Castle Cary Station

Sunshine and a strangely crowded platform.
Same old sinking feeling,
Although it was never you before.
Neither of us wanted me to wait for your train.
Remember the old push down windows?
Beeping automatic doors aren't the same,
Though this is the same game.

I used to put my hands over my ears,
As the engines roared and gathered speed.
While you relished the whoosh and rush.
Waving goodbye until it was out of sight.
The empty car unwelcoming as we returned to routine.
You'd be chatting, chatting, chatting.
I'd be watching, watching, watching.

We knew however regular this goodbye it wasn't quite sane.
Parceling up our tiny heartbreaks into ribbon normality.
Twenty years on we remember that practiced neutrality.
Stoicism is key. A smile and a casual see you soon.
Connived pretence that you'll be out to visit.
Not daring more words; that same quick hug,
Since we began living apart.

For a jealous moment I hate all those genuinely casual,
Goodbyes happening around us.
But as it is I turn before there are tears.
The waiting car a sanctuary for temporary insanity,
Before I return to family reality.
In the first few days I don't utter your name.

Now we've turned the corner;
Half way point. We know this bit well.
You; head down, focus on the job in hand and,
Before you know it; normality has returned.
Me; sociable, planning and counting. Anxious to,
See that you know,
I'm coming home.

Christmas Eve

Tinny bell,

Secrets and the dark;

a dusty smell.

Love sketched on my heart.

Santa Claus,

As played out by you,

Second-hand call,

Not that we ever knew.

Powder scent,

Your voice on the phone,

The day you went;

Only the past on loan.

We were made,

To be left behind.

This past decade,

Thoughts of the Christmas-kind.  

NaNoWriMo

I've been absent from this little collection for a while because this year I've entered the NaNoWriMo challenge. National Novel Writing Month but it's a particularly enjoyable acronym I think. The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days; the month of November. At first the notion is absurd, then somehow exciting. It must be possible. Here is a site that will give me numbers and graphs and show me how much those few hundred extra words a time can make the difference. I'm a list maker and a word count break-downer so it was too good for me to refuse. I want to write everything like this. With a little count down bar that tells me three hundred more words will take a day off of my time. 
The other big bonus (and continual millstone) is that for this to work, and be as painless as possible, I have to write every day. There are no days off. When published authors tell you that the secret to being successful is writing every day I never doubted them but neither did I ever really understand. Whatever else you are, whatever else you do, you are a writer, every day and that sinks into your psyche pretty fast. 
The joy of NaNoWriMo is that you need to get the words down. It's a rough draft and so every day you write. The questions, the should it go this way or this way can't be mulled over endlessly; a decision must be made and the words written down. There's no time for the doubt to set in. All that can come at the end. 
For me it's a chance to write something that I have wanted to write for some time. Last year I travelled to a place where everyone's lives were changed by something big and bad. I've been trying to make some sense of it ever since. I found myself toying endlessly with these half ideas and difficult thoughts and then here I was exactly a year on from my trip and faced with the reason to get on and bang out a story. I chose my point of view, jotted down a few general points of direction and sat down to write. The first two days were heady, I lived a high of excitement that I could finally make sense of this. I could lose myself in my imagination and also in a real world that had meant so much to me, if only for a tiny moment of life. Fusing these two aspects gave me an energy that I haven't written with since my teenage years. I rediscovered what it's all about. Since then of course the day job and real life have intervened making writing feel challenging and occasionally chore like on some days but the story is shaping up and the thoughts are forming themselves nicely. And to think all I needed was a word count stats page to get me going. 

One Step Further

The opening of my new novel. The one I plan to write in a month thanks to the National Novel Writing Month challenge!

Na had noticed the old woman’s expression as she’d arrived for work; glancing over at Na’s bed suspiciously as she settled herself into her own pitch two beds over. Na had looked up and tried to smile at the woman but she had turned her head away as soon as their eye’s met and Na was left looking at the parting in her long black hair. The woman’s hair was young, Na thought, glossy and thick without any curl. Na’s own hair was thick and difficult to manage, she mostly tied it back at the start of each day and only let it down again once she was getting ready for bed. She glanced back over at the woman hoping that she’d caught her off guard and that this time she may be rewarded with a smile or a word of greeting. The woman kept her face down as she leaned over the mattress on her bed fussing the sheet into perfect smoothness and hanging towels and sarongs from the poles of the grass roof. Her face was pinched into sour concentration, she was old, Na saw and realised that was what made her hair so noticeable. Na turned back to her own bed but the sheets were still perfect from when she made them half an hour ago. She’d gotten here far too early but it was her first day and she was nervous. 

