2. Serenade to Southsea
………………..The statues are speaking to her out aloud
They’re standing alone with their heads bowed
Milky morning mists mingling with the choking fumes of passing banana lorries - never ending carpets of spring blossom and waste paper, bustling crowds of faceless nobodies going nowhere. This was Saturday morning in Chesford. Mark and Sarah walking hand in hand through mellow sunlight, laughing at fat old ladies on bicycles, kicking neatly piled mountains of brightly coloured autumn leaves into billowing fountains and smiling through chattering teeth.
The clock on the front of the Town Hall beamed down on the early morning crowds (alright there were only four people around at that time of the morning its poetic licence okay? and three’s a crowd) The clock unmercifully boomed out the hour of six o’ clock. Mark and Sarah seemed to quicken their step and miraculously managed to cross the road without getting themselves wrapped around the wing mirrors of a passing double-decker bus. They staggered up the curb and slumped breathlessly against the wall of somebody’s front garden. Mark groaned as he slipped the bulging haversack from his aching shoulders and dropped it with a thud on the pavement. Trembling he slipped a bent ’Embo’ between his dry lips and managed somehow to force a smile; Sarah giggled back. She grabbed him by the hand and dragged him forward, but dismay suddenly replaced her unexpected burst of enthusiasm and registered as a muttered curse on her sweet lips.
Thundering towards them through the belching cloud of smoke emitting from the exhaust was something resembling a Vauxhall Victor, pearly-whites grinning at the wheel. It was Enoch Harlem. Mark’s troubled face broke into a somewhat relieved smile and dragging the haversack behind him, he half ran to the edge of the road frantically waving his free arm as he did so. Sarah watched unbelieving as the spluttering wreck came to a more than sudden halt opposite her and astride the white line in the middle of the road; angry motorists, unable to get past remonstrated and shouted abuse. The two hitchhikers threw themselves headlong into the back of the car, and with the door still swinging open; they took off down the road, leaving the irate motorists behind them in a fog of exhaust fumes. The door eventually banged itself shut (with a little help from Mark). Sarah-Jane merely smiled and managed to contain her frustration and anger with a sigh as she wrestled for a more comfortable position on top of the spare wheel. Most people kept them in the boot, she thought to herself, but not Enoch.
Ten o’clock found Sarah much happier as they were set down outside the University entrance, some miles further down the road. Mark thumbed through a tattered road atlas whilst Sarah straightened her dress and tried to do a quick repair job on her hair. She was carrying one of those super magic bags that all women carry, you know the ones that look small but are bottomless and contain all things known to man, and woman for that matter. Hair-bands, rubber-bands, and economy size hair spray, safety pins, Band-Aid, bandages, brushes for hair, teeth and nails, a small metal disc with bits of wire sticking out (don’t ask!), shampoo, soap, lipstick and lace. A spare pair of tights in case they have an accident and a spare pair of knickers in case they don’t. A mobile phone with no credit left on it and a mirror, must not forget the mirror, ever! The above list is by no means a comprehensive one but it does go someway to explain the age-old question of women go to the loo in teams of at least two. They have to carry out an inventory of each other bags on a periodic basis to ensure they are not letting the sisterhood down.
