4. Hastings Habanera
The statutes are silent their voices unheard
They’re looking down on the square and think it’s absurd
The lapping of the lunar controlled ocean sweeping its swollen waves onto the beige beach of Hastings seafront gently woke the young lovers from their tortured sleep. The sea birds called to their mates as they spotted the shoals of silver fish darting through the rolling foam. Sarah-Jane cuddled up to Marks’ warm body and gazed up into his opening eyes.
“Any fags left” she said.
“Only one, we can share it if you like, then I’ll get some from the café up there,” Mark pointed towards the brightly painted shack on the promenade. A small friendly looking transport café owned by a man called Pete, according to the legend above the shop. The bright orange colour on the side of the building glared at the morning, greeting the visitors with its’ garish smirk. Pete was obviously a man of great taste and absolutely no sense of colour, as no doubt the increase in the incidence of migraine in the area since the re-decoration took place, would testify.
Mark and Sarah-Jane finished the last cancer-stick and ambled over towards the gaudy building, it was actually a lot further away than it looked. The air was thick with cooking steam as they opened the door to the café, walked in and sat down at a melamine-topped table to read the menu. Now for simplicity’s’ sake the word ‘grease ‘ had been omitted from the menu (although as it was a non-chargeable item I suppose that is fair enough) Having caught a glimpse of the wonderful fare served up in the name of breakfast to other diners, and much preferring more egg and bacon with his grease, Mark decided on toast. Sarah followed his lead, she was not very hungry anyway, but needed a coffee, and at least the café was warm. Mark walked up to the counter, negotiating the haphazardly arranged tables as he did so. The faintly moustachioed woman peered from under her spectacles and explained that cigarettes were on sale at the newsagent two doors away and that she was serving someone else already so would he mind waiting a second please. Mark returned to the table and Sarah.
“I’ll have to nip next door to the newsagents for fags, you order and I’ll back in a tick,” he said to his paramour.
“Oh yeah okay, don’t be long though I need the loo” Sarah’s voice was slow and trailed off towards the end of the sentence. She had a vacant look on her face, the sort that made Mark feel like knocking twice on her forehead to ask if anyone was in.
“Are you okay, babe,” he said, “I’ll be as quick as I can, couple of minutes.”
“Yes fine” Sarah responded.
Mark was actually gone for about fifteen minutes in all. What with the chap in the cap who did not know what he wanted; and the surly shop assistant who did not seem to care what he wanted; Mark felt that he was losing the will to live whilst waiting to be served.
By the time he did return, Sarah was chatting to a tall unshaven man and sipping dark brown gravy that was masquerading as coffee.
“Don is driving north today and offered us a lift back home if we want” Sarah chirped up.
“Yeah Grimsby Docks, leaving in about a quarter of an hour if that’s all right” the swarthy looking man joined in.
“Oh fine yes” a startled Mark responded” we’ll drop off anywhere that suits you, we don’t have to back till tonight anyway. Thanks a lot”
“I’ll be going A21, then up the 42 and across, got a drop in Birmingham first ya see so just ya give us a yell where you wanna be” he smiled through his dark bristles at the young couple.
“The M40 services at Warwick will be fine, won’t it love,” Mark replied trying to involve Sarah, if only to stop her staring at Don “We can spend the rest of the day there, and we can always get a bus home from there if necessary” Mark continued.
