365 Ways With Words

Laughter – Part 5

It was the usual shenanigans in the back of the car: feet on the forward seats, heads tilted back, they stared at the streetlights as they passed overhead, counting. “18, 19, 20, 21… bridge!” Whoever could anticipate the bridge accurately became king or queen and could call the shots. As reigning monarch the laws usually consisted of menial things for the following 24-hour period, “Sing me a song! Brush my hair! Run around the garden until you are out of breath! Make me a sandwich!” The fun was in the compliance, and in the creative imaginings of the king or queen.

This night was different. He had won, barely, but because of tiredness or irritability had chosen to be a little more direct with his laws. In his room there were no songs or dances, but she had to brush her teeth standing on her head. That was funny. She had to fetch him a glass of milk and give it to him. That was also funny, particularly when some spilt from around his mouth onto his pyjamas.

And then he asked her to stand still like a statue on the wobbly table in the centre of his room. She did, but had to keep her legs apart because of the precarious nature of the imbalance. What he hadn’t anticipated was that the overhead light behind her cascaded through her nightdress and silhouetted her prepubescent form, particularly her fatty legs. For some reason, he had never seen this aspect of her before – his funny sister. She had suddenly and unexpectedly taken on a whole new nature as she stood there as still as the situation required. It was something he had not anticipated or been aware of and struck a strange chord within his mind. For one day, he slowly reasoned, she would be not merely a grown-up, but a woman with all the alien womanly things that he understood women to have. She would be a physical creature with her separate desires, excitements, and choices. He was jealous.

He went up to the table and cruelly nudged it. The wobble made her readjust her position, but she stayed put, as commanded by her king. But her king was no longer laughing. He was not having fun.

“You can get down now.” His voice was dark, full of a resignation. “I don’t want to play any more.”

That was something usually said by the subject, not the master – and only after a particularly long or difficult ordeal. She was a little taken aback, but shrugged it off as another example of her older brother’s thoughts racing off on a fancy somewhere and that she’d probably have to follow in due course, which of course she didn’t mind at all, for she loved him unreservedly, unquestionably and unfalteringly.

–

Mr Collins was still sitting beside the window, waiting for her to come out of the toilet. He even offered a little wave, as if she might have forgotten exactly who he was, never mind where he'd sat.

“There you are!” he said, as if she was some surprise guest at a party.

She gave a courteous smile and sat next to him, but crossed her legs and kept her elbows firmly connected to her ribcage.

“So, your brother is busy?”

“Oh, he’s got some… things to do.” Actually, she had no idea quite what he would be doing while she was down here with Mr Collins. In fact, she imagined him to be quite unable to do anything without first considering the two of them doing something together. That was, after all, the whole point of them coming away skiing together; it was their holiday time side by side. Now they were separated by nothing more than a tiff, but more than that – she could not go back upstairs after what he had just said to her. And why had he said those things?

“Oh dear. Have you had some words?”

“It’s nothing.” Her reply was pinched.

“I hope it has nothing to do with me.”

She thought for a second, about her brother’s words again and, unable to fathom them, unable to make anything at all of them, had to momentarily shelve them and return to the nice Mr Collins and his suitcase problem. Besides, what else were they going to do for a few hours before the first cable car took them up?

“No, Mr Collins. Miguel is… tired. I apologise if he caused you any offence.” She smiled, her broadest smile. It was beautiful.

Michael Collins reciprocated with a genuine smile of his own. He was actually enjoying talking with this pretty and polite girl, something he didn’t even consider last night.

“So, Mr Collins, have you and your wife lived in Spain for long?”

–

Miguel looked out onto the snowy balcony. On the long dark brown wooden balustrade lay nearly ten centimetres of soft powdered wedding cake icing. A little of it lay in a strip on the concrete balcony floor, and in a big arc on one side of a balcony chair. He opened the sliding door, allowing the frozen air to stiffly enter the room. Ignoring the free chair by the window, he tilted the snowy one away from him, allowing the majority of the snow to cascade onto the balcony floor. He sat upon it, the sub-zero surface at once penetrating the cotton of his jeans.

He did not like this: alone, the balcony appeared at once a very large and very adult place to be, for apré-ski cocktails and intelligent conversation. In his head the second verse of poetry he had studied at school unwillingly formed:

Verde que te quiero verde.    

Grandes estrellas de escarcha

vienen con el pez de sombra

que abre el camino del alba.[1]

It irritated him. He had a yearning to smoke, even though he hadn’t done so since his first year in Bachillerato. Other words popped up:

¡Compadre! ¿Dónde está, dime?    

¿Dónde está tu niña amarga?

¡Cuántas veces te esperó!

¡Cuantas veces te esperara

cara fresca, negro pelo,

en esta verde baranda![2]

He’d struggled with Lorca and had barely passed Spanish Literature, but for some reason his mind could embed lyrics from a first hearing of a song. He had only barely realised that the same could be said for poems, things he thought he'd hated, despite their obvious similarities.

Wearing only his polo neck sweater, he began to shiver. But what could he do? What should he do? He was the older brother, true, but their tender relationship had never been based on power. And yet, if he did nothing, he felt they could be heading for something quite significantly terrible. Why was Mr Collins trying so hard to get them to take the suitcase? Why was she going to allow him to do it?

Through his chattering teeth he said, “Mr Collins, Mr Collins, Mr Collins…”

And then it hit him – like a lightening bolt! And he knew that no matter what had happened between them, he had to do something.

---

[1] Green, as I love you, greenly. Great stars of white hoarfrost come with the fish of shadow opening the road of morning. Romance Sonámbulo – Lorca

[2] ‘Brother, friend! Where is she, tell me, where is she, your bitter beauty? How often, she waited for you! How often, she would have waited, cool the face, and dark the tresses, on this green veranda!’ Romance Sonámbulo – Lorca

Back to School

"£5"

"Five quid?"

"Yes."

For a bottle of bloody beer!

On the rooftop bar of Selfridges, I sit and read Bukowski's poetry from the 1940s, awaiting the arrival of someone who will not turn up. The clientele are all posers: nails and slit backs, three-days' growth and last-minute emails – false dilittantes of cuisine and cup who rely more on the respect of a skinny waiter than the touch of a hand.

The security is overwhelming – black-suited and badged, they brook no softness, aspiring to remove the unclean, the unwanted, the infuriating that get under the skin of the average Audemars Piguet purchaser.