Their next lift dropped them in the middle of Stratford a small, but busy town about twenty miles south of Chesford, and where they made for the nearest pub to sip aimlessly from fathomless glasses of bitter shandy. Then out once more into the cold crisp air heading towards the purlieus of the town and better prospects for a lift on the open highway. They soon found themselves standing ankle deep in cold wet leaves by the roadside sucking avidly on damp cigarettes and half-heartedly blowing hazy smoke rings as they anxiously awaited transport. Mark shuffled his cold feet and gazed down at Sarah, she just gazed back and smiled. Sunshine smiles of love divine, and Sarah-Jane find hearts entwined…………
……………Whispered the luke warm wind. Then off again as the Wartburg Knight on his charger of green steel whisked them through frigid grey suburbia and out onto the rambling ribbon roads of Oxfordshire. Alas, the Knight is gone just as quickly as he came leaving alone the intrepid adventurers once more on the outskirts of the county town. They walked on passed the hallowed walls of the famed university, looking for all the world like residents of that venerable establishment. They both felt quite at home and it was with a tinge of sadness that they waved goodbye to Oxford and hello to Abingdon with fish and chips eaten out of last weeks Abingdon Herald. Time goes on inexorably refusing to wait for the lovers and as it neared to the stroke of three, the two companions were huddled together in the cockpit of a Volvo juggernaut. Hans (his real name was Dietmar, but the stroking of Sarah’s thigh had earned him the nom-de-plume) was a friendly sort of chap, and the long A34 stretched out before them. The wagon was heading for the docks and Hans’ incessant chatter, the rumbling of giant wheels and the ching ching of the music from the radio broke up the long monotonous journey.
Their next stop, Chandlers Ford, situated on the edge of Southampton was a small insignificant place but proved good for a lift to Portsmouth. It was only a short distance and before long, the nice chap in the cavalier had waved them goodbye and they were trundling along the promenade at Southsea The beach was soft and the sand warm under the early evening sunlight, although late in the year it was quite hot, almost summer weather. The noisy children had all gone home and only love walked hand in hand.
“Shall we pitch the tent?” Mark looked at his young Juliet.
“No, let’s kip on the beach,” she replied.
Dreamy clouds of wispy white cotton descended from the blue–grey sky and the lights on the promenade began to disappear one by one. It was just as the moonlight began to bare its soul to a drowsy world, that Sarah half-opened her eyes to get a closer look at the shadow of the crucifix along the concrete walling. Isolated, desolate and looking out across the ocean blackness; her mind raced on. The atrocities that ones own brain could perpetrate! The shadow of the lonely telescope could indeed in certain light and from a certain angle look like a giant crucifix, its massive crossbeam stretched out in the dimmed light; and so with the night finally descending from its hiding place, the pair found a suitable place in which to dream. The gentle lapping of Neptune’s waves provided a soundtrack for tired limbs. Sarah closed her eyes and departed the darkening world.
Listen lover, sighed the wind
As she danced with the night in the moonlight……
Angled light and flashing cubes, the dancers swayed and music splashed into waiting eardrums. White flashes of neon teeth appeared to fill the room, grinning, smiling through nicotine haze and alcohol swirl. The beat descended on Sarah-Jane as she wavered slightly under the strain of vodka & lime. Mark steadied her and sat her down, whilst he went to the bar for a refill.
The Roostertail was Chesford’s only discothèque. That is to say, it was the only worthwhile one. If you wanted to be ‘it’ (whatever ‘it’ was) you were there. The music was good, the drinks were reasonable, for a club and it was the place to be. Most of the kids in Chesford went there on a Saturday and it was the only place open on Sunday night. Sarah was swimming in the pulsating light of discord and plastic music, vibrating walls of red noise and multi-coloured lights. Her eyes were closed and her thoughts away at the events of that morning. The purple lighting reminded her of the priest’s robes and the pious congregation turning to notice the latecomers. Hypocrites! - All of them, she thought. . Sacred Heart, bleeding hearts more like. The chalice held high with purple hands; gold trim vestments preaching Latin with an Irish lilt.
Why had Enoch gone to church that morning? Even the priest stirred from his eulogy to John the Baptist to look up at the new member of his flock - the black sheep no doubt? (She laughed to herself at her irreverent humour.) The candles burned, the incense smoked and the faces looked and stared as Sarah ran, screaming at the top of her voice from the assembled throng. Mrs O’Hagen looked over to Mary Hennessey, and she looked at Edna Sullivan, who glared back, “Spiders!” she mouthed. Mary smiled knowingly and began whispering to Mrs O’Hagen. The message was relayed around, no doubt losing any sense or meaning on route. A shrill low humming echoed round the ecclesiastical columns. The priest resumed his liturgy, the congregation resumed their lethargy, and Sarah-Jane was being violently shaken by Enoch Harlem:
“Sas! Sass!!Sarah!!! Sarah-Jane!!!!”
