First and Last and Always
I have a map inside my head. A map of either brilliant or first-and-only versions of various songs. It starts: Hamburg “Sister Ray”, Newcastle “Nine While Nine”, Blackburn “Stairway to Heaven”, Wembley “Temple of Love”, Brixton Academy “Ribbons”… OK, I’ll be the first to admit I’m a fanatic. How many other people would seriously get up at ridiculous hours on weekends to wear out shoe leather around record fairs in search of that unique piece of memorabilia, that limited edition format? I had a knack: visiting a different town I invariably found a new fair to visit. Perhaps obsessive is nearer the word.
Ironically I’m not even old enough to have heard the earlier songs live. Let’s face it, I was eight years old when Andrew Eldritch formed the original Sisters of Mercy line-up and recorded the first single “Damage Done”.
It’s Dad’s fault really. I’d bounced out of bed on my tenth birthday and scurried downstairs, probably making enough noise to wake the neighbours as I never was light-footed. There was nothing downstairs to even suggest it was my birthday: no cards left at my place at the table, no presents piled in the lounge. I poured cereal into a bowl, added milk and ate, thinking that maybe the postman would have come by the time I’d finished.
He hadn’t. So I slunk back upstairs and into the record room. Strictly it was the spare bedroom but Dad had put up customised shelving and stored his jazz records there. I was only allowed to touch records in certain sections: bog standard releases of Ella Fitzgerald’s songs. The others, only Dad handled, holding them with reverance as if offering a prayer before placing them on the turntable as if they were as fragile as one of Mum’s glass ornaments. I didn’t feel like playing anything.
“Well, there’s the birthday girl, then!”
Dad’s voice had startled me.
“Come on!”
That’s how I always remember him: his tall, thin frame half-turned in the doorway, ready to race me back to my room. Sun from the landing window picking out the flecks of grey in his dark hair, but the grin on his face made him look like a boy eager to share in opening my presents.
He was irresistible. I got up and raced to my room, narrowly beating him and skidding to a stop just in front of a huge box of wrapping paper. I ripped it off. Dad sat on his hands to stop himself helping me. I knew it was a cabinet for a stereo as soon as I got a glimpse of the mahogany veneer covered chipboard underneath the paper. I also knew the cabinet wouldn’t be empty. A proper grown-up’s stereo instead of the ghetto blasters I’d had so far.
I flung my arms around Dad, “Thank you!”
He couldn’t stop grinning.
He never saw my twelfth birthday.
Small wonder then I was subsequently attracted to the black cover with a red mock-snakeskin streak with the band’s name and album title, “First and Last and Always”. I bought it then played it to death. Then discovered there was a limited edition gatefold version, plus a Japanese import…
I get mocked. I go out and someone, usually male, will eventually comment, “You don’t like them do you?”, leaving me wondering why I’d bother wasting money on a tee shirt of a band I didn’t like. I guess at gigs I’m too busy checking out the merchandise or pushing my way down to the front of the stage to take much notice of anyone in the audience. And at record fairs, well, if it’s not vinyl…
As Brixton Academy had been fogged in dry ice, I felt disorientated coming out into the normal people and traffic fumes of London. Even so I noticed him immediately: slender frame, naturally dark hair, pale complexion and clear blue eyes looking perplexed at a flat tyre. I offered to help. He surprised I’d want to risk breaking a nail. But I’d learnt to drive as soon as I could and it was no use ringing Mum if I’d got a flat – she would not have risked a broken nail – so I’d soon learnt basic car maintenance. He offered me a lift home and wrote his name, Oliver, and phone number on a piece of paper and joked about not letting me out of the car until I gave him mine. I doubted I’d hear from him again. Although he was the first fan who didn’t compare me with Morticia Addams. I guess my long, dark hair and dark eyes invite the comparison, but it gets tedious. I also shared her alleged vital statistics, 36-26-36, something else most men eyed up. It wasn’t until I’d closed my door behind me that I heard him drive off.
Oliver invited me for a drink. We went clubbing afterwards and he insisted on driving me home. He hadn’t drunk alcohol and I’d only had a couple so it felt safe. We chatted about music, discovering we shared tastes. He was a student too, final year of business studies. He’d frowned a bit when I said mechanical engineering, muttering something about not being very practical. I reassured him it didn’t matter. He slipped his arm around my shoulders and I leaned into him, grateful that here was someone I could talk to, who seemed to see beyond the vital statistics.
We saw each other a few more times before I invited Oliver in for coffee. He admired my record collection. So I started talking about them, where I’d picked up various rarities, what I thought of the live recordings. Oliver stopped me for a kiss. Light years away from his spacious flat, he expressed surprise that a thin mattress spread across two wooden pallets in my tiny bedsit could actually be comfortable.
