Capodastra: A small movable bar placed across the fingerboard of a guitar or similar instrument so as to raise the pitch of all the strings uniformly.
If a thing can call, then it called. Or maybe he just happened to be standing in the right place relative to the thing and the sun. The clouds played a part too, opening at exactly the right time to allow the photons through. The packets of light completed their eight minute eighteen second journey with a joyous bounce off the polished metal and a silent splash into the back of his eyeball. Inside Ezrric’s brain, a sentinel, programmed to look for such a change amid a sea of stillness, sought out the source of illumination and asked three questions: friend or foe; food or poison; shield or weapon.
Sounds clattered and conversation rattled around the high, white walls of the hall. He moved toward the gleam, but it suddenly faded and his eyes fell on just another groaning table, covered in the detritus of several house clearances. Bodies pushed in front of him. A river of them flowed in through the ornate mahogany doorframes, swirled between the tables and, eventually, out again into the street. They swept up the silt of tatty goods from the tabletops and threatened to carry him away too. Beyond the tall smeary window, the clouds parted and again the gleam pricked his eye. He concentrated on it, pinpointing its position amid the clutter. The object had the semblance of something he recognised, but was constructed in such a way that its purpose could not be certain. Seated serenely amongst the chaos, an old gentleman lifted his gaze from the book on his lap and Ezrric caught his rheumy eye. The young man’s left hand pierced the crowd and lifted the object that had silently called him, all the while being aware of the old man’s stare. He turned the shining metal implement over in his palm. It was cold and much heavier than it looked. The old man’s fingers closed around the smoking bowl of his pipe. He slowly drew in and breathed out, the ensuing cloud momentarily obscuring his unshaven ruddy cheeks, hooked nose and raised bushy brows. A small, round, white sticker told Ezrric all he needed to know. £12.
‘It’s old. Older than you or me – though I know that must be hard to believe.’ The old man’s lips curled and displayed a twisted and yellow graveyard of a smile. ‘Give me ten – it’s the least I’ll take.
‘Is it a…’
‘You know what it is.’ He motioned to Ezrric’s calloused fingertips. ‘You play. Don’t waste my time. I’ll take ten.’ Unreadable eyes fell back to the page; the ancient body sank back into the folding garden chair. Ezrric saw the man’s worn shirt collar, his crumpled and creased tweed suit, yet noticed he had the accent and easy bearing of one accustomed to wealth and position. Old money fallen on hard times. Ezrric couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, even though he seemed to have many years of privilege tucked under his tightened leather belt.
‘Twelve it is then.’ The old man smiled at that and this time his eyes half closed in curiosity as he studied the younger man’s face. Ezrric avoided the gaze, dug into his jeans’ back pocket and soon held out the two fivers and the two pound coins. They alternately wafted and rattled into the rusty, blue biscuit tin that the old man proffered. Ezrric stuffed the thing in his pocket and let himself be carried along by the human current, till he was deposited on the delta of the vast paved square, out beyond the megalithic hall’s huge doorway.
He locked the front door behind him. After switching on his old valve amp, he picked up his guitar and slumped onto the couch. A couple of strums, a gentle turn or two of a machine head and she was tuned. The hard lump in Ezrric’s back pocket had called to him on the way home, but he’d ignored it. Only now did he take it out, run his eyes and fingers over it. It had a sheen like brushed silver, was covered in minute intricate markings and consisted of three joined and jointed bars. The longest one was about 5” in length and was bent near the centre to make a reversed number 7. The other two were attached by hinges in such a way that a rough letter E could be formed. The central bar was curved upwards, while an inch-long screw speared the bottom bar, half an inch from the joint with the upright. Every edge was ground to perfection; the two pivot points were without lateral movement, yet seemed frictionless. It was surely a capo - a device placed on a guitar neck to shorten the strings, to raise the pitch and so facilitate playing in other keys – but Ezrric couldn’t see how it could work. He placed it on the guitar neck in various ways but just couldn’t fathom it. Then it caught the sunlight - as it had in the saleroom - and momentarily blinded him. When his vision cleared, the device had fallen into position. The top bar of the E pressed the strings down against the fretboard and the central curved bar rested behind the neck, hinging to fit its shape perfectly. He levered the bottom bar in towards it. The smooth screw tip resisted, but then slid silently along the curved central bar and toward its hinge. With a little encouragement it then passed a fulcrum of no return and the thing was locked in place. It was so simple, so majestic. Unlike the capos he was used to, it had no elastic and no springs. The reverse 7 shape in the metal itself was the spring that held it in place; it was a perfect blend of engineering and geometry.