Enoch was shouting above the decibels all around them. He was fighting not only the music but also Sarah’s drifting mind “Hey you were miles away.”
“Yes, I was thinking, I’m waiting for Mark, he’s at the bar”
….“You can get it if you really want it”… the speakers blurted out, the bass rebounded and reverved. What a shame the music has to keep interrupting the DJs’ clever patter, he must practice the drivel, sorry his ‘act’ for hours. Practice makes perfect, and those who are perfect were in the Sacred Heart that morning, sitting in their pious pews, with their ‘holier than thou look on their faces.
Mark returned but Sarah had gone……“Red, Red Wine goes straight to my head and makes everything seem calm again….”. Kaleidoscope colours cast strange shadows over the talking stone statues that picked her up and took her ever onwards. The Brown bombers descended from the Blue ceiling and Lucy was in the sky with diamond rings around her pretty head.
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Lucy was 29 years old, and lived in Rochester House, a tower block situated on the edge of town. The flat came as part of her job. When she was not sleeping over to care for Michael she would retire to the flat that she shared with the other carer, thus offering twenty-four hour care to their client. Recently, her life had become rather complicated. Never helped by her constant consumption of alcohol, her marriage to Robert Simpson had been failing, which was why she had taken this job away, she needed space, needed freedom, away from his oppressive personality. Lucille (she hated that name) was unable to have children and felt unfulfilled. They had tried all the conventional treatment. Lucy was tired of hospital visits, tests, and consultants. She seemed to spend her life there, being prodded and poked and began to feel like some scientific experiment. To be honest it seemed to bother Bob more than it did her. The whole business was making her feel ill. Bob had always blamed her throughout their five-year marriage; he once raised his fist, and hit her in his frustration and anger. Once was enough! Lucy packed her bags and moved south, she was confident of getting work with her qualifications and experience. She was a qualified nurse and had been a ward sister in the days before re-organisation of the NHS into private Trusts, abolished such positions along with matrons and proper patient care. Lucy loved her work, she was one of natures natural compassionate people and only truly happy when she was looking after some unfortunate soul.
The fact that she had ended up in Chesford, however, was purely by chance. Sitting at the bus station on route to anywhere south really, she was reading the local freebie newspaper. The ad stood out in bold type:
THE DISABLED TRUST
Requires full-time carers, ex-health professional welcome; live in: all found.
She made a mental note of the phone number and put the paper down; her bus was due any moment. It was just as she got up to go to the bus stand that it dawned on her ‘live in: all found’ the words stuck in her mind, no worries about finding a place to live she thought, ideal. She picked the paper back up off the bench and made her way to the ticket hall to find a phone. Her mobile was out of credit as usual. She only used it for emergencies it was just that in emergencies she never had any credit on it. Still people could still contact her, except that the only people who knew the number were people she didn’t want to talk to just now. Lucy found a phone and made the call to DLT arranging to see a Mr Spriggett later that day. The rest, as they say, is history. So here, she was in Chesford slap-bang in the middle of the country two hundred miles away from Bob and enjoying what should have been newfound wealth, independence, and freedom.
Michael Sands was a very wealthy young man, good looking with an excellent career prospect. He had been injured in a skiing accident two years ago that had damaged his spine leaving him in a wheel chair and dependant on others. This had left him morose, understandably so, except that he appeared to blame everyone else for his predicament. The Trust looked after his money and provided him with round-the-clock care, however, even they were becoming increasing annoyed with his quick turnover of staff. Michael had gone through six carers in five months. On the plus side, he had a magnetic personality, which Lucy adored, although initially it may have been pity and the £1500 per month that kept her at his beck and call. The job had become a vocation of joy for her. She revelled in the authority she held over her charge. It was almost like being back in charge of a ward again. She was her own boss to a certain extent and could arrange her own hours in conjunction with the other carer She felt strangely drawn to Michael. He was after all a very attractive looking man.
