix up curtains - tried to make it nice. No TV and burglars had stolen her radio. It was a large room; a leftover from a different world; you could see it in the high ceilings, the double dado rails, the missing interior shutters; the grandeur of the chalk coloured fireplace with its florid carved scrolls, now reduced to housing a sad little electric fire.

These were nights of twilight and shadows; when it seemed as cold inside as out. When the yellow streetlights leaked through the draughty windows and the twigs of the giant chestnut tree scraped across the glass.

And they huddled together. They couldn’t have been happier. Nights of cider and cigarettes - of sour metallic kisses - nights when he couldn’t get enough of her - nights when he was insatiable for her quick mind, her breath, her hair, her voice, her face, warmth, smell.

And the world could not offer anything better to him - nothing compared with their nights in that cheap rented room in Whalley Range.

Russell

I will never know how he navigated the perilous seas of adolescence. How he got through the deep waters - the rocks - the currents - the sharks! I will never know what became of him ... but of this I am sure :-

He was, and would always be a friend to every creature; he would never harm or be cruel to anything. He lacked (lamentably, according to at least one teacher) a competitive component in his character - he didn’t mind losing. Although his parents had spent a small fortune on musical instruments and lessons, the piano etc would only be items of fun and amusement. He was splendidly un-neurotic - pleased with his own genial personality and his dark, beetle-browed face. Things might not have been as rosy as I am painting them; there was a stammer and he chewed his finger nails down to the stumps; but that was all - he didn’t appear to be worried about anything and the stammer and twitches were just ... well, what Russell did.

In my little stories I have tried to describe Russell and what it was like being with him. Of course I cannot get near to it. He was extraordinary in his simplicity - he wouldn’t cheat you or try to get the better of you - he would listen to what you told him and wouldn’t repeat it to others - he wasn’t critical about things he couldn’t understand, such as my fondness for his sister; or why the grinning gardener at home was always putting an arm around him.

But the definitive image for me is when the two of us were once crossing a field. The grass was long and the sun burned our necks and legs. And Russell was ahead of me - he turned round, laughing, arms windmilling, falling backwards into a future where I would no longer know him.

Dreams and fantasies are vivid for as long as they remain dreams and fantasies; once they become realities they shrivel into the mundane.

A book unwritten can be a source of joy - it will be a masterpiece!

Think of Tolstoy - still in his thirties; having completed ‘War and Peace’ and ‘Anna Karenina’ - instructing the staff on his country estate to hide all the farm ropes. Despite knowing that he was the greatest living writer, despite his adoring wife and family, despite his wealth beyond reckoning - he could not trust himself alone with a piece of rope.

Ava and Andre

Andre Previn, as a naive seventeen year old, was playing the piano at a Hollywood party; melodies by Rogers and Hart, Kern, Gershwin.

He spoke of how Ava Gardner came across to him - ‘She sat on the bench next to me. She listened to me play, quite attentively, and then asked an incredible question: “Would you like to take me home later?”

The innocence Previn missed the subtext and declined. Two years later, and more worldly wise, he was at another party playing the piano. Spotting Gardner once more he finished playing, ambled over and asked: “Can I take you home later?”

As he recalled: ‘She gave me a radiant smile of pure sweetness, patted my hand and said - “Go fuck yourself, kid”’.

home in Missoula,

home in Truckee,

home in Opelousas,

ain’t no home for me;

home in ol’ Medora,

home in Wounded Knee,

home in Ogallala,

home will never be.

(Jack Kerouac)

The Drugs Bust 1966

Ian had been drinking in the Town Hall Tavern when the police did one of their periodic raids. I’m sure he didn’t do much in drugs, other than the occasional smoke, but he knew a lot of people who did. His girlfriend Lorna kept him on the straight and narrow, but she wasn’t with him on this particular night.

Ian was bundled with all the others; they were forced to stand in a line and wait to be questioned. And this is where he took up the story - and he loved telling it. He was a natural mimic and relished imitating the policeman’s accent and facial contortions. Lorna would fall about laughing even though she had heard it all many times.

The policeman asked Ian where he had hidden his drugs. Ian replied that he didn’t have any drugs. The policeman said he wasn’t happy. Ian said he was sorry.

‘I’m not happy at all!’ - said the policeman.

Ian looked at him sympathetically.

‘I am not satisfied ... and I am going to have to take down your particulars.’

(Lorna would be snorting with laughter)

Policeman - ‘Name?’

Ian - ‘Ian Smith’.

Policeman - ‘Address?’

Ian - ‘33 Orchard Grove, Heald Green.’

