Is That Jane Austen With A Sausage On Her Bonnet?

Yes! “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good sausage, must be in want of a wife.”

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Daniel Day Lewis Talks To Gingerfightback About His New Film Role

He has more Oscars than you can shake a stick at and is an exponent of Conker Fung Du, the Cornish martial art that encompasses kickboxing and conkers. Daniel Day Lewis.

We caught up with DDL whilst he was lobbing a stick into his favourite horse chestnut tree to find a few conkers to take home, bake, soak in vinegar and allow to harden in the oven afterwards.

GFB; Daniel, thanks for sparing the time in your hectic schedule to speak to us.

DDL; (Holding a knotted shoe lace with a conker threaded onto it)  Obbly Onker My First Conker!

GFB; Sorry?

DDL; Watch out, this bad boy is a Twelver!

GFB; Oh Right – can we talk about your new fi-

DDL; STAMPS! I win! Thirteener now!

GFB; Jeez that must a be a great conker Daniel. I only ever had a threeer and then Kevin Keating stamped on it.

DDL; This is the best conker I’ve ever had – It is the Olivier of Conkers.  Not that Sir Larry wasn’t a great actor of course, nearly as good as me. All I’ll say is, “Look at the Oscars laddio – who is the Daddy now eh? eh?”

GFB; Fascinating Daniel, as we would expect from such a great thespian as you.

DDL; Natch.

GFB; Your new movie role

DDL; The Life Of Flann O’Brien?

GFB; Yes.

DDL; One of the greats of Irish Literature, proper absurdist and Metafictionist type – As you know I inhabit the character I portray at all times during the filmic process – Mind heads! (Daniel launches a shillelagh into the tree and is disappointed not to dislodge a conker)

DDL; Bastard!

GFB; Come again?

DDL; The conker – I can’t get it down.

GFB; Shame – I’m sure you will get it eventually.

DDL; Yes – I shall, failing all else I will blast the bastard out with me Last Of The Mohicans musket – dead eyed dick I was by the time filming was over – could shoot a fart from three miles.

GFB; Impressive, now about your fil –

DDL; Sorry, the film, yes, Flann O’Brien – I have worn this Flan on my head for three years to understand him a bit more.

GFB; Has it worked?

DDL; No. Flan only has one N and Flann had two N’s in it. The Fecker. If he had been Quiche O’Brien I would have been onto a winner – all I have gleaned is an appreciation for pastry based savoury snacks.

GFB; Thanks for you time Daniel.

DDL; Not at all. Fancy another game of conkers?

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Train Travel Tales #44 – Papier Mache Tunnels

The Despatcher manoeuvred the wheelchair into the Carriage’s disabled bay. “Many thanks,” said the chair’s occupant, an elderly woman. Another woman in early middle age, fussed around her.

“All part of the service!” replied the Despatcher, “Enjoy your trip to the seaside.”

“He was a bit rough,” the old woman said to her companion, “Nearly had my eye out with his whistle.”

The companion said nothing. She took off her wire framed glasses and wiped the lenses on the dark grey fleece she was wearing. She looked tired and in all honesty fed up.

The Despatcher took several minutes to free the chair ramp. Once he had released it, he let out a pert peep on his whistle and the train pulled away.

The old woman carried a small potted plant in her liver spotted hands. I could not tell you what type of plant it was. It was colourful. She stroked the plant and said, “Like the view Arthur? I told you we would make one more train journey together.”

My daughter Millie looked up from her colouring book and tugged at the cuff of my shirt.

“Daddy,”

“Yes?”

“That old woman. Is she going to die?”

“No. Not yet darling. But it won’t be long by the look of things.”

“Thought so. Can I have some more chocolate?”

I handed Millie her third segment of Chocolate Orange. My wife had forbade chocolate on our excursion to the Zoo, but we don’t often go on trips together and why can’t a Dad spoil his little Princess? Besides, who doesn’t like to tap and unwrap?

The old woman looked at me and said, “That child will be sick if you keep giving her chocolate.”

“Mother!”

A smile spread across the old woman’s craggy features. The top set of her bleached dentures rattled slightly as she spoke to Millie, “Hello my dear. Where are you going? “

“Zoo. To see the Penguins,” Millie replied.

“I think you are the prettiest child I have ever seen!” Said the old woman, “But if you keep eating all that chocolate you may develop chronic diabetes and become morbidly obese. Not to mention lose your teeth!”

She smiled broadly. Her left hand fell off.

“Bloody Germans.”

I gasped and broke wind. I hoped nobody noticed. Millie laughed.

Her flushed companion reattached the prosthetic and said to me, “Sorry about that, it’s a bit worn and loose.”

“That’s OK,” I replied, unsure what to say.

The old woman, checking the quality of the reattachment, asked Millie what her name was, “Millie? That’s a lovely name. My name is Mary and this is my daughter Eileen.”

“You’re old. Are you going to die soon? My Dad thinks you are.”

Mary laughed “Death comes to us all Millie my dear. I am prepared, but hopefully not for a day or two. We have a trip to the seaside first! Do you like the seaside?”

“Yes!” replied Millie, “Sandcastles!”

“North Cornwall usually,” I said. I lied, normally it is Devon.

“Your Daddy is a bit fat isn’t he Millie? Does he smoke? The stains on his teeth tell me he does.”

“No,” I replied, before Millie could say anything. I had given up for New Year. I was pleased with my willpower, apart from when I had a crafty one.

Mary turned to her daughter, “Any news about Betty?”

“Lot better.”

“Did she find her eye?”

“In the freezer.”

“She’s so careless that girl.”

Mary looked down at the plant, “How are you Arthur?”

I swear the plant shook gently in response.

“That’s good.” Mary shaded the plant with her hand. A flapping tongue of handkerchief protruded from the sleeve of the white cardigan she wore. I shuddered at the thought of mucus on my wrist.

“Is Dad OK?” Eileen asked. Mary looked wistful, “Grand. He’s excited about being on a train again. He loved his trains. The hours he spent in the loft with his train set. ……What he couldn’t recreate in Papier Mache……….. Do you remember that time he got his head stuck in his replica Channel Tunnel!”

“How could we forget!” Eileen appeared to relax in her mother’s company.

“Never liked the Sun much though.Brought him out in hives.”

“I know Mum.”

“I’m glad I could bring him. He loved the seaside. Hated the water, the sand and the Sun of course, but loved everything else. And he didn’t need a ticket, him being a pot plant now. Loved Violets he did. I think he needs a drop of Baby Bio by the looks of things. I do miss him Eileen.”

“I know Mum. We all do.”

Mary stroked the petals of the pot plant or Arthur as I now thought of it. She appeared deep in thought, “Yes love. He certainly loved his train set. And having his way with me. He was insatiable. Right up to his Seventieth. No wonder I ended up in this Chair!”

“Mother!”

Mary pulled the handkerchief from her cardigan sleeve, wiped a tear and blew her nose before rehousing it. Again I shuddered at the thought of damp mucus on my skin.

“Daddy,” Millie asked,

“Yes?” I dreaded the question.

“How long will it be before I am old?”

“A long time yet.”

I was relieved. She hadn’t asked that question.

“Daddy,”

“Yes,”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

It was by the Lion’s den that Millie asked me what insatiable meant. I bought her an ice cream. She forgot to ask again.

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Train Travel Tales #43 – If Music Be The Food Of Love……..

Hello – Many thanks for all the positive feedback on this Tale – why not make yourselves a nice cup of tea, break out the Hobnobs and read it all in one go!

If Music Be The Food Of Love…..

December 16th – 1996 Kings Cross Station

As a child I was awestruck by the grandeur of train stations. It was where grown-ups went. On a daily basis. To do things. What these things were I had no idea. But they went there to do them.

When my parents brought my sister and I up to London for day trips from our suburban backwater, these great voluminous places, full of scuttling humanity had a sense of solid purpose that scared and exhilarated me at the same time. I remember clasping Dad’s hand a little tighter as we walked through them, something my son now does when we come up for day trips to London on my access weekends.