We kissed again. I tasted breath freshening mint, smelt a subtle lingering of aftershave, hair gel and newly-laundered clothes with a faint overlayer of dry ice, cigarette smoke and damp air. He complimented my outfit: a long, black jersey dress, the leather jacket having been left on the threadbare but clean floor. He’d declined coffee, an unsurprising decision in hindsight, so I wasn’t sure what to do.
He put “First and Last and Always” on my record player and laid me down on my bed. I undid his shirt, kissing exposed flesh and sliding his belt undone. He responded in kind, undressing me slowly. Our love-making gentle, satisfying. He lay still for ages with me curled up, legs entwined, arms around each other, with his eyes closed afterwards.
When he opened them, I moved away, assuming he’d get up and go.
“Could I stay?” he asked.
“’Course,” I said softly.
“You sound surprised.”
“I thought you’d go.” I moved back.
“Where? Back to an empty apartment when I could stay here with you?”
“Well, if you put it like that…”
He grinned and kissed me. “You’re so uncomplicated. And that’s a compliment.”
Waking up inspired a reprise of last night’s performance. Sunlight filtered in through the thin curtains, making the room less dingy.
“Breakfast?” I asked hesitantly.
He smiled. “Back to mine. We’ll shower and I’ll get you breakfast.”
He slid his clothes back on while I got a pair of black jeans and a black shirt off the rail and dug out fresh underwear from a small chest.
Oliver was still smiling when we got back to his car. Naively I was wondering what kind of student lived in an apartment block with underground car-parking when the carpeted elevator – it was too smart to be called a lift – stopped at one of the upper floors. The plants in the pots that were spaced at intervals along the corridor were real. I was thinking back to my bedsit: wide enough for a single bed, desk and clothing rail with just enough space for my stereo cabinet and stacks of record boxes.
Oliver opened the door. I pinched myself. I was looking into a loft-style apartment with exposed brick, decorative timber beams and a wall of windows hidden by thick, pale green drapes. I liked the drapes: it would have felt horribly exposed without them drawn.
Oliver grabbed my hand and pulled me in. I couldn’t help staring at his top of the range stereo and the shelves of records next to it. His record collection may not have been as impressive, but I looked at him again, sure my eyes had been as wide as seven inch singles.
His lips covered mine and I responded to his kiss, letting it blot out the generously proportioned lounge, the thick oatmeal-coloured carpet, the chocolate brown sofa and armchairs that weren’t faux leather, the large antique desk in front of the windows and the TV set that looked more like a cinema screen.
“You’re hesitating.”
I wanted to run away. If Oliver wasn’t holding my hand, I would have done.
“Don’t. I could buy you a diamond-encrusted dress and it would be loose change. Don’t let it intimidate you. You’re here because I want you to be. Not because I’m showing off or want to slum it for a while with a poor little girl. It’s really not like that. I can’t help who am I.”
I let go of his hand and walked over to the desk, then around the sofa and up to the TV. I couldn’t bring myself to touch any of it. I returned to Oliver.
He held me in his arms. “Please don’t go.”
“It’s not what I thought. But if you had all this, why did you stay at mine last night?”
“Because I wanted to see who you were. I wanted you to see me before you saw all this. I wanted… I want us to connect as two individuals. I want us not to be about money. Sure, it buys you things, it makes life more luxurious, but it complicates things. You can’t be sure people hang around because of you or because of what you can shower them with.” He kissed my forehead. “Shower. We were going to shower and have breakfast.”
The bathroom was three times the size of my bedsit. Showering took at least twice as long, involving lots of kissing and caressing. He preferred holding me close, his arms behind me, stroking my back. It wasn’t until he picked up a towel that I noticed. Along the inside of his left arm was a long scar that ran from his wrist to his elbow. I reached out and traced it with my finger.
He looked alarmed then quickly looked down, letting his fringe fall over his face. “An old scar,” was said in such a way it was clear he didn’t want me to ask anymore about it.
“Must have been a deep cut,” having opened my mouth to ask how he’d done it, I had to say something to cover myself.
“It was.”
I quickly dressed and dragged a brush through my hair as Oliver went to his bedroom to get dressed. I took the opportunity to study his record collection. He had the standard releases, the imports and the official limited editions, but not the bootlegs and live recordings.
“Records again,” he grinned, returning in a clean pair of jeans, ironed shirt and with his hair gelled into place.
I felt scruffy. “You don’t mind?”
“Be my guest. Let’s get breakfast.” He put his jacket on. I must have looked baffled because he chided, “If you can tear yourself away…”
I slipped my jacket back on. Breakfast, it turned out, was bought at a nearby coffee shop: skinny lattes and Danish pastries.
“I have to be at the record shop in half an hour,” I said.
He frowned.
“I work there.”
“Sorry. I’m being dim, aren’t I? I should’ve known.”
I shrugged. “No. Just a different planet, that’s all.”
“I do want to see you again.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, where does the money come from? You’re a student, with no job, after all.”