“Great, mine’s the red wagon at the side” Don said waving his arm vaguely towards the left hand windows of the café, “Bookers Transport, see ya in a bit”. He turned back to his own table to continue with his ‘Heart Attack’ special, a wondrous concoction of fried eggs, bacon, black pudding, and mushrooms served on tomato-flavoured bed of Castrol GTX
Mark turned his attention to his coffee, he took it black but wished he hadn’t now and began looking around for milk to take away the taste of pork from the drink. The spoon whirred in the mug mixing the creamy fluid and making patterns on the surface. Smiling swirling faces looking up at him, twisted shapes of nothingness as the coffee grounds rose to the top of the mug. (Well he hoped they were coffee grounds anyway). He took a sip casting a glance at Sarah as he did so. He was becoming increasingly worried about her. Her violent mood swings were getting worse and more frequent. She had looked dead on her feet before he‘d gone to get the cigarettes and now she was as bright as a button; she was even flirting with the truck drivers on the next table. Mark knew that she had smoked weed in the past and he had disapproved, that is where he had seen that vacant look before. He knew that she had also experimented with pills.
“Everybody’s does pills,” she said when confronted with the evidence Mark had found.
“Blues, bombers- just pep pills” she argued her bright eyes laughing as she did so.
Now Mark was no expert on amphetamines but he knew the effect was not that instant. He began to puzzle at Sarah’s’ remarkable powers of recovery. Perhaps she could manage on only three hours sleep he thought, but I’m whacked, ‘Was she on anything now?’ he pondered, winding the spoon round and round the spinning coffee. He stared into the black foaming mug searching for answers, but none came.
“Sarah-Jane are you alright” he eyed her with his serious fatherly look.
“Of course, don’t be silly Mark,” she replied indignantly “I’ve just woke up I need caffeine, you know I can’t face the world without a coffee” Sarah slurred her words; she sounded drunk.
“But aren’t you knackered. I am; we never got much sleep last night” Mark tried a different tack.
“Yea I know, but I guess it’s the sea air or sommut” Sarah straightened up visibly “I’m fine honestly Mark” she added, “You are such a fuss-pot”
Mark let it pass; he was far too tired and too sensible to have an argument at this time. To argue with a woman at any time is to live dangerously, and Mark knew he would need all his faculties to tackle Sarah head on. He looked at his sweetheart. She raised her cute eyebrows to look back at him, her eyes laughed and a smile radiated from her pretty face. He had promised Sarah’s mum he would take good care of her, but knew it would be pointless continuing with any discussion now, particularly after a smile like that!
While the tears gushed loudly like a waterfall of laughter,
he thought of the broken blanket of dreams,
and the girl with the garland thread in her hair was smiling.
The rain will sing you a song while the sun sleeps in its shell,
the pavement stones are painted like a mosaic dream,
and the girl with the rainbow smile was standing alone.
Lucy had always been quite contented with looks. She assessed herself as she looked into the large mirror that hung in the back room. Her boobs weren’t bad, her legs were long and shapely and unlike most women she knew, she was quite satisfied with her bottom, not too big and not too small. At 29 years old she considered herself young, although she was never one for fashion in either clothes or music, she always managed to look smart and well dressed. She liked to consider herself sophisticated, classic rather than trendy - modern rather than frumpy. She tried to keep up to date but did not care for the delicate and frivolous trends of youth. Yes, all in all Lucy was happy with her lot. She was happier in fact, than she had been for very a long time. She now found herself spending more and more of her free time with Michael. They talked: she’d learnt all about his family and why he felt so alone now. He told her about his job, how successful he had been, his achievements, full of so much promise until cruelly denied the fruit of his labours. They drank: many evenings were wiled away in idle chatter as the whisky flowed freely. They watched TV together, mainly movies although Michael seemed to enjoy nature documentaries, which suited Lucy as she too marvelled at the scenery. Her viewing pleasure increased by Michael’s asides telling her anecdotes of the places he had visited. Michael was extremely knowledgeable on places, people and their history, although whether that was as a result of travelling or reading, Lucy did not know, but she enjoyed his tales nonetheless. They had even gone out together socially albeit only to the Bingo Hall in town. The relationship was growing fast. The bud was blooming into a rose. Sure, there were thorns but its petals were wonderful and the blossom smelt sweet.
