Kids and adventure. On the dry land athwart the puddle they were building a flat wooden vessel. Call it an ark. These little humans were raising an ark to set sail for Treasure Island. Forget the religious connotation, the small ones were into Pieces of Eight Massir Awkins. You had to laugh. I did, I liked kids and having one of my own was beyond anything imaginable. Incredible that a human could bring another human into being. Of course Lindsey had played a part in the process. It takes two, two.
And where was the child to play. The backcourt was a massive adventure playground and I would have loved it when I was a wean, but now: now it was too dangerous. You could not let kids out there, not until they were older. Other parents did and I had no problem with that although Lindsey did. She was from the south seas of England and dint understand tenement life ol partner.
Neither did I.
On one roof across from me I could see two men working with slates and tarpaulin, repairing the recent storm damage.
That or a storm similar had struck the south-east coast of North America. Although the information was an irrelevance it helped people feel better. Nevertheless this here had been the worst storm for twenty years according to Mrs McAuley on the ground floor left; a crabbit woman who spent most of her life in the local butcher shop. Was that not unnatural behaviour? My father was a horse punter and spent most of his life in the betting shop which, if not admirable, was at least understandable. But butcher shops! There was something deviant about that. Every time one passed along the pavement and gazed into the butcher-shop window lo and behold that female personage was there at the counter, in conversation with the butcher’s wife, Mary, a local tradition-bearer. Forget the word ‘gossip’; ‘gossip’ did not do justice to the scope of what passed locally from mouth to mouth.
I was chuckling. I caught myself doing it. My thoughts delighted me. Yes and the toddler had returned in the backcourt below. Post haste. Red crayon red crayon. Nee naaawww neee naaawww. Red crayons for toddlers, certain toddlers. Definitely a red crayon for this wee being of the gender female with the spoon and cup
the spoon and cup
lost to the world making sandpies from out the black slime. The wee darling. I knew her mother and for God sake she was okay for all that never could she be described as a good mother. Never ever. She definitely was not a good mother. On this Lindsey and I agreed. As disinterested observers no other judgement was possible. She smoked like a chimney, went to the bingo, no doubt drank copious quantities of alcohol, to wash down the copious popped pills, all the while allowing her wonderful wee girl to toddle around this hellhole of a backcourt. What happened if she fell in the damn puddle; what if she fell on broken glass; if her flesh was sliced open? She would contract diphtheria. Nothing more certain. One felt like charging downstairs and lifting her out of harm’s way.
But was she in harm’s way?
Halt! Who goes there!
Middle-class missionaries.
Ah, pass on.
Artist as interventionist. The toddler in the puddle. I scraped an edge on the crayon, sketched quickly. Blunt crayons annoyed me unless appropriate. Appropriate crayons. How does one distinguish black-slime sandpies from sand sandpies? Weans dont why should adults? Might they be so distinguished?
By an understanding of the nature of ‘essence’. What is ‘essence’ mine fuhrer?
The aeroplane overhead. Fasten seatbelts. A London flight. The wealthy business class, commuters commuting. I commute, you commute. Five minutes to land. Already on the final descent. Oh my ears a-poppin. Here is a boiled sweet. The stewardess on the side seat stares vacantly, knees glued together. Glued together. I was once on a plane and a stewardess sat so facing me. Her knees! It was a big plane and I was on the seat at an exit door. And travelling alone, though such information is not relevant. The stewardess sat on the pull-down seat facing me. And amid much turbulence and a most bumpy landing her knees remained together, dimpled knees, not beautiful but yes, well, maybe they were.
Are all knees dimpled?
But how did she manage it! How could it be! Mon amee! Such compo-zure! Such aispeer-yons! Such aileegons.
Needless to report she had nice legs. All stewardesses have nice legs. Given that the uniform skirt is not conducive, should not have been conducive.
I challenge that. They are so conducive!
But conducive or not, 100 per cent female, women’s skirts. And what about her vacant stare? And could it be drawn. Hold it there a minute. Miss would you please be vacant a little longer. But why had I to unspread my own knees? Why! Why indeed, because I was getting hard. An erection occasioned, was occasioning, been brought about, effected by, the presence of these knees, and what and what, oh, what lay not so much
the knees of this woman, this stewardess whose stare was not at all vacant, or if it was yet concealing a most interested smile, a smile of daring, of daring — design!
Is design too strong a word?
The sense of the irresistible. Not by nefarious design aforethought, simply the non-reflective act of a free man. No no no. It was more than that. I was unspreading my knees for her, for her! She had been reading a magazine and pretended not to notice. And her knees my God stuck together, how could it be!
Now that surely was unnatural. Women surely are not programmed to keep those knees jammed together. Mine might be closed but not jammed. Hers were jammed. Jammed! Why?
Why indeed.
Now that had been unfair advantage. But the phrase ‘vacant stare’. Perhaps that stare was not so vacant. Perhaps that stare was a stratagem. How to deal with male intimidation. And it was. I had desired that she notice my masculinity. It was true. Who knows, maybe she would slip her phone number into my hand as we departed the plane.
Men have that over women. The freedom to open one’s legs. Not even in trousers will a woman open her legs, not like that, spread; spread knees. ