PART FOUR:
With an hour to go before opening time, Paddy returned to look out of his upstairs window.
The pigeon had long gone. Angus had gone and taken his bags of junk mail with him. The old ladies pulling their bags loaded with a loaf of bread and a half-pint carton of milk had gone. It was time, Paddy knew from experience, for a changing of the guard. It was time now for the young mothers from the Wood End Estate to arrive in groups of two or three, pushing buggies with sticky-looking offspring trapped inside with ice creams and donuts with pink icing.
Paddy knew where they were going. They were on their way to browse the racks of clothing at ‘Peahens’, looking for bargain-priced torn jeans made in Bangladesh and tee shirts with obscene inscriptions. Later they would head to KFC because that’s where single mothers gathered during the day. They might, of course, call in at the travel agents to decide which was better - a week in Ibiza or two weeks in Lanzarote. Mothers, after all, needed a break from child rearing.
He’d spoken to one once while sweeping swirling detritus from his doorway.
“You look very sunburned.”
“Yeh.”
“Been on holiday?”
“Yeh.”
“Somewhere nice?”
“Yeh.”
“Where?”
“Faliraki.”
“Where’s that?”
She’d stared at him as if he was mad. “How the fuck should I know? It was raining when we left, sunny when we arrived.”
Once in every blue moon they gathered outside Paddy’s where he’d hear them complaining about the price of his real chips compared to the fake ones at KFC. Attracted by the scent of his malt vinegar imbued real chips they might buy a small carton to share amongst nine toddlers and show them how to squeeze ketchup from sachets. Then they’d wheel them away looking like the offspring of Dracula.
Paddy sighed, went downstairs to switch on the lights and deep fryers and then returned upstirs. After a while, he glanced out of the window again and was just in time to see a man in a suit disappear around the corner. “Well, bless me,” he said to himself. “If that wasn’t Quentin then it was his double.”
Sinnick was sitting at his computer screen.
He’d needed to get a poem off his chest. It was Paddy who’d started it with a few first lines he liked and still remembered so he read it through for the third time.
‘My wife has this infernal cat, A creature best described as fat. She feeds it well; I get the scraps. It eats the best and then it naps. It’s neutered now, I saw to that, but still it seems to lust.
“Last night it wandered out at night, arriving home when light. This over fed and poxy feline, strolled about and made a beeline for the border and my grass. Here it stopped and looked around and sat upon its ass. Then, later on, when I came out, to walk about, to chat a little with my neighbours, enjoy the efforts of my labours, to take the air and go to sit in the morning sun and write a bit, as I approached, it moved away.
It happens every day. It rarely looks me in the face. It hates my very presence. I hate it too as it thinks it owns the freehold on the place. Today it watched me from the shed where it had made a bed. This slit-eyed, untamed, jungle creature with its devious, sly, unsavoury nature, saw me take my normal seat, relaxing for my morning treat. I wrote some lines and then stood up and moved towards the door. But something made me feel uneasy, my stomach churned, I felt quite queasy. I was sure the cat had grinned. It turned its head to see me, it’s steely glare upon me. And then it was I felt behind me, a damp and sticky patch. And then I saw where I had sat. The place where it had shat.”
As always Sinnick hated his output. Nevertheless, he moved it to his Poetry file. One day, Paddy had said he’d edit them and tout them to agents. “No need to be embarrassed, Albert, there’s a lot of other crap out there.”
Sinnick delayed pressing the buzzer for patient number 21 for a few minutes and lay on his examination couch, drew the curtain and, in the pleasing semi-darkness, wondered why he, a doctor and a professional man with education and status had become such a pathetic, navel gazing, self-critical creature more concerned about finding a word to rhyme with hypochondriac than exploiting his rights as a proud upstanding member of Krupton society.
The truth, as Freud often reminded him, was that he’d become a man who no longer wished to live with modern society. It was as if he’d floated down on a cloud and arrived in a world dominated by aliens with whom he had no cultural connections other than that he shared their rough, skeletal structure of four limbs and a head.
In a word he hated it. Besides the mindless scrolling of phones, it was the intolerance of anyone, like himself, who held an opposite point of view to the ever-growing list of unacceptable views. Laws had been changed due to pressure from narrow minded, foul-mouthed minorities while the quiet and polite majority stood by, afraid to object for fear of arrest.
