England vs. —

He’s angry, angry in an obvious, unreachable way –
shirtless, sunglasses, headphones,
with a blue plastic bag full of beer (double bagged)
and a beer in his hand.
He spits, spits with a force of a punch,
it slaps the floor wetly – he’s made his position clear.

Across the road in the off-license,
fifteen feet from the spit,
a man is buying four Stella.
His face is red, red from sunburn and drink.
He’s thirty-five and angry.
‘Not much of a deal, is it, four for five-fifty?’
The man behind the counter starts to explain
it would be six-seventy otherwise –
it doesn’t placate him, it doesn’t touch him.

Inside a plumber’s flat, stuck to the walls with Blu Tack,
are two dozen red and white flags, plastic and small.
He was once handsome but is now four to six stone overweight.
His wife too is fat.
Their washing, mostly his underwear, dries on a rack
out the front, in the car park.
Later they’ll watch the game with their two daughters,
Maybe her brother will come round, with his girls.

A Neatly Made Bed

Euin sweated and walked down the street: he was late and only getting later. The air was hot and humid. He looked at each front door, hoping that he would recognise one. He reached the end of the road. Nothing. He crossed the road, his irritation building. Why didn’t I write down the address? He thought. Why did I think I could remember where he lived? He walked. He saw a parking space that had been marked out in white paint. It was a wide, white outline of an oblong. Painted in its’ centre was ‘JACK’S SPACE: DO NOT PARK HERE’. Euin laughed and felt relieved. He saw two Mini-Coopers on the driveway. Both were black, both had the Union Jack painted on their roofs. He recognised the cars as his late grandfather’s and walked towards the front door. He stood in the porch looking overheated. He wrapped his knuckles on the tan coloured front door. He was late.

His mother, Tessa, answered:

‘Hell-o, Euin. You alright?’

‘I’m fine, mum. Listen I’m sorry I’m so late.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’

‘It was the train. We got diverted so I wasn’t where I thought I’d be,’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘And then I thought I did know where I was. But…’

Tessa put her hand on his arm and said, softly:

‘Really don’t worry about it. But listen, your grandma’s in the front room so go and say hello,’

‘O.K.,’ Euin said and then breathed in deeply. He could imagine how impatiently they had waited for him.

He walked from the front door, through the hall, to the front room. The house had a cold that soaked Euin bone-deep. He embraced his grandmother, Mary, who was sitting in a high backed blue chair. She stood up, using her walking stick and said, ‘Hello, are you O.K.?’

‘Fine, fine. Just made some poor transport decisions. Sorry I’m so late!’

Mary and Tessa stood in front of Euin, looking irritated. He felt uneasy being here with them. His late grandfather, Jack, had not allowed women in his house and now Tessa, his daughter, was moving in.

‘Well shall we have a look around then?’ Tessa said, impatiently. They walked back into the hall: Tessa pointed at the front door. ‘We’re going to have to replace that.’

‘Oh yes,’ Mary said, ‘It’s a terribly ugly door.’

Tessa gestured to the staircase and said ‘And get a banister put in. I can’t believe Dad didn’t get one put in after he came out of hospital,’

‘Yes. It makes you shudder doesn’t it?’

Tessa walked down the hall to the kitchen. Following his mother, Euin remembered that the kitchen was where Jack had been found dead, wearing his pyjamas. ‘We’ll have to replace that,’ Tessa said, pointing to an ageing oven, ‘I don’t think it’s safe to use.’

‘He really only used to use the microwave and then just to heat things up,’ Mary said, shaking her head.

Euin nodded in agreement. He remembered the one and only night that he had stayed in this house. They had eaten microwave curries and it was one of only three meals in his entire life that Euin could remember not finishing. Later that night, when he had crept downstairs to sate his hunger, he had found only tinned frankfurters in the cupboards and only UHT milk in the refrigerator.

Tessa pointed to a panel of frosted glass. ‘We’ll knock that out and put in some stained glass instead- maybe something floral? Don’t you think that’d look a bit better mum?’

‘Oh, that would be much nicer darling,’

Tessa pointed to an empty space on the floor, next to the oven. ‘I want to get floor to ceiling cupboards put in there,’

‘Oh no, dear, I don’t think so,’

‘What? Why?’

‘I think that would be a good spot for a fridge and a freezer,’

‘We’re getting a new combo one,’

‘Oh. Well I think you should probably get separate ones,’

‘Well. We’ll see,’

‘You end up overfilling it otherwise, look how frosted up your freezer at home gets,’

‘But that’s an old one, mum. I don’t think we’d have problems like that with a new one, a Smeg or something like that.’