Ezrric knew that a vibrating string produces a fundamental note. Shorten it and the note is higher in pitch: that’s how guitars of six strings can produce many more than six notes. A capo raises the pitch of all the strings at once, leaves your fingers free to play the patterns and chord shapes of songs you know, but in a higher key. The notes seem to shimmer and sparkle like gold once a capo is added, return to dull, base metal when it is removed. He began to flip through the myriad songs in his brain, searching for something to play, but stopped as he recalled Kurt Cobain singing live on MTV just a couple of nights before. One of the songs he’d heard performed suddenly itched in his fingers. ‘On a plain’. Ezrric released his new capo and arbitrarily repositioned it at third fret, still marvelling at its simple, elegant beauty. He rested his fingers on the strings, closed his eyes and began to play.
It was angelic. His guitar rang like a harp and each note resonated through him. The sound was surrounded by a halo of harmonics that carried the song through every cell in his body and every room of the house. Now Ezrric opened his eyes. What he saw amazed him. Colours began to shift, scrolling through the rainbow. His old, red Stratocaster guitar bled into orange, yellow, then blended into turquoise. Blue wallpaper turned to indigo, then glowed violet and simply vanished into blackness. He watched his faded denim jeans pass through the same process, while his green T-shirt shifted through shades of deepening blue and purple. Intricate red patterns glowed on the black neck of his guitar, then the heat of his fingerprints fluxed slowly into orange and slid into yellow and green. He felt the skin on his face begin to tighten and prickle as if he had been out in the sun too long. On and on he played, the simple chords and melodic picking somehow creating a heavenly symphony. His thoughts escalated too and his emotions became tangible objects he could view from all aspects simultaneously. He was suddenly filled with a deep understanding. The capo. It’s the capo transposing everything. Sound, colour, thought, feeling.
The room ascended slowly into blackness. Only the sound from his amplifier remained. Across the giant sound wash he created, he recognised the colours of his room as they swept upwards and disappeared in waves of static. First the walls. He sensed their form, understood their encirclement of him, then they were gone. His jeans strode across the soundscape and they too vanished into the ether. The red guitar played itself into aural existence with a sunburst of white noise. Lastly, the amplifier gave the heat of his body audio form. He saw it with his ears, captured its dance in his mind and soon it too was gone. Impossible beings – fiery salamanders and dragons, elves and fairies, angels and demons - materialised and cavorted before him then disappeared into atoms, transforming and reshaping, dancing and playing. When all had passed upward and into darkness he heard the voice.
‘Stop, Ezrric! I command you.’ His fingers froze and the song faded. A single open string rang quietly but then began resonating, feeding back in an expanding loop as its own energy, pulsing from the loudspeaker, encouraged it to vibrate even more. Growing in intensity with every cycle, it slowly focussed into a pure and brilliant white note that illuminated the space around him. Yet the voice dazzled him more. Drawn up from the depths of his consciousness and tuned in by the capo, it simultaneously filled Ezrric’s heart with overpowering love and dread. The conflicting emotions swirled before him, encircled him, salved and tormented him and then stepped aside.
‘So, Ezrric. Mmm… You transmute music into a flow of electrons and amplify it. This was not foreseen. The power of the capo d’astra was never meant to be used this way.’
‘But I… I know you.’ Ezrric was in awe. ‘You are always here when I play. I can sense you, but can never quite see or grasp… like a leviathan moving in the depths beneath the notes. I have spoken to you before, but always in shadows, never like this...’ Ezrric’s words emanated from him in multicoloured solids that he could shape and paint with extraordinary feeling and meaning.
‘Yes, Ezrric. You have spoken to me through music. All humans can speak to me so. The capo was created so that I could converse with you. On its plain, we can truly meet and meditate together. Only a select few ever mastered it, but then the chain was broken, the capo was lost...’
‘How does it work? What happened to the light?’ He paused, stunned by the magnitude and clarity of his thoughts. ‘Are you…?’