Oliver sighed. “My father’s a financier. Worth… well… He bought the apartment to put me in while I studied. He tops up my bank account regularly. I’m under pressure to follow suit. I don’t think it’s me.”
“What would you prefer to do?”
Oliver shrugged. “That’s the complicated part. I don’t really know.” He fiddled with a spoon, turning it over and over in his hand.
I let it go. “I’d like to get re-acquainted with your records.”
“OK.” He grinned. “Pick you up tonight. I’ll take you to dinner.”
Of course, after that, we always went back to his flat. I ended up moving in: meant the money from my part-time job in a record store didn’t have to go on rent. Kept my records separate from Oliver’s, to start with. I think I did intend to merge them eventually, but Oliver’s had no logical order. He just pulled out the records he wanted to play and left them propped by the side of the stereo until he got fed up and simply stacked the records with the others at random. If he wanted to play a certain song, he’d spend ages looking for it.
One morning he proudly presented me with a round of unburnt toast. “I think I’m learning.” He was wearing the chef’s apron I’d bought him and still had his sleeves rolled up.
“You’re doing well,” I said, joining him at the breakfast bar.
“I love learning all this stuff you just do. You’re very patient with me.”
I shrugged. “I’m surprised you tolerate me, sometimes.”
“I want to learn. I hate that I don’t know how to do what to you are very simple things.”
“I’m happy to show you.”
“I don’t want to shower you with money,” began Oliver. “Well, I do. But you’d be uncomfortable and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“I wouldn’t let you. It’s nice to be able to relax a bit, occasionally buy a luxury brand instead of the supermarket’s own without worrying about the impact on your budget. But if you flooded me with it, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“I love that in you.”
I smiled and leant against him.
He kissed me. “You’re still keeping up your job?”
I nodded. “I actually enjoy it. You’re always going to get the odd awkward customer, but I get to hear about all the latest releases, latest on tour dates and gossip before things go on sale. I’d miss all that. And it’s great when you’re able to advise customers about other bands they’ll like based on the music they’re buying or finding a hard to find record. That’s really rewarding.”
Oliver was looking at me as if this were really fascinating news. “I’ll see you later.” He kissed me. “I miss you. When you’re here, I don’t notice how empty this place feels. That’s what struck me about your old place, it seemed so full and not because it was so small either. It felt as if it were part of you. This place is never going to feel part of me.”
My “well, move then” went unsaid. I’d learnt things were never that simple with Oliver. The apartment was in his father’s name so Oliver couldn’t sell it. Although that didn’t necessarily stop him renting somewhere else, it seemed a waste of money to do so. At least, it did from my point of view. I never asked Oliver about money, merely trusted it was more than I could dream of. I kissed him instead of replying.
“I love you.”
I froze.
“I do. You’re so sweet and uncomplicated and beautiful and you never make a big deal of anything.” He kissed me. “Oh, I know, you’re not ready to say it. But I really do.” His eyes shone, child-like in his enthusiasm. “I’ll get a take-away tonight.”
“Thought you were supposed to be learning…”
“Then there’ll be no washing up and I can have you to myself for longer.” He finally began to roll his sleeves back down.
“You’re too much of a temptation. I’ve a deadline looming.” I reached out and touched his scar. “How did it happen?”
“You won’t believe me.” He looked away from me.
“Try me. You know I won’t tell anyone else.”
“I know. It’s not that. It’s difficult to explain. I did it myself.”
“How?”
“I… I… was about fifteen and had gone to the kitchen. Can’t remember why. But the cook had left a knife lying on one of the work surfaces. I picked it up, put my arm in water. The water was cold, my arm started to go numb. I cut. You won’t understand, but it felt good. So I cut again. I don’t know how long it took. But cook came back in, saw the reddened water, saw the knife, pulled my arm and knife out of the water. I felt faint, I remember that much. Someone must have called a doctor… It was dark when I came round. I was in bed, but still had my clothes on. Cook begged me not to tell my parents what had actually happened.” Oliver shrugged. “I never did. They never knew. When they saw the scar eventually I told them I’d been walking, felt myself fall and caught my arm on something to break my fall. They swallowed it. Stupid, wasn’t it?”
I intertwined my fingers with his. “It was a good job the cook found you.”
Oliver didn’t answer.
“Have you ever been tempted to do something like that again?”
He tried to pull his hand away.
“Oliver,” I began, softly. “You’ve just told me you love me. Was this a one-off?”
“You know me. You’ve not found any other scars.” His tone was dismissive.
I pulled his hand to my lips and kissed it.
When he looked at me again, his eyes were bright with tears. “I wish… No, you’re so sweet. I couldn’t put you through something like that. You’re not going to find me cutting myself, I promise.”
I didn’t have anything to say, but kept hold of his hand.
Eventually, Oliver broke the silence, “Tonight, we’ll take a break then tomorrow morning, we’ll work. You have the desk, I’ll have the sofa and we’ll see who finishes first.”