Now their role in my life is much more mundane and perfunctory. Merely conduits to another place accompanied by the heady perfume of diesel engines and fast food outlets.

I was early when I reached Kings Cross station today. Too early. I don’t like having to hang around. The slate grey sky and traffic noise gave a claustrophobic feel to the low slung station entrance. A newspaper vendor cried out “Standard! Standard!” The banner headline told of a political scandal involving a Conservative MP. Another? Surely there are not enough of them left.

A drunk’s basted features appeared before me, “Spare change?” He held a can of super strength lager with the other hand outstretched for alms. I fished in my pocket for some change and gave him a pound. And another one. It was nearly Christmas after all.

“Cheers. Merry Christmas.”

A policeman crossed the lee of the entrance and intimated to the drunk not to come any closer. The beggar mumbled to himself and returned to a companion who was arguing with a waste bin. He took a deep slug from his can and began to solicit others.

Shoals of people drifted and eddied around the station concourse. A limp muzak rendition of Hark the Herald Angels, a begrudging admission of the festive season, played over the public address system, regularly interrupted by information of departures, arrivals and security alerts. The brash yellow lighting gave the atmosphere a soiled, used feel and the floor was pocked with discarded chewing gum like a grubby Dalmatian pelt.

As I looked at the departure board for signs of my train, I heard the nasal drone of an accordion. A Slavic voice accompanied the dirge, “If you thin I sex, an you wan my bod, cam on babi let me no -”

A Balkan tribute to Rod Stewart. Most of his songs have a good beat. Baby Jane is my favourite.

The accordion player was short, squat and unshaven. He wore a vivid, silver trimmed waistcoat over an Adidas shell suit and wore Adidas trainers. He had wrapped a strand of tinsel around his head and warbled the back catalogue of Rod Stewart with a healthy disdain for the original lyrical content – “I am salling, I am salling, oh lard to be nar oo, to be fray”.

I wondered if he knew any sea shanties, much more in line with our glorious maritime history.

A small, under nourished woman was with him. Black headscarf, pained, gap toothed expression daubed on her young face and a cherubic swaddled baby clinging to her. She approached me and held out a polystyrene cup and asked in unmistakable tones of poverty and misery for money. The baby began to cry. I fished in my pocket for some change and gave her a pound. And another one. It was nearly Christmas after all.

She thanked me and approached an elderly man of military bearing standing several feet away, “Certainly not. You must understand that for you and your ilk, and that goes for your musically challenged accomplice, that only the reintroduction of Workhouses can save you people from your insatiable breeding habits and thus your poverty.”

The woman waved the cup in front of him, “Will you leave me alone you Slavic miscreant? Didn’t England do enough for you people in the war? If only Franz Ferdinand had not sent his breast plate for buffing that day we would all be in better shape. Why, the next thing you and your kind will do is annex Shropshire. Now if you don’t go away, I will be forced to report you to the relevant authorities.”

A smartly dressed woman curtly waved her away but a man, a student by the look of him, dropped a number of coins into her cup.

The busker made his way towards a group of Asian tourists who stood like Mere Cats, eagerly trying to locate their train.

“I lav ewe hoh-knee!” I deduced it as Hot Legs, another of rocker Rod’s classics.

Sub-consciously the tourists formed a defensive square that would have drawn praise from the Duke of Wellington. The accordionist found it impossible to isolate any member of the group and allow his partner to beg. One of the tourists took copious photographs of the incident. As tourists do. The minstrel fired a broadside of cedilla laden insults at them. He continued to pour invective at the group and bumped into a middle-aged man who wore a florid, veined complexion. The accordion wheezed in harmony with their collision.

“Excuse me,” the man said in rounded Welsh tones. “Well well, an accordion. What pleasure that instrument has brought to countless thousands over the years. Lamentation, celebration, medication and education, the humble accordion has accompanied life around the world. Once, singing in Poland, Krakow I think it was, I spent a night in a small tavern singing Polish laments with a number of cheerless, mustachioed peasants and their hefty women folk. I don’t mind telling you that one of the Babushka’s favoured me that night,” the man winked conspiratorially at the busker before breaking into song and competing with Ding Dong Merrily On High that blared over the public address system.

He sang with a liquid, cool voice which to shimmered and filled listeners with an instant longing for lost lovers. People were stopped in their tracks at the primal beauty of his voice.

The accordionist began asking for money. His cup was soon overflowing with coins and the occasional note. The man was content to sing his vision of pain and loss. As abruptly as he had commenced, he stopped. Applause rang out. He nodded his thanks, turned to the accordion player held out his hand and said,

“Bryn, I am a Welshman.”

“Huh?”

“Bryn, I am a Welshman.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind my friend; I am prepared to offer you half of the stipend the adoring masses have just given me.”

“Huh?”

“Give me half the money,” Bryn replied in less gilded tones. He held out his left hand and rubbed the thumb and forefinger together.

“No.”

“Yes,” replied Bryn

“No,”

They began to jostle. The knot of people that had stopped to listen to Bryn sing now watched with bemusement as the men traded insults in Welsh and Albanian, both apparently with full knowledge of each other’s dialects. The accordion again wheezed its accompaniment. A jaunty Polka.

The old man who had berated the busker earlier turned to me and said, “I’ll have a fiver on the Chetnik. Blood thirsty animals they were in the war.”

The Policeman re-appeared, pulled the two men apart and began to frog-march them from the station, oblivious to their protestations of innocence and accusations of the other party’s guilt. The woman and child followed demurely behind.

Bryn spoke, “I demand a Judicial Review of your actions officer. I am due to board the 14.27 to Edinburgh. Do you know I once shared a sandwich with Charlton Heston?”

Both men were led off the concourse. The beggar approached them for money. I couldn’t tell you if he was successful in his pleadings. But I doubt it. Even if it was Christmas.

Part 2

Elizabeth had to run down the platform to catch the train. The run hadn’t taken much out of her, she was a dancer after all, but being punctilious by nature, nearly missing it had caused some anxiety. She walked through the carriages checking her ticket and seat reservation until she found her seat, 26 Facing in Carriage C.

A middle-aged man with a florid, veined complexion was sat in the seat next to her. Bryn was red faced and slightly out of breath after his exertions with the Busker and Police.

“Close shave,” he said.

“Yes,” replied Elizabeth as she settled into her seat. She took a sip from a bottle of water and stared into the evening murk, attempting to decipher the name of commuter stations as the train sped through them. She opened the book she had bought at York Station the day before, a set of short stories revolving around murder and suspense with the occasional humorous twist. Unable to concentrate, she closed the book and stared at her reflection in the window, allowing herself to float in a pool of leathery half thoughts.

In the seats behind, a toddler began to scream, shattering the calm of the carriage The child writhed and wriggled to be free of his mother’s grip. His mother was trying to reason with him.

“But if you stand on the seat Stephen you could fall and hurt yourself.” The logic of her statement had no bearing on his noisy blubbering.

“That’s <i>enough</i> now Stephen,” The mother’s patience was being sucked out of her. An ethereal noise began to arise from Bryn, the rich, textured layers of his voice defining a set of beautifully evocative sounds, Gaelic in origin. He sang for a further two minutes, the lament slowly evolving into a haunting lullaby. The child became silent.

The lullaby finished. Passengers shook themselves from the mellow torpor his singing had induced. He turned to Elizabeth and smiled at her. She smiled back with a sense of calm curiosity mixed with relief that the cries of the child had ceased. He stared out of the window, content to let the memory of the song linger like a melodic vapour trail.

“Your song was very beautiful”. Elizabeth said.

“I agree. It is an old lullaby my mother sang to me during my own bouts of misunderstood rage. The words deal with a mother’s sadness at hearing the news of her son’s death in war and through her dreams she can stay in contact with him. Yes, altogether very moving. Plus it has an additional value which should never be overestimated” – He beckoned her to come slightly closer – “It always shuts little bugger’s like him up.”