‘You know who I am. You play. Listen to me now, Ezrric! My thoughts traverse star systems and encompass galaxies. They have a wavelength of billions of miles, far lower and deeper than anything you could sense or understand. As you play to me, I always speak to you, though I am mostly unheard. But tuned by the capo d’astra, my words can touch the minds of mortals. The capo transposes my voice so you can hear me. Sweeping up through the spectrum, it tunes to your frequency range like a radio dial, enabling us to link our minds, share our thoughts. However, I never imagined humans would so quickly harness electricity, and apply it so. Like radio waves but much longer, my thoughts too drive electrons through cables. Recycled by your amplifier, my thoughts fed back into the guitar where the capo transposed them once more. They were again amplified and this cycle quickly spiralled upwards, out of control… radio waves turned to microwaves, then heat and light waves, bouncing off everything around you. As they proliferated and shortened, X rays and gamma rays tore your physical being to shreds. Your body is no more. All earthly bonds were broken, all impurities were miraculously stripped away. The knots are undone, the roots are extinguished. You are free. You have transcended and reside only in this note, this one pure, perfect note. Ezrric, you have bypassed millennia and, by a cosmic leap, have reached enlightenment. I welcome you to Nirvana.’
The car park is full of stalls. Each is pored over by a bedraggled multitude. An elderly gentleman sits calmly behind his own table laden with junk. He counts the contents of his biscuit tin, draws on his pipe and blows a cloud of smoke into the cold, damp air.
A long-haired young man examines a small yet curiously heavy metal device, drops twelve pounds into the blue tin and hurries home.
'Is that it?'
Not that I didn't get much because, for a kid in the early sixties when plastic was a novelty and a Mars bar cost 6d, I got quite a lot compared to the rest of year. No, that hollow feeling in my gut meant,
'Is that it?' as in, 'Surely, Christmas is about something else?' At least, that's what I interpret it as now.
I'm not a Christian. Jesus probably existed, was probably - no certainly - a wonderful chap. But 2,000 years later and look at us. Planet poisoned. More and more ways to kill ourselves and others. Arabs, Jews and Christians still at each other's throats. Kids starving, dying for the want of a glass of clean water. Preventable diseases running amok because arms are prioritised above drugs. And here we are in a 'credit crunch', bemoaning the rising cost of water, gas, electricity, oil and food when half the world have easy access to none of those things. They don't even know if their children will live to see another day. Can you imagine that? Whether ours have the right colour Nintendo DS in their sack of goodies is not really something we should be concerned with at all. 'Away in a manger...'
I
Wonder where
Dead underwear
Goes
When it’s cast asunder, dare
I risk a social blunder in
Assuming Satan’s plundering
Our nether garments for his
Underworld?
In Hades,
Maybe,
Ladies’ negligees he saves
From lacy graves
Of course!
It’s corsets
That he hoards, it’s
Y fronts, boxers,
Thongs and socks – are
Socks a
Fiendish
Fetish in his
Underweary world?
So,
Old Nick nicks our
Knickers,
Steals the
Kinky drawers of vicars,
While the
Fallen angels frolic -
A black mass of diabolic
L y c r a, leather, latex lingerie
For his Satanic Majesty.
Amongst the fire and
Brimstoned halls - where
Canny souls wear Camisoles, some-
-times Rosemary’s baby-dolls -
The thief of briefs torments our smalls,
Bras, s h i f t s and vests and
Chemisettes.
The
King of Darkness
Always gets
Our
Dear departed
Under garments
For his
underwearld.Christ the Saviour, born today,
Holy infant - so they say.
Rise up angels, sing to him,
In the town of Bethlehem.
Shepherds came and three wise men
Travelled far, their gifts to bring -
Myrhh and frankincence and gold,
As the Bible has foretold.
Say a prayer for this little boy,
Christmas is a time of joy!
Can’t recall when I last ate, they say
Half the world is in this state.
Really miss my family
Is there no-one to help me?
Starving children everywhere, you’re
Too wrapped up in greed to care.
Many more will die today
As you stuff the food away.
Say a prayer for this little boy,
Christmas is a time of joy!
Unacrostic Chorus
Say a prayer for you and me,
Christmas is a travesty.
Sing it loud and sing it clear,
Try to change the world next year.
This is a work in progress. I keep adding stuff. There are a few red herrings and the rhythm is all over the place in parts, but I'll sort it.