So I leave, happily. to cross Oxford Street and find the door of the place where I lived – I and my late mother and late sister. It is  smaller; less imposing. Like everything else in this town, except for the wallets. I didn't bring my bike in through this door and down the stairs to the basement. I didn't play tennis with the wall. I didn't try to beat the lift to the top floor, spit from the balcony, watch too much TV than was good for me, or play guess the song with my sister from the number of knocks on the wall that divided us. That was someone else. It had to be.

Back past Marks and Spensers, where mum sometimes worked, opposite Selfridges Food Hall, where she bought chicken hearts for Jenny dog, there is the stretch of Baker Street – the beginning of the route to school. I met Kate Bush outside EMI (she's a shortie, but lovely), like it was destiny, and I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, but I was shy – way too shy. Up further, past the Everyman Cinema, where I saw the great Papillon, it was a street full of travel agencies and swanky carpet salesrooms. Now it ends, without fuss or great notice, on the busy Marylebone Road. Across is Baker Street tube, beside the Planetarium (where my sister worked – she would pass me Mars bars if no one was looking) and the boring Madame Tussauds. Further still is the Royal Academy of Music, the institution that appeared beyond my ken, in terms of skill and attitude.

Upon the Uxbridge-bound Metropolitan up to Harrow, to the great art deco station that functioned as departure point for the beaten-up, seatbelt-free school bus driven by Ted, as kiss central for me and Claudia, meeting point for me and Funmilayo. Then up the hill, that green open space, past the place where I was shot at, one summer night: they were only kids, from the famous school – I heard the airgun pellets whistle past my ears, turned and the cowards fled! Past the point where on a freezing night I held Anne-Marie (and more). Past the romantic graveyard with enormous yew trees. Until at the top there opened up the view across the many-tree'd urban landscape, the one beloved of Byron. His infant daughter is buried somewhere beneath the heavy trees and tendril ivy of St Mary's.

The church was always shut – prone to the vandal's care. Now, it becomes a village much removed from red buses, traffic slowing and urban planning. The School was always pompous, and has lost none of its unabashed cash-caché. It will be there in a thousand years' time. The Purcell School, however, upped and left in the last millenia, for a new site in Bushey, and with it went my connections with this corner of London.

Along the High Street I deviate, and stop at West Street, the home of Dan and Suzannah and John and Miriam, their mum and dad. I lived here. I lived with Dan, my eternal friend. We would go out on Sunday mornings to take photos of the graves in St Mary's, be inspired by old abandoned squash courts in the school, play two-man cricket on the field at the bottom, talk about love and lyrics, talk into the night about all the girls and what it might be like to touch them, climb on walls and scale brickwork, and be alive and glad of it. And I remember the party we had, when parents were gone, and I fell down the stairs, and Gary and I proudly bought a barrel of beer from Fullers, and we ferried it back in the Anglia, and the tortoise in the garden that slowly munched, and the steps where I sat and snogged a drunken Catherine after she'd been sick, and the enjoyment of endless warm summer nights without beer or fags, and of pressing wet newspapers for winter fuel, and sitting around the kitchen table drinking frozen orange juice and being a fully-paid up idiot full of bullshit (but it didn't matter), and painting myself purple, and falling into someone's house because Sam and I were pissed and leaning against their front door, and meeting Dan's magnificent grandfather, and of feeling part of a family of love. For all that, I have nothing but a heart full-to-bursting. And I give it back. Without reservation.

And tonight in The Castle I will meet others from that time. I will not survive. I will die. 30 years is too long – far too long.

Life moves on. We only live in the present. But the trip back to school, a school that is no longer there, gives form to ghosts, a sparkle to eyes and a fullness to the heart. I'll always want to go back to school.

Laughter– Part Four

Through the large window beside them the snow continued to fall. The endless scene may have thoroughly occupied Miguel’s attentions, but did not take his thoughts as much as did Michael Collins who, taken by her refreshing and open nature that morning, took the opportunity to enquire a little more about Floria.

“…and then you finish school and go to University? That’s fantastic!”

“I can’t wait!” She seemed to vibrate with anticipation.

He changed tack. “Tell me, then, what is there to do in Valladolid? I’ve never been.”

“Oh it’s a place for wine mostly – there is business, and a little industry.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, although the wine sounds interesting. I meant, for entertainment.”

“Not a lot. It’s pretty dead, if you ask me.”

“It’s a family place…” interrupted Miguel, who at once felt that he should not have said something quite so prudish. He forced a smile.

“Yes,” his sister continued in the same vein, “there is the square, where we walk, mostly, in the evening, or on Sundays.”

“So you live in the centre? That must be nice.”

“Our parents have a house in the country, that we use some weekends, but we live in an apartment.”

“That sounds like a very satisfying arrangement. I’d love to live in the country for the weekends. Is that where they are now?”

“They’re in the town. Dad runs a car showroom. Seat, mostly.”

Miguel was uncomfortable about her freely volunteering information.

“Anyway, we’re here for another day.”

Floria looked at Miguel and tilted her head to one side: why would he lie like that? Why was he behaving in such a way? Why was he so irritated? She shook her head.

“Really?” Michael Collins said, “but you said last night that you were leaving today, taking the bus back home, if its possible in this–” He leaned back and theatrically flicked his hand towards the window, brushing the back of Floria’s hair in the process. He offered a little laugh.

“Did I? Well… yes.” Miguel twisted his mouth – he felt at once betrayed and annoyed. His sister had not even attempted to back him up, even though it was clearly a falsity, and had not thought to see the logic of his obfuscation. He wished she were not so easily impressed. He reasoned if the situation had been reversed, wherein he was being buttered up by a glamorous older woman, then he’d have understood Floria’s unspoken communications quite clearly. “I must have been confused.”

“It was the drink last night that threw you.” Michael added. “That is, unless you really are staying another night.”

Floria nodded. “No, we haven’t got the money.”

Miguel again gave that look; the same perplexed twisting of the mouth. She really was saying way too much for his liking.

“Well, whether you have the money or not, I think you’re going to have to stay. There have been no cars arrive or leave all night. And that’s including the snowplough. I think we’re well and truly cut off!”