“What is the name of the song?”

“Anything you like really, it’s not the name that counts. More the feeling of loss and love transmitted.”

“It really was beautiful. You have a lovely voice.”

“Bryn, I am a Welshman,” he held out a hand.

“Elizabeth.”

“Thank you for the compliment Elizabeth. Gifted tenor from an early age. According to my Rhodri Lewis, a fine man if slightly inclined to preach about the virtues of Verdi, I had a voice with a range and sensual quality that called upon the angels to bear witness. It was he who urged me to seek my destiny through the notes and words of others. Performance is the highest calling a man can attain. I often considered myself to be a strutting wild beast, locking horns with the sounds one moment, gently stroking their cadences the next. I like to nibble the lyrics,  revelling in my unabated talent. I assure you, critical acclaim was never in my thoughts, I just wanted to sing. Actually, I like to think of myself as the first to connect with the audience where they worked, shopped, played, drank, lived even. Truly, my recitals are akin to the Sermon on the Mount.”

“You busk?”

“I think of myself as an external performer. I’m on my way to perform outside the Usher Hall in Edinburgh for the festive season. <i>Rich</i> pickings this time of year. Although I refuse to sing Gilbert and Sullivan. A pair of shite hawks if ever there were. Lozenge?”

“No thanks.”

Silence fell between them. The Ticket Inspector, a taciturn man who exuded marital discord mumbled, “Tickets please” and punched their tickets with wristy ease. As he continued his duties Elizabeth remembered that she had not spoken to Andrew for nearly two days. He would be upset. She, much to her surprise only felt relief at this non contact with her boyfriend.

Bryn sucked with noisy gusto on his sweet. “The lozenge. A humble concoction of honey and cloves but a tincture without which my soul would forever remain dormant in the mundane we take for granted as life. Singing is my life’s mission. Cut me and no blood would flow from my clotted arteries but the notation of Mozart. Artists such as I are, by our very nature external to the world of the everyday. Through our actions we can shine a searchlight into the soul of mortal people, offering them a glimpse of what can be.”

She looked for a spare seat. There were none.

He bit into lozenge. The aroma of menthol filled the space between them.

“Would you care for an onion sandwich? They are medicinal in nature and thin the blood. Suffering from thick blood is a characteristic of the gifted vocalist. I once read in a periodical whilst waiting for an internal flight in Australia, that the benefits of the onion sandwich are truly exceptional.”

The sandwich had a tongue of onion protruding between the bread slices as if it were gasping for air. Bryn sniffed and said, “On second thoughts,” and returned them to his jacket pocket.

“I must apologise. As you may have noticed I find <strong>no</strong> subject more charming or enlightening than myself. Could I ask you what you do? Something physical by chance? Your movements are very graceful” He noted the change in her body language from his compliment. <em>I am so good at this! </em>he thought to himself.

“I work in Boots in York, on the perfume counter. But I really want to make it as a professional dancer. How did you guess?”

“Sadly, my own body movements are nothing like as graceful. My mentor, Cecil Findings, a man with a marvellous musical ear but with a fateful attraction to the Tuba, described my own gait as cryptic. More charitable people have said enigmatic.”

“I’ve just been for a try out in London. Unsuccessful. Again.”

Part 3.

She took a sip of water, her excitement about the audition now an exhausted memory. She absent mindedly tore strips off the bottle’s label.

“I take it you were unsuccessful in your audition?” Bryn asked.

“Yes. I will not be joining the Contemporary Dance Company.” She tore another strip. Rejected once more. Years of putting up with dull, shitty jobs, fending off drunken magicians and stage hands, so that perhaps one day, one day her gifts would be recognised by her peers and that Andrew’s ambition for them to live the “happy to get by as long as we have each other,” life would not be acceded to.

Bryn spoke, “The purity of a dream fulfilled is something we all aspire to. Failure is something everyone is so good at that we all love to repeat it. Like an addiction. But to this old, tired man who has experienced pain, heartache, failure and rejection there remains something noble about the pursuit of dreams. We must have the courage to manipulate our fears. Never give up my dear.”

“Thank you, I won’t.”

These lines always stood him in good stead. The speech was from the play “Trouble At Home”. He had appeared in whilst a member of a touring Repertory Company in the late 1950’s, playing several roles, a drunk, a limbless ex-soldier, a bricklayer and a man at a bus stop. In all he had said three lines, the longest of which was, “Bless you,” to the leading lady played by the elegant Lavinia Wythenshawe when she sneezed at the bus stop.

As always with this recital his thoughts turned to Annie, Lavinia’s understudy. She fell for his alchemy of dreaminess, dapper japery and tall tales. The first of many to be charmed by his roguish wit and turn of phrase. He wondered if Annie was still alive and rolled through each nuance and crag of recollection. Thoughts that had stayed with him for forty years. In their months together she was the air that he breathed; the beat of his heart; the blink of his eye. For those months she was the love his life. He wondered what became of the daughter they had. He wondered if Annie had forgiven him.

He felt uncomfortable. He focused on Elizabeth once again.

“My Father was my inspiration. I hail from a small pit village in the South Wales valleys. Pontybuchan. Mining was the foundation of our society. So deep were the mines that Tolkien based The Mines Of Mordor on them. Father owned the hosiery shop, but his passion was for magic. He used the name Rhodri The Welsh Wizard, performing amazing feats of magic and illusion throughout our glorious land. He also discovered a gift for chicken sexing but we do not need to pursue that.”

“I’ve worked with Magicians.” Her skin crawled.

“I can assure you his sexual peccadilloes were kept to the marriage bedchamber. My Father’s act often attracted the chagrin of religious folk who considered his mystical feats occultist. He had a pig who could recite Shakespeare, and a polecat who could do bird impressions and by common consent was very impressive, for a polecat that is. The only problem was that Depression era Wales could frown upon with a fervently creased Methodist brow.”

He whispered, “Inappropriate use of animals in a depraved manner and consorting with the English in daylight hours.”

“Sorry?” Elizabeth asked.

“That was the charge brought against him in September 1937 after a performance in the small fishing town of Hywlth in North Wales. Lovely natural harbour. Well worth a visit. Sadly the whelks have been over fished and are no longer available. Lovely with vinegar they were too.” He drifted away into the salty underworld of molluscs.

“What did he do?”

“The pig cursed in a manner most unbecoming a pig, or human for that matter. Nothing that would shock today’s audience with their culture free pretensions for sex and violence, their elastic morality. Excuse my French, but “Fuck!” carries far less weight to offend these days. But the high dudgeon back then! Such was the outcry that my Father was arrested and imprisoned for two years by the intemperate Sanhedrin in the Magistrates Court. Father never gave up though, once sawing a Prison Officer in half, sadly with disastrous consequences. He he died in prison and my own talents had to be suspended to support my Mother and twelve siblings. But I’m sure he found peace in Conjurer’s Valhalla. He never gave up Elizabeth. Right to the end.”

“Never give up.” Sound advice Elizabeth thought, although she wasn’t sure why this aged Welshman had felt the need to embellish his tale. Perhaps he was lonely. Or a liar. Probably a lonely liar.

She looked at her watch. An hour to home and the inquisition. Her reflection stared at her.

The trolley attendant, clearly an advocate of substance abuse, appeared at the Carriage entrance. Like Charon crossing the Styx in a poorly fitted cotton rich uniform, he trundled through the carriage at a funereal pace and into the adjoining vestibule ignoring the request of passengers in need of sustenance.

“I would have loved a cup of tea,” muttered Bryn, “Tea! Who would have thought the slopes of Ceylon would be such a steadfast companion to the nation’s yeomanry. I can honestly say the finest tea I have ever tasted was in Australia, home of the marsupial, dust and these creatures we call Australians. I was there in 1956 with a travelling show. I was second on the bill to The Tumbling Timmins – I have particularly fond memories of Betty Timmins. Broad of beam but kind of heart was Betty, such wrist strength – how the Antipodeans welcomed us from the Mother country. The crowds, adulation and excitement of it all. I never felt so loved, adored and indeed Elizabeth, may I say needed…………”

He had an audience. However small, Bryn had an audience………..