Perhaps Mrs Sinnick was right in that he’d become a boring old fart with his refusal to adapt or change his ways.
“You want to go on a Caribbean cruise, my dear? Feel free. Just don’t expect me to join five thousand overfed and overindulged aliens eating, drinking and sunbathing like beached whales on a boat the size of Greater Manchester.”
He had once dreamed he was living in glorious solitude on a deserted island surrounded by nature and the soothing sound of lapping waves and seagulls calling, but the dream had shattered when he heard a noise and looked up to find his island had been invaded by a massive cruise ship disembarking ten thousand noisy, overweight people in bikinis, Bermuda shorts and sunglasses and waving selfie sticks. It was like being trampled on by a mass migration of chattering mutant apes.
Poetry was a distraction from all this but his would never reach the peaks of popularity that Wordsworth, Keats and Byron once achieved because Wordsworth, Keats and Byron had been just like the modern-day celebrities he also disliked. Nevertheless, it was a release valve for the daily pressure even if the subject was a cat with bald patches.
Behind the curtain, Sinnick’s mind drifted on. Paddy had an impressive collection of second hand poetry books. It was mostly Irish, of course, and Sinnick often imagined Paddy reading it by torchlight beneath a blanket. “I’ll add yours one day, Sinnick – the collected works! It’ll take pride of place next to the Toby jug.”
At the end of the day, though, after dealing with the cystitis and the haemorrhoids, after the ear ache of Mrs. Pettifer’s voice on the internal phone, after worrying himself senseless about the rear, offside tyre of the car with the slow puncture and where to get a ladder long enough to reach the clock in reception that had stopped for need of a new battery because everyone said it was not in their employment contract to deal with electrical problems, and wondering if Mrs. Sinnick would at last agree to the use of weed killer around the door of the garden shed……After all that, Sinnick knew he had to make a radical decision.
In a moment of weakness, he’d mentioned to Mrs. S setting up a school and clinic in deepest, darkest Africa, but there had not been even the merest flicker of interest. “What?” she’d screamed. “How on earth would we pay for the new kitchen?”
Freud’s voice swam into his ears from the pillow. “So, what do you want?”
"A reason to give up the stifling routine, Freud. Do you realise I have dealt with one thousand one hundred and fifty-eight alcohol-induced headaches and almost as many cases of fast food diarrhoea since I've been here? What am I supposed to do? I can’t tell them the truth, that it’s their own damned fault because I’ll be hauled before the disciplinary committee.”
He sighed, sat up, pushed the curtain aside, went to his desk, touched the mouse on his computer and the front page opened requiring him to identify himself. “It’s me, you damned stupid machine.”
“Are you about to write another letter?” Freud asked.
“I used to be decisive, Freud, but I’m not so sure any more. Anyway, no-one ever responds to letters signed A. Sinnick.”
“Shame.”
"Someone needs to point out the blindingly obvious – that we’re all doomed, Freud.”
“And, of course, you have written extensively on the subject of doom.”
Indeed, he had. Sinnick had once described oblivion as the moment when the world with its billions of impoverished human beings clinging on by their fingertips, disappeared up its own colon in the vacuum left by one big fart. And, in pursuing his comparison with flatulence, he’d written that on the celestial scale of things, human impact would be seen like a single fart - heard once and never again.”
“Written from such a dismal swamp, a slough of despond, your poetry never ceases to be picturesque, Sinnick.”
"It’s because I’m a pilgrim, Freud. A pilgrim who drew the short straw when Reverend Collins trickled water over my infant brow and declared me Christian. I am a pilgrim who has failed to make any progress. I need a diversion, a challenge that will cause all of my concerns to fade into irrelevance and triviality.”
And then Sinnick’s phone rang.
Quentin had emerged from Krupton train station like a man on fire.
This was no tender creature with doubts about his gender or whether he lacked a Y chromosome. Quentin had the X factor, a man who knew his gonads. Quentin had no need to announce that he thought he’d been brought up all wrong and should have been allowed to play with a Cindy doll and brush the blonde hair of a My Little Pony. When Quentin’s voice broke and dark hairs sprouted on his legs, he’d only just finished building bridges and skyscrapers with his Lego wearing a hard hat and brandishing a chain saw.
