Jackson the Movie

A use for old writings

A use for old writings

.

A use for old writings,

a raison d’être for stuff I’ve let fester;

bean trench compost.

The accelerant is dogpoo

and I much prefer to garden

because there can be no HASSLE,

.

not like all that HASSLE

I had with my writings;

peaceful gardening in the garden.

Let the critics’ thoughts fester

I’m eversohappy in dogpoo

which turns waste into compost.

.

Even leaden fairycakes make compost.

I ignore that ‘Nanna can’t cook’ HASSLE.

Come. See what I have done with dogpoo.

I no longer do ‘writings’.

I let my ideas fester.

Dogpoo makes everything grow in the garden.

.

I just love my garden

almost as much as my compost

but I’ve made the neighbours fester.

The neighbours are giving me HASSLE;

making me think of writings;

sticking their noses into my dogpoo.

.

‘She shouldn’t do that with dogpoo’

they told the councillors they called to my garden.

The neighbours had been doing the writings;

complaining about my compost;

giving me HASSLE,

making me fester.

.

That’s right. Make me fester;

you arseholes with minds full of dogpoo.

I’m only gardening… but no… give me HASSLE.

All come and interrogate my garden.

Argue with my slugs. Threaten my compost.

I’ll show you bloody writings.

.

I’ll do some writings to make you all fester.

I’ll make compost with nappypooanddogpoo.

Leave me to garden or I’ll give you HASSLE.

The Registrants

Eggs smash near the three squad cars as they discharge their three blanketed-from-view passengers. The crowd chants ‘Paedos. Paedos.’ Eight-year-old Alice Bygraves has been missing for over a week.

It’s the first time Jordon Salter has been arrested for questioning since they let him out. He still isn’t clear about exactly what he was supposed to have done before. ‘Assault,’ they said, to do with his special friends Ruth and Jenny.

They’ve taken Jordon’s iPod off him, but as he rocks himself on his cell bench that afternoon, he thinks he’s singing Born This Way just like Lady Gaga sings it. ‘I’m on the right track baby…’

His tuneless whine becomes too much for John Tremayne and Robbie Anderson. ‘Shut up you moron.’

They rattle enamel plates across the bars on their cell doors. ‘You can’t keep locking us up.’

‘Every time.’

‘…European Court of Human Rights.’

‘…compensation.’

The shoplifters and car thieves in the other cells spit another word for the three, ‘Nonces. Nonces.’

The duty sergeant lets Maria, the duty social worker, into Jordon’s cell.

‘Have you brought my teddy?’ Tears fountain and cascade down Jordon’s plump cheeks to pool in his lap with the snot from his nose and the dribble from his mouth. It looks as though he’s wet himself. It smells as though he has too.

‘They want to know if you’ve seen Alice Bygraves.’

‘She’s not my friend any more.’

Manageress

My Mum was so proud when I told her I’d been promoted to Assistant Manageress at PetsRus. She tells everyone I’m manageress… misses off the ‘Assistant’. I was quite surprised myself really. I didn’t know if I would be able to do it, but mangeressing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. At least when I started I knew what I was supposed to be doing; cleaning out the animals and serving customers. Now I seem to be running around like a headless chicken; sorting out the delivery drivers, checking the stock, helping the new trainees, and… cleaning out the animals and serving customers.

I nearly lost it completely today with a customer, and I shouldn’t have. I’d just put  a pile of boxes of new stock down on the floor, and I was tidying up some of the wire shopping baskets which had been left all over the place, (omg safety hazard) and this old woman waiting by the fish tanks said ‘Hello’ very loudly to me. I looked round to see where the hell Jason was. He’s supposed to look after the customers who want fish. I hate bloody fish. I spotted Jason over by the rabbits, tangled up with doting parents and a whining kid, so that meant I’d have to see what the old faggot wanted. I hoped it was just some fish food or something else easy, but no. ‘I’d like four Bristol Blues please.’ she said, and pointed to the small ones in the top damn tank. I wouldn’t say that I had a fish phobia or anything.  I just don’t like the damn things.

