Thankfully the Post Office was a giant’s tip-toe away
from the bus stop and he was out of the wet straight away. Finally, Ash
thought, I have found you after so many struggles and hardships and have once
dreamed of only this fabled place, finally my quest is fast found and fruitful.
Even so his grumpy face he had not relinquished since the day before. He’d ventured into the city and decided to go
to an exhibition of Monets, Manets, a couple of Vetrianos and a Van Gogh. However, for some reason he could not imagine
the Gallery was closed. He allowed his
grumpy face to linger on into the morning.
The wet grey wet threatened to engulf the world within a deep
and vast swimming pool. The wet grey seemed a reflection of his own dark mood.
That day he escaped his house so swiftly, far too swiftly
to remember to take his cigarettes with him.
The bus was at the Terminus and he saw a designer clothed driver,
rolling a cigarette. Ash asked for one
and as there was nine minutes to take off, the driver decanted himself from his
cab and chatted to Ash under the bus shelter.
The driver, Cammy he said his name was, felled Ash into conversation. Cammy talked endlessly about his holidays since
childhood as if telepathically the driver had gleaned that Ash was going to get
his passport sorted.
Also, there was a long poster on the side of the bus advertising
a holiday to Tunisia.
‘Is the sea really that blue?’ He wondered as if he were
a curious small child amazed at the sight asking his Dad.
‘Oh, yes,’ and the bus driver smiled as if he remembered
days of that particular bit of sea. When my Dad retired we decide to take him
on World Cruise. We chose the Superior
Service Hotel Rate. How we were like Gods, anything we wanted. We even went to the Taj Mahal; the city
around it –Benares – is a right shit hole.’
As the driver went on telling Ash all the places he had been to, it
seemed to Ash that he had been everywhere, while all Ash had been those days, he
escaped Culter only as far as Toulouse. Ash said:
‘My friend went to Tunisia this year; place was battered
with wind and the rain horizontal. A couple
of years back my ex took our daughter there, thankfully the Arab Spring hadn’t
kicked off, a year later I would not have let them go.’ Yeah, right Ash
thought. Cammy was going on about Canada, but that was where his mother died. He
stubbed out his smoke into the bin and got on board, thanking the driver.
There was a long queue at the Post Office, but he had to get
his photos first. He’d already filled the form out. The automated photo booth
was relatively easily to work and soon he was joining the back of the queue. He looked at the unpleasant reproduction of
his skinny face with smoky bruises under his eyes but the old picture on his out-of-date
passport was someone else, a happy head he no longer knew.
Eventually he got to the front to the line, but the woman
behind the shotgun sensitive glass told him he should’ve taken glasses off and
they were not acceptable.
Bad boy, he reprimanded himself. Go away and do it again.
He slumped back to the photo booth. Ash took off his glasses and snapped at the
buttons with stressed rigid fingers. This
time. No! This time he repeated to calm himself
as he waited in the queue for the second time, this one seemed even longer.
Once more the form was wrong. He hadn’t filled the signature wholly in the wee
box and had to fill in the form for a third time. Has almost begging the post mistress to
accept it now.
Apart from the fact that his lips were millimetres open.
This time she told him apart from the lips everything was acceptable.
Champagne on everyone. As he was leaving, he called back
to the postmistress:
‘If you want go for a holiday in a couple of weeks, call
me.’ She didn’t laugh; oh it’s going to
be one of those days. For no other
reason than it was next door to the post office, he darted into the Cults Hotel
and asked the receptionist if he could get coffee. She gave directions to the dining
room. Apart from the staff the place was dead.
He got a coffee with a chocolate biscuit –the first time he’d eaten today.
He asked the guy who brought over his drink.
‘When does the bar open?’
‘Eleven,’ he said as if Ash had been off planet since
decimalisation.
Ten minutes, he said. Ash thought it was probably unwise
having a drink today, if he had a drink today it would just increase his
depression levels. So, he took out his notebook he’d bought in the Post Office
and started writing about what he’d remembered so far today. He knocked back
the coffee and left the dry and warm shelter of the hotel. He had won £10 on a scratch
card and he needed cigarettes. He didn’t much care for the shops in Cults which
as far as Ash could see were all designed for the rich folks, but along at the
end of street near the Library was a Tesco.
The wet was seeping through to his long johns, but he
struggled on. Of course, the Tesco’s weren’t
doing the lotto scratches, so instead of leaving without buying anything – he
got some smokes and a ½ bottle of vodka. He dashed through the soaked air to
the Library, the librarian on duty was a familiar face from Culter Library. He took
out a travel book about Berlin and to make up for missing the exhibition took
out a tome of Impressionist painting. Once more he braved the rain and stood at the
nearest bus stop. And waited. At first,
he reminisced about Helen, he hoped he would see her again. He had a bag of
clothes she’d left behind and she’d told him where she lived. He remembered her
hair, coal black, her tattoos, and the cool paleness of her face. After waiting
ten minutes all he could think about was sodden by the rain and he took out the
vodka and drank a nip.
Another 5 minutes he told himself, then I’ll just walk.