The Irishman broke into a broad smile and chuckled again, only not so forced this time. It was clearly funnier to him than it was to them. Floria looked towards Miguel. He returned his attention from Michael Collins’ pronouncement, towards his beloved sister, to then gaze outside, actively following the bigger flakes as they landed at the bottom of the window.

“I’m going upstairs. Are you coming, Flo?”

Barked as a command, she instantly reacted negatively. “No!”

“There’s something… I need to tell you.” He stood on the pause.

“No, Mig, I’m quite happy here. Besides, Mr Collins…”

At the mention of his name Michael tapped Floria on the arm. “It’s all right. You go. There’s clearly something of importance he needs to say. Only…” He tapped the case beside him.

“Oh yes, of course.” Floria reached out for the case.

“No!” said Miguel with a voice that made some of the other guests take notice. He softened, “No, thank you, Mr Collins, but we’re already loaded with our stuff – the skis and everything.”

“But we could take it, Mig. It’s only on the bus, after all.” She smiled, at first at her Irish neighbour, and then less so at her brother.

“Are you coming?”

They followed one of the hotel staff in near silence ascending by the stairs to their floor. Once in and the door was shut, he started.

“We can’t take that case, Floria. We don’t know that man.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous! He bought us dinner last night – dinner and drinks, if you remember."

“Yes, I remember. And I can’t help wonder why.”

“What do you mean? He’s been nice to us.”

“A bit too nice, don’t you think?”

“No. Not at all, no.”

“Then why’d he do it? Why pay for our drinks and food?”

“He’s lonely. He’s away from his wife. What did he said – that she lives in Madrid?”

“Yes, he said a lot of things, both right now and last night, but that doesn’t mean any of them are true.”

“Oh come on! He’s all right. Remember, he’s a foreigner, so he probably does things differently.”

“Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not!”

“Yes you are, and it’s because you fancy him, isn’t it?”

“It is not. I’m not…” She thought for a second. “And what if I do? I’m allowed to aren’t I?”

“No. You’re not.”

“What?” she put her hands on her hips – just like her mother.

“I said no.”

“NO? So you’re the older brother now and what you say goes, does it?”

“Yes! In this case, yes.”

“Miguel del Rey, you are a… a… fucking idiot!”

‘”No, you’ll be the fucking idiot if you see him again.”

“See him again? What the hell does that mean? You’re not my husband or something.”

He interrupted the argument with a sharp intake of breath. “Actually, I have to tell you; there’s something to show you. It’s about last night.” So saying, he gritted his teeth and walked over to the bed, their bed. He pulled back the duvet until all the bottom sheet was fully exposed. It was clear and clean.

“What, Mig?” She shook her head. “What are you doing?”

He stared at the clean sheet, courtesy of room service, and then looked at her. Disbelief at once flooded his mind.

“Am I supposed to see something?”

“You bled.”

“I did not. It’s not… my time.”

His voice dropped. “Over me.”

She grimaced. “What? What? You’re not making any sense.”

“I mean we did it last night.”

“Did what?”

He huffed. “We… had… We had… sex.”

“WHAT?” cried Floria, at once astonished that Miguel should say those words, in addition to being horrified at the very concept. What was he playing at? Was he really that jealous of Michael Collins – to invent something like this?

“Jesus CHRIST, Miguel! What are you saying?”

“There was blood there, on that side, where I was. And you were wearing my shirt, that I had on yesterday, and I didn’t have my boxers…”

Now there was anger in her voice. She picked up a finger: “If you are trying to make some sort of trouble for me for mum and dad, then I don’t know…

But he was still. His face was completely humourless. “No, but we did something we shouldn’t have.”

“And you’re doing something you shouldn’t.” She paused, finger mid-air. “You can’t make allegations like this. What do you think you’re saying? Hm? No, I won’t listen to it.” She made for the door.

“No, don't go back down there.”

He pulled at her sweater sleeve, but she wrenched it out of his hands.

“You know, you’re sick in the head, Miguel.” She tapped her temple, turned and tried to slam the door, but left the task undone after the spring mechanism in the hinge softened the final few centimetres.

She stood by the elevator fuming and breathing hard. They hadn’t had a row like that for years, and that had been about something stupid like toys. She pressed and re-pressed the button again, and the doors pinged open.

In his dazed state he also heard the ping and ran for the door. By the time he called out her name the chrome lift doors had closed.

She saw Mr Collins still sat at the same table, looking a little lost. He looked up and smiled, as much of relief as pleasant surprise at seeing the young Floria.

She called out, “It’s OK, Mr Collins. I’ll take your bag!” then pointed at the breakfast room’s door to the ladies. He nodded and took in a sigh. As she sat she glanced at her panty gusset. There was, indeed, a little red spot.

Pocket Full

                                        Confusion reigns – hooray!

                                        The foundation, of a poured prepared immersion

                                        Inner sweetness, from unseen hills above

                                        Instils in the cracked, and troubled

                                        A delicate, most delicate, fingertouch

                                        Imparted in soft, single breaths

                                        Intended on a sheet of close, the closer, to closest

                                        I am, you are.

 

                                        So, there’s something you’d like to say

                                        With a hurt voice, with mustard-ground emotions

                                        Derailed, devastated, pepper-sprayed eyes

                                        That to hell with it is a margin note

                                        Those, single, breaths, again

                                        Awoken in, on, attached to the thousandth glance

                                        You and me, then.

 

                                        Sour pitter-patter of upchance downed

                                        In dreadful full dread mire, ascents lost

                                        Muse on, without the lay of land

                                        To next skyfulfill – a Pocket Full of Dreams

                                        There’s an end, so it is

                                        A solitary, single, breath 

                                        Begin the process, begin and carry

                                        The self, your self.

 

                                        A river’s view extends a hand

                                        Flow that inner and outer to

                                        Sleep on trouble-free sound sooth

                                        If accepted the unravelling cables loosen unbend pardon

                                        Morning star on waves to bathe

                                        You can in safety pinprick undo

                                        One more one more one breath one breath

                                        All and all in all for it all

                                        A devoted blend of and in for all

Laughter – Part 3

The slow elevator clattered and crashed as it took the young couple upstairs. It stopped on each floor, and on each floor they got out, saw that it was not their floor and fell back between the closing doors to ascend again.