Policeman - ‘Occupation?’

Ian - ‘If you had asked me that question on Friday I would have said “subscriptions manager for American scientific journals. And if you ask me that question next week I would tell you that I have launched my own magazine.’

Policeman - ‘A magazine eh? What sort of magazine?’

(Everyone fell about laughing)

Russell and the Ambiguity ... 1957

We were all squeezed into the back of the car. Russell was sprawled and taking up too much room. Caroline’s friend was proprietorial with Russell - she was quick to push him, give him little slaps, rumple his hair etc.

So Russell was sprawling and the girl had flipped her bare legs across his lap; he looked back at her and giggled as the dog, wriggling with suppressed excitement, licked his face.

Caroline pretended to be bored and reaching back slid the glass panel which isolated the driver. And then she looked at me - and I looked away, and then looked back at her and she was still looking at me - and then I looked away again and didn’t look back because I knew she was still looking at me.

When we arrived we ran on the beach. There wasn’t much wind and our kite wouldn’t stay up. The tide was out leaving the sand ribbed, mile after mile; the sea glittering far away. Russell got sand in one of his eyes and Caroline’s friend offered to get it out with her tongue. He refused her offer and she approached him on all fours like an animal. Russell was lying on a striped beach towel, hands over his eyes. She pounced on him and they were both laughing.

Caroline was trying to pull a soggy ball from the dog’s mouth. He was shaking his head and growling. I was confused about what was happening - I was confused by Russell’s unsuspected maturity - his easy way with the girl - something totally unknown to me.

So I write about the ambiguity I felt that day - the medley of delicious confusion, which even now, all these years later, still evokes an image of innocence melting into the thick broth of adolescent lust.

Party 1965

It wasn’t such a nice evening - nothing special at all. It only figured in his memory because of two events. Earlier he had visited a city-centre barber’s shop and requested a new hairstyle. The man himself - whose walls were covered in photographs of smiling famous clients - did the cutting. He was made to understand that the maestro only accepted him because of a cancellation - but the price was still high. Anyway, the young man was pleased with the haircut which he considered very cool.

Later, he turned up at the little after-work party - someone was getting married or leaving or someone was arriving or having a baby; all that is forgotten. But the memory of the girl hasn’t faded at all. How she stood - how she held her drink in both hands - how cleverly her tight chalk-striped skirt and jumper contrasted with her dramatic eye make-up. Perhaps emboldened - perhaps drunkenly overconfident with his new haircut - he gulped down his second drink and went across to her.

He got it all wrong. She wasn’t having any. She muttered something and turned away.

So the evening remained in his memory. The friends who didn’t much interest him; the drinks he didn’t want - and the girl who turned away, leaving the immortal image of her pharaoh eyes, black jumper and tight, chalk-stripe skirt.

From 2016

He came in on Interstate 26, through Jamison and Sangaree - Goose Creek off on the left, and finally Charleston. He had a beer overlooking the Wando River; the waters sparkling in the afternoon sunshine, reminding him of his girlfriend's eyes - the girl he loved - the girl back in Volunteers Ridge, Daufuskie Island, just east of Savannah.

Summer in the City

There was high anxiety in Princess Street - sharp words at the junction with Mosley Street West. It was as if the sky was closing and the world was ending. But eventually the right words were said and they kissed for a long time - two lovers in the doorway of the Institute of Mechanical Engineers.

A concert consisting of three movements - a play in three acts - a triptych of three paintings - a third volume to conclude the story - the Three Graces - the Three Dancers - the Three Wise Men - the three aspects of the Trinity - something so satisfying about ‘three’.

But HE wants four! He wants to smash the first three into pieces and emerge totally free of shape, colour, sound - free of thought and reason - free of childish maturity - drunk with the bliss of knowing nothing, saying nothing, desiring nothing except the certainty of endless displacement, loss of self - loss of folly.

Everything has been said better by the ancients. Show me any modern author who can match this ....

‘This was Argos, trained as a puppy by Odysseus, but never taken on a hunt before his master sailed for Troy. The young men, afterward, hunted wild goats with him, and hare, and deer, but he had grown old in his master’s absence. Treated as rubbish now, he lay at last upon a mass of dung before the gates – manure of mules and cows, piled there until fieldhands could spread it on the king’s estate. Abandoned there, and half destroyed with flies, old Argos lay. But when he knew he heard Odysseus’ voice nearby, he did his best to wag his tail, nose down, with flattened ears, having no strength to move nearer his master. And the man looked away, wiping the tears from his face...’

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