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Under A Duvet Of Stars – By Paul Holland

I went to sleep in the stranger’s bed
And woke needing to pee.
Not knowing where the light was
Nor wanting to wake her.
Well,
Wanting to wake her…but.

Through the curtains
Could see the stars
Sow stars
Sow that light across this universe
This brief moment of time
Across the darkness
Light my way
Be my light
Don’t let me stumble.

But she wakes
And as she watches my return
Know now
This means more to me
Than the light
Of our one lonely star.

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Train Travel Tales #39 – Kalinka

The CD music began as the train pulled into the Station,

“Ka…..lin….ka, Ka….lin….ka”

A small group had assembled. Middle Aged, earnest, smartly dressed. Another group were a few paces away. Adolescent. Disinterested. Yawning. Wearing cod military uniforms and fur hats. Big ones. Very furry.

The carriage door opened and a man the worse for drink stood in the opening. He was heavy-set with ursine features that if sober may have  given the appearance of steely determination. He tottered with the balance unavailable to the sober, mumbled something to himself and giggled before falling face first onto the platform.

The tones of Mother Russia continued to fill the air.

“Ka…..lin….ka, Ka….lin….ka……..”

The undernourished teens began to perform a weak limbed Cossack dance. Squatting on haunches. Right legs flung forward. Pulled back. Left legs flung forward. Pulled back. Very large furry hats slipping over sallow eyes. Fall over. Repeat.

“Kalinka. Kalinka……” the tempo of the music increased, the dancing became more chaotic and decidedly weak ankled. Blood seeped from the prone drunks mouth.

The troupe stumbled and slipped to the far end of the platform and lemming like fell off in the gorse abyss that lay beyond.

“Kalinka -Kalinka-Kalinka-Moya!”

The song continued in its Cyrillic glory whilst the group of furry hatted urchins did battle with the undergrowth.

Silence. Traffic could be heard in the background. That and the drunk man’s incoherent cedilla laden ramblings. There was unease amongst the crowd. A woman stepped forward, crouched down and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Mr Gordyetski – on behalf of the Stonehouse Friends Of Russia Group, may I welcome you…….I think he needs an ambulance.”

As the group of woebegone Dancers finally clambered onto the platform, it was common for all to see that their number had swollen by one.  A Zulu warrior carrying shield and spear.

“I knew we were one short when they fell off the platform last year,” a voice muttered.

The same voice spoke again. “Lads,  could you just check to see if there is a Morris Dancer lurking in the undergrowth. And a bloke in Lederhosen. Cheers.”

Hope you enjoyed the story – here is a rousing version of Kalinka

And here is some amazing Red Army Cossacky type dancing (A young Oily George is playing the accordion)

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Train Travel Tales #37 – The Birdman Of The 11.35

He had boarded the train at Derby. Pink Floyd was playing on my Ipod when he sat next to me. If there is a better song than Wish You Were Here, then I’m a Chinaman.

As the train left the Station,  the man placed his hands to his mouth and blew through them, carefully adjusting his fingers in a daintily choreographed process.

Curious, I turned down my Ipod to listen.

Birdsong.

Beautiful birdsong! It was like having Summer on the train. The gentle chirping carried me back to warmer, more carefree days. It was like hearing Dark Side Of The Moon for the first time. Seminal.

The Guard, a world weary man who attended to his duties with a grim relish, stopped to listen. “Fookin’ Brilliant,” he said to the man as he checked his ticket, “Like being in fookin’ aviary. Me mam had a budgie once. Fooker never said a fookin’ word.” He moved away, “Tickets from Derby please.”

The man desisted from his trilling and rummaged in his rucksack. He pulled out a number of twigs and arranged them around himself and then retrieved a small Tupperware box, opened it and ate a couple of fat, wriggling earthworms.

Most of the questions in life can be found in the lyrics of Roger Waters. If there is a better lyricist then I am a Chinaman. But even Roger would be stumped to explain a nest building, worm eating, bird impressionist on the 11.35 to Sheffield.

“Cuckoo, cuckoo.”

“Cuckoo?” I said.

“Yep! What’s this one?” He raised his hands to his mouth and  blew, his cheek and neck muscles working overtime to shape and twist the sounds.

If it had been the solos of David Gilmour it would have been another story. If there’s been a better guitarist then I’m a Chinaman.

“Robin?” I said meekly.

“Thrush.”

He went through his extensive repertoire. My lack of knowledge was cruelly exposed.

“Blackbird?”

“Canary,”

“Lark?”

“Pelican.”

“Seagull?”

“Flamingo.”

“Twit Twoo, Twit Twoo.”

“Owl?”

“Yep! Which sort?”

“A big one?”

“Barn.”

He chomped on a worm. He stood. He lowered  his head onto his chest, placed his legs together and waddled forward a few feet, turned and returned in the same manner, a low, skittish growl accompanied these movements.

“Need the toilet?” I asked. Worms can’t be good for the digestive tract.

“Emperor Penguin.” He sat.

His body language now carried an air of menace, “You don’t know much about Birds do you?”

“Not really.”

“OK. I’ll make it easy for you.” He repeatedly head butted the seat in front of him, stopping only to smile with a manic bloodstained leer at me before continuing with his butting frenzy. He stopped and sat back. His nose was a bloody mess. A couple of twigs had been dislodged and fallen onto the Carriage floor.

“Fookin’ Hell,” said The Guard who happened to be passing, “That is the best impression of a fookin’ Woodpecker I’ve ever seen.”

“Thanks.”

The Guard focussed on the elderly woman who was sitting in the seat the man had been butting and helped fish out the her partially swallowed top set. Her wig was also akimbo.

“What’s this then?” The man stripped naked and clambered into the overhead shelf. He levered his buttocks over the head of the elderly woman who was checking her top set for any damage and……well…….did something that make pigeons the scourge of city folk.

“You can’t fookin’ evacuate on fellow passengers. It clearly states this in Conditions of  Carriage,” The Guard said in an exasperated fashion.

“But it’s lucky to be crapped on by a pigeon!”

He escaped the clutches of The Police and roosted in the rafters of Sheffield Station. After a three day standoff  he attempted to fly to freedom. According to witnesses he flapped like a wingless, featherless titan.

The last words he uttered were, “Look! I can fl………..”

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Train Travel Tales #38 – The Priest

Hello!

Many thanks for all the encouraging feedback on the story.

Ma Fightback said I should post it as one complete story. So if you haven’t read it yet, make a cup of tea, grab some Lincoln Biscuits for dunking and read on….

Part 1.

He had forgotten.

He lay on the toilet floor. Time; Relative or absolute? Time along with choice are our most precious possessions. A luxury we are all afforded.

The train rumbled onwards.  At first, its mechanical voices were welcome, amplifying freedom and the beckoning ability to choose once again. But now the chatter irked.

How long had he been in here? What was he doing here? Where was the train taking him? Why was he locked in the toilet? He was confined once again. The train rumbled on. He was powerless.

The vision; Where had it come from?  Standing in a church pulpit casting down on a garishly dressed congregation of alabaster models, their faces obscured by fluorescent light, impervious to this impassioned vision of his God. The finest sermon he had ever given. Probably too clever for this congregation.

Only one face revealed itself as he spoke. An elderly man who tapped his stick on the church flagstones in a shiftless, artless fashion as the Sermon enunciated the joys of forgiveness and fortitude to this catatonic congregation.

He began to laugh and cajoled the other  lifeless figures to join him in applauding the words. None did. Instead, The alabaster figures grew into bloated, distended shapes. Sores and weal’s fixed themselves to their skins. But they remained motionless.

The old man spoke, “Bravo, Father David, Bravo. Such success in preaching cant to your flock.  I now count myself as one of your disciples. How temperate you are. How prudent! Your faith, your precious sacrosanct, conceited faith. I come to claim that faith from you Priest.”