Tessa walked through the kitchen to the conservatory. It was wide and thin and dark and cold. Piled up on the left were bundles of yellowing newspaper. On the right, stacked haphazardly, were pieces of wood. Euin could identify two chair legs but the purpose of the other pieces mystified him. His own legs felt cold, especially his shins.

‘Hopefully we can get rid of this room. Fingers crossed we can extend the kitchen out here,’ Tessa said.

Mary nodded, slowly and said ‘Hmmm.’

‘Well it’s not as if it gets a lot of light as it is now, is it?’

‘No,’

They all stepped through a sliding door which led to the garden. Keeping the garden in shade were thin pine trees which grew in rows on the left and the right hand sides. On the right of the garden, below the trees, was a light grey concrete patio. On the left, unplanted flowerbeds and a small patch of green lawn.

‘The lawn is so green! You can so tell this was fields a hundred years ago,’ Tessa said, wistfully.

‘Well your dad certainly never planted anything. Does mean you’ve got great soil under that grass though darling. What are you thinking of planting?’

‘I think I’ll leave it how it is. I’ll plant in the beds.’

‘Oh. They don’t look as if they get much sunlight.’

‘No,’

‘And what about this awful concrete thing, Tessa, you having it broken up?’

‘I might do, mum, it depends,’ Tessa said,

‘And what are you going to do about parking dear? You’ll have to get someone out to sort out that “parking space” your father put in.’

‘I know mum,’

‘How absurd. To have two cars, exactly the same, park them in the off-street parking and then paint yourself a parking space right there in the street. I’ll never fathom that.’

‘I think it was because he always wanted the same car in case one had to go in for some work, mum,’

‘Well. Either way there was no need to paint in the street,’

‘No.’

‘Left a mess for you to sort out.’

‘Yes. I suppose.’ Tessa said, marching back inside. Euin and Mary followed her. They all walked into the dining room, which was at the back of the house next to the kitchen. This room was dominated by a large oak table which had around it six oak chairs. The only other item of furniture in the room was a heavy looking oak desk. The desk was on the far side of the room from Euin, Mary and Tessa. On the desk was a small blue radio.

‘That’s my radio! That’s my radio!’ Mary said. ‘He took it when he left. I don’t think he ever listened to it, but of course he had to take it when he left,’ she walked quickly to the desk, using her walking stick to propel her forward, and took the radio into her hands. ‘No. Look at it, it’s pristine.’

‘Do you want it now, mum?’

‘What would I do with it now Tessa? I bought a radio after he left and besides it wouldn’t pick up digital stations. Would it Euin?’

‘No. No, I don’t think so,’ he said, trying not to take sides.

Euin and Tessa walked to the desk. As well as the radio, the desk also displayed some of Jack’s correspondence. He scanned the letter that lay on the top of the pile. Euin did not wish to stare, so caught only snippets: ‘You have no legal right to paint on council property… we will remove any unsanctioned lettering, as we did with your previous “parking spaces”…there will be legal ramifications if you do not desist in defacing public property.’ In Jack’s hand, Euin saw ‘Responded by post 16/11/08- (My paint, my business.)’

‘Put that down then mum if you don’t want it,’ Tessa said to Mary, ‘Let’s go upstairs. But be careful because of the banister,’

They all walked up the stairs. Euin looked to his left and felt anxious when he saw no banister. On his right ran a wooden rail, parallel to the staircase. Above the rail were miniature stills from Disney films; Mickey Mouse, Bambi, Snow White and the Jungle Book. They turned right at the top of the stairs and faced a small bathroom. The door was open. There was a large, deep basin and a single, rusted tap above it. The floor was of worn cork tiles. They walked into the bathroom. Euin looked at the bath. The taps and the plughole were caked in lime scale. The tub was streaked in rings with watermarks. The room was cold.

‘We’ll have to take this all out and start over again,’

‘No, there’s nothing you can do with this Tessa,’

Next to the sink laid a shaving brush and a lightly rusted disposable razor. Above the sink there was no mirror. Hanging where the mirror should have been was a photograph of two young men in uniform, sitting on motorcycles. One of them was Jack.

‘God he loved the army, mum didn’t he?’ said Euin.

‘He did.’

‘If he loved it so much why’d he come out after two years?’ asked Mary rhetorically, ‘No-one was twisting his arm.’

‘And we’ll have a shower over the bath,’ Tessa said, ignoring her mother and pointing to the bathtub.