The pitch had been arranged by her massage teacher. Na had worked hard on the course and her teacher had grown to like her. She had taken her aside on the last day and asked if she had plans for work. Na had told her not yet, she had planned to ask around the salons and beach stands. This had been arranged the next day. Na had met the beachfront owner and agreed that half of her fee from each customer would be paid in rent. It was the usual arrangement and she wasn’t surprised by it. The bed itself was a raised bamboo platform with a grass roof; a mattress could be collected from the owners shed each morning and placed on the bed. Sheets and towels were Na’s responsibility, although there were thin drapes in the shed that could be tied to the roof poles in order to afford the customer privacy. Na understood that this might be quite favourable to a client being massaged on the busy beach. Being prone underneath a strangers touch was not a state she’d like to be observed in herself.

She fiddled with her curtains which for now were tucked back in order to display the clean, empty bed and advertise her availability. There were few people on the beach yet. Most potential customers were still digging into the five star buffet in their gorgeous hotels Na imagined. Fishing boats occasionally chugged past with humming motors but otherwise the only sound was the crashing waves. Na refolded a large white towel and hung it back over the bamboo rail of the bed. Her colleague was squatting in the sand watching the beach and waiting for the first tourists to make a break from their hotels. There was the sound of wood scraping as someone arrived at the nearby bar to open in for business. The bar was just that; a plywood bar area that folded up on itself to turn into a locked wooden box overnight. The owner began unstacking plastic chairs into the sand with a click of plastic against plastic. This was how the sounds broke one on top of each other into the rhythm of the day. 

Until Ing arrived. Ing arriving wasn’t a steady layer of sound to add to the others it was an explosion. 

Enlightened

I stole myself to stand in front of you.

Clasped hands and bowed head.

Enlightened soul.

I was three sticks of incense in.

When the coach party arrived.

A bee line, we’d have once said,

For your gilded form.

I had to stand aside,

Old people with a monk for a guide.

The rain kept on falling, pat, pat,

Against my plastic umbrella.

I tried the pentagon pagoda,

But the silent figure there,

Does nothing for my heart.

The rice cakes and painted ceiling,

Don’t have the gravitas,

Or your proportions,

Come to that.

So the largest alter bayed me forth,

For the importance of my call.

The complicated statues,

Frivolous when compared to you,

But the size lends importance.

My candle had the company of two,

Both burning at different stages.

But still the prayer here was helped along,

By the gentle knocking of the gong.

Protest Song of the Hopeless

Open black eyes, shine through.

I stare at the still frame,

I don’t even have your name.

They don’t see the need to give it,

It’s not your suffering I need to get,

But the many thousands you represent.   

My eyes drift down to the next story.

About how our nation’s getting lazy.

Is it me or did the world get crazy?

Hosepipe bans and famous one night stands.

A man cries because he needs the surgeons hand,

He’s not fat enough to warrant a gastric band.

 I go back to look at you.

What on earth did you do?

Holding the eyes of a television crew,

The pity of the world in your sight,

One rich donor can end your plight.

Or me. I could.

There’s cloth around your body, another covers your head.

They tell me that your child’s already dead.

Why? Was it something you said?

Because if not, if there’s no reason, then why isn’t it me instead? 

A tiny extract from my new novel.

Still very much in progress and without a name but this is why there's been a bit of an absence of updates.

Jess: Jess flinched back as she felt the pressure of a human foot where the sloped carpet should have been.

“Sorry.” She looked up into the tall man’s eye and felt herself stop grinning. She couldn’t be sure in this instant that it was him. But of course it was. She wouldn’t feel suddenly cold if it wasn’t. Her heart started beating double time and as quick as the shiver had covered her she felt her face and neck burning.

“Tom.” She knew it was stupid to say someone’s name at them. The man frowned and she felt suddenly that she had made a fool of herself. 