They threw off their clothes and fell into bed, then arose again to visit the bathroom – in Floria’s case, twice. The bulb was dead, which was probably just as well. She had never before been this drunk and thought she might hurl, and probably would have had she been burned by light of any kind, but after a dark drink of water and a few long breaths the feeling subsided. The whole thing had, however, made her a little fitful in her sleep.

They had not been the last ones to return to the chalet, but the stillness of the place resounded in their ears, further accentuated by the complete absence of noise from the dark, snow-dampened landscape. Their heads, side-by-side upon the bed, faced in towards each other – a couple in all but status. His breath came over her in rhythmic waves, and as she sunk into oblivion her semi-conscious mind filled with rapid images of Michael Collins drinking Irish whiskey with her; such an adult thing to do, like smoking and swearing, only moreso. This, plus the inner girlish excitement of being away from home at last, broke a barrier in her that she had not felt tested since Paulo the Italian exchange student two years before had charmingly suggested they go out. His accent, straight hair, athletic build and buff skin had made him instantly devourable to the rest of the girls, who all made efforts to befriend him, but it was Floria he had selected, and to her eternal regret she had said no. And with the flywheel wildly spinning on this mulch of inner machinery, her face found Miguel’s and she began to kiss him.

He was up first. Straight in the shower, he had not so much been confused about having woken up naked and in a state of arousal as to having obviously had a wet dream. His come lay across his thigh. At least, that’s how it felt. Washing it off in the lightless gloom of the bathroom, he blushed with more than a hint of embarrassment. With his pounding head, however, he could remember nothing. He and Floria had always been intimate, but there had never been anything in their make up to suggest they were anything but the closest of sibling friends. This event, however, sewed a sticky seed of doubt that once cast would not be picked up and pocketed again. But he had been naked – he always slept with a t-shirt and boxers; even drunk, he would not have taken everything off. The worry sat ill with him, particularly because they were no longer used to each other’s nakedness any more. That sort of thing had stopped early into puberty.

By the time he had towelled down and stepped back into the large chalet bedroom, a cold snowy light had begun to glimmer through the window blinds. He glanced over at her form lying in an s-shape under the duvet. It couldn’t be that they had…

He tugged on some fresh clothes and settled in the armchair, his hand over his mouth. Had they done something terrible, that Grandpa’s baby Jesus would surely disapprove? He wanted to wake her to ask her, but also felt deeply ashamed to mention it. She zedded on, her deep breathing indicated by the slow rise and rapid fall of the white duvet.

It was another hour before she stirred, turning first one way, then another, putting out one arm and then rubbing her face into life. Coming round, she remembered where she was, and looked for Mig’s head beside her, then lifted her gaze to scan the room. By this point, Miguel was really unsure of himself. In those sixty minutes or so he had convinced himself that something had occurred between them, and that he was probably guilty of letting his unfettered libido loose aided and abetted by an excess of Irish alcohol. But she smiled a weak smile at him, then let her head crash back onto the pillow.

“What’s the time?”

“8:45”

“I’ve got such a head.”

He hummed a response between pursed lips.

She was not naked, but had a long t-shirt on – his, in fact. Quite how this had happened she could not fathom. Once this piece of information entered her head, she looked again at him. He was not sitting happy; a frown darkened his thoughts.

“What is it, Mig?” She was almost afraid to ask.

“I don’t know, Flo.”

She stopped. He hadn’t called her Flo since they were kids. Sensing the tension, and that he was not going to be communicative, she stepped out of bed to shower. As she did, he glanced at his side of the bed. Indeed, there was a hint of smeary red where he had lay – midway down the mattress. He smoothed over the duvet, making it straight. Now he was convinced, and it terrified him.

Wordless she dressed, wordless they took the elevator, and wordless they entered the breakfast room. It was packed. The snow still fell heavily, but with a rising wind it began to rest against the large window and the new fall appeared to be settling into drifts. Collecting chocolate, fruit, bread, cheese and meats, they sat at the end of a long table beside the view listening to the screaming of a little baby unsatisfied with his lot, and the heated discussion of a German family on the next table. The tabletop before them was sticky with residue from the previous occupants mess. They stared at the whiteout, thinking they had little chance of skiing today, and would have to stay put, with only each other’s company – normally a pleasant prospect, but taking on a different hue because of their over-heavy thoughts. As they stared out, the cable car began to move. They could see it rise up the vertiginous white cable, stop, move on, stop, and move on until it disappeared into the dirty sky beneath the mountainous massive it was attached to. This also aroused the interest of the Germans, one of whom went outside to ask at the station whether the situation would improve.

As they continued to wonder what was going on, a tall figure ambled on the snowy path towards the hostel. He was dragging a suitcase.

As he reached the hostel steps, he was overtaken by the rapidly returning German who swung open the glass doors into the restaurant and loudly announced that the weather was set to improve early afternoon and that the cable car service would begin at midday. In his wake stood Michael Collins, dusting off the snow from his puffed jacket. He scanned the room and quickly found the couple.

“Hi, there! How are you doing? I see you’ve recovered from last night. Mind if I sit down.”

So saying, he tapped Floria’s near-finished neighbour on the shoulder and asked politely if he could squeeze in.

Floria seemed pleased to see him. Miguel felt a squirm inside.

“Did you sleep well? We had a pretty good evening, I thought.”

They all nodded. Floria took a sip of chocolate.

“So, it looks like you might get some skiing in today, after all. It’ll still be bad up there, but fresh snow is good snow, eh?”

Miguel started, “Mr Collins, I’m not sure if we said thank you for the drinks, and the food and everything last night. If you let us have your details, your address or number, then we’ll gladly pay our share…”

Michael looked a little puzzled. “No-no, it was all on me, really.”

“But you’re too kind.” Floria said. She rested a hand on his cold arm.

Miguel continued, “Yes, too kind…”

“Not at all. My pleasure. You two were such excellent company. I would have been very bored there by myself. So, let’s not hear any more of it.”

The children habitually nodded at each other, and then glanced away in opposite directions, Miguel out of the window, Floria at Michael.

“So,” she began, “what brings you here?”

“I was just passing through, like I said.”

“No, I meant this morning.”

“Actually, I’d been meaning to ask you that;” Miguel interrupted, “I mean, you can’t exactly pass through from here anywhere. We’re at the end of the road.”

“It’s… it’s just an expression.” Michael’s eyes flashed a hint of hostility towards Miguel. “I’m travelling.”