The Priest was confused. What had he had done to deserve this?

“You already know the answer. For your own glory, your own sense of destiny, you have aborted your faith.” The old man melted from view.  The priest remained still, silent. He heard a noise.

Someone was knocking on the toilet door. The door handle moved rapidly up and down. Were they were coming for him? A wraith of fear gripped him. Thankfully the knocking stopped and the handle was becalmed.

Thirst. He stood but his legs could barely support his weight. Where was he? Panic. He had no control. No choice. He vomited.

Again there was  a knocking at the door. More insistent this time. Fear returned. His heart raced. Again he threw up, a dry, incessant heave.

He was alone, isolated from a world that had never understood him and shunned him. Only the toilet door protected him from this harsh world.  He wished he was back in his room and his choices were made for him.

The train stopped. Its clanking, harsh voices returned to torment him as it idled in rest.

For a fleeting moment, the heroin had reconfirmed his genius. Cooled the scratching madness in his mind’s eye. He could depend on it as always.

He had found Peace.

He realised he was not alone. She was there.

Part 2

She held out her hand. He noticed the self tattooed dots on each of her knuckles. He had asked her once what they represented. Her answer was, “Nothing. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” That summed her up. Live for the moment. To hell with consequences.  Not like him, a man who weighed each and every action before committing to it.

“I miss you,” he said, “Come back to me. I am nothing without you.”

She smiled. That gap toothed smile. Her green eyes sparkled. “Be still Father. Be still.” Her eyes, despite all that she had suffered still radiated kindness. Cramps rented him, but Susan remained.

“She’s come back for me!”

He had tried to help her. Find the heroin she needed. Give her life. If needs be with his life. He had started to buy it for her. To help her overcome her addiction. Get away from Luke her pusher and pimp. He could save her, his very own Magdalene.

He had found her in the Church on that distant Summer’s evening, asleep on one of the pews sporting a black eye and split lip.  Her visitation was a sign. He was sure of that.

A sign that his duty was to help her. Through his faith and his magnanimity. But it would also prove to be a test of faith. A test that he had failed. The wrap of foil and the smoke stained Biro casing lying on the floor attested to that.

At first he left her food. Sandwiches,  Tuna and Sweet corn or Cheese and Pickle. Mars Bars.  Coffee even though she preferred Coke. He began to leave small amounts of money, loose change from his pockets,  a fiver now and then.

He had asked about her parents. There were none. She was taken into care as a baby. Her mum was dead. Heroin she thought. Couldn’t be sure. Didn’t care either way.

He had told her about the night shelter in the Town Centre, but she didn’t want to go back there. Too dangerous. Besides, she liked being alone. Something a Care System never allowed. People prying into her business, her “welfare” when the only people who ever took interest in her were the men who wanted to groom and pimp her.

Here in the Church, she was alone. Safe. After all that is what churches were at the end. Havens.

She would return to Luke each morning and earn the money to pay for the heroin he sold her, but at least it was safe here in the church. And after all, she told the Priest,  one day Luke wouldn’t come looking for her and she would be free then. Then she could make some choices about her life.

The Priest was uncertain at first. It wasn’t his job. He wasn’t a Social Worker or trained in this world. He had had a quiet word with Detective Inspector O’Leary, a parishioner. “Watch her, she’s trouble that one. If you want I will sort her out for you.”

It was not the reply he had been expecting. A tad harsh. The girl was a victim of fate or at least circumstance. He should help her. More to the point he could help her. Demonstrate to her the love of His God for all people.

The train began to move. Station lights bled through the opaque glass. He tried to read the station sign but couldn’t. He threw some cold water on his face. The shock was welcome. He was on a train heading to Durham. Good, he was beginning to feel in control again.

Luke. A spindly urchin of feral design and mindset, who reeked of cannabis and Lynx body spray. At first, he was aggravated by a Priest interfering in his affairs. The Girl was popular. Cheap to run and earned him more than the other girls. He would be mad to let her go. Not until she was spent and the punters wouldn’t want her anymore. Couple of years away at least. Then she could just fuck off and the Priest would be welcome to her.

The Priest spent a month caring for her, leaving the sandwiches, drink and money. He had even sought out Luke to score for her. Small amounts to  help her wean herself off the stuff. On the third occasion, Luke had said to him, “Try it Father? I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. You seem the sort. You lot always need something to cling to.”

He refused the offer. Naturally. Heroin was dangerous. Evil. Like the asp in the Garden of Eden. At first he was impervious to its mendacious whisperings, but the voice grew louder and attached itself to him, wrapped itself around his sub-conscious.  He now saw it as a test of his faith. And if it would bring him to a closer understanding of the Girl’s struggles, then that could only be a good thing. He had given up smoking and knew he had the strength of will to refute the narcotic’s siren advances

He smoked it. Luke showed him how. He reminded himself it was to get closer to her suffering and understand what agonies she must be enduring. Why she needed to escape her life.

He had enjoyed it.

No.

He loved it.

Fuckin’ loved it.

It instilled the peace his restless mind had always sought and brought him closer to a God who had become distant in the past few years. He forgot about her, Luke and everything else he had concerned himself with.

Heroin loved him and helped God find him again. Intellectually as well as spiritually. He had craved this insight all his life and the Girl, as if a messenger had shown him the way to enlightenment.

Luke was right.

Blackmail is a cruel trick to play.  But Luke being a shrewd business man knew that extorting a priest for two hundred a week was a much easier way to earn than scoring, pimping or robbing. He granted Susan one  night a week off as part payment. “Fair deal, your holiness!” he said without a glimmer of irony.

The train drew to a halt at another station. Through the frosted glass he made out the  comings and goings of other passengers. The train cranked and cussed as straining metal cooled.

Susan stroked his cheek. How could she have been oblivious to his feelings for her? If  he had heard once “I love you Father,” it would have been enough, even a simple thank you would have sufficed.

No, no that was wrong. He had not sought or played for the girl’s affections, she was the one at fault not he. She must have understood his life as a priest, his celibacy and his devotion to the poor rather than himself. Through his haze, he felt anger rise.

Good, an emotion. The drugs were beginning to abate.

No, it was plain to him now that she only saw him as an amusement. A conduit. Less risky, an idealistic fool who supplied her drugs for free, kept her from the clutches of Luke and the punters who beat her. Let her sleep in the church. She probably thought he was a perv. The Bitch.

Where was he? What was he doing here? Who is this girl smiling down at me?

“You have to go Susan. Can’t you see you led me to this?” She withdrew her hand. The  smile tipped from her face and in its place a scowl darkened her gaunt features. She was at fault. If only he had never met her. If only he had not taken Confession that night in the Church.

Did she not see that in this confined space, her Christian duty and duty as a woman, was to help him? What was she doing here anyway? She didn’t belong here.

She faded and the warmth of her touch returned to being a memory.

“Don’t go. Don’t leave me. Please.”

She did not reply.

Again there was a knock on the door. “Are you alright in there?” The voice outside displayed some concern.

“Yes, yes, sorry,” He replied. Guilt was his companion now. The opiate rush dulled further. The anger and confusion were replaced by the crimson shame. It had been so easy to succumb to his addiction once more. It had not been conquered, merely fettered for those months of rehabilitation.

He stood.  Stronger this time. Good. The train jerked forward. He fell towards the wash hand basin, wrapping left knuckles in the process. The pain was welcome. Real.

He opened the door and gingerly stepped out, expecting to be confronted by the impatient voice that had been knocking earlier. There was no-one there.

He cast a glance backwards. The foil wrapper lay on the floor by the flush pedal and the smoke charred pen case lay at an angle to it.

He began the unsteady journey back to his seat, stumbling into other passengers as he did so, earning agitated glances. He mumbled apologies, his pallid features and sweat matted hair presenting a disturbing, deranged portrait to other passengers who averted their gaze.

He was thankful that he would never see these people again. Thankful not to be wearing his priest’s garb.

The train slowed. The scent of asbestos lined brakes filled the carriage.