“First one to finish cooks dinner,” I said.
“So, if I win, we’ll go out.”
“How does that give me an incentive to finish my assignment, then?”
Oliver thought. “If you finish first, I’ll include dessert. If I finish first, no dessert.”
“OK. You’re getting to know me too well.”
“I want to. You never talk about your parents.”
“You just complain about yours.”
Oliver shrugged. “They were distant. Everything could be solved with money. If that didn’t work, more money would. You were closer to yours.”
“Mum got a bit distant after Dad died. I was always closer to Dad. We both loved music. Oliver, I really must go. I don’t want to be late.”
“OK. One more kiss.”
I looked up at him.
“It’s got to last all day. I’m not going to see you until tonight.”
“You’re amazing,” he groaned softly. A cancelled lecture had turned into a lazy morning in bed making love.
“You’re wonderful,” I responded. The chorus of “Some Kind of Stranger”, which I’d adopted as our song, was running through my head. Gary Marx had intended it as his version of “The Wedding March”. Andrew Eldritch corrupted it into a celebration of casual sex. The resulting tension polished it into a brilliant song, although the ambiguity remained. I preferred Gary Marx’s intention.
Oliver kissed me.
I rested my head on his shoulder, turning onto my side so I could curl against him. Despite the warmth of our loving, Oliver felt chilly. I pulled the quilt over us.
“Dad loved that sculpture you made.”
Sculpture? “Oh, it wasn’t much.” I remembered now. I’d found some bits of scrap metal, used them for welding practise then brought it back to Oliver’s flat, not sure what to do with it but determined the other students weren’t going to see it. I’d heard the panic in Oliver’s voice as he’d realised he’d had less than a week until his Dad’s birthday. Oliver saw the welded pieces and said it would be perfect if it weren’t so dirty. I’d cleaned and polished it. Oliver had called it a “sculpture”, way too grand a word for what it actually was.
“You don’t understand.”
True, I didn’t understand. “He liked it. I’ll do a different one next year if we can’t find something else,” I tried to sound reassuring.
“Another one won’t do. It has to be something different. But it’s so difficult. What do you get a man who has everything?” he groaned.
I nuzzled his neck.
“You don’t…”
“Stop torturing yourself,” I interrupted, keeping my voice as gentle as possible.
Oliver looked at me then. I saw the tears in his eyes. I pushed his hair away from his forehead and kissed it. “I feel trapped. I hate it. I don’t have to work but I want to. I try and be careful with money, but Dad bails me out anyway. I ask Mum to tell him to stop putting money in my account but she won’t. How am I going to stand on my own two feet?”
“You are,” I murmured.
“Not like you do.”
“I don’t have a choice. There’s no one to bail me out. But you don’t ask him to do this. He doesn’t give you money because you need it. You are standing on your own two feet.” I propped myself up so I could look down at him.
“You’re so sweet,” he said. “I want to cut adrift. Just you and me.” He tilted his face up and I thought he’d kiss me. He closed his eyes. “But it’s just a dream.”
“It’s not. We could do it.”
“My little catalyst.” He pulled his lips close together, making his mouth appear as a straight line. “What would I do?”
What do you want to do? seemed the obvious question, but I knew Oliver didn’t know. “You design, I sculpt.”
I was rewarded with a small smile. “But I couldn’t…”
“You could run the finances for our own company. Find a small shop with room at the back for a studio. We could do mirror frames, candelabrum, ornaments…” I could picture it: mirror frames at the back of the window display with ornamental iron sculptures near the front, me welding something or other in the back studio and Oliver learning when to remain behind the counter to allow browsers to fell welcome and when to encourage a sale.
“But I wouldn’t be much use. I’d just be hanging around, getting in your way.”
“You wouldn’t. You have to give it a go. You strangle everything before it’s even been conceived.” I kissed him, aroused him again. It was the only thing I could think of doing.
“Remember what you promised,” I reminded Oliver as he paid the admission to the record fair.
“OK,” he nodded. He took my hand as we turned into the actual fair. “Don’t buy you anything without your agreement. I think there are just some things that I’m going to accept I can’t understand.”
“But if you buy me everything I want, you take away the thrill of tracking down something and the agonising over whether I can afford it. That’s the whole point of collecting: those kind of decisions. If I could just buy it, it wouldn’t seem so rare.”
He shrugged. “Where do we start?”
The sports hall was two basketball fields wide and littered with trestle tables covered in record boxes. Some vendors had put up displays behind them to entice potential buyers. Most were collectors, selling off parts of their collections they no longer wanted or selling records they’d deliberately bought to make a profit on to use to buy the records they really wanted. A couple of stalls were staffed by second hand record shops, displaying their rarer wares in the hope of getting a slightly higher price.
I pointed at the first trestle table, “What do you see?”
“No display. No band names. Just alphabet labels. Nothing worth looking at. Let’s try that one,” he pointed further along. “It’s sectioned by music type and he’s got a decent ‘alternative’ selection,” he whispered in my ear.