This at once sounded ridiculous to Miguel – even more ridiculous than for him to say he was just passing through.

Floria helped him again, “I meant today.” She smiled.

He smiled back at her, and hesitated as the momentary connection took place. “I came to see you.” He smiled again, at both of them. “Of course, you may not remember what we talked about last night.”

They shook their heads, as if answering a question in class.

“That’s all right. We had a good night, that’s all you need to remember. For now. But you said you’d be able to help me out.” He cheerily caught both their eyes.

They were still nonplussed.

“It’s this old bag – the suitcase. I just have to get it to Madrid before the end of the year (it’s for my wife – her birthday, you see), but I’m not going back for a while – passing through, as I said. So, I asked if you would be good enough as to take it back with you for a friend to pick up, and you graciously agreed.”

“We did?” asked Miguel.

“You did. And so, here I am. And here's the case. So, what do you say?” He beamed another smile, as trustworthy as the last.

Laughter – Part 2

He paused, holding the beers as upright as two bright green and red dumbbells. She had her face turned from him, intently listening to the stranger. He noted the disparity in age, the man being easily twice her age, maybe more. Grey hairs streaked from his sideburns and mottled his strong chin: there was a molten ruggedness about his features that belied the soft fashion jacket. The man was explaining something with one hand, the other holding a tumbler that moved in circles with the point he was animating. She nodded. Then laughed again.

He moved over towards the pair and stood within the comfort zone of his beloved sister, gripping the beers. The man looked up. She turned around.

“Thanks, Mig.”

He nodded.

“Oh, this is… I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”

The man broke into a weak smile. Without standing up, he held out his hand to the brother. “Collins. Michael Collins.”

Passing over his sister’s beer, he shook the outstretched hand – it was warm and strong. If the light had been stronger he would have noticed the edge of a tattoo on his hairy wrist.

“You are not Spanish?” she asked.

“Irish – like this place.” He roundly gesticulated again with his glass. The amber contents swirled dangerously near the rim, but did not overflow.

“But this place is not Irish – not really.” answered Miguel, a hint of irritation barely hidden.”

“You’re right. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name…”

“Miguel del Rey.”

“Floria.” She added, enthusiastic about having intelligent conversation away from home. “And you don’t have the slightest accent. Which is good. For a foreigner.”

“Miguel – a name such as my own! I was just explaining to your girlfriend here, that the sort of snow up here in the mountains is different from that elsewhere, especially when it’s heavy like this. It makes everything look so beautiful, especially from above. Have you been up yet?”

“I’m his sister.” Her tone was emphatic, but her eye playful.

“Oh!” He stopped. A smile crossed his face, causing little crows feet creases to appear. “Oh, I see. Forgive me, I thought…” He sniggered.

“We don’t get any snow up in Santiago.” Miguel volunteered.

“But your sister told me she, and you, were from Valladolid.”

Miguel cast a look at his Floria. He acquiesced a nod.

“Well, cheers to you both on this very snowy night.” He raised his glass, tinked the base with their rims and downed his drink in one.

Miguel perched on the edge of the heavy coffee table between the sofas.

“So, what’s an Irishman doing in Cantabria?”

“And I thought we were in Castille Y Leon!”

“It’s on the border.”

“Really? I must get a map.” He winked at Floria.

Miguel hesitated before asking again, but Michael Collins anticipated. “I’m a businessman. I export. A little import, but mostly luxury goods to Ireland, the UK, other places.”

“What sort of goods.” Miguel put down his beer.

“Whiskey, mostly. Irish. Bushmills, like this. Ah, I appear to be empty.” And with that, he upped his glass to the barman, who appeared to instantly recognise the gesture.

“You export Irish Whiskey?” he said through a frown.

“No-no,” he coughed, “that’s what I bring over. No, I export a little of everything really; timepieces, furniture, wine, antiques, just about anything. And how do you make a living?”

“I’m studying. Sociology.”

“Ah-hah! And you, Floria?”

“The same, next year.” She grinned like a schoolgirl. She didn’t know why, but there was something about this Irishman –his clothes, his confident air, his aftershave– that interested her.

The barman brought over a large whiskey and took the empty glass away.

“Two more. For my friends.” He indicated with two stabs of his fingers.

“You’ve been skiing?” Miguel questioned.

“No. At least not today. I’m only passing through. And now the snow – well, it may be a day or two before any of us can go anywhere.”

Miguel’s brow furrowed. The beany began to irritate his forehead. Removing it, his long college hair bounced out into short ringlets. How could anyone be passing through Fuente Dé? It was a dead end, unless you were walking over the mountains. But in mid-winter?

“And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world

Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes­–

On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one’s hands–

There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.”

The siblings sat in silence, the English words rolling off them like water from a duck’s back.

He raised his glass again. “Perhaps I should translate. Seeing the fire, it reminded me of some lines by Macneice – an Irish poet, possibly the greatest. Ah, it’s about perception and the reality of what one sees verses how one sees it. I think.

Their eyes darted, trying to understand.

“And perhaps you are the huge roses.” He whispered inwardly, his lips barely moving.

There was an awkward pause. Floria spoke up. “Where do you live?”

“Here and there. I have a place in Madrid, another in Malaga. Look– I haven’t eaten yet. Do you fancy a bite to eat? With me, I mean.”

“Thank you, but we already have...” Miguel turned his hand down.

“No, Mig, we haven’t.” Floria interjected, turning to Michael Collins beaming a smile.

 Miguel kicked her foot.

“Well, how about I buy you dinner. It looks like we’re here for the night, so we might as well enjoy ourselves.”

They found a quiet table in the corner, beneath the TV screen. Michael and Floria sat with their backs to the wall. Chicken wings, soup in bread, a salad, Irish sausages and chips, typical pub fare, filled the table. More beers arrived, and a bottle of 16 years old Bushmills Malt, which Michael set to with relish. Whilst Floria and Michael tucked in, Miguel felt every mouthful stick in his throat. He couldn’t see what was not quite right about all this, but each time a toast was raised he felt obliged to join in. Two more glasses were added. They tasted the Whiskey, and coughed uncontrollably.

As the beers kept coming, and the whiskey kept being dripped into their glasses, the room took on a very pleasant, if thick, air. Floria continued her flirtatious attentions on the older man, who genuinely took her glances for the flattery that it was. Miguel began to wilt from fatigue, from the heat of the hot pub and from intoxication.