If you Percy verevolf you might make some sense of it
Pet names
Mable
Is a marten, sorry, sable,
Whereas Martin is a swallow,
Not a martin at the gable.
Do you follow?
Am I able
To entitle a gorilla
With the prenomen of Cilla?
Blackbird Thora heard
About Brook trout -
She spouted
Rainbow words…
I doubt a
Camouflaged young zebra
Ever deigned to be dubbed Debra.
And is Bill a ‘bomination
For a penguin’s appellation
As he looks so like a waiter?
Paula polar bear
Will surely know
And so
I’ll ask her –
Later…
Yes, I
Think only a
Finicky
Long-necked
Giraffe
Could cynically
Say ‘Heck,
Gustaf’s
Too short for me!’
Let’s see
What names we
Think of now:
Jake snake, Zak yak -
What rhymes with sow?
Please tell me how
While delving deep,
The maggot Margot
Seems to know
Where every body goes.
Suppose
That Molly mole
Could dig the soul
Of Nat King Cole?
Ex-factory farm stock
Simon cow ’ll
Milk her dry –
As Angela tarantula
Fine-dines with
Fi, the fly.
Georgina the hyena’s
Getting meaner -
Even Rog the blind dog’s seen her
Hurling evil epithets
At Margaret the marmoset –
‘Though Leo leopard is her pal!
Here’s Sal,
The animal
Of unknown species,
Rolling faeces.
John-Paul beetle’s feet’ll
Roll some too -
Perhaps someday their names
‘ll be the same when they proclaim,
‘I do’.
Says Barney barn owl,
‘T’wit t’whom
It may concern:
Poor Bernie tern’s
Sojourning in a zoo…’
My perfect pet,
Mia sparrow’s vetting
Rock the rook while
Not forgetting
Stone the crow.
Hey, did you know
That
Turtle Myrtle races
Gail the snail,
While Phil, the killer whale
Puts Dolph the dolphin through his paces,
Snapping at his tail?
I pale
If
Antelope Penelope
Can't be found where she should be -
Quick!
Look for Brian,
The lion!
The brothers had walked many miles, most of them in silence. But for a circling cawing crow, the sky was clear, the air crisp and clean. Green, rolling hills latticed by dry-stonewalls had suddenly turned to a wilderness of golden bracken, bilberry and purple heather. The arching stems of blackberries occasionally bottlenecked the well-worn path. Ethan stalked sullenly behind his brother, a heavy shard of anger piercing him to his core. Sarah was his girl. They had always been spoken of in the same sentence and were destined to be together. However, recently he had seen the look in her eyes when his brother’s name had been mentioned, heard the change in her own voice when she spoke it. And then Ethan had secretly followed her. A sudden worsening of their family’s situation had intervened, put the inevitable confrontation on hold, and the brothers were forced to leave their village and seek work in the grimy, alien city. Neither would see Sarah for a long while.
Benjamin felt in his waistcoat pocket. The glossy seed slid easily through his fingers and again he pictured her on their last walk together. Sarah had picked up a spiny horse chestnut pod then pricked her finger trying to open it. Amusement crossed his face as he recalled her doggedly prising open the fleshy capsule. Giving him one conker and keeping the other, she’d said that one day they would plant them side-by-side in their own garden. Eventually they’d watch their grandchildren play beneath the spreading branches. But Ethan was hiding behind the tree that bore that lustrous, toxic fruit and heard every poisoned word. Now, as the two young men trod this lonely path to their uncertain futures, each formed a plan. One was of a fresh start, hard work and a triumphant return to claim the hand of the girl he loved. The other was of murder.
They trudged into the late afternoon. A childhood illness had permanently weakened Ethan and Benjamin constantly paused to let his lumbering brother catch up. Benjamin wondered at how one so similar on the outside could be so dissimilar within. Even after acknowledging their differences, Ethan’s recent depression and uncharacteristic outbursts had taken Benjamin by surprise, but he was so elated and blinded by Sarah’s covert attentions he did not for one moment suspect the source of his brother’s unhappiness. On the horizon, gathering clouds reflected Ethan’s dark mood and Benjamin searched for words to avoid the coming storm. What could he say to lift his spirits? There were so few conversational avenues he could take where he would not find Sarah hiding in wait. It happened to him all the time. His thoughts would meander carelessly down a random route and suddenly there she was, laughing and beautiful, her untamed blonde hair tussling with the breeze. Yet their love was a terrible, painful secret. Sarah had pleaded with him to give her time. She would only tell Ethan when she felt the moment was right. Benjamin glanced again at his brother and finally decided it was safer to say nothing. In his mind he knew there was no subject that would not lead to her.
For the next hour they climbed a gradual incline. Upon leaving the shelter of an ancient wood they suddenly looked down from the dizzy edge of a steep escarpment. Far beneath them, a river snaked across the untamed terrain and melded into an approaching bank of rain. They hurried along the edge of the cliff and, as huge raindrops began to fall, they sought cover. Happening upon a craggy outcrop, they spied a narrow cave, a fault weathered by millennia of wind, ice and rain. A nod towards it and a returned nod of agreement was all the communication required. They stepped warily down inside its cramped, murky innards. Ethan unwrapped his parcel, struck a lucifer and lit a candle. Benjamin opened his own meagre pack.
‘Bread? Cheese?’
‘Aye, I’ll have a bit o’ both. I’ve an onion, some ham…’
‘Fair exchange.’ Benjamin’s words reverberated around their hard shelter, but his smile failed to echo on Ethan’s face. Outside, the rain beat the ground and the sky grew darker still. Ten miles still to go. A flash split the sky and the downpour became a deluge. They settled in for the night. The rock was cold and unwelcoming, but they were used to hardship and Benjamin soon fell shivering into an uneasy sleep. Ethan twisted the twine from his bundle around his hands, gauged its strength while exploring the depths of his anger and desperation. Glaring across the cave to where Benjamin was lost in dreams, he suddenly doubted he had the strength to pull it off, knew he had to find another way.
A scrape of leather on loose stone woke him. In the flickering candlelight he saw his brother, a rock held above his head and a demented expression twisting his face. Benjamin rolled away and scrambled in terror, the rock shattering on the cave floor in his wake. It would have crushed his skull like a nut. Out into the darkness, wind and rain he fled, his mind searching for sense in what he had just witnessed. Lightning shattered the clouds and blindness simultaneously left him. Ethan knows! Thunder roared and the truth leapt at his throat to tear the breath from him. He clambered onto a huge flat stone and peered into the near blackness. His heart still pounded, but not out of fear for himself. Benjamin was stronger, taller and faster than his twin and a fistfight would have but one outcome, as did all contests between them. Ethan always succumbed and now he had lost the greatest prize. Sarah! Benjamin felt his brother’s anguish, his terrible, final humiliation and he feared for Ethan’s sanity. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted a chance to explain. Despite his brush with death, he merely wanted to beg Ethan's forgiveness. Benjamin cried into the storm:
‘Ethan! Listen to me…’ Heavy footfalls to his left and a grotesque wail heralded Ethan’s attack. Benjamin tried to sidestep but he was too late. The full force of the charge took the wind from him, bowled him over. He clung to Ethan’s jacket and tried to subdue him, while receiving a savage punch to the jaw. Rain drenched their clothes, stone flayed their skin. The swirling gale and pitch-black sky confused Benjamin and momentarily stripped away his physical advantage. Across the rocks they tumbled, till there was no rock, only air to grasp as they plummeted into the darkness.
Ice thawed and a moss-covered shard split from the crag’s face. It bounced and speared the pile of rags, ripping through the fetid cloth. The brothers’ limbs, still locked in death, were slowly releasing into the earth beneath them. A lone crow wheeled and alighted, pecked and tore, helped them on their final journey. Inside Benjamin’s waistcoat pocket, the glossy shell cracked. Fine, white, finger-like roots clawed through the rotting material and downwards into the earth. A green shoot twisted and turned towards the light, spiralling upwards into the blue sky. With the passing of two springtimes a sturdy sapling guarded the foot of the crags. For one hundred and twenty seven more, the tree grew strong and broad, measuring its height against the weathered cliffs. Outstripping the slender willows and silver birch, it finally stole their sunlight and formed a serene, shady space around its base. By now the bones were woven through the roots, the flesh had fluxed into sap and the men had become one with the tree.