He inhaled deeply. The carbonated taste of the air brought him back to his current location.  He estimated that he had been in the cubicle for nearly four hours. The Guard announced that they were now approaching York station.

He moved through the carriage trying to remember where he had sat. Several rows away he saw a young boy furiously colouring a drawing. He remembered. He had been sitting opposite the boy and his mother.

“Look mummy, I’ve finished!” The child held up his crayon scrawl for his mother to view. She praised the boy and shot an uncertain glance at the catatonic man now sitting opposite her.

The boy sat back with a furrowed look on his face before saying, “It’s a pig mummy can’t you tell?”

“Of course it is Jake.”

“Oink! Oink!” the little boy said gleefully. His mother laughed to. She tidied the pile of coloured pictures the boy had completed on the journey. The Priest’s eyes scanned them and noticed the clowns faces peering up at him. The boy had been colouring in that one when he had left them. White faces and red noses.

A residue of vomit had collected in the corner so his mouth. He pulled out a tissue and wiped it clean. He felt his Rosary Beads in the pocket too. A memory. Of only a few hours ago. Four hours.

He thought back to the final session with Father Stephen,

“Your own conceits and half-baked assumptions about your own intellectual rigour and proximity to the seat of God were your undoing David. Most people turn to God in times of personal or national crisis. You on the other hand turned to God to seek adulation.”

“I always thought I was different Stephen, somehow set apart from everyday life. I was created for something else.”

“David, accept what you have been given and revel in that. Lose this self deluding notion of saintliness and you can still offer something to God, the Church and people.”

David ruminated on Fr Stephen’s belligerent assessment. He could admit to being a little self obsessed, he had the treatment to thank for that, but he was surprised that Stephen could still not see how different he was to everybody else.

Part 3 –Four or so hours earlier…….

Choice. Decisions. The stuff of life. Without them we would not possess happiness, sadness, regret or relief. And without these we would not experience life.

Everyday we exercise free will to determine the shape, pattern and direction of our days. Perhaps these events are of the nondescript kind, such as buying a Tuna and Sweetcorn sandwich at Taunton station.  He used to buy her Tuna and Sweetcorn sandwiches.

But being free to choose when for so long his actions have been scrutinised, monitored, prescribed, reviewed, sanctioned and judged, is a small step to the symmetrical world of decision and sanity.

Along with the sandwich, he had bought a packet of ready salted crisps for the long journey to Durham. Six hours give or take.

He  returned to Father Stephen who was checking the departure board. He hummed the now familiar tune of “Welcome Home” The Peters and Lee classic.

“Good choice. That should keep  you going until you reach Durham. Got your ticket?”

“Yes.” He patted the breast pocket of his overcoat.

The train arrived.

“Got your ticket?”

“Yes,”

Father Stephen shook his hand vigorously.

“Well, good luck David. It’s been a pleasure to work with you. You have my number in case you need to talk but I will see you in two weeks in any case.  I won’t wave you off. I haven’t bought a ticket for the car park. Father Sidney will meet you at Durham. Give him this letter. It contains the terms of your rehabilitation up there. Safe journey.”

“Thank you. For everything.”  Both men flushed. David placed the letter in his jacket.

He boarded the train and found his seat. A table seat. Good.  A woman and a young boy sat opposite. David and the woman smiled the cautious pre-emptive smile of strangers thrown together. The child was engrossed in colouring in a picture. Clowns by the look of them. White faces and red noses. As a child, the Priest had always been afraid of the menace that lurked behind that make up.

After a short struggle, he managed to stow his case in the overhead shelf and settled in his seat, catching her eye again. Once more they smiled weakly at each other. The train pulled away. There was no sign of Father Stephen. He really was eager to avoid a fine.

David unwrapped his sandwich.

He thought of first time he had met Stephen as he bustled into David’s room/cell clutching a lever arch file. He paid scant attention for the first twenty minutes or so. This was unsettling.

His angular, busy face scanned the file notes, humming “Welcome Home” as he did so. Occasionally an eyebrow would arch at a particular detail in the file, or he would take a deepish breath after reading another snippet.  Finally he spoke in a broad Mancunian accent.

“Father Patterson, I am Father Stephen Joseph, the Society’s chief counsellor. You can call me Father Stephen, Father Joseph or anything you like really as long as it does not contain profanity.”

He  was not thinking that. He was only thinking when he would be given his Methadone.

Stephen  continued,  “Heroin addiction is very rare. Thankfully. Alcoholics, Manic Depressives and Pederasts I see plenty of, but Class A drug addicts? I believe you’re the first one I’ve dealt with.”

Where was his methadone?

“I must understand your own belief systems and those factors that underpin your faith. That is all. No more and no less. If and when I can address what committed you to a life of Christ and all that goes with that then I can, in all likelihood, find the key to rebuilding your spirituality, seek an explanation for your addiction and what led you down this path and the trouble with this…….Girl, Susan.” He studied her photo. His eyebrow arched once more.

David blanched at these words. He did not understand. Why should he? All he wanted was Methadone.

Father Stephen scribbled furiously into his notepad as he spoke. He tore the page out of the book, held it aloft and muttered, “Good legs, poor tail, that one’s not so bad.” He passed the drawing to him. It could have been one of several animals, but it was mammalian.

“Yes it is a mammal. That is a good start. Reptiles are a no-no for me I must say and as for amphibians? Don’t get me started.”

Thus the pattern was set. At the end of each of their sessions, David was handed a badly drawn animal to consider. They became a daily treat, blistering the routine of therapy and forced contemplation.

“Just think about this for tomorrow, tell me about this tomorrow,” and each morning at the start of their session they would spend five minutes discussing experiences of and feelings towards the animal so laughingly depicted.

He  admired this abstract method of communication. Clearly, Stephen  was not as intelligent as he, not many in the Society are, but his love of anecdotes, similes and metaphors made their sessions entertaining and at the very least an amiable distraction from the rote of addiction recovery and its physical manifestations or tortured abstraction.

“Is it a Gorilla?”

“No, it is a Goat. It’s not that bad is it?”

He had wondered when his methadone would be sanctioned.

The train pulled into Temple Meads Station. The kerfuffle of humanity boarding and leaving the train took him by surprise. So much nervous energy expended on such mundane tasks. Life in all its glorious pointlessness. He had missed this.

Susan.  He would love to see her again, but the gagging clause in her contract with the Diocese made that impossible. What she thought of him now he could not begin to imagine. That was the worst part not being able to apologise. And to let her apologise to him.

In the six months he had known her, he had turned his back on his Vocation to instead live a life based upon the impossible pursuit of intellectual ecstasy via opiates. All to satisfy her.

He opened the slim volume of The Collected Essays of St Thomas Aquinas. As always the book fell open at the same spot,  “In such reading I find devotion, whence I readily ascend to contemplation”.

Thick bloated raindrops began to fall against the carriage window. It would be good to feel the rain on his face. The rhythm of the train moving over the tracks instilled a sense of calm in him.

Nine months cooped up in a room containing a bed, dressing table, chair, armchair and wardrobe. No mirrors, not even a carpet and a large black crucifix hanging over the bed. The only utensils allowed in the room were the small plastic beakers. Room searches on a weekly basis.

Part Monastery. Part Prison.

It felt inspired to be amongst people once more, revelling in the anonymity and freedom from inquisition. And carpet underfoot.

His mouth felt dry. He searched for a packet of mints in his jacket. As his hand searched he felt another container in the pocket. Small, made of leather with a button fastening. His rosary beads.

He opened the case. The beads nestled comfortably. He wondered. There it was. Wedged in the bottom of the case. Enough for one smoke, in an emergency. They must have missed it.

But was this a final test from Father Stephen? His possessions had been thoroughly searched. Two wraps had been removed from the lining of his jacket. Perhaps this one had slipped through. Perhaps, it is a sign. Designed to test his faith, his resolve to keep off smack for good.

Stephen had provided him with the platform to refute her doltish advances in the future. His mental strength was such that the addiction could be controlled via a combination of  intellect, strength of will and methadone.