The first few chapters of Quentin’s book on what it was like for a real man to live as a modern woman were already forming in his mind as he passed briskly beneath the window of Paddy’s upstairs flat.
“Chapter One: To unfold the mystery of high heeled shoes. Chapter Two: To analyze the logic of painted finger nails and toe nails. Chapter Three: To understand the reasons for painting eyelashes black and lips bright red. Chapter Four: The psychology behind the need to carry a handbag at all times.”
Speed, though, was essential if he was to find a publisher, bank the advance and keep it secret from Mrs. Agnes Kelp before the divorce.
Quentin’s immediate priority was to purchase a pair of size eleven high heeled shoes, so he headed for the High Street and an establishment he once spotted whilst out campaigning. Tucked between the Oxfam charity shop and the Help the Aged charity shop was Sandra's Boutique.
Cupping his hands around his eyes to shield them from the murky morning light, Quentin peered through the window at a small display of shoes amongst shelves of necklaces, scarves and other delicate items. Most items looked as if they might, with luck, last a week but definitely not two and Quentin was a man who sought out quality, long-lasting goods made by real craftsmen. If he was to purchase a pair of size 11 wide-fitting high-heeled shoes then he needed to ensure they would last. After all, if he got to like them and they were comfortable, they might well find a permanent place in his wardrobe alongside his black Church's lace-ups.
Quentin went inside and asked the woman sitting and sharpening her finger nails to speak to Sandra herself.
"Thass me, luv," she said and Quentin was quick to realize that this was the woman Sinnick called Sandra the Philanderer.
Quentin had no evidence of any philandering but clear evidence that Sandra was well built. She was dressed from top to bottom in black - black trousers, black shirt, black high heels and a black low-cut shirt that quite deliberately exposed the top end of a black bras. Her cleavage was like a cleft in the white chalk cliffs of Dover and her long black hair hung around a face that looked as if it has been chiseled from a chunk of purest white alabaster - all of which explained Sinnick’s alternative name: ‘Sandra the Panda’.
Quentin’s thoughts turned to Krypton parish church where similar alabaster carvings were apparent on the lids of ancient coffins of long dead knights of the realm, having been sculpted by ancient craftsmen into lifelike but prostrate figures complete with helmet and body armor and, quite inexplicably, a small alabaster dog lying at their feet. These ancient relics were usually found to be wearing deeply pointed shoes that posed questions about how mobile these knights were during battles, but Quentin was there to find high-heeled shoes not winkle pickers.
Sandra's alabaster face was adorned with almost as many items as her shop window. There were seven rings - three in each ear and one in her nose. How she could blow her nose without having to rinse the ring under a running tap afterwards was another thought that ran speedily through Quentin's mind. He decided to ask Sinnick for his opinion.
Around her neck was a flimsy black scarf and, on each snowy white wrist, row upon row of yet more rings - shiny, black ones. As Quentin studied this black and white spectacle she spoke, interrupting his thoughts. "You alright?"
"Yes," he replied, wondering if perhaps she kept a broom and a boiling cauldron out the back, "I'm looking for a pair of red, high-heeled shoes, size eleven."
"Burfday present, luv?"
Sexism already. Quentin could never have got away with addressing anyone as "luv" without an outburst from irate feminists in the Krupton News.
"No," he replied.
"Partner?"
"I'm not currently running a business."
"Girlfriend?"
"No."
"Well who for then? Size eleven's quite big, yunno."
"Not true," Quentin said. "My feet are of average dimensions for a well-built man."
"Yeh, but, for a woman......"
"They are for me, luv." Already he couldn’t care less about feminist outrage. "For me. Got it? I'm a size eleven and a wide fitting, luv."
"I see." She seemed unsure and sought further reassurance. "For you?"
Quentin was sure she was trying to hide a grin but decided the case was made already. Why was it a woman could go into any shop - even one calling itself a boutique - and buy trousers or a jacket or a hat like a man's cap or trilby without being laughed at, but someone who was quite obviously a real man couldn't even make a tentative enquiry about a pair of high-heeled shoes without it being thought weird, suspicious or humorous?