The remaining half hour became a whirl of semi-said sentences, half-mentioned utterances, earnest statements and wandering gazes. Drunk and full, they were helpless. Michael directed his question to them both:

“So, where will you go tonight? Where’s your place.”

Miguel answered staring at the TV above his head, “We have a house. No. Not that,  a… chalet… a room.”

“Nearby? Then I should see you home. It’s only right.”

Floria, her eyes closed, laughed lightly and slowly shrugged her shoulders. Whether she could stand or not would be determined as soon as the bill was settled. Miguel used the back of the chair to stand up and felt the desperate need to empty a busting bladder. Resting his head on the tiles, he leaned as he pissed long and hard and alone.

By the time he had found his way back to the table, he perceived it was unoccupied and cleared. He had to stare twice, then swung around, just in time to see the couple by the door, already in coats and hats, Floria giving Michael a sloppy peck on the cheek. She was ready to give him more, when Miguel appeared beside them, took his coat from her hand and climbed into it.

“Shall we go?” Michael asked. “Looks like it’s still snowing heavily.” He smiled broadly.

“Really, you don’t have to do this.” Miguel shook his head, finding his beany in a pocket. “We can go home without you.”

“I’d feel dreadful. Besides, I’m afraid it’s all my fault.”

“No, Miguel. No.” began Floria. “We must say thank you to Mr Collins.” She waved her index finger: “Mr Collins, you are a very nice man. Very nice. Thank you. Thank you.”

She went to kiss him again, but Miguel bundled her out into the refreshing cold. Scrunching in the fresh fall, the three walked back to their accommodation, Michael Collins on one side, Miguel Del Rey on the other of Floria. The soft drifts generously accepted each wayward swagger as they made the silent distance from streetlamp to streetlamp, the snowfall’s silent roar acting as their soundtrack. They made it to the slippery steps of the hostel. Michael held the door open as Floria staggered in dripping stepped snow clumps onto the lobby floor.

Miguel felt something on his arm. Michael had his sleeve firmly held.

“I will call round tomorrow; tomorrow morning – if that’s all right?”

“No need.” But Miguel was nodding. What more could he do. The Irishman had extended so much generosity all evening, and now Floria was repeatedly pressing the lift button, oblivious of anything. He knew she would not know where to go once upstairs, so went directly to her.

“Tomorrow, then.” Michael called out before casually stepping outside to observe through the glass the sibling pair as they entered the lift, pressing all the buttons until they finally found the one that closed the doors.

Laughter – Part 1

It wasn’t that they couldn’t be serious, it’s just that as soon as there was silence there appeared an accompanying condition – of laughter. This was not a hearty laugh that would naturally derive from a good joke or a bit of jab and tickle. That had its place, of course, No, this was the upwelling of a childish giggle, that uncontrollable eruption of liveliness from deep, deep inside.

It was also their private connection, of a kind that indicated something hidden beneath their hearts. They were to content that this deep-rooted and unspoken attachment stayed put, that it remained a continuous comfort for them, as a potted plant on the windowsill at flower; pretty when enjoyed, but always precarious when left by a window. For if one is careless, then a potted plant, no matter how beautiful or precious, can fall – a tragedy for the beholder, but a dangerous thing for those below.

Their giggling accompanied them everywhere, even at home. It particular, it accompanied their grandfather’s serious speech before lunch at Christmastime, the one that reminded them all of the baby Jesus and the meaning behind their wholesome Catholic festivities, itself his grandfather’s tradition that he’d sentimentally adopted upon the arrival of his own offspring as a defining measurement of good Christian fatherhood.

Their suppressed laughter was also infectious. If one of them felt it arrive, the other was sure to follow – even if they were out of sight of each other. He knew at that moment that she was laughing, or was about to laugh, and she knew his shoulders would begin to move in that telltale rapid rhythmic motion that signified complete breakdown of polite sensibility. This had been the case in sombre school assemblies where, despite sitting in different locations in the sports hall, they could still sense the other was desperately suppressing a massive snigger, or at worst a snort. And that made it all the worse, particularly if one of them accidentally let one out. Other children would emulate, and the occasion, any occasion, would descend into farcical waves of tittering, snorting and fits of the funnies.

As children themselves, they had seen their lightness of approach towards anything serious as just fine and dandy. Indeed, despite it being annoying for eloquent teachers, pompous priests, angry parents, classical musicians at concert and speech-giving visiting dignitaries, it was still the sort of behaviour that could be expected in the young for whom the heavy impact of life has yet to leave an imprint. Their carefree happiness and their brevity of concentration as well as of thought, was well known by family, friends and neighbours. It was a reputation they accepted with a shrug, for they cared less for any other that could be acquired.

Their relationship had been characterised by remarkable intimacy. From the first few months they had shared a room and, despite having separate rooms in their teenage years would often stay together overnight, talking, laughing, even just reading out loud together. They composed funny little poems, acted out the best scenes from their favourite TV shows, and drew each other – handing over their efforts for the other to modify to the point of absurdity with antlers, googly eyes, captions and any number of humorous devices. Their parents generally accepted their sibling closeness as an indicator of a benign soft-heartedness, if not genuine love for each other. Their father gave an accepting smile, choosing to recognise their late-night troubadouring to each other as a quaint indicator of their inseparable kindred spirits – he had, after all, brought them up the same. But their mother was not a little worried, seeing that very same inseparableness in their private letters to each other as a marker of a much deeper relationship than even she and her husband enjoyed.

The eldest by 14 months, Miguel had left school first. His entry to college was conditional on his obtaining sufficient scores on his last examinations, which he had barely done. But he was 18 now and more than ready to leave home and find new friends, flex his wings and enjoy new sensations away from sleepy Valladolid. He’d thrown himself into the party thing and had been out and about in Santiago de Compostela with the best of them and had flirted outrageously with any of the girls within his orbit. But that was as far as it went.