They backed out of the bathroom and walked into the master bedroom. Facing the door was a lone bookshelf. On it were books about World War Two, Buddhism and London’s fire fighters. Below the shelf was a grey chair. It was angular and top heavy and rested improbably on tiny, black, bowlegs. Mary walked slowly to the chair and then sat down on it. She leaned back heavily and looked tired. Next to the chair were all Jack’s shoes, laid out in pairs in a long neat line. All were leather and all were polished.

‘D’you remember it was his Sunday night tradition to polish those mum?’ said Tessa.

‘Yes. He’d sit and polish all of them, regardless of when he’d last worn them. What I rather objected to was that he did it straight onto the kitchen table.’

‘That is pretty disgusting, I suppose,’

‘We did eat off that table Tessa,’

Tessa pointed at the shoes. ‘Do you like any of them, Euin?’

He cast his eyes over them. ‘Maybe those brogues, the brown ones,’

‘Take them then. They’re only going in the charity shops otherwise.’

‘O.K.,’ he said and walked over to the shoes. He bent down and picked them up. They were stone cold. He stood up and breathed out. From his mouth and nose he could see his breath trailing out like ever so faint smoke.

‘Have a quick look out that window Euin,’ said Tessa. ‘It’s an absolutely smashing view.’

Euin walked to the window, clutching the shoes. He put them to rest on the windowsill and opened the window. He leaned out and craned his neck to the left. As far as his eye could see there were gardens and trees and playhouses and expensive wooden lawn furniture. In one garden he saw two boys of roughly eight bouncing rhythmically on a trampoline. They were still dressed in their pyjamas, though it was now mid afternoon. Euin thought it absurd that these two boys would grow into men and that they would have houses and cars and children and marriages (and perhaps divorces) of their own. Leading to what? He thought. Always the same thing: death. And after that? Relatives sweeping through your home and putting everything you owned into two categories: ‘worth stealing’ and ‘for the skip’. He breathed in and out deeply. The boys bounced and a little humidity from outside crept in through the open window.

He stepped back from the window, turned around and noticed a single bed, fast up against the left hand wall. This was neatly made; the ebony black blankets neatly tucked under the mattress and turned down six inches at the head of the bed. There was one, white pillow which lay precisely parallel with the headboard. It was the neatest bed that Euin could recall seeing.

‘That’s a neatly made bed there, mum- you do it?’

‘No, your grandfather did. Might’ve been the last thing he did before he died,’ Tessa said, in a matter of fact way. ‘It always was one of his preoccupations, a neatly made bed.’

‘It was always me who did the beds when we were married, Tessa. Or you children,’ Mary said, breathing heavily. She coughed.

‘Not always,’ Tessa said, sulkily, ‘I remember he helped me sometimes.’

‘I certainly remember when you didn’t do it. I wonder if you remember that Tessa?’

‘Yes mum,’

‘Do you remember how you sneaked off to watch the television instead?’

Euin walked back over to the window.

‘Yes, mum. I remember.’

‘And Jack got his cricket bat and smashed the screen in?’

‘Yes, mum.’ Tessa said through gritted teeth. They stood in silence. It seemed, to Euin, that memories fell into similar categories as possessions. Those worth remembering; the incriminating, the irritating, those that had the power to justify keeping a relationship unchanged after death, those would always be kept, treasured even. Memories that failed to fit that pattern; awkwardly presented kindnesses like when Jack had paid for Euin’s university tuition without informing Tessa, or feats of great thrift, like how Jack had lived off only half of his pension, investing the remainder- these would be forgotten, eroded slowly by the lapping waves of time or drowned out by the louder voices of criticism: it is not everything of a man that is swallowed up in death: their love, their hate, their envy all lives on, only not in the ratio that it was in life, only in the ratio of those who remember him.

Should he stand up for Jack? No, Euin thought, that was only opening the door for more remembered bitterness from Mary, and he could see that his mother couldn’t take much more of that today. Mary would always wait for the naively offered complement ‘Wasn’t he good at D.I.Y?’ and would counter it with the truth, her truth, ‘He never once did our guttering. And when he painted our windowsills did he clear up after himself? You can bet he left that to me. Paint all over the carpet!’ No, Euin thought, better to not open the door than have it slammed on his fingers.

‘Anyway look Euin, if there’s anything else you want to take then you can have it!’ Tessa said. Mary coughed, and then took a deep breath.

‘What about that chair?’ Euin said, limply. He looked back at the boys on their trampoline, in their pyjamas, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing.