"Yes,” he said. “I'd like to purchase a pair of size eleven high-heeled shoes, wide fitting, for myself, not too high a heel as I need to practice walking. Preferably red but definitely not black. I hate black and I find white far too plain. I want to be seen, even at night, and I especially want to be heard. Therefore, the chosen items must produce a resonating but regular clip-clop-clip-clop sound when walking on concrete paving slabs or on porcelain tiles. Do you have anything in stock that might suit my requirements?"
She shrugged. "I'll check."
While he waited, Quentin wondered around her boutique for a while. It was Monday morning and he was the only customer but, by the time he reached the plastic beads section, he'd concluded that Sandra was in dire need of some marketing advice.
She returned. "Sorry, luv, no can do. Try next door. Help the Aged. They do a nice range in big, second-hand ladies’ shoes."
Quentin left Sandra to her broom stick and went next door where he found a very helpful lady in her eighties who soon found him a nice pair of red high-heeled shoes, size eleven. The heels were a little high but things were already becoming urgent. He sat down and tried them on. They were very tight for his toes and the sides very low but, he decided, his feet could overhang a little thus eliminating the need for a wide fitting. It was squeezing them on at all that was the problem - and the standing up of course. Walking was something else entirely.
"I'll take them." he said. "How much?"
"Five pounds. All proceeds to Help the Aged," she croaked. Then, surprisingly, she sniffed them before sliding them into a used plastic bag. "Only worn a few times by the.......by the look," she said.
Quentin walked out clutching his purchase.
“Rheumatism, cataclysm, pessimism, economic doom-ism?”
During another gap in the flow of patients Sinnick had been struggling with a poem on the economy when his phone rang. He let it ring until it stopped.
More important right now was to link rheumatism with the economy, poetically. It had seemed so simple when he started but a large, black fly had settled on the left kidney of his plastic cadaver and seemed about to lay a thousand eggs that would hatch into a thousand maggots. It was very distracting.
“Buzzyism? Carnivorism? Cadaverism?”
The phone rang again so he decided to saunter at his own pace, along the corridor to ask Mrs. Pettifer what all the fuss was about. On his way, of course, he passed the Krupton Health Centre brass plaque and stopped to read it. He read it every day and nothing had changed since the appointment of Doctor Henrietta Manley, six months ago. Nevertheless, it seemed to sum up his achievements from a standing start and gave at least some encouragement to keep going a while longer.
Sometimes he read the plaque thoughtfully, consciously. Sometimes he used it as a mirror because, at a certain angle. he could see what was going on in the office without being seen. More often than not he just stared at it until someone passed by when he invariably frowned, rubbed his chin and shook his head as if there was something so deeply troubling that they felt a moment of pity for the heavy burden of responsibility that lay on his drooping shoulders. From births to deaths and subsequent funerals, Sinnick had been present, a fountain of wisdom on all matters of the flesh, whether living or dead: a shoulder on which others cried. And all the while his own tears welled up behind their lids like a dam ready to burst.
There, on the wall were the engraved names of his recruits. The rest of the clinic’s walls were covered in dire warnings about unprotected sex, of non-vaccination against Rubella, Mumps and Whooping cough, about the need for personal hygiene at all times, of the days and times for flu jabs, asthma clinics and who to phone for Women's Health matters, contraception, fertility and cervical smear tests. Men's health services, on the other hand, were listed on a small black and white leaflet that constantly fell behind the poster promoting the Citizens Advice Bureau.
Spotting a smear of something next to his own name, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, spat on a corner, rubbed it away and gave it a quick shine.
Doctor Albert F. Sinnick, it said, with a short string of letters that showed the outcome of his long, hard studies at Medical School. Next came the names of his five recruits and a neat demonstration of how he had bowed to demands for ethnic and gender diversity: His first appointment, Doctor Ali Mansour: dark in many ways but a trusted pair of hands particularly amongst the residents of Park Road and its side streets.
Doctor Christian ‘Clever’ Trevor who enjoyed mushroom vol-au-vents, egg and cress sandwiches and power point presentations so was given the job of attending lunchtime meetings with sales reps.
There was Doctor Robert ‘Bob’ Oring, awarded top marks by Mrs Pettifer for his bedside manner and useful knowledge of football. And there was Doctor Sam ‘Sling’ Ling from Singapore and his enthusiasm for alternative therapies such as cobra snake oil for previously untreatable cases of psoriasis and athletes foot. And then there was his most recent recruit, Doctor Henrietta Manley, brought in as a soft pair of hands for obstetrics and gynaecology only for Sinnick to discover she was a lesbian who had stepped out of the closet long before he had even heard of the expression.