Tom: “Sorry.” A foot was on top of his and a girl was apologising. He looked up to flash her a grin. She was pretty. Shoulder length dark blonde hair, tall. It wasn’t that he was surprised that she knew his name. But the Tequila had made him fuzzy and slow and he couldn’t say anything. He just couldn’t. He stared at Jess for a moment and then she was gone. He saw her flash through the glass doors and followed past his table and on up the concrete path. He found her at the top, leaning on a gate. Hadn’t he expected to see her? Wasn’t that what the butterflies were about? He wasn’t sure now. All he felt was breathless shock.

The Fire Fly

The fire fly

Firefly with your yellow light,

Help me find my way tonight,

Journeying through the bad land,

Taking you to hold my hand.

Fairy princess in flying form,

You find the daytime far too warm,

So you come awake at dark,

To frolic, fly and lark.

The fire fly

 Long, long ago in a far away place called Japan there lived a tiny baby firefly. She was small, and short and a boring brown all over. Her Mum and Dad thought she was the most beautiful firefly that they had ever seen. They called her Esme. When Esme was old enough to go to school they would let her fly with her other firefly friends. Esme loved to fly. She would swoop and whoop and speed off and do loop the loops around all her friends. Esme was always happy and always laughing.

One day on her way to school she saw some bright, beautiful butterflies that had the same stripes as tigers. She stopped herself in mid-flight halfway through a swirling loop and watched. The butterflies were tall and had thin stretched wings. The pattern on them was so detailed that Esme thought she’d have to look at it for 100 years just to see everything.

When Esme got home from school that day she wasn’t happy and she wasn’t laughing.

“What is wrong?” Asked Mummy Firefly.

“I’m not beautiful.” Esme said sadly.

“You are the most beautiful firefly.” Mummy Firefly said.

“But I’m not as beautiful as a butterfly.”

“Butterflies are different. You are just as beautiful.”

“No. I am only small and short and I’m all boring brown.”

“But you are always happy and always laughing and I think brown is beautiful too.” Sniffed Mummy Firefly because she was all brown too.

“Anyway you just wait and see. Sometimes beauty is inside us.” Esme didn’t know what that meant but she thought that she didn’t want to be sad and jealous any more so she went into the garden and practised her biggest loop the loop until she felt happier.

Esme didn’t have time to think about the butterflies after that. It was a busy time at school because it was nearly Mid-Summer. Mid-summer is the most important holiday in the whole year for fireflies. It always happens on June 21^st because that is the day with the most sunshine. Esme had to learn all about Mid-Summer and make cards and decorations for the special day.

On mid-summer’s day Esme’s whole family got together at her house. They had a lot of delicious food to eat like leaves from all sorts of trees and tiny little flowers which were sweet and all different colours. They played games and Esme had a lot of fun playing chase in the sky with her cousins. But the real excitement came in the evening. At eight pm when the sun had properly gone down Esme and her family went to the river.

At the river she saw all her friends from school with their families. They were all very excited because this was the first year they had been old enough to stay up late and join in with the big party at the river. Mummy firefly gave Esme a special white flower to try-it tasted like the most scrummy thing Esme had ever tried. It made her feel so warm and happy inside that she swooped up as high into the sky as she could with her eyes tightly closed against the rushing air.

When Esme opened her eyes she was high above everyone. She blinked because strange bright lights had appeared in her eyes. But no, when she looked again she could see still see them. She darted down a little and sure enough the air above the river was full of lots of tiny magic lights. She flew gently closer and saw that all the lights were fireflies. She zoomed right down to the river and looked inside trying to understand but all she could see was her own brown face, she looked closer her body wasn’t brown anymore. She was a bright, white and green colour. Her body shone like a star and she was beautiful.

Mummy firefly flew next to her she was the same fairy colour as Esme.

“I told you you were beautiful.” Mummy firefly said. Esme just nodded and then all the happiness in the world was inside her so she flew above Mummy firefly and looped the biggest loop the loop you’ve ever seen. She looked just like a shooting star.

Folded

Folded.

Paper light.

Delicate shape,

Delicate plight.

Creases.

Deft and fine.  

Moulded into,

One girls peace sign.

Edges.