But.

Nobody would know.

He knew he could give up any time he wished. He had proved that in the clinic. He had stopped smoking to. He popped the case button shut and returned it his pocket.

One more time?

Maybe.

Why not? I love it.

Don’t. Think of the struggle you have been through.

But the struggle shows that I can overcome it. Use it to my advantage. To reach God in that uncluttered manner.

Besides I love it.

“In such reading I find devotion, whence I readily ascend to contemplation”.

There it was again. The symmetry between free will and choice. Only this was a choice for good. For the benefit of his spiritual self. His devotion.

Fuck it.

He stood up and made his way to the toilet. The child scribbled with a toddler’s delicacy of touch and his mother, who was reading a magazine, gently stroked the boy’s back.

He glimpsed at the clowns. He and the mother smiled once more.

He recalled watching clowns on a Saturday Night Variety programme with his parents as a child. They had scared him. But he never expressed this fear. It had been a silent upbringing in so many ways.

The sign on the toilet door indicated it was occupied. But then it opened.  An old man stepped out, clattering the toilet door with a walking stick as he left. They smiled as they passed each other.

A number of sodden hand towels littered the floor. He closed and locked the door, flipped the toilet seat down and sat. The frailties returned. The guilt returned. Why was he so fragile? Weak? He needed to distance himself from these feelings. He double checked that the door was locked.

He loves it.

He  retrieved the case, removed the beads and held the wrap of heroin. The train rattled over a set of points.

Fuck it.

The heated tinfoil reduced the brown powder to an oily residue. He watched the transformation from powder to oil and thought of extreme unction. He placed the Biro casing in his mouth and drew in the fumes.

There was little reaction for a few seconds. Then the HIT.

He floated into an ether of peacefulness and stillness, sat back and let this balm cleanse. Even the train’s dullard voice failed to disturb him. It added to the intensity of the experience.  After months of enforced abstinence, the deep rich insights into the world of ecstasy and spiritual certainty returned.  His convictions were reconstituted into a set of sharp, focused reasoning’s that had eluded for so long. Tranquil subsidence and contentment seeped into him.  He began his ascent, like a glider released and tossed upon the thermals of his imagination. He was one with his soul again.

He Loves it.

Part 4 – Durham Station

David stood on the platform of Durham Station. He had been told to wait on the Platform and Father Sidney would meet him there. The cold air was a treat. The train pulled away, the whine of the engines increasing as the power fed in. Other passengers scuttled past, hunched against the mid-winter coldness.

He was relieved to be off the train. The journey had been awkward, uncomfortable. But he knew that he could control it now. Needed to find where he could score in a few days time. Just a couple of times a week to be getting on with.

He had left Aquinas on the Carriage table and wondered momentarily who would pick the book up and whether they would have the mental capacity to understand the learning’s contained within its hallowed covers. He did not really care.

The heroin made him feel good about himself and knew that his spiritual awakening leaned more in this direction rather than the teachings of a medieval scribe. He could manage his addiction to assist his spiritual growth.

He felt happy but also felt himself a liar. But he would live with these contradictions. Life is about choices.

A man walked towards him. He was in his fifties and wore a heavy wool overcoat. He was a heavyset and walked with a certainty of purpose. He waved towards David, who assuming this to be Father Sidney, his chaperone walked towards him.

They smiled at each other and shook hands. “Father David!”  Sidney beamed. His grip was firm. Perhaps a touch too firm David thought. He looked familiar, but David couldn’t place him.

“Good Trip?”

“Yes, thanks,” David replied, “I don’t mean to be rude, but have we met somewhere before?”

“A few months ago. I was the one who found you.”

“Oh. I see.” Even in the cold of the winter’s night David felt himself flush.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Sidney said, “We all have the ability to err. It is our ability to admit our failures and overcome them that mark us out as Human. Besides, Father Stephen tells me he has every confidence in you making a full recovery and he is the best judge of character I know. He is impressed with your strength of purpose. But, we’d better hurry. I haven’t bought a ticket for the car park.”

They arrived at the car and got in. The bitter cold was painful and David was glad to be inside once again.

“Did Father Stephen have a letter for me?” Sidney asked.

“Oh yes. Sorry. I forgot.” David reached into his jacket and handed Sidney the letter. He opened it and read, humming “Welcome Home” as he did so. He folded the letter, returned it to the envelope and threw it on the dashboard.

“Just the instructions for your time with us here. You’ve had a long day, so we will do the first blood test tomorrow. Nothing to worry about.”

“Thanks.”

He had forgotten.

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Train Travel Tales #38 – The Priest Pt 4

Hello!

Thanks for all the positive feedback on the story. You’ll be pleased to know that this is the last instalment.

If this is your first visit, welcome! and  you will need to have read the other Chapters to have any idea what is going on. So;

You can read Part 1 here

You can read Part 2 here

You can read Part 3 here

Enjoy Part 4 – Durham Station

David stood on the platform of Durham Station. He had been told to wait on the Platform and Father Sidney would meet him there. The cold air was a treat. The train pulled away, the whine of the engines increasing as the power fed in. Other passengers scuttled past, hunched against the mid-winter coldness.

He was relieved to be off the train. The journey had been awkward, uncomfortable. But he knew that he could control it now. Needed to find where he could score in a few days time. Just a couple of times a week to be getting on with.

He had left Aquinas on the Carriage table and wondered momentarily who would pick the book up and whether they would have the mental capacity to understand the learning’s contained within its hallowed covers. He did not really care.

The heroin made him feel good about himself and knew that his spiritual awakening leaned more in this direction rather than the teachings of a medieval scribe. He could manage his addiction to assist his spiritual growth.

He felt happy but also felt himself a liar. But he would live with these contradictions. Life is about choices.

A man walked towards him. He was in his fifties and wore a heavy wool overcoat. He was a heavyset and walked with a certainty of purpose. He waved towards David, who assuming this to be Father Sidney, his chaperone walked towards him.

They smiled at each other and shook hands. “Father David!”  Sidney beamed. His grip was firm. Perhaps a touch too firm David thought. He looked familiar, but David couldn’t place him.

“Good Trip?”

“Yes, thanks,” David replied, “I don’t mean to be rude, but have we met somewhere before?”

“A few months ago. I was the one who found you.”

“Oh. I see.” Even in the cold of the winter’s night David felt himself flush.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Sidney said, “We all have the ability to err. It is our ability to admit our failures and overcome them that mark us out as Human. Besides, Father Stephen tells me he has every confidence in you making a full recovery and he is the best judge of character I know. He is impressed with your strength of purpose. But, we’d better hurry. I haven’t bought a ticket for the car park.”

They arrived at the car and got in. The bitter cold was painful and David was glad to be inside once again.

“Did Father Stephen have a letter for me?” Sidney asked.

“Oh yes. Sorry. I forgot.” David reached into his jacket and handed Sidney the letter. He opened it and read, humming “Welcome Home” as he did so. He folded the letter, returned it to the envelope and threw it on the dashboard.

“Just the instructions for your time with us here. You’ve had a long day, so we will do the first blood test tomorrow. Nothing to worry about.”

“Thanks.”

He had forgotten.

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Train Travel Tales #38 – The Priest Part 3

 

Hello,

I hope you are enjoying the story so far. Part 3 is below. You will need to have read Part 1 and Part 2 to follow the story. Click on their links here for Part 1 and here for Part 2.

Enjoy Part 3.

Four or so hours earlier…….

Choice. Decisions. The stuff of life. Without them we would not possess happiness, sadness, regret or relief. And without these we would not experience life.

Everyday we exercise free will to determine the shape, pattern and direction of our days. Perhaps these events are of the nondescript kind, such as buying a Tuna and Sweetcorn sandwich at Taunton station.  He used to buy her Tuna and Sweetcorn sandwiches.

But being free to choose when for so long his actions have been scrutinised, monitored, prescribed, reviewed, sanctioned and judged, is a small step to the symmetrical world of decision and sanity.

