STORIES|Verbatim, in the pub
Small town pub, lunchtime, low volume conversations, clinking glasses, rattle of coins in the till drawer.
‘That alright for yer, mum?’
‘M-mmm, yeah. That'll do. Only I thought –‘
‘What?’
‘I thought we was goin' to 'ave lunch. I thought you said we was goin' out . . . to 'ave lunch.’
Silence at this small table, near the back.
‘Are yer goin' to give 'er a chicken, then?’
‘Yeah, I'll give 'er a bloody chicken . . . Mind you, mum, I'll 'ave to pluck it, and gut the bloody thing. She won't want that goin' all over 'er bloody fitted kitchen, will she? That wouldn't do for 'er, would it ? Guts and feathers. All over 'er bloody fitted kitchen. No, I'll 'ave to do all that.’
Silence.
‘When it comes to it . . . you know . . . when, you know, when it comes to it . . . I don't want to be incinerated.’
‘What?’
‘I don't want to be incinerated . . . not . . . at the end, you know.’
‘It's not incinerated, mum.’
‘What?’
‘It's not incinerated. It's . . . er . . . Eat yer roll, mum. It's all right, isn't it?’
‘Oh, yeah, it's all right, only I thought - you know, I thought you said we was goin' out to lunch.’
‘Well . . . Beer an' a roll, I thought. They've always done good rolls 'ere. It's changed 'ands a few times. You know, over the years. But they've always done a good roll. I mean, obviously a different landlord does it different. This isn't the same landlord they 'ad last time I was in 'ere. They've changed. This is a new bloke - from the last time I came in. But the rolls are still bloody good. D'yer want some pickle with yours? I'm goin' to 'ave some pickle with mine. They're bloody good rolls, these. Go nice with a bit of pickle. Yer sure, mum?’
‘No, I don't want any pickle.’
‘D'yer want another drink while I'm up there?’
‘No, no. I'm all right.’
Silence.
‘It's cremated, mum.’
‘What?’
‘It's cremated. It's not incinerated. It's bloody cremated, ennit?’
‘Oh, yeah. Yeah. That's it. Yeah, I don't want that. I don't want to be cremated.
‘No. Mind you, mum, it cost me a bloody bomb when Dad died. Bloody undertakers. They're a bloody rip-off, undertakers. All their bloody nonsense. Coffin. Motor. All they're doin' is shoving the bloody coffin in the ground. You've paid for it, and the bloody thing's just goin' to rot, ennit? It's a right bloody rip-off, that is.’
Silence.
‘Eat yer roll, mum. Don't yer like it? I'm goin' to 'ave another. Want another? No, yer only 'alfway through that one, aren't yer?’
‘Yeah. But . . . you know . . . I thought we were –‘
‘No. Beer an' a roll, that's what I 'ave. I've been coming 'ere for years. You know, on 'n' off. They've 'ad a few bloody landlords 'ere, over the years, I can tell yer. Changed 'ands a few times, this place 'as. But they've always done a good roll 'ere. They're bloody good, these rolls.’
Silence.
‘So . . . er, yer goin' to give 'er a chicken then, are yer?’
‘Oh, yeah. I'll give 'er a bloody chicken. I'll 'ave to do it all for 'er, won't I? She wouldn't know where to start with a bloody chicken. In 'er bloody fitted kitchen. Oh, no. That wouldn't do for 'er.’
‘They all right, the chickens?’
‘Oh, yer. They're doin' all right. Mind you, mum, I'll 'ave to 'ave that bloody cockerel out of it. I'll 'ave to knock that bugger over.’
‘Why's that, then?’
‘Well, 'e's bloody after 'em all the time, in't 'e? The bloody 'ens. 'E won't leave 'em alone. It's like a bloody gang-bang out there first thing in the morning. 'E's after 'em all the bloody time.’
Silence.
‘We goin', then?’
‘Yer 'aven't finished yer roll, 'ave yer? Yer've only eaten 'alf of it . . . Didn't yer like it, mum?’