Sinnick left the plaque and strolled on towards reception thinking about Manley.
He had never understood the increase in unproductive sexual activity in the last twenty years having always believed that such tendencies would have been lost through natural selection millions of years ago. Freud had suggested it was a fashion statement, a symptom of human uncertainty and confusion, though Sinnick, possessing all of those characteristics himself, had never succumbed.
Doctor Manley, in moments of dubious humour, called him Doctor Sin which seemed a strange accusation for someone of her own leanings. To be fair, though, he’d learned a lot from Manley. She, or was it a he, was a mine of information about things that happened on that side of the fence. She had once asked him what he knew about lesbian dinosaurs. “Nothing at all,” Sinnick had replied in all seriousness whilst realising in a flash of enlightenment that it proved his theory about why creatures become extinct.
“Oh, yes,” Manley had said. “There’s the Lickalotopuss and the Clitolickomus”. And, as she went away, she’d called back, “And there’s another one called a Plentysaurus.” That night Sinnick had looked up his old palaeontology books to check.
Quentin was looking for somewhere to sit to try on his new shoes.
The public bench outside the Help the Aged shop was usually occupied by loud teenagers with phones, eating burgers, smoking and sucking on bottles with plastic teats. Krupton’s elderly passersby would give them a wide birth before looking back as if they might need to run. But this was a weekday, late morning, a time when they were probably still asleep.
The seat was damp but empty so Quentin, ignoring the deep hole in the rotting wood, sat down and once again tried to squeeze his feet into his new shoes. They were very tight, but as he struggled, an idea came and he took his socks off. Finally, breathing a sigh of relief, he stood up, pulling his trouser bottoms up to admire the contrast between his snowy white ankles and the glossy red of his new shoes.
It was perhaps fortunate that, right then, Paddy turned up. "Morning Quent. I thought you said you were going to London.”
Quentin was holding on to the seat back. “Plan abandoned, Paddy. I’ve been shopping instead."
Paddy stared at Quentin’s feet. “So, I see.”
"Give us a hand, Paddy will you. I don't think I can walk too far in these. Not yet anyway."
Paddy wasn’t sure if he was meant to laugh but decided not to as Quentin looked so serious. "You can lean on me if you like, Quent. It'll be just like closing time at the Red Lion."
"This is no joking matter, Paddy. Perhaps I should explain my plan. This is a serious social experiment, the outcome to which will be a bestselling book. You and I need to check the public's reaction to seeing a man who has no doubts about his gender and chromosomes and is totally at ease with his manliness wearing red high-heeled shoes and other accessories normally associated with women.”
“Right now, Quent? What about my deep fryer?”
“Delegate to your overpaid staff, Paddy. I need your views as a man.”
"Well, for sure, I’d be pleased to help, but where's your skirt, Quent? You'd look lovely with a nice red skirt that goes an inch or so beyond your knees. And what about a nice, red, tight-fitting sweater that exaggerates your contours? The shoes don't match your suit. You should have bought a black pair if you intended to continue wearing your suit or perhaps a red skirt if you were intent on making an impression. But because you didn’t do either you'll need, at least, a nice red leather handbag, some ear-rings and perhaps red lipstick that matches the shoes and the handbag. Don’t you know anything about matching accessories, Quent?”
"I’m here to learn why they do all these things, Paddy? Don’t you understand?"
"Well, don’t ask me, Quent. That’s what women do. "
"Is it something to do with their sexual habits, Paddy? I need to know for my book."
"Probably Quent but I've never understood them."
Quentin hobbled two steps, clinging onto Paddy’s shoulder. Then he peered at his feet, turning his ankle this way and that to examine them from different angles. "Do you ever notice high-heel shoes on a woman, Paddy?"
"Jesus, Quent. What man looks at a woman’s feet? I'm a tits and bum man myself. Not that you ever see either. You just use your imagination."
"So why do they wear high heels, Paddy?"
"No idea, Quent.”
"And why do they all carry a handbag?"