We’d just had training about fish too. You’re meant to ask what size tank the customers have, and how many fish they have already, and how long they’ve had the tank for, so I asked her. It wouldn’t do for a manageress not to do her job properly. I can still see the old faggot now… well, she wasn’t that old; probably about forty or so, but her hair was grey; pretty, really. More women should let their hair go grey. Your skin colour changes when you get older, so grey hair suits you better than blonde or that ghastly henna red you see so much of. She wasn’t in denim jeans either. She had on a really smart trench-coat, over a skirt, and she was with another woman who was very smart too; not OTT, just smart; educated, probably.

The other woman sounded right posh. I felt really scruffy in my awful green overall, but I hoped they could see from my badge that I was ‘Karen. Manageress.’ When I asked about her fish tank, trench-coat said she’d no idea how big it was. I didn’t believe her. She’d probably just got an old round fish bowl. There was no way I was going to let her have four fish. I could get out of  climbing up the steps and plunging my hand into slimy water after all. Then her friend walks across to the biggest tank in the shop, and says, ever so posh, ‘It’s this size. Their tank is this size.’

Trench-coat argues, ‘No it’s not. It’s bigger than that.’

I still didn’t believe it, so I asked about the filter.

‘No. We haven’t got a filter. You mean one of those things that sucks the gunge through the gravel don’t you? No. We haven’t got one of those. We’ve a couple of those air bubble pumpy thingies. One’s a frog called Freddie. The bubbles come through his mouth.’

‘Well I’m sorry…’ I started to  say. There was NO WAY I was letting her have any fish, but then trench-coat only starts describing the latest type of all-dancing, all-singing, carbon filter. ‘Well how many fish have you got then?’ I was getting really mad then.

‘Four Bristol Blues’ she repeated; deliberately misunderstanding me.

‘I’ll get a net.’ I flew off into the back before I exploded. I kicked hell out of the side  wall to calm myself down.

I arrived back with the ruddy net, just in time to hear her saying, all cool and calm mind; not a bit shouty, which was what made it worse ‘…jumped up self-important rude little whore. What intrusive questions she asked.’

I can never think of brilliant put-downs like that until after the event. OMG she’s just the sort of person who would fire off an email to Head Office and get me the sack. I had to explain why we had to ask the questions. I told her it was because otherwise we couldn’t guarantee the fish. I apologised. I had been rude. I mean, there’s ways of asking questions politely, but, she wasn’t a bit cross. That was when I realised… the cow… her name’s Monica… had been winding me up. She knows more about fish tanks and their capacity, and all the different types of fish, than I do. When Monica comes in again, she’s going to especially ask for me, Karen, by name.

The Birthday-Card Woman THIS STORY MAY OFFEND

The never-ending Sky News channel isn’t on quite loud enough to completely drown out the comforting tick-tocks of the family grandfather clock.  Rebecca hasn’t said anything for five hours; not since he held the Wusthof kitchen knife to her face and pricked her eyeball until it bled. She’s always hated anything to do with  eyes.  She used to loathe putting drops in for anybody. Children who pull their cheeks down to expose their eyeballs when making ‘funny faces’ still can set her teeth on edge. Now, her closed right eye hurts like hell. It’s the worst of her cuts and  bruises.

‘If I don’t post these birthday cards,  people will start to wonder.’ She indicates the growing pile of stamped, addressed, envelopes in front of her on the dining table.

He jumps up from the best armchair in front of the telly and spins round towards her. She cringes. All of his attacks have come after she’s spoken. Big, paranoid Robert Hughes thinks she’ll give him away at the earliest opportunity. He’s right.

‘People? People?’ he jeers. ‘Five days; the only visitors have been delivery drivers. Your phone never rings; you sad, old bint-with-no-mates. Face it. No-one cares a flying fuck about you.’

‘You’d be surprised. If I forget a birthday, people ask questions. They worry.’

‘I could kill you now you stupid cowbag and you’d lie, undiscovered, for years.’ He sits back down. ‘Tell you what… you can go and run another bath for me.’

Obediently, she gets up from the table and goes towards the door. He stays close behind her as she goes upstairs, and he follows her into the main bathroom.

She turns on the hot tap.

‘Tell you what…’

Rebecca knows what he’s going to say next, but she’s used to it now. It’s no big deal anyway. Rebecca is a retired nurse, and once you’ve seen one…

‘I need a slash. I’ll need your help again.’ He stands over the toilet. She  puts the toilet seat up, and unfastens his flies. His penis is erect, as usual. ‘Oh dear. You’ll have to fix that so I can piss. Come on. Knickers.’ He sings the word.