‘I can't manage any more . . . it's too much for me . . . all this bread . . . and anyway, I thought you said we was goin' out to 'ave lunch.’
STORIES|Winter of '47
The end.
That was it. All over.
Campbell sat, head on hands. Eyes pointed towards the floor. Not seeing. Her mind milled round, greyly churning itself over. Clouds outside mirrored her depression. Grey, black, massive. Working up to something big. Or to nothing at all. She stood up. An hour or so later.
In a fifteenth floor apartment. Nearer to the heavens than her hundreds of neighbours below. In a sense. A good view of the clouds. And of the streets, in surprising detail. A long way down. Threatening dark violet light transformed the concrete slabs. Made them live. But still other-worldly. At pavement level frantic wind whisked dead leaves. And paper. Flying and fluttering. Like fleeing fragments of dreams at daylight. Confused, fading, then forgotten.
Of this Campbell saw none. The picture window might have been a blank screen. A blind eye. She sat, legs on the couch. Stretched out in front of her. No tension. Only in her head. All over. What was over, really? Is anything ever really over? Is there not just change, going on and on? How can it stop, and be over? It's the pack on your back that matters. And what you put into it. Not putting it down somewhere. Journeys, not destinations. If we stop deliberately. End the journey consciously. We limit experience. Put up the shutters. Forks in the road are points for thought. Not for conclusions. I have arrived. Means I have stopped. Finished. Fetched up and failed. It cannot be all over. There can be no ends. Or really any beginnings.
So. Life while it is being lived. Does not end. Necessarily. Phases run out. Melt. Into each other. Or away. There are no blanks. Those phases, Campbell thought. It's what they add up to. What's inside the pack. Not on their own. A first in Packaging. Majoring in Adhesives and the Psychology of the Knot. A piece of paper. Complementary study in Third World Philately. Another piece. Good relevant stuff. Four years well spent. The guy who wrote the thesis. Cheap at the price. Strenuous, adventurous. Still cheap. And quite a good style. Of writing.
Remember sunshine. Lloyd. Seaside summer affair. While Alex was writing the thesis. Swimming in vodka. Almost. Might have worked. Almost. Expensive, though. Fantastic car rides. That night. Darkness pierced by headlights. Trees thudding past eye corners. Screeches. Then silence and dark. And inner warmth. Later. And later. Pale dawn and calm sea. Celestine sky. Vodka and sunshine again. And again.
At the window now. Flecked with driven droplets. Streaked and smudged. Like peering out of a cracked mind. Or into one. Wind rushing past. Trying to get in. No blossom or bird. Nature despising us. And showing it. For surrounding ourselves with dead concrete. Elements scorn. Brutally. And wear away, in time. Like the Painted Desert. Weird irregularities. Blindly eroded to shapelessness. Serve us right. Can't turn off the weather. Only shelter from it. And reflect how small.
Radio on. Escape into " . . . you to meet Smurthwaite Calhoun who's recently been through the rinseblander and survived. Tell us, now, in you own -" Off. Through the rinseblander. Ripe for packaging. But survived. Survival. Survive. Is what we do. Take shelter. And carry that pack.
Then the next year. Not so much an affair. More experiment. With Carol. Who probably hoped for more. Who doesn't? Was there more? Claustrophobic cottage. Pool our resources. And imagination. Exchange and synthesize. So that's how. No drinking. Still remorseful mornings. Identity hangovers. Was she the same, as the previous day? Vegetarian diet another novelty. All rationalised. Curiously unemotional all through. Matter of fact. Longing for meat by the end. Then the return. An ending, no, a change of phase. Another thesis. Back to the grind.
If there are beginnings. There was a Creation. Did it start on time, or was it late? A few moments in hand. Before our next trick. Before the Creation. Campbell thought of laughing. So soon after. But why not. Thirty years now. And a change of scene. Maintenance and nurture. To think of laughing. Why not just laugh? We do. And think about it after. Or not. Nurture replacing booted despair.
Wind dead. Rain stopped. Evening sky clearing to stillness. Promises. A tomorrow. At least. The emergence of the next phase. We seem to be winning. For another day. At least.