Along with the sandwich, he had bought a packet of ready salted crisps for the long journey to Durham. Six hours give or take.

He  returned to Father Stephen who was checking the departure board. He hummed the now familiar tune of “Welcome Home” The Peters and Lee classic.

“Good choice. That should keep  you going until you reach Durham. Got your ticket?”

“Yes.” He patted the breast pocket of his overcoat.

The train arrived.

“Got your ticket?”

“Yes,”

Father Stephen shook his hand vigorously.

“Well, good luck David. It’s been a pleasure to work with you. You have my number in case you need to talk but I will see you in two weeks in any case.  I won’t wave you off. I haven’t bought a ticket for the car park. Father Sidney will meet you at Durham. Give him this letter. It contains the terms of your rehabilitation up there. Safe journey.”

“Thank you. For everything.”  Both men flushed. David placed the letter in his jacket.

He boarded the train and found his seat. A table seat. Good.  A woman and a young boy sat opposite. David and the woman smiled the cautious pre-emptive smile of strangers thrown together. The child was engrossed in colouring in a picture. Clowns by the look of them. White faces and red noses. As a child, the Priest had always been afraid of the menace that lurked behind that make up.

After a short struggle, he managed to stow his case in the overhead shelf and settled in his seat, catching her eye again. Once more they smiled weakly at each other. The train pulled away. There was no sign of Father Stephen. He really was eager to avoid a fine.

David unwrapped his sandwich.

He thought of first time he had met Stephen as he bustled into David’s room/cell clutching a lever arch file. He paid scant attention for the first twenty minutes or so. This was unsettling.

His angular, busy face scanned the file notes, humming “Welcome Home” as he did so. Occasionally an eyebrow would arch at a particular detail in the file, or he would take a deepish breath after reading another snippet.  Finally he spoke in a broad Mancunian accent.

“Father Patterson, I am Father Stephen Joseph, the Society’s chief counsellor. You can call me Father Stephen, Father Joseph or anything you like really as long as it does not contain profanity.”

He  was not thinking that. He was only thinking when he would be given his Methadone.

Stephen  continued,  “Heroin addiction is very rare. Thankfully. Alcoholics, Manic Depressives and Pederasts I see plenty of, but Class A drug addicts? I believe you’re the first one I’ve dealt with.”

Where was his methadone?

“I must understand your own belief systems and those factors that underpin your faith. That is all. No more and no less. If and when I can address what committed you to a life of Christ and all that goes with that then I can, in all likelihood, find the key to rebuilding your spirituality, seek an explanation for your addiction and what led you down this path and the trouble with this…….Girl, Susan.” He studied her photo. His eyebrow arched once more.

David blanched at these words. He did not understand. Why should he? All he wanted was Methadone.

Father Stephen scribbled furiously into his notepad as he spoke. He tore the page out of the book, held it aloft and muttered, “Good legs, poor tail, that one’s not so bad.” He passed the drawing to him. It could have been one of several animals, but it was mammalian.

“Yes it is a mammal. That is a good start. Reptiles are a no-no for me I must say and as for amphibians? Don’t get me started.”

Thus the pattern was set. At the end of each of their sessions, David was handed a badly drawn animal to consider. They became a daily treat, blistering the routine of therapy and forced contemplation.

“Just think about this for tomorrow, tell me about this tomorrow,” and each morning at the start of their session they would spend five minutes discussing experiences of and feelings towards the animal so laughingly depicted.

He  admired this abstract method of communication. Clearly, Stephen  was not as intelligent as he, not many in the Society are, but his love of anecdotes, similes and metaphors made their sessions entertaining and at the very least an amiable distraction from the rote of addiction recovery and its physical manifestations or tortured abstraction.

“Is it a Gorilla?”

“No, it is a Goat. It’s not that bad is it?”

He wondered when his methadone would be sanctioned.

The train pulled into Temple Meads Station. The kerfuffle of humanity boarding and leaving the train took him by surprise. So much nervous energy expended on such mundane tasks. Life in all its glorious pointlessness. He had missed this.

Susan.  He would love to see her again, but the gagging clause in her contract with the Diocese made that impossible. What she thought of him now he could not begin to imagine. That was the worst part not being able to apologise. And to let her apologise to him.

In the six months he had known her, he had turned his back on his Vocation to instead live a life based upon the impossible pursuit of intellectual ecstasy via opiates. All to satisfy her.

He opened the slim volume of The Collected Essays of St Thomas Aquinas. As always the book fell open at the same spot,  “In such reading I find devotion, whence I readily ascend to contemplation”.

Thick bloated raindrops began to fall against the carriage window. It would be good to feel the rain on his face. The rhythm of the train moving over the tracks instilled a sense of calm in him.

Nine months cooped up in a room containing a bed, dressing table, chair, armchair and wardrobe. No mirrors, not even a carpet and a large black crucifix hanging over the bed. The only utensils allowed in the room were the small plastic beakers. Room searches on a weekly basis.

Part Monastery. Part Prison.

It felt inspired to be amongst people once more, revelling in the anonymity and freedom from inquisition. And carpet underfoot.

His mouth felt dry. He searched for a packet of mints in his jacket. As his hand searched he felt another container in the pocket. Small, made of leather with a button fastening. His rosary beads.

He opened the case. The beads nestled comfortably. He wondered. There it was. Wedged in the bottom of the case. Enough for one smoke, in an emergency. They must have missed it.

But was this a final test from Father Stephen? His possessions had been thoroughly searched. Two wraps had been removed from the lining of his jacket. Perhaps this one had slipped through. Perhaps, it is a sign. Designed to test his faith, his resolve to keep off smack for good.

Stephen had provided him with the platform to refute her doltish advances in the future. His mental strength was such that the addiction could be controlled via a combination of  intellect, strength of will and methadone.

But.

Nobody would know.

He knew he could give up any time he wished. He had proved that in the clinic. He had stopped smoking to. He popped the case button shut and returned it his pocket.

One more time?

Maybe.

Why not? I love it.

Don’t. Think of the struggle you have been through.

But the struggle shows that I can overcome it. Use it to my advantage. To reach God in that uncluttered manner.

Besides I love it.

“In such reading I find devotion, whence I readily ascend to contemplation”.

There it was again. The symmetry between free will and choice. Only this was a choice for good. For the benefit of his spiritual self. His devotion.

Fuck it.

He stood up and made his way to the toilet. The child scribbled with a toddler’s delicacy of touch and his mother, who was reading a magazine, gently stroked the boy’s back.

He glimpsed at the clowns. He and the mother smiled once more.

He recalled watching clowns on a Saturday Night Variety programme with his parents as a child. They had scared him. But he never expressed this fear. It had been a silent upbringing in so many ways.

The sign on the toilet door indicated it was occupied. But then it opened.  An old man stepped out, clattering the toilet door with a walking stick as he left. They smiled as they passed each other.

A number of sodden hand towels littered the floor. He closed and locked the door, flipped the toilet seat down and sat. The frailties returned. The guilt returned. Why was he so fragile? Weak? He needed to distance himself from these feelings. He double checked that the door was locked.

He loves it.

He  retrieved the case, removed the beads and held the wrap of heroin. The train rattled over a set of points.

Fuck it.

The heated tinfoil reduced the brown powder to an oily residue. He watched the transformation from powder to oil and thought of extreme unction. He placed the Biro casing in his mouth and drew in the fumes.

There was little reaction for a few seconds. Then the HIT.

He floated into an ether of peacefulness and stillness, sat back and let this balm cleanse. Even the train’s dullard voice failed to disturb him. It added to the intensity of the experience.  After months of enforced abstinence, the deep rich insights into the world of ecstasy and spiritual certainty returned.  His convictions were reconstituted into a set of sharp, focused reasoning’s that had eluded for so long. Tranquil subsidence and contentment seeped into him.  He began his ascent, like a glider released and tossed upon the thermals of his imagination. He was one with his soul again.

He Loves it.

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