A 201 came out of the rain as if it were defying the rage
of an angry god. He got on and found a seat. Thoughts of Helen followed behind
and sat down beside him. He went over in his mind how wonderful having had her
in his life was; he felt a balm over the pain of his heart as if she had
suffered to heal him. Branches of thoughts flitting through in his mind
intertwined and twisted about as they were the roots of Yggdrasil. Hardly aware
of fleeting trees and houses along the way before he knew it he was home. Food
now, he thought, then pills. He flicked
through some of the Impressionist paintings, and then tried to look for some Van
Goghs, but the author seemingly had a boner for Monet as one of his pictures
was on just about on every page.
Somehow it was still raining two weeks later when a poor,
overworked postal delivery agent rapped on Ash’s door. Struggling uselessly into his silk dressing
gown he managed, again, to reach the front door without tripping over the cat
litter tray. Recently the post never came until midday; the other day he saw a punch-drunk
postie delivering his post at 2.30 in the afternoon. And there were at least
240 days till Christmas. Fucking Tories, he had thought sadly.
‘Hi,’ he said to the guy.
The postie still managed a smile as Ash half in and out
of his dressing gown and door, signed the proffered piece of paper and accepted
the slim unassuming blue envelope. He swore at himself for wishing it had come
the day before when he was in a good mood and not today when he’d barely slept
and an unnerving foreboding sloshed like sewage in the back of his head. Almost
as an afterthought the postie gave him his real post. A call for funds for
overworked and suicidal recorded PPI voiceover artistes promoting their
campaign: Why Don’t You Talk to Us. Ash vaguely wondered if he should give the
postie a tip. A hug? That would be a bit out of place especially with the
dressing gown about his legs.
‘Thank you,’ Ash said it’ll have to do. He presumed they
still got paid.
He shut the door as the postie went off into the bleak
Wuthering Heightsishday. He sat on his
bed. ‘Her Britannic Majesty...’ That’s nice of her, he thought. God look at the
picture I look like a fucking dusty gargoyle.
He put the passport on the table by the bed. Stood up, paced about the
table eyes firmly locked on the red imitation leather cover. He sat down and picked it up again. He looked at the pictures on the pages - oh
that’s cool. He put it down again and
managed to escape its lure by making a well-earned coffee. He put on the radio;
a strangely amusing documentary about kissing was on.
She didn’t like kissing much. He wondered what she was doing and if she was
still alive. He’d gone to her student flat with a bag of her clothes, but she
wasn’t in. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised, almost relieved. But, if he hadn’t
taken his camera with him, afterwards, he might have fallen onto the road and
let whatever vehicle nearest to crush him to gore and pulp. He took some photos and went to Veronica’s
flat in Bridge of Don. Why does that
seem such a long time ago now? He wondered, and then with the coffee went back
to his vigil with the passport. He smoked and drank coffee while the cats
stalked him. They’d been on hunger strike as their cat food wasn’t made with
the correct combination of gravy, rabbit and vegetables and several days’ worth
of it was rotting in the kitchen. He
assured them that once Lara’s Mum called, he’d get them something more
palatable. He went to the window, the
curtains still undrawn, went to open them and saw cops talking to his
neighbour. He sat back down again
considering the consequences of this, if any. Luckily, before he had seen the
neighbour banged up, his girlfriend thrown out into the street and a new,
golden summer of middle-agedness open up the phone went.
‘Hello,’ Rachael said and added ironically. ‘Lovely day.’
‘Yeah, great apparently ducks like this kind of weather.
I just think they’re not on enough medication and need their eyes tested.’
‘You’ll never guess what happened to me.’
‘You’re right I don’t know. My usual mindreading devices
are off. You got drunk? Got married? I don’t know give me a clue.’
‘Well, my chums took me out for a meal because of my
fiftieth and my sister told me to dress up and I got a pair of heels.’
‘Never do anything families tell you to do.’ Ash said
with a sinking sense of prescience.
‘Well, we were out and enjoying the meal and I went to go
to the toilet, it was a bit slippy on the floor, and I went right over on my
back.’
‘Oh my God I’m sorry. What happened?’ Thinking - she’s
broken her back. Who the fuck’s going to do my ASDA shop now?
‘Anyway, I’d dislocated two fingers in my hand. They were all saying to go up to A&E. But
it was Saturday and I wasn’t going up there. I said I wasn’t going to let it
spoil my night and soldiered on. I went to A&E next day and they gave me
some gas and air. Remember like when Lara was born’.
They both laughed.
‘The nurse was good, but I still screamed when she
snapped the fingers back in place. So much for being fifty.’
‘Oh god.’ Ash said. ‘It’s your birthday, when? Saturday?
Ahh Sunday. I don’t have anything for you.’
‘No. Remember you gave me that CD.’
‘Oh, yeah, but.’ Then suddenly out of nowhere Ash started
crying. He could hear the portcullis
going down in her head.
‘I don’t know. I want to go and see Dad, but the cats
want food and I need a shower. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s
important.’
‘Have you been taking your medication?’
‘No. I took them all on Friday with some sleeping
tablets. I don’t remember what happened.
And I was all paranoid thinking I’d screamed and shouted at you or
Veronica or Dad.’