I raised an eyebrow: he must have been listening last night when I tried to explain how to look for rarities and how to tell a decent live recording from a duff one, without listening to the record. “Have a look then,” I suggested. “I’m going to start in the other direction and we’ll meet half-way. Don’t buy anything yet. We’ll compare notes when we meet again.”
“OK.”
I left Oliver gently flicking through the records. I already knew which stalls were the only ones worth bothering with, but lingered and browsed at a few others so that Oliver had time to look. I’d found an American import of a single complete with accompanying DJ notes.
Oliver looked as excited as a child in a sweet shop. “Found a couple of things,” he said. “Get you a coffee first.”
The sports centre’s café was actually shut, but enterprising record fair organisers had set up an urn and were offering polystyrene cups of coffee with a complimentary plain digestive biscuit. Oliver was enchanted even though the coffee was no more than hot sludge and the digestives as bland as sawdust.
“What have you seen then?” I asked.
“It looks like an import compilation of the early singles. Black cover, red logo and lettering.”
I nodded. “I’ve seen one too. It’s geniune: a Greek import.” I’d also heard that some of these imports were unplayable.
“This one wasn’t warped. I did it: took it out of its sleeve, holding the edge against my thumb and resting the hole on my forefinger and held it up. Saw a black line.”
I nodded again. The one he’d found sounded in better condition than mine.
“Saw a ‘Damage Done’ single too.”
Probably a copy, I thought.
“I wasn’t sure, so I left it.”
“Only three hundred and fifty were made originally and if one comes into circulation, vendors will keep them for special customers. The import’s worth another, serious look.” I kept my tone flat, but knew Oliver could see then excitement in my eyes.
“I think I’m getting the buzz you seem to get. Thank you for sharing this.” He slid his arm around me and kissed me. He tasted of sludge and sawdust, but I didn’t want this kiss to end.
We bought the Greek import Oliver found: his was in better condition than the one I’d seen and it turned out to be playable, plus the American import I’d seen. That night I cooked a hotpot and was laying the dishes out on the table when I noticed a single propped against a vase of lilies.
Not just any single, but “Damage Done”. My heart sank, how was I going to explain it was just a copy and I already had a mere copy?
“Check it out,” said Oliver, grinning.
I picked it up and slid the single out, keeping it horizontal. “No warping,” I commented, trying to delay the moment. It was a good copy, I thought as I turned it vertical. Then my jaw dropped. “The real thing! Thank you!” I managed to return the single to the safety of its sleeve before hugging and kissing Oliver.
“I thought you might be angry. But I know how much it would mean to you. I wasn’t sure at first. But then remembered what you said about the run-off. It’s the right one, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I grinned.
“Now I really do get the buzz you get out of these things.”
I was clearing dinner plates, putting them in hot, soapy water. I heard Oliver come out to the kitchen and stand behind me, that close I could feel his breath glide over my hair. If I tilted my head back it would rest on his shoulder.
“Could you contemplate spending the rest of your life with me?” his voice was just above a whisper.
“Yes.”
He turned me around to face him. “You really mean it.” He kissed me, running his tongue over my bottom lip until I parted my lips for him. “When you graduate, we’ll do it. Leave, just the two of us. Cast ourselves adrift. You can teach me all those practical things you do so naturally and I’ve been taught I only have to pay someone to do. And it’ll be just the two of us. I’ve got something for you.”
His expression reminded me of Dad’s on my tenth birthday: someone receiving so much joy from giving something they know to be so right. I followed Oliver back into the lounge. He knelt on one knee and held up a small box.
It took several moments before I got the significance. “Engaged?”
He grinned. I wanted to pull him up and kiss him. But he opened the box and pushed it closer to my face. A plain white-gold band with a ruby that was twenty-five millimetres in diameter.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. I couldn’t put it on.
Oliver took it out of the box, dropped the box to the floor and slid it on my finger. “I want to show this is real, not just some affair that I’ll cast off when I graduate.”
His eyes were brighter than the ruby. I placed my ringed hand over his heart. His hand covered mine. I remembered thinking how alive he seemed.
I hurried to the flat, mind already celebrating the end of lectures – at least until Monday – and spinning with the possibilities the weekend offered. Clumsily I opened the door and stopped.
I tugged the door closed and retched. Thankfully my stomach was too empty to bring anything up. My heart raced. I didn’t think I’d ever catch up with it, let alone steady it again. But I had to do something.
I inched the door open, turned my back and, crab-like, sidled to the phone. It took several goes before my shaking fingers could manage to stab three nines slowly enough for the dialling system to actually dial.
What service did I want? My mind blanked. I saw a picture: white van-size vehicle with blue flashing lights. “A-am-ambulance,” I stuttered the address, our address.
The voice on the other end was calm, reassuring even. I put the phone down and awkwardly crabbed back out, putting the door on the latch as I went.