In truth, though, he missed home, especially his sister, Floria. He phoned home each weekend, and sometimes during the week, and would speak longest with her. At that point, she would melt, go soft and quiet, then pick up and say something funny back at him. Perhaps half of their conversation would be filled with laughter. He came back for Christmas, an occasion of great excitement in the house, and they sat together to listen with the same lip-bitten control to Grandpa as he described the perfect little fingers and toes of the holy pink infant. As usual, the old man ignored it, choosing to look at his serious faced son and his godly wife, a good cook and stable housemate. When he did finally cast his eyes on ‘the children’, as he still called them, the predictable occurred – they burst into howls of belly-filled convulsions and had to be excused. Grandpa was not amused, again, and sat a little undone by their irreverence towards the gracious gospel story as much as for his status as family patriarch. His dear wife, now thirty years dead, would certainly not have stood for it.

Between Christmas and New Year, and with the monetary blessing of parents, ‘the children’ went skiing. The Picos de Europa had been blessed with early snows and, although there was no guarantee that the roads north of León were passable, they got the bus and hoped for the best. They had been told en route that there was no more accommodation at the hostel at Fuente Dé, at the foot of the massive cable car, but decided to try their luck. Their luck held at 10:30 pm, because of a last-minute cancellation rung through as they sat in the lobby deciding what to do next. He smiled at her; she smiled at him. It was a double room in the chalet, with views, which they could have for half-price of €250 for the two nights. He again looked at her, but without the smile. That, and the ski passes, would take up most of their money, with little left for food and, more importantly, drinks.

The night was cold, even for the mountains. Tired from the journey, they quickly drifted into the satisfying slumber of the weary.

Breakfast being included, they scoffed as much as they could, mindful of the mighty nip in their purse strings of these two days and nights. For the morning they enjoyed unfathomable blue skies and white-tipped views to the other side of the world. The snow was good, if a little hard and icy in places. By early afternoon a bad weather warning had been posted and the clouds were building. They chose to descend at the last possible moment and each shook off the white crust of the impact of a hundred million snowflakes they had skied through on their way down to the top station.

With heavy clouds fully shedding their contents in impenetrable cascades, the village at the bottom was now enveloped in winter’s darkness and each lamppost became the centrepiece in a descending orange-white show. The ever-present savour of wood smoke filled their nostrils, promising heat and comfort, and they eagerly anticipated the cheap sausages and chips for €3.50 from the mobile they had glanced before ascending. There was still a queue, but the price had risen to €5.50. They bought one, and shared, which brought a modicum of satisfaction, but there’s had been a long and vigorous day.

With skies aloft, they crunched back up to their chalet and collapsed onto the bed. They slept for an hour or so, until their rosy cheeks and sweated foreheads testified to the overloading on body heat, carb intake and good central heating.

They each took a shower and prepared as best they could for a jaunt into town. The heavy snow had continued to fall, exaggerating the car rooftops and silently filling the gaps left by the snowploughs. As they carefully walked through the frozen air, heavyweight snow occasionally sloughed from overly laden branches to cascade leaden plops beneath. The oppressive snowfall continued, and would continue to do so all night and into the next day.

The Irish Moss had only opened last year, but the expat who ran the place had found a ready supply of thirsty summer and winter visitors. As well as the usual Estrella and the local Asturias ciders, he had found a common thirst for Kilkenny and Guinness. In keeping with the Irish themed tat that littered the walls, and to the accompaniment of diddly-diddly music playing non-stop until the last punter left, he had made money hand-over-fist from the moment the doors had opened on the first day, and had done so every day. He had installed TVs in the corners, for football and Grang Prix, a kitchen at the back for pizzas and quick meals, and a mixture of bare flooring, high tables and stools and a nest of battered sofas that surrounded the stove fire – the focus of the room.

The two walked in to the steamy atmosphere. Just as they entered, the two sofas nearest the fire were vacated, and they jumped on the one to the left, he leaving his padded jacket to indicate occupancy next to her as she warmed her ungloved fingertips.

“Two beers, please. Heavy night out there.” His youthful conviviality matched the striped beany still covering his dark eyebrows.

“You’re right there! Still, you’re in the best place to see it out.” The landlord grinned and handed over two bottles of Estrella for €2.50 each. Barely audible on the speakers could be heard Seven Drunken Nights.

He gulped. At this rate, they would have little or nothing left for tomorrow evening, let alone the rest of the night. He turned and stopped; his coat had been moved to one side, and a man was sat in his place engaged in conversation with his sister. She was already laughing.

Desperate In The War Zone

Angry voices, that’s all I remember – the rest was sheer panic!

I guess everyone has to leave his or her home each day. From the moment my journey began there were difficulties. I knew it would be so. But had I known it would be such a bad day I would have reconsidered the whole thing.

Maybe it was their warlike noises – I just couldn’t see what was going on. From first light through the open windows came all sorts of terrifying bangs and crashes, and a lot of furious shouting. That’s nothing unusual – some days seem to be full of nothing but furious shouting. I understood that something was happening (there’s always something happening), but I couldn’t make it out. I suppose nobody can. It’s the way of the world. But all I wanted to do that morning was hide – for the whole day if necessary. And I did so, at least for an hour, in the walk-in cupboard. It may have been dark, but at least it was a little quieter and offered a suggestion of tranquility. But this temporary peace could not last. In the end the need to perform basic bodily functions became the insistent voice compelling me to leave its safety and enter the fearful world outside.

By breakfast time the traffic had picked up. Sometimes it gets so bad here, and the speed these crazy bastards go is unbelievable, that you cannot cross the street without putting your life in jeopardy – seriously! Those on foot appeared to be behaving normally – as normal as possible considering the circumstances, but they all appeared to be carrying weapons of one sort or another. Into this melee I realized I had to delve if I was not to make an outright mess of things. As the heat from the early morning sun poured into the canyon that is outside my door, so the mix of dangerous vehicular movement and terrifying human activity created additional furious intensity to an already volatile situation.

I thought one car was about to mount the pavement and get me, but by some miracle is swerved at the last moment, careening its way around the corner, onto a terrifying oblivion no doubt. Another stopped close by and four heavily armed occupants emerged ready to beat the crap out of us. They viciously slammed their doors – I quickly sized up the situation and decided to make a break for it before things got any worse. Dragging the others, I eluded them and reached the corner of the building and found the grass by the river. I didn’t care if they were following or not; my piss couldn’t wait any longer.

I’m afraid I do this thing with my voice when I get stressed out. It’s a sort of high-pitched singy-songy thing – I know it’s annoying, but it’s a bit of a release. I suppose it’s just the way I am. And that’s exactly what I did, right from the get-go – before I left the building, before I crossed the street, before the murderers from the car leapt out at me, before my first piss of the day.