‘Ash calm down. Go
down to the GP’s and ask them for some.’
‘They won’t give me any I’ve tried before.’
‘Well then call your nurse.’
‘They’re no use. They’re always so busy.’
‘Just call her, don’t lose it at her just explain what
happened. It’s not like they’re going to section you.’
But Ash wouldn’t stop crying.
‘I’ll call you back in a minute.’ Rachael hung up.
Breathe or something, he told himself and grasped a cigarette,
had sucked half of it into him before she called back.
But he was still crying.
‘You’ve got to get some pills Ash. You can’t see Lara
when you’re like this.’
‘I’ll be alright,’ Ash was thinking. Fuck him, fuck him
next door. He did this to me. No, he
argued, I did this to me.
‘Just call your nurse and text me tomorrow if you’re
still up to seeing us.’
‘OK.’
‘Bye.’
‘Yeah.’
For a while Ash wandered about with his passport until
the cats had demented him enough to brave the day. As he wandered down to the Spar,
he remembered that the London Marathon where a woman had died had been on at
the weekend. Twelve years ago, he said to himself, that’s when I did the play
in London. He decided not to go into the shop just yet and went past the
chippie and the pub down toward the river. At first, he felt a sense of real
joy. Old friend, old friend. The water loud and falling fast. Then he saw the
outcrop of rock where he had been sitting when some vicious cunt lobbed a
boulder at his head. He looked up and was startled by the wood pigeons. He saw
the grey flare of the water. Suddenly suicide seemed possible. Not now, but
whenever. Here. On a day like this. Probably hurt a bit, but I probably deserve
it. He turned back to go to the shop and
the tears almost swamped him again. OK,
other people alert. He did this every week. It’s cool.
There were the vegetables that Helen had insisted he
bought, marked down in price. He considered buying them, but didn’t think there
was much point as he probably wouldn’t eat them. The familiar face of the
antipodean wifie was on the till.
‘Where are you from again Australia or New Zealand? I
know I’ve asked before...’
‘New Zealand.’
‘I knew that. I’ve
family in Perth.’
‘That’s £24.90.’
‘£24.90. Just like
that.’ He laughed. ‘I got my passport today. Only £600 to Perth. At least when I get there, I won’t have to
buy any groceries.’
He made her laugh. Maybe it won’t be such a bad day after
all.
While the cats were wondering what new poison, he had set
down for them to sup he went on Facebook to tell the director of Calendar Girls
that he wouldn’t be able to turn up for the audition.
Ash could just about figure out e-mails and blogs, but
Facebook, seemed, well basically weird and the fact that one day he suddenly
had all these friends. Why didn’t they just phone him up?
Somehow though, something caught his eye from his cousin
in Australia about her dad, Mickey dying 36 years ago to the day. He hadn’t
thought about Mickey for years, had a vague memory of an old photo and he’d
sent Ash a gold tie clip and cufflinks with a map of Australia on them. He did
a figure in his head. I was ten then, I
remember that day, or I remember Mum being so upset.
Did it mean anything that by accident he had noticed the
message on Facebook, which he’d mainly avoided using and getting the passport
on the same day. Well, he decided, it had to mean something or at least only to
himself.
He remembered that Mickey had been a painter and
decorator and he’d suddenly died in his forties on the ladder. It could mean:
(As he looked at the badly painted doors, walls and
ceiling) that he should paint the flat.
That he could avoid painting his flat by getting on a bus
to the bus stop where the bus to the airport left from, getting on a plane to
London and then another plane or three and going to see his family. Right now
He was beginning to see connections in everything as he
was probably breaking down.
Of course, A was the most sensible of the three, but he’d
been putting off painting his house for the last ten years and despite the call
from the Great Beyond he didn’t whip open the can of white emulsion and start. He probably could’ve got to Perth, spent a
long summertime there, come back by boat, but when he got back would still be
sitting here for years and still not paint this fucking place.
He tried not to think about it too much and had a shower.
He realised he’d been sitting in the house for a week. That was the point –
he’d been trying to get out more when he met Helen. Now he was back to the same
old same old, sitting, doing nothing. He remembers Helen’s bag of clothes in
the hall cupboard. I suppose I don’t
need a passport to try and find her. Try and find her? But, could he put
himself through all that? That was what he was hiding from, sitting here,
thinking, thinking, and thinking. Oh fuck, he thought. Then he went to bed.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t sleep.
He considered what Rachael said about calling his
nurse. He knew there was no point, but
he did it anyway. Got the fucking Ansa phone. Right, I’ve got to do something
and he realised he was just walking about from room to room while the cats
circled, followed him, were there at his feet, at his hand as he parted the
curtains briefly. There was a medical term for pacing about without being aware
of it. Fucking annoyingism.
He sat on the toilet and started reading The Storyteller
by Alan Sillitoe. This guy knew, Ash
said to himself. How stories are everywhere, but just as you get a handle on them,
they fly off and you can’t reach them, you can’t grab them and hold them and
let them fall out of your mouth like God was speaking for you.
Then one of the cats came to the door of the toilet and
looked at him.
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