Then my knees gave way. I huddled in the corridor, head buried in my knees, arms across my forehead. But the more you want to forget something, the more your mind’s eye repeats it.
His feet didn’t touch the floor. I hadn’t wanted to look up, but I did anyway. He’d tied a rope from one of the beams and kicked the chair away.
Tears finally came.
The police were sympathetic. His family gave me a month to move out and asked for Oliver’s ring back. I don’t think I’d have kept it anyway. Most of that month I spent in the apartment, drifting from bed to sofa to bed again, dazed. A splinter of me knew I had to leave but the rest of me didn’t want to. I didn’t know a person could cry that much.
I told my Mum that Oliver and I had split. I didn’t want the worry of her worrying about me, although it felt mean lying.
I needed another gig on my map. “Under the Gun” wormed its way into my head.
Filed under: Short Stories | Leave a Comment
Tags: Elastic Press, Emma Lee stories, Extended Play, First and Last and Always, Record collecting, The Sisters of Mercy
Little Wall
Published in “Making a Mark” anthology to celebrate Leicester Writers’ Club’s 50th anniversary.
Little Wall
“Do not fear for the child / its gold is hid“
(Jorie Graham, “Motive Elusive”)
“Daddy,” he said under his breath,
naming the voice he heard
as the door slammed.
“White,” he stroked a bar on his cot.
He liked naming things:
it made Mommy smile.
“White,” was the wall too,
Then his Mommy made a sound
he knew how to make:
he put his hand over his mouth,
clamped it tight
and tried to say “Mommy.”
He pulled himself up
so he could touch the wall.
“Window,” his fingers traced
the borders of shadow
following the outline of a pane.
There were more sounds
like the one he knew how to make.
He touched his cot bar,
that felt smooth and slightly warm.
But the wall felt different:
like Mommy’s skin when she was cold.
“Wall,” he almost sat
when it shook with a thud
like the one he heard
when he fell and hit his head.
A few white flakes drifted down.
He caught one.
“Little wall,” he looked again.
A door slammed, “Daddy gone.”
“Sssh,” there was no sound
not even the one Mommy
made when she slept.
He dropped the paint-flake
and stretched his hands
to the wall, thumbs touching,
either side of the shadow.
It looked like… like Mummy’s picture
He named it, “Butterfly.”
Filed under: Poems | Leave a Comment
Tags: Emma Lee Poems, Little Wall
Tiger
Inspired by a photo that accompanied an obituary of Emma Humphreys. Published in Let’s Shout About It, an anthology to raise funds for support services for survivors of sexual abuse, and on ABCTales.com.
Tiger
(from a photo accompanying Emma Humphreys’ obituary)
Emma called you Tiger:
a big name for a little cat.
Her case changed the definition of provocation
to include accumulated violence.
You blink away from the sunlight:
outside is bright with trial and error.
She had blinked in the prison exit’s sunlight,
the brightness of her own flat.
Let’s count your tabby stripes.
Say fifteen for kittenhood.
At fifteen she ran away
to Nottingham’s inner city streets.
Let your sandpaper tongue wash
your dull metal-grey fur.
She used a knife on the pimp
about to rape her again.
Let’s count two more stripes
as you stretch onto your long spine.
She was sentenced to seven years,
but served ten.
You’ve no problem with appetite.
Over three years you watched her diminish.
Count thirty stripes of your silver.
Emma Lee
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Triggered by a poem I read in a magazine. I modestly thought I could make a more imaginative treatment of the themes it raised. I got carried away. Published in Fire magazine.
Seven Traducements of a Stolen Poem
(1)
for Ryan Robbins
Teacher don’t know our word for praise.
She thinks it’s wicked.
She says the world began with a dude called Christ.
Our mam says he was just a man, there is no God.
Ahmed says God is Al-Lar-Blessed-Be-His-Name.
Bharat prays to an elephant.
Ahmed’s a bookworm.
Bharat is bomb. I’ve given him my blade.
School is pants.
One day, I’ll join a crew, push gear,
go large in Gap and Rockport, my wheels a TVR,
Eminem and Britney my sounds. Phat life.
(2)
Brother Rawson
Greetings from our benighted capital. Your exile as Assistant Secretary to His Majesty’s Representative to Vanuatu will soon be over. The Minister’s Inspectorate have…inspected…reported…and leaked before She could suppress or massage. The mole has long since tunnelled away. Illiteracy, innumeracy, truancy – all the indicators are dire and, oh dear, few have heard of Jesus Christ, fewer believe in God. So much for Her policies. Only the Lottery, drink, drugs and football mean anything to the mass. The Archbishop and cardinal are as respectively purple as their robe and red as their cap, their Palaces houses of mourning.. Meanwhile, the temples, synagogues and mosques overbrim. No, my dear Rawson, our Lesbian Icon will not spin Her way out of this one. She meets the PM tomorrow: our man has already been tipped the wink. Your former station, your mistresses and…other interests, await their resumption. No doubt we will read in Her memoirs how we conspired to bring Her down. We will, no doubt, be the only ones who do. They come and go. We remain. Little has really changed. Has it ever?
fraternally yours
Devere
(3)
The word has come to me, Albion,
you abomination,
you who have shrivelled to an island,
you to whom the alien is now the leaven,
strong in his strange gods inimical
to the One
you have estranged, who once strode with you.
How long since your crimson armies dyed
the globe,
your navies civilised its seas,
your clerics sowed His Word?
When did you mistake the act
for the vision?
Once you knew you had lost the Way:
now you have lost even that knowledge,
now you riot in carnality, covet gold,
and do not know you starve.
You gorge on husks and think
you are full.
Instead of the Word, you have merely
words like hills
of termites.
You are the foam the wave leaves
on the shore,
that the next wave effaces.
(4)
I oscillate between ignorance and error.
What is the right thing to know, to teach?
Come down from your Cross, Lord,
re-acquaint us with Him.
The merchants and rentiers disdain You,
the plebeians disdain all things,
the civil servants undermine the polity.
We lack a Quest.
Instead, we conjugate the pillowbooks,
crowd the gaming halls and markets.
Our expeditions sail for El Dorado, Atlantis, all the fabled
treasure lands.
We will leave no shadow on History.
Our librarians sleep all day.
Our scholars mumble at walls.
(5)
Ma punters? Theys wee jobbies, wan an all.
Ah huv a regular, a guidie, full o’ gripes.
Ah cannae wait tae gi um the heave
wanst he’s had his gam or parked, or baith.
Ah cannae staun they cunts wannae yabber.
Whit a Dublin!
He says he’s frae Embra,
thinks he’s the kippers knickers, um wae his jooks
an kegs mockit roond his ankles, his bahookie
aw scuddy, his walloper pamped. Ah cannae quote um.
Ah pity the poor weans he teaches at the Maggie May.
‘They no heird o’ Jeez-oh’ he says ‘let aloan believe
in Goad. Son o’ William, dochter o’ Wilma,
Tim Malloy – s’ainly a label. We’ve nae
a scooby doo. Their is nae Goad, nae Heaven,
nae Bad Fire, intit no? This society’s tea’s oot,
its aw aboot Gene Tunney an podgerin.
All oor books is tanned. Who’ll mind us?
Nae wan’
Ah tell ya, yid wannae o.d.
on yoor skag or Spider’s eggs. Wheesht! I think,
away an pap peas at ya Granny….
(6)
How he hated himself,
was hostile to what we thought
-or knew – which was not much.
Nothing greened his drought.
There’s neither good nor evil
he’d say, despising the Lord,
denying Jesus ever lived.
Suffering, death, void
- that’s all there is, he’d sneer.
So many women he had
with never a word of love.
So many books he read.
What did they say to him?
How little we know, how wrong
even that is, that’s all
he’d reply. Why was he born
to die so young? Silence,
answer me, please. I’m waiting.
(7)
for Johanne Robbins
Lard,
me bin here tree month. Me already weary.
A what dis at all? Me a tink pan sudden
dis islan no koo de pa dey. It a gorner,
a foo true.
De pickney hab no respeck
for you, Lard, dey buse you, dey forget Jesus,
dey rabben.
All dis people wahn is
fix me up nice Dey motto Stone under water,
no feel the heat of day A wah mek
dey so nuff? Dey one hand no wash
the other.
Dey play Warri with you, Lard,
dey forgotten according to you act
you get wok and you kill me dog
me kill you cat.
Tupsh! Me no wahn um,
me must learn to see and no see.
But me weary, Lard, me long fee see you,
me long fee see you
Paul Lee
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Julie
“A biography in 18 lines”, featured on a bookmark to celebrate National Poetry Day by Leicester and Leicestershire Libraries.
Julie
Wore kitten-heeled boots
skin-tight jeans, studded belt
and a leather jacket,
feather-cut blonde hair
with heavy kohl and mascara
to age her blue eyes.
Huddles on a park bench
at midnight.
There’s a gap in her pocket
where her stepmother refused
to give her house keys
and locked up an hour
before she said she would.
Dreams in snatches of sleep
a job at the perfume counter,
marriage to the guy she met tonight
because he once mentioned
he didn’t want children.
Emma Lee
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Good Morning Midnight
Jean Rhys, best known for “Wide Sargasso Sea”, wrote about women in the 1920s and 1930s, this poem tries the capture the spirit of some of her novels. Originally published in Exit 21: Poems Selected by Ian McMillan.
Good Morning Midnight
(after Jean Rhys)
This hostel room is bare.
The remaining wallpaper,
wallflower-like, refuses to peel.
She’s huddled into the chair,
knees drawn up to lessen
the impact of floorboard-gap draughts.