Rebecca lifts her floaty, pale-green, cascade skirt and takes off her black thong. She’s  worn thongs for well over forty years, but… never will again.

He snatches the flimsy garment from her, and sniffs it. ‘Time to wank me off again. Good job you wear this. I could never get a hard on looking at you; you ugly bitch.’

As he climaxes and proudly spurts his semen all over the place, she wonders if that could be a good moment to try to attack him. Just for a second or two, the big man is helpless but, today, he hasn’t brought the knife with him into the bathroom. Maybe she’s missed the opportunity.

He settles into his bath. The supply of products from Lush is getting a bit low now, but she’s found some old Badedas. After she’s scrubbed his back, she cleans the bathroom meticulously but he won’t allow  her to wash herself or change her clothes. He’s deriving perverse pleasure from watching her getting progressively dirtier and smellier.

Two hours later, he escorts her back downstairs. Tibby is mewing for food. Angrily, he scoops up the little silver-tabby cat, then picks up the sawn-off shotgun. Is he going to harm Tibby? Rebecca screams hysterically. ‘No. No. No. Not Tibby. Whatever has Tibby done? Oh please, don’t hurt Tibby. Please.’ This is the first time that Rebecca has lost her cool.

He’s ecstatic. ‘Me? Me hurt a liddle puddywuddy?’ He rubs his face along Tibby’s back. ‘I wouldn’t hurt a liddle puddywuddy.’ His eyes belie his meaning.

‘Yes you would. Yes you would.’

‘Ssshhh. What a good job we’re miles from anywhere. What a good job your house is detached with a big garden… or someone might hear.’ He puts the sawn-off to the cat’s head.

Rebecca wails. ‘Not Tibby. Shoot me. Don’t shoot my little Tibby. He’s my life…’

‘I thought he might be.’ There’s a click as Robert Hughes cocks the gun, but  he allows the little cat to jump down. ‘Tell you what… I’ve been thinking. What if I let you post your damn birthday cards then? What if I do? I mean… if you promise not to tell. What might happen to Tibby if you told anyone where I was?’ He moves his fingers across his throat.

Rebecca gently gathers  Tibby up. ‘You would… wouldn’t you?’

‘Bet on it. Now, get me some food. I fancy that lobster you got out of the freezer yesterday. I’ll phone PastaExpress later on.’ She goes into the kitchen, still cuddling the cat. He settles into the armchair, muttering, and resumes cleaning the gun. She is able to discern snatches of  what he’s saying.

‘Yeah. I’ll let her go…

‘She can go out and post her freaking birthday cards…

‘ Don’t want anyone calling here or phoning; asking why she didn’t send them…

‘She’ll have to put a note inside the ones that are a bit late…

‘Yeah…

‘She can go to the postbox.’

Suddenly, he’s shouting. ‘Hey.  Hey Mrs Campbell-White. Hey ma’am. You come here. You come here now.’

She dashes back into the living-room.

‘Yes ma’am. You stand there, right in front of me. Atten…shun. Atten…shun and listen. You listen good.’

He seems to be living out some sort of military fantasy. Rebecca knows he’s never been in the forces. She stands before him.

‘It’s been decided. You can go. You can go and post your poxy birthday cards BUT you know exactly what will happen to poor Tibby if you tell anyone where I am?’

She doesn’t reply in case it triggers another sadistic fury.

‘Say thankyou then. Say…’ He coughs; a little, self-conscious, ridiculous cough. ‘Say thankyou …SIR.’

‘Thankyou sir.’

Rebecca hates bloody cats. She’s only looking after this particular songbird-killing machine as a favour…

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Mud Men

 

It’s fun riding piggyback high up on Daddy’s shoulders in the rain. I won’t carry the child’s tartan brolly which Mummy put in the car so my blonde pigtails are deliciously saturated and their soaking pink ribbons hang like dead worms.  Daddy  strides across the fields to a big yellow digger sitting by itself. Its engine shudders and stops as I’m set down on the sodden grass in front of its silver bucket grab. Yellow and brown teeth grip half a glowing cigarette as hairy legs in wellingtons descend from the cab. No underpants; I can see right up his baggy khaki shorts.