It was early one evening when Michael suggested, that, as there was nothing on the box
That he wanted to see, why not watch what he called a ‘naughty video’
“In the cabinet alongside the bed” he called over to Lucy, who was busying herself `in the back room “the one in the red cover,” he added.
Lucy went into the front bedroom, Michael’s room, and searched the bedside cabinet. There were four videos in there, all in plain unmarked covers. All except one were in black plastic boxes. Lucy opened the red box:-‘The Prisoner’ ‘Innocent enough title’ she thought and brought it downstairs to insert in the state of the art video player for Michael to watch. Lucy had seen ‘blue’ movies before they did not really do anything for her but she was not prudish about them. Live and let live she thought. All she needed was the sensual touch of a real man warming her body up to sexual temperature to turn her on; she had never needed artificial stimulation of any kind.
“I’ll go and prepare the supper then” Lucy said to Michael as he switched the television to the VCR channel.
“No don’t go, sit her and watch it with me I’m not very hungry anyway.” He gestured to her to sit down.
“I might not like the film “Lucy responded, trying to sound indignant.
“You will if you sit here,” Michael’s eyes sparkled as he nodded to the empty space on the couch beside him and she knew what he meant. Despite his disability, Michael was able to touch and feel some things. Lucy had to lift him bodily on and off the couch, the bed and into the bath; she didn’t always use the pulley, which was in the bathroom, and Michael had often touched her intimately during the lifting process. Initially she had put it down as an accident, but then as it happened with increasing regularity she knew he meant it. Indeed she quite enjoyed the attention and the limited fondles he offered. She even slept alongside him on two previous occasions masturbating him while he performed his perfunctory foreplay.
The TV jumped into life. Michael fast-forwarded the interminable adverts for films of the same ilk with obscure titles and equally obscure stars, if stars were indeed the term. The film opened in a kind of army barracks. An old castle looking building provided the sparse looking setting.
“They spend a lot of budget on scenery” Lucy commented, desperately trying to hold back her amusement at the cheap quality of the film.
“Quiet in the gallery” Michael quipped.
“Sorry, Michael” she said, But Lucy’s apology was drown out by the uninspired and insipid background music to the film………..…A smartly dressed young woman was walking through a myriad of winding corridors, flanked by two female Arab officers, their uniforms and weapons indicated they were guards of some description. Eventually after the scene setting music died away, a door opened and the woman was pushed roughly inside Amazingly the Arab guard spoke in perfect Oxford English “You strip now please.”
“I’ll do no such thing “the western woman replied indignantly.
This is a comedy thought Lucy, but she said nothing to Michael. The butch looking guard who was obviously neither Arab nor a good actress then produced a revolver and it pointed at the captive’s head barking “You are not required to speak yet, just get your clothes off and be quick about it. It was all Lucy could do to stop herself from laughing. Michael grabbed her hand and pulled it towards his groin; she felt a stirring and knew what he desired. She unzipped his fly and slipped her hand inside, with her other hand she undid her bra to allow Michael’s’ limited hand movement access to her sensitive area. Michael was obviously getting excited by the film or by Lucy’s expert fingers. She turned towards the screen to look at the woman. The Prisoner’s’ screams had made her take an interest. The captive was now naked stretched up with her hands handcuffed above her head and standing on tiptoe she was weeping loudly at her chagrin and embarrassment - Lucy was in hysterics; it was so unreal!
“I didn’t know you were into bondage,” she whispered gently in Michael’s ear.
“I’m not really, but it is indicative of my position don’t you think?” Lucy didn’t think anything at all; she found the whole situation comical and definitely not erotic “Do you find the film exciting?” Michael continued in his velvet tone, the one he used when he reverted to little boy lost mode, with his puppy dog eyes and doleful face.
“It’s Okay” Lucy replied hiding her boredom at the pathetic scenario, she hadn’t the heart to tell him what she really thought of the film. She could read his look though, and immediately, smiled back at him sweetly, then buried her head in his lap bringing her luscious tongue into play.