The bedcover remains unkindly crumpled.
The man in the night, as others before,
became loving by drink alone.
The wine in the dresser bottle: uncomfortably
blood-stained. And with more body
than in those bruise-coloured veins.
Outside the window the fountain
spurts so icy clear in the dying night.
Emma Lee
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Free Champagne in St Petersburg
Sitting in the lobby of Hotel Leningrad (in 1996) waiting for a friend led to an offer of free champagne… too good to be true? Originally published in The Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry. Also included in “Yellow Torchlight and the Blues”.
Free Champagne in St Petersburg
In the lobby waiting for Amanda,
while avoiding eye contact with Finns
slurring their speech and making drinking motions,
I watch you pause to admire your manly reflection
in the metallic lift doors. Your back straightens,
hands go in pockets, stride lengthens,
expression eases into a half-smile.
A casual peacock in check shirt and jeans.
I wish I’d worn a longer skirt.
My spine curves back into the seat.
I resist glancing at my watch:
it wouldn’t make Amanda apply lipstick any quicker.
I wonder if I could blink and make you disappear.
Or accompany the next Finn, intent on leaving
alcohol-restrictions at the border, to the bar.
You slide into the chair next to me
and offer a cigarette. Without noticing me not
take one, after establishing I speak English,
you tell me you’re Dutch, disassociating
yourself from the surrounding poverty,
and holidaying alone. You have a yacht,
apparently, but fail to tell me what it looks like.
Or where it’s moored. Or what it’s named.
Breaking from your fascination with my skirt’s pattern,
you ask if I would like a drink and make off
for the bar before I can shake my head.
I focus on the lift doors in your absence,
willing them to burst open with Amanda’s lipsticked smile,
but the lobby echoes with silence.
A cheap champagne bottle and two glasses announce
your return. You pour and suggest moving somewhere private.
That I don’t know your name is too feeble an excuse,
and not one that would concern you. I propose you
tell me your room number and go on up.
Then quietly raise my glass to your retreating back.
Now I know how to avoid you.
Emma Lee
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After the Gig
Originally published in the Featured Poet section of Poetry Monthly.
After the Gig
I – The Fan
He stands,
charcoal grey pinstriped suit
still immaculate
although the white shirt cuffs
are now grubby,
amongst feedback and roadies;
isolated in imposed idleness.
Long, bony fingers
push jet black hair
from his mask-like face,
not sure what to do
without microphone or beer.
Thin mouth, after singing,
relaxes into something
approximating a smile.
His dark eyes watch.
Not security or a roadie,
yet you’re a barrier.
Your black lyrca dress
presses your stomach flat.
A generous velvet jacket
hangs over your arm
in case the lycra couldn’t hold.
You cloud in perfume.
Your foundation was polyfilla’d:
there’s too much kohl,
not enough mascara.
Your eyes are just
a little too bright,
as you talk to no one,
least of all the man
you’re describing as genius.
I slide past and ask him
how he got that producer.
Offer him a drink
that he gratefully accepts.
His words tumble
in enthusiasm,
his Californian accent
more pronounced,
his smile more genuine.
You glare, unhappy
but unable to remind me
to place him on a pedestal.
A beer’s more
refreshing than sycophancy.
He grins his thanks.
II – The Ligger
Oh, I am just so drained!
My voice has almost gone
but when he did my favorite…
Oh, the intelligence of his lyrics!
His songs are just genius.
What the…?
I hate her already:
she just slipped between those cases!
Who is she?
She’s short -
only comes up to his buttonhole
despite those heels.
Flat too: no curves on her.
She’s gotta be a six.
Bet she needs that jacket to keep warm.
Her hair’s limp and mousey.
Can’t smell perfume:
she probably uses soap.
And is that shadow
or smudged kohl?
Has that lipstick bled?
How dare she!
She’s not worthy.
A beer!
Gotta be the wrong brew.
What would she know?
He’s smiling.
What are they talking about?
III – The Singer/ Songwriter
It’s over.
Didn’t seem too bad.
Sound was lousy:
PA was ancient.
But the crowd made it:
really good atmosphere.
Now what?
I guess I stand here.
Outta the way.
Let the roadies get on with it.
I’ve done my fair share of humping.
She’s off again.
The one with the earrings
as golden as that Californian tan
under the white theatre paint.
I’ve forgotten her name, again.
Forgotten even how she came to be here.
I’m not a genius: I’m a singer.
I’m not a poet: I write lyrics.
And right now I’d like a beer.
Now, she’s genuinely pale
against that black fishnet.
There’re nerves beneath that smile.
Her accent’s British, polite,
as she asks about my songs.
There’s a story behind that producer…
And thanks for the beer.
Go on, glare from under that white paint.
Her questions interest unlike your statements.
Yeah, I’m missing my wife,
but I’m wearing my wedding ring
and you don’t have one, but might as well have.
Emma Lee
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