The city grew and came to them. Roads branched across the once deserted moors and leafy suburbs sprouted along their length. The crags became a nature reserve, a quiescent clearing amid a forest of urbanisation. Two brothers stalked in silence, eyes trained on the sparse grass and brittle leaves beneath the tree. Each sought the bounty from its boughs. With a shout, a boy dashed forward and carefully held up a spiky pod in triumph. It was already split and opened easily to reveal the two glossy seeds, packed like twins into their womb of white pulp. He weighed them carefully in his hands and passed his brother the lighter one. Despite being identical on the outside, he knew their strength depended on what lay within. They bradawled holes, threaded and knotted lengths of twine and soon had weapons at the ready. String was coiled around fingers as swing lengths were adjusted. Rusty techniques were polished by dummy sallies at the empty autumn air.
‘I’m ready. What prize for the winner?’ His brother thought a while, though it was merely a tactic to mislead. He’d had the stakes firmly fixed in his head since he first held the conker in his hand.
‘Winner asks Jessica Palmer to the school disco…’ After a moment’s thought, the other answered with a silent nod. Beneath the canopy of green and gold, with dour determination etched on their young faces, the boys joined the timeless battle for the heart of a girl.
The click of the light switch focussed his attention and he bobbed back to the surface of consciousness. Soft, retreating footfalls. A whispered kiss. The baby opened his eyes. A gentle glow illuminated the room to his left and his gaze, seeking comfort, was naturally drawn there. He was warm, full, content, sleepy, and yet still expected something more. The familiar beaming face, garlanded by blonde curls, appeared above him, lighting the cot and eliciting happy gurgles from the baby’s soft lips. A gentle, soothing voice sang a familiar lullaby that immediately drew the child into the depths of sleep.
‘Twenty-seven thou-sand, four hundred and sixty-eight. Twenty-seven thou-sand, four hundred and sixty-eight.Twenty-seven thou-sand, four…’
* * * * *
He grew to love that face almost as much as he loved his mother’s. In some ways he loved it more. As he grew, and its significance became clear, it brought him serenity, nights of peaceful sleep. The dawning realisation of one’s mortality usually engenders fear of the night, but never once had he stared into the unending blackness, heart racing and mouth dry, wondering:
‘What if I die when I close my eyes?’ Not Ernest and tonight was no exception.
‘Twenty-three thou-sand, eight hundred and seventy-five. Twenty-three thou…’
* * * *
One autumn day, exploring on his own, he found a small frog. Despite sensing Ernest’s stomping boots, it had unwisely hopped from its cover of skeletal leaves onto a patch of green. With a wide-eyed gasp he stooped quickly, caged his hands around it and ran home. He raced through the park, wrongly imagining it would die if he kept it from water for too long. As he dashed down the passageway between his house and next-door’s, he slipped and fell, dashed the tiny creature to slime with his palm. He felt overwhelming remorse. It would be living now if he hadn’t intervened, would be hopping happily around, maybe chewing on a tasty slug. Ernest looked at the remains with disgusted awe. There was nothing he could do to put it right. Never in his life had he felt so helpless. Sobbing while scrubbing his hands in the kitchen sink, he vowed never to be so stupid, so selfish. The rest of the day was darkened by the tiny frog’s huge shadow, but as night fell and he pulled on his pyjamas, a semblance of his usual calm clothed him once again. However, for the first time, he felt the need to speak to the cherubic face.
‘Twenty-three thou-sand, six hundred and twenty-two. Twenty…’
‘How many can I give him?’
‘It is up to you, Ernest.’
‘Can I please give him…’ and he counted to himself, one two three four, ‘five?’ The ensuing melody was just as beautiful, but the lyrics had changed.
‘Twenty-three thou-sand, six hundred and seventeen.’
As soon as he woke, he put on his slippers and ran outside into the backyard. The weeds that sprouted through the cracked tarmac were dusted with morning mist. In the corner, by the red brick wall, sitting on a pile of brown, soggy leaves was a tiny frog. Ernest didn’t chase him, handle him or try to catch him. Instead, remembering his vow, he simply named him: Fred. After breakfast, Ernest took him bits of bacon and breadcrumbs. Mum donated an old washing-up bowl that he sank into the corner of the garden. Some stones and small sods of grass were soon installed in it and there was even a bed made of decaying sycamore leaves. He had almost finished when Mum called him in for dinner, but he didn’t stop till he’d added some water from Mrs Wadsworth’s rain barrel. Barely able to keep in his chair, he peeked out through the window as he quickly ate his midday meal. For the next five days of the half-term holiday he crowned Fred ‘The King of the Frogs’. Fred wanted for nothing. On the sixth morning Ernest looked in the miniature pond, fearing the worst, but his friend was still going strong. His speckled head dipped slightly with every throat-bulging breath, then he leaped from his palace and into the dark soil of the garden. Day seven and he was still living it up. That night, Ernest interrupted the song again.