Crisply drawn,

Absolution for,

One shared black dawn.

One Crane.

Bird in flight,

Hope’s fevered wish,

In our darkest night. 

It’s the Crack in the Ceiling That We Fear:

There’s a crack that gently creeps, 

Across the ceiling while I sleep,  

Planning an ambush to eat me.

There’s nothing  I can say,

To stop the slow decay,  

Of the shelter over me.

I dream that it opens up,

Swallows me in one quick gulp,

That empty black void and me.

Nightmare’s there as my eyes glaze,

Stays with me through every day.

Must be something wrong with me.

Perhaps it’s happening for real,

Truly that’s the way it feels. 

This dark space melting onto me.

If that’s true it’s done its worst.

I guess it doesn’t really hurt.

A Coffee in Japan

The view from a traditional coffee shop in the mountains in Japan. It was a traditional place of meeting and making friendships. 

Mountainside.

Only still and peace.

Running brook.

Stirring trees.

I can smell the hundred year old wood used to build.

This meeting place.

A monkey saunters by.

Bigger than he expected.

Stirring soul.

Trying to make sense of what he sees.

Silence from us.

Sensual overload.

Can there be this many greens?

The smooth path of fingers over coffee cups

No uniform shape or colour

Just ritualised elegance.

Not just a coffee.

Not just a tea.

Stirring history.

For all those friends with whom life gets in the way. For some reason I've been dreaming of them a lot lately.

The things I remember:

Curtains closed on us some time ago. 

It seems all that we know becomes less,  

As time slinks onward and we increase,   

This old war. 

See who can crack before.   

Is this Radio silence,

For the facebook age?

Talk to me.

When we’re losing who we should be.  

If you don’t ask I won’t tell.  

But I’ll make you pay dearly,

For the same.

It is the politics of shame,

That we could go that way too,

The way of other fallen friends.

Causes doubt,

It wasn’t forever it turns out.

All these things I don’t remember,

Exist every night only in,

These old dreams.

A Fever

Invisible cloth drapes my body,   

Silk and weightless, a spun parachute, 

Into my dreams of that particular,

Green, Jerusalem shade. 

Colours that I can’t see but I know,  

So well that I may have them running, 

Through the insides of me. Red, White and Blue.  

Cut me open and see.  

A thread that spins across an ocean,  

Pulling me onto my knees to look,  

That country that I was meant to be in,

Has come to find me.  

When The Sun Shone

I wonder if we can be together again,

It’s my wish.

My one and only.

If we could be together.

If we could be just like…

We used to be.

When the sun shone and we were all brown,

Even me.

There are extras that we never,

Considered.

We lost more than we can,

Give back.

But through it all,

We loved each other.

More than anyone.

More than anything. 

Reminder

I haven’t told you yet,

It’s nothing but I know you’ll get,

My meaning when I explain,

Or try to say.

That plant with violet eyes,

Of mixed up white and purple.

The name of which I don’t know. 

Which just goes to show,

How teasing life can be.

It has a scent that transports me.

To the back fence of her house.  

It’s here in Japan.

Reminds me now of you.

Made me feel at home while I still,

 Wondered if I could stay and,

Live so far away.

The smell was auspicious.

It fits with the tranquillity,

Gentle sensibility,

With which I feel a,

Quiet affinity.  

Gossip

I brought the coffee for him today. It told me something that he let me. Neither of us mentioned it though. We talked business. Gossip of course came into it. There was as always so much I didn’t know. The stories always start with someone I’m sure I don’t know but through connections it turns out I can place them exactly. Someone I went to school with years ago or some shop owners aunt. The bar is doing well he told me and I laughed saying that I knew. I spend my every hour there or so it feels. We have been doing better than the competition in town. I know why but I keep the knowledge to myself, well to the pair of us. We don’t need to say it out loud to each other.

                Town has changed big time since I grew up here. The houses that sit to the east and the west of the High Street are islands of the old ways now. Red bricked squares of a time that went before this one. Those who can remember the carnivals live here, those who don’t have central heating live here, those whose parents lie in the cemetery live here. A small walk from the shops in the centre, convenience stores for groceries, delicatessen for the bread that used to be delivered by the bakers van, butcher but no candlestick maker anymore. The old shoe shop’s crest left to melt into legend but some of us still remember. In amongst the necessaries and the public houses sit the new galleries, glam junk shops and gift places.