The hazel mask of glassy eyes a passionate sandwich of love,
With fingertips, that glowing red caresses the slender trunk.
Alive but drugged with ecstasy the virgin stream strides on.
The forest of her undergrowth is, as sunlight seems to die.
……………………………………………
Sarah-Jane sat cuddled up to Mark in between him and the string bean of a driver, Don as they sat high above the tarmac ribbon wending its way to their destination. Don was quite chatty as they passed through the villages and towns on route to the giant car park known as the M25. ‘Chris Rhea’s Road to Hell’ Mark thought ‘we’re already on it!’ He was not in the mood for chatting. Sarah has enough verbal diarrhoea for both of us he considered quietly to himself. Thoughts flashed into his tired and tortured brain, in all the two years he and Sarah-Jane had known each other neither of them had ever been with anyone else. They both implicitly trusted each other, but now Mark’s mind was working overtime and beginning to question the basis of their relationship. He searched the hot black tar as it curled under the windscreen before him. He found many questions –Why did Sarah spend time with Enoch at the Roostertail and then act as if she hated him when they were offered a lift the other day? – Who was the girl she was talking to near John on Sunday night? Moreover, why did that girl lunge at John with a knife? Who was she? And was that what started the fight? Too many questions he thought and not enough logical explanations. Perhaps it would become clearer when they got back home, but Mark doubted it, he was only fooling himself, he knew that.
All the kids knew John; they all got their stuff from him but Enoch, now he was a puzzle, an enigma. Everyone, including Mark always assumed him to be a major player, but he just did not fit the part, no flashy car, no flashy pad, not even flashy clothes Although there was not that many of Mark’s circle of friends that ever got invited to ‘E’s famed parties. Enoch was always smart, always trendy, but never ostentatious or over the top, he attracted attention without being ’in your face’ as the locals called it. He was friendly and polite; Mark had never seen him get angry, but he didn’t appear to do anything work-wise, which is why I suppose, the rumours seem to constantly surround him. About a year ago, he was supposed to be the local pimp, Enoch actually encouraged that one; it was good for his image.
“Life is an illusion Man,” He would say, “You can be anything you wants to be”
Enoch’s real claim to fame stemmed from his ability to know exactly when something was going down. A party or rave, a concert, any sort of gig within trucking distance of town and not only did Enoch know about it but he probably organised it and was selling tickets for it as well. He had originally moved into Chesford in the sixties with his family, so he had grown up in the area and got to know it well; they had came up from London where his dad was born. So Enoch, as a second generation Jamaican considered himself totally English (even if he did wear that ridiculous Rasta hat in the middle of summer and support the West Indians at cricket)
“You’re a bit quiet lad” Don the bean man broke Mark’s digressions.
“Yeah, sorry, I was drifting; I’m tired” Mark apologised for his lack of interest in histravelling companion’s conversation.
“He’s always tired” interjected Sarah-Jane “Never got any energy, he’s old and boring!”she laughed wickedly her eyes flashing a thousand darts towards her lover’s heart.
Mark knew that that was just not true, if anything, it was the opposite. Sarah-Jane was the one with the problem; she was constantly tired and moody. He had always put it down to a teenage girl thing, but now he was not so sure. The moodiness was getting more frequent and random. No! it was Sarah-Jane who was never at home these days. There was a light on but nobody was in!
The glasses clinked to symbolise the end of another phase,
a weekend web unwinding whilst work stood still,
and the girl with the crystal cut eyes was laughing
While the grandfathers’ neon face approached the midnight quarter,
the white cloaked figure crept from the shadows of revelry
and the girl with the ribbon in her hair had gone.
Lucy and Michael were woken by an attempt to beat the door of its hinges. It was Aysha, the other carer. She shouted loudly through the letterbox.
“What’s she want” Michael was not keen on Aysha, her tongue was sharp and she gave back as good as she got. Michael didn’t like her cold efficient manner he said that she made him feel like a piece of meat.