The grass by the river has at times also been a hiding place. If you stay still you can remain undetected for quite a long time. No one wants to look there, so if the worst comes to the worst it is a last resort. There’s only on problem, and that’s the nettles. This can be an especially problematic if you need to take a dump. I’ve actually stung my arse on nettles doing that very thing on more than one occasion – I can tell you, it’s no joke! It happened on this occasion, making me run out back on the grass in full view of those who consistently mean ill.

In the park the mad voices continued: some of the less active murderers in this area are content to sit around, always talking, eyeing their next victims with terrifying eyes that follow every movement, looking for any exploitative weaknesses. On other occasions, when I’ve found myself in this precarious situation, then eyeing them back has been a deterrent, but the whole thing makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. If that fails, then the only thing for it is to run like the clappers. And that’s what I did on this occasion. There was no way I was going to hang around with them waiting to tear me to shreds. I bolted – wouldn’t you under these circumstances?

Of course, once out of the park there are particularly dangerous roads to cross, some of them containing the most terrifying of all devices – the bicycle. The riders know that they can swiftly creep up on the innocent, there to perform all manner of devious and deathly acts. If you see one of these approaching, you must just flee the situation, regardless of what you are doing, and create as much of a distance between these machines of dread and yourself as is possible. If not, you can expect the most heinous acts of merciless barbarism imaginable to be perpetrated.

The return home was equally hazardous, back to the relative sanctity of the clothes cupboard, at least for a few hours until the next desperate venture. Even so, apart from allowing the urgent call of nature to be answered, the only thing redeemable from the whole miserable misadventure that hot morning was the chance to chase a squirrel.

Roses

They held a mutual glance – right there on the street, akin to any other passing acknowledgement of remote acquaintances, but within its slight grasp arrived a host of pleasant sensations, fuzzy echoes and desolate pain. It made each of them imagine, somehow, that they would be passionate lovers, and that their introduction and this meeting were merely the polite preludes of clouds that grow upon the horizon before a fierce summer torrent. Surely this was pure fantasy, stretching beyond reason the realms of all plausibility?

He waved delicately, just in case she had not recognized him: her eyes reported that she had instantly remembered him, thought of him, weighed his impact. It formed an immediate upwelling; of undiluted joy spread through his battered heart – delicious melted butter softening the taste buds, and brought a gentle soothing to the nerves – a warm and calm tropical sea reaching to the horizon.

For her part, she had understood his precarious situation, his wavering hand a symbol of vain hope. Hers was alike, for she beheld him as a touch indifferent, at least on the surface, but wondered on it. And with this willing admission of her into his eyes she had also met a softer gaze; a heart stopper – heat from the evening’s Sahara sun, she saw a frank and open soul – fresh rain on waist-high meadow grass.

In the next few steps, she returned his wave and offered a simple smile. Only this was not simple. It expressed a risky vulnerability without brakes. He approached with a wide saunter that ill-fitted the natural harmony of his proportions, the custom and habit of a youth spent in bad company. Had she known him longer, she might have laughed. He at once felt like a child.

He started, with a smile.

“Hi!”

“Hi! How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Great!”

“And you?”

“Pretty good.”

They were not fine. It was not great. But what else could be said? What else could be believed?

She wanted to run away.

“How have you been since... oh, what was it – Saturday?” He remembered exactly.

“Pretty good. You? Did you go to see… er, what was it – The Railway Man?” She remembered exactly.

“Oh, yes. It was great.” He wished he’d seen it with someone, and not alone – her, in fact. “And did you go to that concert – Flying Elves/Frying Elves?” He remembered exactly, including the way they’d giggled at the confusion.

“Yes. Pretty good, but I don’t remember much about it.” An admission she at once regretted.

“Oh?” His curiosity was gladly piqued.

“You know… a few drinks.” Oh well, it was out of the realms of respectability now.

“Sounds great – better than my night.” He was offering consolation, but he inwardly winced: it instantly sounded like he was trying too hard, or admitting to being a bit of a prude.

They stopped. She had wanted to ask why his night was worse than hers, but didn’t want to appear too eager too soon. Besides, she would then have to avoid her truth, and that felt wrong, even now. He wanted to go on with the small talk, because it was manageable, but felt the need to change tack – be a man, take control, just as you are told to from birth. Time was against him, and the moment was slipping.

She sensed his hesitation.

“Erm…” she laughed politely.

“Yeah…” he positively added, but had to laugh at the pointlessness of it.

They were filling-in, waiting for the universe to catch up. In that moment there occurred a brief streaming between their eyes, a trickle from a barely-held dams nicely prepared to await the right hour, but not now.

“Wha–” he began, but faltered at the first step, the word arrested at the gate before taking a foot outside. “Erm–” he continued, equally unable to continue with a frogmarched substitute. The need to tell her something –anything– welled like the beginning of addict’s unconscious yearnings. He’d bought shoes for work, and had sat in thought of her strapless black shoes, with the delicate heels and open toes that she’d worn on that night they had met. How could he tell her that?

“Yes!” She didn’t know why she said it: the encouraging statement a touch too emphatic for this fresh communication, and only their second ever. But, then again, it didn’t feel like it really, because of this compulsion to link with him somehow. In truth she wouldn’t know that for sure for another two weeks. At the end of the concert, with a stranger’s hands all over her, into her head had sailed the ephemeral recollection of their initial drink, their nice conversation and of his face, the very one before her now. And then she’d gone straight home.

“OK, well… Shall I see you – er, this Friday? He nodded encouragingly, the little up-and-down panting of a hungry puppy. If she said no, he would die.

In response, she nodded vigorously – “Mmm…” She wanted to add more, much more, but it wouldn’t and shouldn’t come now; each nod became the gift of silent roses.

Too Much Drink

Too much drink
Again,
But that's all right.
I am, after all

Upon the floor dried
Dogshite,
From another mistake.
It is, forever

Physician's toil
Barely,
Supper of a smotherer.
Who cares, today?

Incandescent aloft
Burn,
Sweated twiddle a-spinning.
How much, unseeing?

Towering power up
Trip,
In a hot hand.
To be, awareness

Simmering in-plague
Pot-boiler,
Buggered start.
Arrow-point potency

Too much drink all right
Again, again,
But that's about it.
I am, at the end