                We haven’t changed. The carpet probably does need changing but you can’t get that old style anywhere anymore. The prices rise yearly alongside the budget but no more than 5p. There is no red wall, no magnolia paint and wine is less than three quid. One bar has a TV the other does not. That’s our secret.

The gossip was old today. It went back to the times long before me. A secret baby and a long time of someone pretending to be an aunt to their own daughter. No one knows still. I thought as ever that I didn’t know who it was but of course I did. A woman he has always told me was beautiful when they were growing up. Who has always kissed him gently since the illness. We didn’t make the connection together but I knew that for once this wasn’t gossip so much as confession. I should have known that this would be the last time. 

Wave (II)

We can all understand it now like we couldn’t before,

That height is not the issue just as always force.  

Screaming, plunging invading army,

From the sea, from the sea.  

Undefended north at the mercy,

Of the never again tide.  

The one that provides the nightmare and the warning,

That strikes recklessly where it can kill the most.

I have seen not once but twice the fear,

That echoes in the eyes of those who survive.

That senseless understanding cannot be ordered,

Cannot be swept away and cannot be told.

Unable to be free of the seas hold,

Even in rebuilt homes and cleaned up streets.  

But that is a long way off, a dream, a myth.  

First there comes safety, then the physical comfort,

Of blankets, food, water, baths and kind thought,

From strangers alien and unable to know,

That this ocean will never recede,

 But always dance,

Just below the eyeline waiting for it’s next chance. 

A Thai Night

Something about being away again made me come back to this-I started it in Thailand and the picture only became more vivid to me after I left.

The heat abates suddenly and becomes a memory shared with the night.

I tell it about you too so our memory can stir into one.

It feels like it holds onto you for me like a net in the water.

I like it but it only makes it harder.

This is mine to have but what is it if I cannot share it with you?

Every thought and especially the pictures echo:

A hollow photograph of someone else’s choosing.

I never could be on my own.

What I did not know before I saw this blue sky,

Was that whoever else holds me dear,

There is always a bit of me left behind to watch with you.

Making crowds and solitude blur together.

The Missing Tree

The first little taster of the book to be published on Amazon for Kindle.

The trees stretched on to an unseen horizon; to look too far ahead made your vision wobble broken as it was by so many tall, thin pillars of wood. There were fields and fields of them split into age groups; saplings separated by a thin path way from their mature future selves. This was our playground, our place of freedom, privacy, exploration and worship. It took on any purpose we could need; 40:40, catch, hide and seek, moon landings, den building that invented settlements for goodies and badies, cowboys, witches, fairies, mummies and daddies, doctors and patients and show jumping extravaganzas. There were about seven of us who met in summer evenings and weekends in any season to create our own world for a few hours. We were on strict orders of time keeping and bedtimes but I do not remember there being any fear over our playing outside, away from home. I would think twice about allowing a child out into the empty world now but maybe I am changed by what happened. We all were.

With Courage Nothing Is Impossible

I wrote this for Robbie after staying near St Davids Life Boat station. The title line is inspired by the inscription on a memorial sculpture at the RNLI HQ in Poole. 

With courage nothing is impossible,

With bloodied eye to see,

On shaking sunset inflatable,

Yellow boots to steady legs,

Chasing at briny dreams.

With courage nothing is impossible,

Trespassed on this crashing scene,

A giant’s clutch indestructible,

Gloved hands reach with certain touch,

To take back time’s last breath. 

Love Past Tense

A man perches on a half finished roof top,

On the wooden rail that holds the tarp down,

His feet up on the edge of board that marks the wall,

Smoking a cigarette and texting his girlfriend.

He should call her his ex really.

But he can’t get used to that term yet.

He stops himself from adding an I love you,

Pausing to look out across his vantage point.

To the houses that are already built,

Orange red brick from decades ago,

Square and sturdy with walls that are thick.

He presses send quick and stubs out the cigarette.

The forklift has delivered batches of roof tiles

Which he begins to move from one end

Of the scaffolding to another to make room

For more. More of the same identical humped slats.