‘Twenty-three thou-sand, six hundred and ten. Twenty…’
‘Why is he still there? I asked for five. I don’t want to cheat.’
‘You can’t cheat.’ The angel laughed, kindly. ‘There is a finite amount of life, only so much to go around… but I have my own. For every day you give, I match it with one of mine. So, Fred has three days left…’ Ernest smiled his thanks. The serene face nodded and again began to croon, ‘Twenty-three thou-sand six hundred and ten.’
Three luxurious frog days later, Fred was simply not there.
* * *
The illness struck quickly. At eight pm, Mum was fine. By ten, she had a bad headache. Ernest was woken in the night by her terrifying cries of pain. He ran across the back yard, vaulted the brick wall and hammered on the door and windows. He kept banging and shouting till old Mrs Wadsworth, pale and bleary eyed in her flannel nightdress, pulled back the curtain. Half an hour later, the ambulance scanned the street with its blue eye then took Mum away. Ernest was eventually tucked back into his bed, yet slept only fitfully. Mrs Wadsworth, the neighbour who was more like a grandma to him, curled up on the settee. The next day was a blur of drizzle, steamed-up buses and timeless hospital waiting rooms. Ernest was given sweets, sausage rolls, pop and a comic to occupy his hands and mind. He eventually saw his mum for a few minutes towards the end of the day. A doctor shook his head and looked pityingly at him, then spoke to Mrs Wadsworth in a hushed rumble. Ernest wanted to brush Mum’s hair as he always did in the evening, and kiss her forehead, but the nurses told him to keep off the bed and away from the bleeping, humming instruments. That night, as soon as Mrs Wadsworth had left his bedside and closed the door, he prayed. He prayed Mum would soon be well and his life would be back to normal. When he opened his eyes, the familiar ageless face peered down at him. This time Ernest spoke before he began to sing.
‘How many can I give her?’
‘How many would you?’
‘All of them. All twenty-two thousand, two hundred and sixty… five.’
‘And she would give them straight back. She has accepted her number of grains, always knew that by tomorrow her egg timer would be empty. Go to her tomorrow. Say goodbye. Use every day as though it is a day that she gave back to you. Spend them wisely… Twenty-two thousand, two hundred and sixty-five.’ Ernest was gently coated in the sweet, syrupy song and tumbled noiselessly into a deep slumber.
* *
‘Can we go to the park, play football tomorrow, Dad? It’s been ages.’
‘Sorry, son. You know I’d love to, but I have to work. It’s very important. Lots and lots of people depend on me… Right, which page were we on?’ Ernest read till his son’s heavy eyes began to close. He kissed him on the forehead and tiptoed to the door. ‘Goodnight Sweetheart.’
The click of the light switch pulled the boy back from the brink of sleep. Soft, retreating footfalls. A whispered kiss. He opened his eyes. He was comfortable, happy, sleepy, yet knew his day was not quite over. The familiar smiling face, adorned by blonde curls, appeared by the bed, casting its warm light. A gentle, soothing voice sang a seraphic lullaby that immediately dispatched the child into a deep well of sleep.
Breathing deeply and easily, Ernest paused on the landing and smiled. His life was full, complete. At this time every night, he recalled Mum’s contented, porcelain face on the hospital pillow, then he carefully panned through the contents of his day, searching for grains of sand. Today, as usual, they were few in number. The rest were tiny nuggets of pure gold. He smiled again. The ball of his foot found the first step, but a faint, haunting song pierced his reverie. Ernest quietly turned and pressed his ear to his son’s bedroom door.
‘For-ty se-ven. For-ty se-ven.’
He recalled the angel’s words:
‘There is a finite amount of life, only so much to go around… but I have my own. For every day you give, I match it with one of mine.’
The night brought Ernest fear and he was completely unprepared for it. Death shaped a hard lump in his throat, shrank his skin onto his bones and pursued his pounding heart around the cage of his ribs.