"Ah, that’s for putting all their stuff in. Their powder, mirrors, funny brushes with sticky black paint, their balls of cotton wool, tissues, anti-wrinkle creams, combs, lipsticks. Everything goes in their bag.”
“But why carry it around all day?”
“Just in case, Quent.”
“Just in case what?”
“Just in case things needs topping up, I guess.”
"Do they keep money in there, Paddy?"
"Oh sure – cash, credit cards, debit cards, loyalty cards, discount cards - far more than you and me."
Quentin thought for a moment, still holding tightly onto Paddy’s arm. Two old ladies stopped to stare and he risked a one-handed wave and a smile because he was, or used to be, well known in Krupton. From his inside pocket he withdrew a small notebook with pencil attached. “I’ll just make a few notes, Paddy.”
“Then sit down, Quent. You look none too steady.”
Quentin sat. "How about finger nails, Paddy? Are they a turn on?"
"Finger nails, Quent? What's wrong with you, man? Don't tell me you've got a fetish."
"No, no. I just wondered why they paint them red."
"Nails are weapons, Quent, Like claws on a cat. Red ones are a sign of aggression and are used on other women if the need arises."
Quentin scribbled. "What about lips? Do you ever notice the color of their lips? Why are they usually bright red and shiny as if they've just bitten a chunk out of some raw meat?”
Paddy scratched and shook his head. “Ah, you’ve got me there. It's very weird."
"So, you don’t know?”
“No idea, Quent. But they even inject silicone to make them pout like they’re blowing kisses at everyone. But don’t ever try blowing one back, Quent. You’d risk getting your face smacked and, if they’re feeling particularly nasty, you’d be arrested for intimidation, indecency or sexual assault. Your reputation, such as it is, will be in tatters and you’ll need to move house to escape the bricks thrown by the Krupton feminist army. But you’ve really got me thinking now, Quent. They’re really weird aren’t they. And, Jesus, the time they waste.”
“Weird is not a word I’ll be putting in my book, Paddy. I need words that define their thought processes when applying the stuff. The purposes. The objectives. I need to know if they are as analytical and self-critical in their approach to decision making as we are. Are their decisions based on feasibility studies, on trial and error, past successes and failures? Do they rely on an understanding of basic physics and mechanics and do they develop time-saving habits tuned to perfection over years in order, for instance, not to miss the 7.52 train? Do they, for example, save time by cleaning their teeth or, in their case, applying powder and cream while sitting on the throne?”
“Aw, they’re not so meticulous or as logical as us, Quent. You really must get that out of your mindset before you even start the first draft. Natural instincts and unfathomable emotions are the factors mostly at play, but even these are not logical in a sense we understand. But God help you if you upset them. Don’t for Pete’s sake argue. Be patient. Just nod and hold your tongue. But you’re definitely on the right track, Quent.”
As Quentin scribbled, Paddy stood, looking up at the scudding, grey clouds, memories flooding back.
“I remember I used to watch Maeve,” he said. “In fact, I’ve watched Maeve for hours, not because I wanted to, you understand, but because there was nothing else left to do at the time. I must have spent hours, days, weeks, waiting for Maeve. But she didn’t wait for me.”
Paddy sniffed at the rain drops. “Time waits for no man, Quent, but it stands still for women especially if they know a bloke is sat waiting for them.”
Quentin scribbled.
“And here’s an idea for another chapter, Quentin. Facial expressions. Jesus wept. The only reason I ever waited so long for Maeve to don her paint was for the entertainment value of her facial expressions. You know the poem, Quent? The lips they writhed in horrid grins, like dying for unforgiven sins.”
“That’s a good one, Paddy. I’ll make a note.” Quentin paused. “But why walk around with bright red lips, Paddy? This question is particularly bothersome."
Paddy shrugged. "You’re posing a real hard one there, Quent. The pink, natural sort is good enough for me. I like a pert little ass, a friendly face and a decent pair of legs but I'm a no make-up man, myself. I’ve always preferred to wake up to something I was already familiar with than start the day with a horror movie."
"Same here,” Quentin said thoughtfully. “This is all very interesting, Paddy. I should have brought a voice recorder. Your insights are most valuable. So, what word should I use instead of weird?”
Paddy didn’t hesitate. “Devious, Quent. In their eyes, we men star