A mate calls up a quip from the ground and he

Finds himself smiling in spite of knowing

That soon she will be round collecting her bits.

Keys on the table,  gone before he gets home.

A pause while the forklift brings another load.

He checks his phone leaning up against that roof.

Yes she says. This afternoon will be fine.

He tries to ignore that bit at the end; love past tense.

Beech Tree in February

I look through the year long leaf,

This time auburn brown and will be

Until the spring comes and new ones

Appear in a silky green

That isn’t pretend but should be

For all it’s perfect crispness.

I want just this once to see what

It looks like from above

To see what I look like when I’m not down here.

It’s easy to climb all the way to the top.

I’ve seen Dad do it before.

He used a ladder but I don’t need to.

You see I’m not taking anything away

Like he was. I’m only going up to see

What I’m missing by being me.

I swing myself up first like my brother always told me.

Get some momentum, not too much and then

Your footing comes next and suddenly you’ve begun.

It only gets easier from then on in as you pull your feet

Up after your body and find footing to reach on from.

It doesn’t take long, you’d be surprised

Maybe a minute and a bit but less than two.

Here I am at the top and I can see

Everything.

I can see you easily and out past to the other trees.

The ones that aren’t captured but are free to grow

Together on the ridge above the sheep field.

They look dirty somehow and not as pretty.

They don’t have coverings of their own yet

But are half drowned in parasitic leaves of ivy.

The houses look small and the people inconsequential

Just as you are I suppose.

I am unsure of how long it will take to get down

Of how long until you will peep and peer

Through the window or call out the door.

I don’t want to be discovered here.

Just as you don’t want me to understand.

But I know it will not be the same to know

What is up here. To pretend like before.

 I will keep it to myself this new revelation.

Just as the hawk keeps private it’s elation.

Happy not to share the airborne secrets

With any more than is strictly necessary.

Because now it has gone on too long for me

To admit that you didn’t know anything at all.

General Dreaming:

I wonder what I am doing here,

With this palace so very near.

The glittering spires and rigid white,

A hidden jewel of nearly night.

To go, to go,

But, oh, to know.

If my purpose is true and great.

If for me these people wait.

I could be a sworn in Queen,

A ringmaster, a General, long and lean,

In those breeches and fancy coats,

Firing arrows over castle moats.

Yes, that’s who I’ll be a General fierce,

My voice will thunder, my eyes will pierce.

Fear and respect will be my reward,

As I set out to bind that accord,

From our enemies brave and bright,

Wonderous and cowering at our might,

Then home I’ll ride, two days hard going.

My dehydrated consciousness toing and froing.

A heroes welcome for my near expired self.

A bed, a nurse and rest back to health.

Then a ceremony, medals, a party that’s wild.

Dancing with men who are excited and riled.

Then, at the end one who’s gentle,

A brave and cunning and handsome Sentinel.

Months will pass and we will marry,

We plan a child, we will call him Harry.

And then I’ll be both Mother and Wife,

No longer the solver of our Kingdom’s strife.

I’ll wonder if maybe it was all a dream,

Perhaps after all I am only a Queen. 

Ali Na*; My Friend Pa

* Ali Na is a phonetic transcription of a polite way to ask 'what?' in Thai. 

I didn’t know your smile when we began.

Furrowed brow and a quick ‘ali na?’

My explanations not given time.

Always sat carefully opposite me.

Confused; your head often in your hands.

Every new word hastily transcribed.

My whiteboard; any scrap of blank paper.  

After one happy, Friday lesson,

The frequent new smiling refrain; ‘game’.

Whenever  I closed my ‘teachers’ notebook,

A quick leap across the small table,

Laughing, leaning in close against me, 

So we could trawl the phrase book together.

Our nonsensical conversation,

Deeper when we had our translators. 

You were the only one to ask whether,

I missed my Mum back in England,

Insights that I knew made you my friend. 

Six Weeks

Six weeks you said. It’s nothing to do
With you.
It’s all about me and how I feel.
But you didn’t add
about you.

It knocked me for six;
Six weeks.
You’d be somewhere else,
Thinking thoughts apart
From me.

I hadn’t expected panic,
Or this
For that matter;
These six weeks
Of separation.