‘Twelve thousand, eight hundred and seventy-six.’
‘How many can I give him?’
‘How many would you?’
‘All of them.’
‘Give all but one. Keep tomorrow.’
‘Thank you’
‘One. One. One. One…’
*
Ernest didn’t go to work. The day was long, bright and sunny, a Christmas stocking stuffed to the brim with excitement and wonder. A playful breeze chased crisp leaves across the improvised pitch and he had picked up his boy, swung him round and round till they both fell laughing to the grass. Colours were brighter, sounds were sharper, smells were keener. Every touch was loaded with simultaneous joy and despair. Now the day was over. Sheila had retired early, was already sound asleep. Ernest kissed her gently so as not to wake her, breathed deeply and settled his head into the welcoming softness of the pillow. For the first time in his life there was no lullaby to help him sleep. Staring up into the unending blackness, he smiled, nodded and then simply closed his eyes.
I wrote a short story for a competition that requested entries of 500 words about a life-changing event. It's no big thing, just a few words spoken by a middle aged woman thirty two years ago... but without them I probably wouldn't have had such a good time, wouldn't have met my wife, had the kids. Ok, so I'd have had a different time, met a different wife, had different kids... might even still have been around to write... something different...
‘Your stammer causes you problems at work?’ I nodded. The tilt of the speech therapist’s head was her prompt for me to continue.
‘I can’t answer the phone. I just freeze. It rings and I’m terrified. I’ve picked it up so many times and been unable to speak… they say hello a few times, then hang up. It’s awful. I just can’t do it anymore.’
‘But you’re OK now, in here? That was perfectly fluent.’
‘If I can choose my own words then I’m f… OK. It’s knowing that I have to say certain things. G…g…good mmmmorning. G…g…good… anything - the name of the bank I work in… my name… And it’s not just the phone - the enquiries counter is the same. That psychologist chap that had dogs… you know? Well I’m like them. Ding-dong and I’m paralysed, p p pretend I’m doing something else, anything… praying that someone else will answer it. It’s gone wrong so many times and each time I’m worse. They look at me like I’m mmmental, then blush, turn away… I blush, stammer more… they look at their feet while my face c… contorts, while I struggle for the word… or they interrupt me just as I’m about to say it… sometimes they try to help by saying the wwwword, but if it’s the wrong word then I have to ssstart again… it’s fffrustrating, horrible.’
Mrs Smith didn’t look at her feet, just kept a reassuring smile on her thin lips. There was a rustle of blue pleated skirt as she uncrossed her legs. The creases on her brow and around her clear blue eyes softened as she nodded her understanding. She leaned forward, conspiratorially.
‘Isn’t there something else you could do in the bank… some task that doesn’t require you to speak… so much?’ Then, hurriedly, so as not to admit defeat, ‘Just while we start our work here?’
‘No. I… I’m a junior. These things… it’s… it’s training. Dealing with customers, face to face… it’s important. We’re the face of the bank for most of ‘em, the only people they’ll ever see. That makes it worse. What must they think after seeing me?’ Fight or run away? The chemicals that pumped round my body gave me these two choices. Instead, I choked back a sob. Her florid face and grey hair smudged together as tears rose.
She pondered. My distress was destructive to our purpose. Clapping her hands on her knees she changed tack and enthusiastically posed me a new question:
‘What would you do for a living, if you could choose? Anything.’ Again her warm smile disarmed me. Immediately, I confided, told her the truth, knew she’d understand.
‘I’d love to be a singer… in a band, you know?’ There. My secret dream. Her smile twisted into an unexpected sneer, her voice crackled like shattering ice.
‘Well, that’s unrealistic, isn’t it… what else?’
I left the room angry, determined. Mrs Smith didn’t help my stammer. She helped me become a singer.
I know, you've got them all already, but you might like to own them twice...
This IAC player has all the tracks from my album 'The sentence that I serve' (that's a line from my song 'Fridge says', for the uninitiated). It, they, and several others can be purchased at IAC, CDBaby, iTunes... phew... even Woolworth's have several hidden in with their Pick 'n' Mix for a few lucky punters.
Thanks again
Al
Hi
I just remixed this. Big deal you say. Yeah, OK, in the grand scheme of things... tis nothing, a mere trifle...lasts 60 seconds so I'm not asking much.
Thanks for calling in.
Al
