A Sussex Story

It was an open space that I chopped into squares

but still the wind blows across

A Sussex Story

Gold, gold, the quarterboys! The water moves in the dark

Up here on the hill's deck The wind moves full of water

Waiting for the big clock Hands full of breath

And shreddy tatting of the       Yours and mine

bowlines down there in the      Winding around the hill

polepark: Rain, wind, shoes on stone

Gold, gold, the quarterboys!

The clattering polepark

Cold wind flecked with rain

Up here on the town's deck

And to larboard down there

The wheeling funfair lights in the car-park

Trudging to the door with Sheila in heels

Hammering fiercely on the broad pavement

In the mist like tiny nails in fairy-tales

We came to the blue door of the Horse and Groom

(I can't recall if it was Courage or Harveys)

and fumbling for a moment in chilly calm

That I appreciated even in the middle 

of all our turbulence, I squashed my hat

into one palm and with the other turned the handle   

A glare of illumination,  and wisps of smoke,

a public bar in winter, St Leonards on Sea,

not full but fairly lively for mid-week

the beer-rings round that table & the empties collected in the middle,

fags, Friday-Ad, shiny Golden Virginia tins, and them

                  -- yes, I see them now -- crumbling baccy into papers,

Laughing, like any couple anywhere, but quietly,

Drowned out by raucous floods of beer-buzz from the bar.

We were almost breaking up. There was something like relief

when we saw them in the front bar, Sheila's ex landlady/flatmate 

as she'd become after Sheila had come home to find

her lover cosily in bed with her best friend, 

and home was no longer home, 

so she'd moved downstairs to seek refuge;

I knew her too though not very well, 

I had been over at Pevensey Road to stay

(but then, she must have been away mostly, remembering

                 some of the things we did)

(i.e. the ground floor, the first floor was where Sheila and Bryn had lived

                 before this best friend Vicky sought refuge there, 

                 -- which was what she had done, though for what 

                 particular trouble I don't recall --

and Sheila coming back early from work, etc.)

                 this was during that short period between 

                 us getting together and Sheila getting her own place

                 in a neat, rather expensive, basement beside the park

                 (she did have two Fitted markings)

Though come to think of it even in those earliest days of us,

                 the Pevensey days, we were almost breaking up... 

Sheila liked her, yes but feared her, she looked worn out, neurotic,

                 unpredictably pissed off, depressed according to Sheila,

                 full of bizarre life that had nothing to do with us.

Madeline. -- the man's name was Rog. A much older man,

Older but actually they went together, dressed in working clothes

Made for the rain, rumpled jackets, fingerless gloves, DMs,

Everything old with plenty of weather through it .

I could see why she liked him. He was a chimney sweep,

Warm, short, powerful, quiet, maybe even shy.

He'd not got away from his wife before.

Most old houses up in the weald or the vineyards he'd swept in the summer

& the town terraces in winter. 

 

This I remember, but not much of what we talked of. 

They were all older than me, I didn't understand anything

And besides, they had not been to university,

Whilst I was in the thick of a PhD.

In the car park at Firehills, plenty of cars late at night,

the coast of Romney Marsh impossibly drawn out to the misty nova of Dungeness

Rye and Rye Harbour closer, radar turning, 

a single red light in the sky above the coastguard station.

I would stub out my fag and drive down to The Lamb at the Kent ditch.... 

or go back via Paul McCartney's house. 

The whole place was a mournful playground,

and me an ignorant Kipling in a Polo.

Then one day, a year later, 

Tired of running away to Canterbury on my own

To conceal wounds re-opened by Sheila

(Now ex) and my own flatmate Tim fooling around together

I heard about Madeline, and we started going drinking

In Rye, listening to the blues bands, delicate with each other,

Not afraid of tears, more or less knowing the position,

Conceding the quirks of desperate emotion,

The times when you have to stop the car, right here,

And breathe, roll a fag, and wait until you can say the words:

I'm all right now. Sorry. It's all right. Let's carry on. 

I learnt much more than I could take in about her

In the deep gulfs that patrol a beer-filled evening

                  of friendship with a possible lover.

(I put my arm around her once, 

At night on the beach at St Leonards,

                  a pass as light as a butterfly's wing.)

Near that spot she had once been a barmaid for the fishermen's club,

But now she was a primary-school teacher, 

                  misplaced in a too-Christian school

And pretty soon after we became friends

                  she jacked it in and started supply.

 (She was also a morris dancer in a 

                  female troupe called Daisy Roots.)

Our families and relationships poured out on the table

                  or in the dark car after closing time.

Somehow, because of the holy lack of sex,

                  we trusted each other, we told secrets.

Sometimes she made me laugh more than anyone ever.

Rog had died without warning,

One of those merciless heart attacks that do the job in one.

As it happened, Maddy had sort of finished it with Rog,

Not meaning it to end (this occurred sometimes), so

She hadn't found out for two weeks, 

She wasn't in contact with the wife,

The funeral was over and done with.

It was a cremation, she had absolutely nothing to remember him by.

It had been a very private affair, no friend had seen much of them. 

(That time in the golden bar,

Once crossing over at the house in Pevensey Road, 

the four of us sharing a pot of tea...)

But his yacht was still moored at Rye. Over and over

we drove to where his yacht was moored,

Waiting for something to happen. & the dark water slapped, & the chain clanked.

His wife, wheelchair-bound, never went out, had probably never seen it,

Didn't want it, never liked Rog going off 

-- And the boat went up for sale very soon. Madeline watched. 

She wanted the boat very badly, but she had no money.

The boat was the grief she was not allowed to exhaust.

Hey mama, mama don't you want to go...

It was mostly the Ypres Castle, up salty or icy steps 

from Fishmarket Road, empty beer gardens, the benches shining,

Fremlins, King & Barnes,

 

The bands were people Madeline sort of knew to nod to,

Best was a pianist from Cranbrook who (so it was said)

Was now a big name in New Orleans, John Cleary. 

His singing voice was pure Louisiana, of course, but a little light;

His playing technique formidable, and the overall effect -- 

Cheerful... like a half of Harveys. She could drink much more than me.

Madeline had a mother who sometimes came to stay,

(Causing massive increase of stress in both of them).

She had a nephew in Ashford that she loved,

and used to tell me his jokes:

What's orange and sounds like a parrot?  

A carrot. She also watched Coronation Street,

And a Sunday evening serial about yachts, passion and money

                called Howard's Way.

She had two cats, one of whom dominated the other,

And a B.Ed degree on the go at a college in Brighton.

We went drinking in Rye a lot, sometimes every night for a week.

We went to pubs with bands, because Madeline liked the blues

(She liked morris dancing too, and she made me laugh).

The cops were always pulling me over and breathalysing me,

So we started to drive home through the lanes where cops never went.

One night in the bottoms we got out to piss. I finished first. 

                The air was heavy with meadowsweet.

I lit a fag, then I got in the car and put on a tape. Finally Maddy returned.

                The dark trees loomed over the car.

The same tape she liked last week she didn't like now.

She'd really lost it. I looked at her.

Her trouble had replaced her beauty

Her trouble had replaced her youth,

It had stolen their virtues, become desirable,

Become rich and ardent.

Somewhere between Pett and St Lawrence Guestling,

Flooded with Fremlins, 

Meadowsweet nettles oaks rabbits bracken,

The car puttered onto the down and dropped into town.

 

We were both in our thirties, no, I was 29. She despised my work

& criticized my interests (e.g flowers), 

                 which she thought insincere.

I didn't like her any the less for these words,

                  maybe I felt superior.

I was sorry she hated cathedrals.

(Religion and history, her vehement dislikes...)

Those days in Canterbury, tormented by jealousy,

I had waited by a side chapel for a priest to hear confession

In her toilet, you were meant to strike a match to 

                   clear the air when you'd finished.

Oh, and she made the garments for Daisy Roots, 

                   she held the first one up to show me: 

The pattern was yellow around a white disc.

I said (stupefied) "But daisies have the yellow on the inside!", 

                   she wouldn't at first believe me that they

                   were so like fried eggs.

Down there, masts sticking up like a pole park,

Can't see the boats until you climb out of the road.

Working soaked chips free from the bottom of the bag.

The boats two abreast along the W. berths 

The Lizzy, was that the wizard's boat?

Small boat, brown, serviceable, 

               its mast a little back of vertical,

               plastic cover hung over the boom,

Fenders all dangling like flour-bags

Moon and boats in the water, shimmering...

The sound of a train... 

On Armada day, the Daisy Roots were dancing at a beacon

Up in Mad Jack Fuller's country. On the way there (through sunset lanes)

I ran over a rabbit, and saw in the rear-view mirror

Its companion come to sniff over its crushed body, still flipping.

My mind went dark, I said nothing to Maddy, 

Who couldn't bear the least touch of distress. 

 

At the bonfire we ran into Bryn and Vicky, with the baby in morris rompers.

I didn't dance, but I did burn my mouth with pure powdered Colemans 

On a hot dog dripping onions, and knocked over my beer on the grass.

Then the boat was gone & didn't come back,

                gone to Essex or Southampton I imagined,

Anyway sold up, all Rog's and Madeline's love-filled trips

                In the channel, over to France,

Spray, darkness, storm lanterns, tobacco tins, camping Gaz,

Clandestine sex where no eye could spy or listener guess.

And then, we stopped going to Rye...

Then, in winter, she saw something in Friday-Ad

(Everyone read all of Friday-Ad every Friday)

It was Rog's jacket, his wife was selling Rog's jacket.

She thought it over, how many times had he 

               taken her under his wings on a blowing day 

               south of St George's lightship? Twice, maybe,

               but she felt she knew every thread. 

No-one else should have the jacket. Trembling, she threw on a 

Ridiculous disguise, supply-teacher suss, 

Went round to the house and spoke in an altered voice.

(Though this was the only time she ever did meet Rog's wife

Who knew how much she knew? Or was it that, face to face,

She would give herself away, starting to speak of him

To the only other woman who knew him?)

She got the jacket. It smelt of Rog, of soot, salt, Golden Virginia

And him. She wrapped it around her and slept on the sofa

In the smell of his arms for eleven hours.

And then, she was all right. The next time I saw her

Was at Sheila's wedding next spring with her tongue down the best man's throat,

A freelance consultant, 25-ish, whom she married.

They bought the upstairs flat for his office and the freehold,

(The flat that was Bryn and Sheila's when we met)

Then pretty soon after they moved to Barnet.

VOICES LYING IN THE DUNES AT CAMBER SANDS  

Mum, are there any towels around here?

No. What do you want a towel for.

I can make smoke come out of my feet

Joshua, come ‘ere.

Joshua, why are you being rude to your mother

You’re splintering your foot, darling

Come on then, Mummy race you down the sand-dune, come on!

 oo    - ah     - ow     - ah!

Josh, it’s yours!

It’s a trick, Cerys.

If you do that one more time Joshua you’ll answer to me.

And don’t go near them railings, I can’t get you to hospital if you kebab yourself. 

Ah!   It’s hot

Verity that’s a bit silly. Everyone’ll get covered in sand. 

No. We’re going home. 

I glanced up, my daughter was waving and laughing.

Sorry – we got involved in a mud-fight.