Michael enjoyed a drink and encouraged Lucy to drink with him. Many nights they spent together intoxicated recounting their problems to each other. The depression grew worse with each drink but the alcoholic fog masked any real problems and Lucy was content. (She always was content when she was drunk; it was only when sober that she bemoaned her lot). They made a strange couple, Michael with his miserable temperament cursing the world for his invalid status and Lucy recounting the traumas of her romantic encounters She was careful to avoid mentioning Bob by name, both to Michael and to herself, She had cast him into that wasteland of limbo that stretches forever between marriage and divorce.
Once a week Lucy had to take Michael into town to collect his money, the insurance for his accident together with a pension and disability allowance came to a tidy sum. They did some shopping and often called in at the Bookies. Michael loved to gamble; he said that it was one of the few pleasures left to him. He was able to fill out the slips himself and watched the races on TV at home. It made him feel independent. Lucy understood, but she hated going to the Betting Shop, it was always full of old men smelling of stale beer and cigarettes, a noisy tanoy and a fog of chauvinism in the air. She detested it!
Moonlit trees whisper you wisdom but try not to probe too far;
Your haunting voice echoing through the stone valleys of existence,
Screams out like the siren at the Velvet Sun factory …….
Mark was idly chatting to ‘The Snake’ when Jack Starr appeared; he always just appeared. Rumour has it that he is actually an Alien life form able to turn himself invisible and reappear at will at just the appropriate moments. There again it is probably just a skill that most management develop.
“I would be grateful if we could start work soon, lunchtime ended three and half minutes ago”
“Just checking on a delivery “Larry replied
“Are you loaded up yet?” Jack sneered
“Not Quite “
“Well go and get on with it, and lets try and deliver the stuff without any mishaps or we will be taking money out of your wages to pay for the damage” Jack continually harangued Larry about his ability, or lack of, in driving skills. To be fair, Jack did have a point Larry had had three smashes in a month, only minor skirmishes but over £1000 in damage plus lost stock: dented tins and damaged reels. The last one was a rush contract and resulted in overtime being worked to replace the special Blue required for a printer in York. It was not a standard stock item so the factory had to work until midnight to get the replacement order finished. Larry was not a popular chap that day.
Mark left the two of them to discuss the finer points of delivering contracts on time and intact and returned to his office. He had a mountain of paperwork to get through – why they didn’t invest in a computer, God only knows and if He did, He certainly wasn’t telling Mark Hero. The invoices were simply copies of the delivery note but had to be processed and then filed separately. Why they couldn’t use the same form? Ours is not to reason why etc. The machinations of management within the workings of British industry will forever remain a mystery.
From his office on the ground floor, Mark could hear Bobby Womach was whistling a number by the Beatles (well actually, although it bore some resemblance to a Beatles track it was totally unrecognisable to almost everyone else except Bobby). The Fat Man and Jack Starr were deep in conversation in the top office and thus unable to see Bobby hurtle towards the mezzanine floor. It was too late anyway and the yellow painted forked monster careered into the metal beams that supported the upper floor. Mark shot up when he heard the crash, so did Jack Starr and the Fat Man, as well as others in the area that could hear the thud of metal on metal over the din of varnish making.
“You are supposed to lower the forks to get underneath” Jack shouted running down the metal stairs to survey the damage.
“I thought you had a licence for that thing?”
Bobby had stopped whistling by now, he hated being torn off a strip; after all he used to be a captain (although nobody ever found out what he was a captain of). And so Jack read the riot Act, Bobby pretended to listen and Mark buried himself in the paperwork and thought of his happy sunshine girl Sarah-Jane. She was a good kid really, just seems a bit off sometimes – its probably just women’s stuff he thought.