Open Writing

Fame by association is my destiny.

At the age of fourteen I discovered my birthday was on the same day as Tommy Steele, the eminently forgettable pop star. My aunt taught Marianne Faithful in her reception class. In my first teaching post the deputy head’s husband had a prized cricket bat used by his uncle on the backside of John Lennon (corporal punishment being encouraged in the 1950’s).

All pretty tenuous until, that is, the day my car broke down in Hertfordshire. The mechanic muttered about ‘camshaft’. He promised to have the ‘Dagenham dustbin’ up and running in twenty four hours.

I found overnight lodgings in the strangely named ‘Quiet Wife’ public house which had a picture of a headless woman over the doorway. My room was the size of a linen cupboard so I repaired to the lounge bar intending to absorb the atmosphere and enjoy a bar meal. There was precious little of the former although the menu chalked above the bar promised that I would not go hungry.

I chose a corner table and ordered my usual tonic water. The place had not been refurbished and was made up of a series of small rooms with an interconnecting bar. Dominoes clapped in a nearby room, the snug I thought, and there was an occasional roar of frustration or joy.

My solitude was broken when a man entered, ordered a pint of best bitter and sat down at the next table. He glanced towards me and muttered something about the beer being like washing up water. Nonetheless he drank half the pint in one swallow. He was small in height although he appeared to be built like a pit bull terrier. A bald head, yellowing teeth and a pock marked face completed the picture. He nodded and introduced himself as Vic Norton. Every few minutes he glanced towards the door and looked at his watch.

‘I’m on a blind date’ he said. ‘Got her on t’ internet, couldn’t afford Thailand.’

I did not reply.

Undeterred he continued. ‘Angela her name is. Angela Southard from Slough that’s down south you know. Reckon she has a high-powered job. Not like me. These days I work at a coal museum showing bloody tourists round the mine. It makes me feel like a performing chimpanzee. Orange jump suits we wear like those poor sods in Guantano thingie Bay. Still it’s better than our Tracey – three kids, each different fathers and no money to speak of. Thought our Jason was going to be no better. He left school at sixteen – actually nearer fourteen. He played on his computer twenty four/seven as they say. Now he’s sucked into the black economy and earns a fortune working for this bloke in Sheffield.’

I murmured a low response – hoping to deter further confidences. He ordered another pint and a foul smelling packet of cheese and onion crisps.

‘There’s more to Barnsley than meets the eye’ he declared, ‘I was at junior school with Ian McMillan, you know, the poet. He was my best friend and a right laugh. I go to his workshops at the ‘Welfare’. Not much ‘work’ just chatting and a bit of writing.’

I fix my gaze into the middle distance.

Vic continued. ‘My wife, Joan, died two years since. Liver failure they said. She went quick. But it’s like riding a bike tha knows you just have to get back on. So I started to answer ads on the ‘net’. Jason helped me set up a website.’

He breaks off to look hopefully towards the door and is rewarded by the entrance of a tall strikingly beautiful blonde in her late thirties. She switches off her mobile phone and strides towards Vic, considers an air kiss, frowns and sits opposite him. After an awkward moment Vic goes to the bar to get her a drink. I think she asked for a vodka and coke. He returned with a half pint of lager with lime.

For the next hour or so I concentrated on my meal. Game pie – not sure what the game was. At the next table vegetable lasagna with side salad was joined by ham, eggs and double portion of chips. She spoke in a low voice – posh home-counties accent similar to the old fashioned television announcers.

Disjointed phrases drifted my way.

‘Well, my photo was taken a while ago…’

‘No thanks, I don’t want to see photographs of your ferrets…’

‘Thatcher’ cropped up several times.

‘Backward. Give a pig a red rosette and you’ll vote for it.’

‘Bled us dry’ came from Angela followed ironically by ‘it’s time we piped water to the south we give you enough in handouts.’

‘…soft southerners.’

In spite of the war of words there was an element of sexual frisson between the two. Had I been a gambler I may have had a private bet as to the outcome of their unlikely liaison. Reluctantly I drained my coffee cup and prepared to leave. Angela pre-empted me. She stood up, opened her purse and flung some money on the table. With a final glare at the hapless Vic she stormed out of the room.

For a moment Vic was speechless. He sat back in his chair… his mouth open like a particularly unhealthy fish. Turning in his seat he said to me. ‘Pity the bloody bombs didn’t fall on Slough.’ As you know, dear reader, this is a reference to a poem by John Betjeman. The remark sat ill with my perception of Vic until I remembered his childhood friendship with Barnsley’s poet.

He leaned towards me.

‘By the way,’ he asked, ‘where do you come from?’

When I told him from Dewsbury his face lit up.

‘Can I buy you a drink, love?’ he asked.

**

Three years later I was idling away a Saturday morning. My partner was playing soccer and I was having some ‘me’ time. Coffee and an hour with the morning paper beckoned. On the way to the kitchen I glanced at the front page. Sinking onto the nearest chair, coffee forgotten, I looked at the photograph of the man I knew as Vic Norton. His dull pebble eyes stared back.

The headline screamed: ‘BEAST OF BARNSLEY GETS LIFE’.

***

Slough
John Betjeman

Come friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
It isn’t fit for humans now,
There isn’t any grass to graze a cow
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town –
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half-a-crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who’ll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women’s tears,

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It’s not their fault that they are made,
They’ve tasted Hell.

It’s not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It’s not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead.

And talk of sports and makes of cars
In various bogus Tudor bars
And daren’t look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.