Summer, Autumn

White light prods through blinds
From five or even earlier.
It is light all day and dusk settles at half-nine.
In Highgate Wood
Horse-chestnuts and oaks,
Their trunks bare for fifty feet then branch-antlered,
Are dense with far-away leafs,
Each leaf of the canopy is gilded and
The sky beyond is blanched indigo-
They combine in almost floral design.
Unblocked rays warm the earth
And paint in streaks the wooden fences
That create the wood’s perimeter.
Light exposes spiderwebs briefly-
Elusive, they shimmer then disappear.

Dense mist hangs around late into the morning,
It clings to the skin in beads of cold and foreign sweat.
The mist exposes spiderwebs that
Hang everywhere-
A privet hedge that looked so neatly clipped
Is everywhere rheumed with spidersilk.
Like leafless deadfalls these traps
Are now useless- their covert nature was everything.
When did it get so cold?
The summer was warm and long,
Its prolonged heat left us unprepared.

In the rain

What rain does to light!
Droplets that individually would be transparent
Become in swarms opaque,
Creating diffuse halos around street lamps.
Under the railway bridge
Reflected indigo light gathers
In shaky neon pools pitted with ancient gum.
The shallow pools’ beauty foreign
To their soiled surroundings.

There is too much water-
Men and women cloister themselves
Under the ground-floor walkways of council flats.
They are too close to the windows and doors,
They crane their upper bodies away from the rain
Yet still it permeates.

On a dry night I saw a muscular man
Appear from one of these flats, to smoke.
He was too wide for his tiny, cell-like flat,
Too puckered with muscles.
Was it keeping the ceiling and walls at bay
That so strengthened him?
Is he waiting, now, sinews coiled,
For the rain to cease
For sanctuary-seekerless peace
To return outside to smoke?

Bottle

There are two small groups
of sixth formers being taken around the museum.
One group, all girls, perhaps from Channing,
are lectured about the lives of Caesarion and Cleopatra-
‘The one we know as Cleopatra was Cleopatra VII.
She was probably responsible for the deaths of
several family members.’
The other group- mixed- ask questions-
‘I’ve been told to know my set texts,
Which d’you think I should focus on?’

(In a side case is a small
glass bottle. Glass is eggshell thin,
cracked and incomplete.
The bottle’s neck is lopsided and
stained with traces of ancient rose madder.)

Behind thick, healthy glass
is a dress made of beads.
Strung on line after line of netting,
each bead the colour of a beautiful and troubled sea…
Small turquoise breasts…
Shells laced near the base of each beadline.
A story next to it of an ancient king,
Who, bored on a trip by sea, ordered
Twenty women be given nets in place of their clothes.
Then they had to dance…
The shells rattled.

(In a side case is a small
glass bottle. Glass is eggshell thin,
cracked and incomplete.
The bottle’s neck is lopsided and
stained with traces of ancient rose madder.
The glass is opalescent.
A part of the lip hangs perilously,
Catching the light’s intensity.)

Rituals

The water is flowing
and even in the sunlight which decorates it
with patches of blinding gold
it appears cooling, shade made liquid.
A pigeon bathes in it,
Bobbing his beak to drink from it.
He is alone-
There are no other pigeons nearby.

A market trader is laying out his goods.
He sells gold jewellery,
Rings, bracelets, necklaces.
He arranges them carefully on black cloth,
The bracelets and necklaces lengthwise,
Losing their circular nature.
The sun catches these golden lines
Making them solid fire.
The cloth is only half covered,
He has work to do before the market busies

The poet stares at a tree,
Blushing with pink blossom,
The multitude of pink petals offset
By olive green leafs
and grey-brown branches,
All backlit by the sun.

The pigeon, the trader, the poet
All engaged in necessary rituals
Made pleasant by bright sun.

The Bathers

Stripped to the waist,
Three men stand expressionless,
Coated with greying hair
Which catches the toilet’s lights
In pretty flecks liked panned silver.
Are they here every night, these bathers?
Their human vinegar barbs
The air like thin bile.
One scrubs his arm from shoulder to wrist,
Coating it with thin soap gel, lathering,
Rinsing it messily, leaving water and soap bilge
In messy puddles on the Formica around the sink.
Another presses the hot tap with his elbow,
Drowning his vest with its yellow stains like limescale.
The third dries his sodden socks
Between the grey and yellow plastic of a Dyson Airblade.

There is little talk-
What there is is maybe Romanian.
These bathers, these men of fifty
Must have families,
In Bucharest, in Hunedoara, in Dolhasca
Who sleep at home
Who wash at home
Thanks to this quiet, hidden, public indignity.