Not a break or a trial
You’re sure.
Just some time away
I’m meant to nod,
Say yes.

I can’t really see it
My life
On it’s own.
This time for good or
Six weeks.

Both feel like the same
But not.
One has an ending
I don’t know which.
You do.

I swallow hard and say
Nothing.
You kiss my head,
Walk out
Sad.

You must know though;
These six weeks,
What they’re for
That isn’t to do with me;
But for you.

You won’t tell me.
Not now.
But soon. You’re sorry
I’ll know that
In six weeks.

Underestimated

Come on. We’re all going.

Nah. What for?

It’ll be fun won’t it?

It’s more than that, Tinker.

Yeah, yeah I know.

What’s it going to mean?

We have to show them.

Show them how?

By being there. They think we’re all apathetic morons.

Raise the fees, take away the pensions, up goes the housing market they won’t care they’re all too busy playing PS3s and facebooking each other!

Exactly Greggles, exactly.

Nah you’re alright. I would rather play PS3 and anyway I’m not going to Uni.

Well that’s alright then.

You still in, Tinks?

Mr Tailor? Time to get into bed now.

What for?

To sleep my love. It’s time to go to sleep.

What difference will it make?

Philosophical tonight aren’t you?

No. I just have to show them.

You don’t have to show no-one anything. Come on now, Ralph’s here to give us a hand.

Hands were right Doug thought; hands all over him supporting him, holding him up. He felt his weight wedged between the squashy chest of the nurse and the flat pressure of the orderly called Ralph. Bodies pressed up against him. He could let himself fall and he would remain upright, it felt good. He was safe with these people, they knew, they were all in it together. He was moving forward, lurching in a way that didn’t feel natural. He tried to walk more normally but found his feet weren’t really fully on the floor. He was being borne forward by the people pressing in on him. He couldn’t move by himself. He chanted with the others his voice carried away and lost to his own ears.

There was no space at all between him and anyone now. Not just the people next to him but those in front and behind pressed into him. He felt like he was being pressed by one of those automatic s feet measurers in Clarks.

Stop it. Get off me.

Now Mr Tailor we’re nearly there. I’m sorry if it’s hurting you.

Fuck off. I can’t breathe.

He wanted to wave his arms to push them away but he couldn’t, they were pinned to his body as uncontrollable as his feet. He wanted to get out to feel air around him. There wasn’t enough here. He could see the blue sky above him but he couldn’t feel it only the hot, stale air of within the crowd. His breathing was skipping around and the euphoria of before was weighted down with the edges of panic.

I can’t breathe. Let me out.

You can’t get out mate, they’re kettling us. We’re staying put for now.

I just need to get out.

Yeah let him out. Let us all out.

There was shouting all around and the crowd juddered as those shouting pushed forward to the police line. His shoulders slumped forward and he sank further down away from the sky.

Don’t do that. Stop.

Mr Tailor come on now calm down.

He pushed down and felt a firm piece of concrete under his feet it gave him relief and he could breathe for a moment. He concentrated on the in out movement and calmed himself gently. There was a punch in his back and he was launched forward temporarily airborne. He called out, swore, he couldn’t hear himself. He kicked out his legs desperate for firm ground. There were bodies pressing all around and when he looked up he saw the fluorescent flash of police jackets. The squashed square of people roared around him and through the bass hum he heard the whiney of a horse. The high pitched noise was the first of the day and it shook him. He found himself standing again but for only a few seconds before the wave caught him up again and he was fighting, kicking and shouting for his own power to be returned to him. The next time he found himself standing the ground felt wrong, it was squashy, he looked down and show his trainers pressed into the chest of a boy younger than him. He screamed.

Get the doctor Ralph.

Mr Tailor. You’re okay. You’re in bed at the home. You’re okay. It’s Maddie. I’m here with you.

He reached out and clutched her arm.

I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to. 

The tears in the old mans eyes made her want to cry.

Course you didn’t love.

I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t breathe. They don’t know who’s feet killed him. Never know. Never know.

He sank back down and muttered on to himself. Maddie relaxed a little. He appeared to be back in the room now at least. Ralph returned with the doctor. She filled him in and stood back so he could examine his patient.

We had to show them. They wouldn’t listen to us. We had to show them.