The clean rain is diluting the digger’s pungent brown smoke but its giant driver smells like tom-cat-sprayed coal sacks. He grabs Daddy by both arms.

‘Hello Nathan you pube.’

A lad in filthy cut-offs standing in the freshly excavated trench points manically in my direction.

Stinky hairylegs  peers over the bucket and sees me, too late. ‘Oh sorry.’

‘Daddy. What’s a pube?’ I do know, actually. Our teacher Ms. Simpson can’t stop Wesley from shouting it and the ‘f’ word and the ‘c’ word in class. Wesley has got Attention Deficit Disorder Syndrome so he’s allowed.

An unseen chorus of voices chirps sweetly at us.

‘Babysitting then?’

‘Getting his kid trained young.’

‘Way to go Naith.’

Daddy holds my hand and we walk along some scaffolding planks thrown down over the freshly dug mud. The gashed field resembles a torn green dress. In each trench spoiling the grass there is at least one plastic safety hat bobbing about; blue hats and yellow hats but mainly red ones.

‘She’s wearing the wrong coloured wellos for this lark.’

I have a pair of boring green wellingtons but I  prefer my Scooby-doo ones.

A squelching clay army emerges gloop gloop all around us from the yellow digger’s higgledy piggledy trenches. Hands on the ends of mud encrusted arms unfold the precious things they have been clutching; dirty shards of pottery, a bit of old rock, a rusty glob of metal. Daddy grabs a proffered  pot fragment and is soon absorbed in an animated discussion about whether it’s Bronze Age or Neolithic. Shivering brown bodies slither back below.

‘Here little girl. What’s your name then? Look at this.’ It seems odd that a man made entirely of mud can speak like anyone normal.

‘Here. See this.’ That voice is high and bell-like. That mud man must be a mud woman.

‘You can have this piece of bloom to play with.’ says a mud man wearing a mud hat.

I’ve heard of flower blooms, but never a piece of bloom. Daddy’s always saying ‘Blooming cheek.’ Granpa and Nanna like crusty Bloomer loaves. But a piece of bloom?

‘Bloom?’

‘From the bloomery.’ He takes off his mud hat and beats it on his elbow. It’s not made of mud after all. It’s a straw hat like Granpa wears for playing bowls. Mud man in the straw hat smells of soil and faint perfume.

‘I’m Victoria.’

‘Professor Hartwell.’

I take his stone. The rainfall has increased to power shower and rainwater drips constantly from my nose. He mistakes it for snot and retches slightly. It’s made him decide not to enlighten me about bloomeries. I’ll have to ask Daddy later or there might be something on Time Team tonight.

‘Don’t drop it now.’

As he lopes quickly away the little muddy pebble falls from my cold hand. It disappears into the mud mound I’m balancing on. There’s no telling it apart from all the other bits of mud.

He turns, ‘Be sure to give it me back. I’ll be in the tent.’ then he’s busily on his way again.

‘Thankyou. I will.’ I call after him and then randomly pick up a hard piece of mud and place it in one of the pockets of my brand new Barbour coat.

I wander by myself around the waterlogged dig. No-one is taking any notice of Nathan’s little girl any more. I think about the book of war poems I found on Mummy’s shelf, because some of the poems were all about trenches and mud. One poem said something about falling into the mud and losing the light¹.  I think that meant that the soldier had died.  Why did he die? Are muddy trenches dangerous for people? Where’s Daddy?

Suddenly I lose my footing on the slippery wet wood. I’m down. The soup of mud and blooms without flower or flour fills my eyes. Have I lost the light now?

‘Daddy.’

Footnote

1. Memorial Tablet. Siegfried Sassoon. [1918] (The War Poems Bibliobazaar 2007 p 90)

Alternative endings

Professor Hartwell sees Victoria fall (ha!) and runs to help her. She spends the rest of the day with him in his tent, drinking tissane tea and eating the many wonderful cakes which are brought to him by his students, who hero-worship him. Victoria becomes a keen archaeologist, going on to become a professor herself. (yawn)

Victoria’s head is forced down into the mud and she is raped and murdered by person(s) unknown. They bury her body in one of the re-filled trenches and so it is never discovered. Victoria joins the lists of Missing Children.  (Oh heck… I feel a book coming on)