“It’s her shift and she said she’d come early to give me a hand with you in the bath”
Lucy explained, “I told you, her back has been playing up so I said I would give her some help
“I don’t need a bath” Thank you very much “Now go and get rid of her,” Michael snapped. Lucy got up and after straightening her dress, she turned the television off, before going towards the door. The video had stopped, and two extremely patronising women were discussing the seven-year itch on GMTV. Lucy and Michael had slept on the couch all night!
The door banged again. Aysha shouted “Are you awake in there, come on open up”
“Get rid of her, “Michael shouted back. Lucy opened the door.
“You took your time” the girl quipped and walked in “I’ve been ringing the buzzer from the flat for ages, have you turned it off” she said waltzing forward into the kitchen to check the unit.
“Michael!” Lucy turned to her charge “Why did you do that?”
“You know why, I needed peace and quiet; you two fussing over me like Mother Hens.”
“That’s very foolish, you know the buzzer is supposed to be on at all times, it’s for your own safety” Lucy answered “What if you’d have had an accident? How long has it been turned off” she continued her tirade
“He’s just a self-centred little man, never any consideration,” Aysha joined in the verbal assault.
“If you’ve only come here to insult me you might as well go home again” Michael retaliated.
“I might just do that one of these days” Aysha retorted realising at once that the words were addressed to her.
“I don’t know why we put up with you and your moods”
“Well you know where the door is” Michael was unrepentant, and secretly enjoying every minute of the altercation.
“If you‘re not happy with my work why don’t you just say so,” the carers’ face was like thundershe was intensely proud of her work record, and always took a pride in her assignments.
“He doesn’t mean it Ays he’s just grumpy today,” Lucy said defending Michael vigorously.
“He’s always grumpy, it’s no wonder carers come and go like Piccadilly station” Aysha answered visibly upset.
“I’m not grumpy. I am the client and you’d do well to remember that young lady,” Michael retorted, addressing his comments to Aysha, although he was looking mischievously at Lucy.
“Leave it Aysha, he’s trying to wind you up, you should know him by now.” Lucy was right, Michael was playing games something he often did of late.
“I don’t know how you’ve put up with him for so long,” she said to Lucy “If he’s getting personal, and questioning my ability, I don’t know whether I wish to continue working for him.” Aysha was good at her job, she may have been cold and clinical but she was good, probably better than Lucy, but whereas Lucy felt emotion, and even love for Michael, to Aysha he was the client, nothing more. It was a job, full stop.
“If I didn’t need this job I would get out now” she continued her icy exterior cracking “If you’re worried about that, don’t be” Michael shouted “I’ll pay you till the end of the month and give you a wonderful reference. Close the door on your way out!”
“Fine! You’re a miserable sod anyway; I really can’t understand how Lucy manages. She had never really got on terribly well with Lucy; just a working relationship - they hardly saw much of each other anyway, when Lucy was at the flat Aysha was with Michael and vice versa. In fact Aysha had a boyfriend where she had been spending a lot of time lately so she hadn’t even been in the flat much in recent weeks. So, the two women didn’t meet socially either: Aysha was too busy and Lucy’s social life was non-existent. Lucy tried to calm the situation “Don’t be hasty Aysh, he’s just being Michael.
“No! He’s promised to pay me, so I’m going” Ayshas’ face was like thunder, “I don’t need this hassle just now, I‘ve enough problems with my Leroy. I just don’t need it!”
“I’ll see to it that you get your money and reference,” Lucy smiled.
“Cheers I’ll get my bit of stuff out the flat. Good luck with him Luce, you’ll need it!
Aysha turned, picked up her bag, and went back through the door. Lucy turned round towards Michael, he was beaming from ear to ear. “Michael you are incorrigible” she said.
“Yes, but lovely with it”. He laughed loudly.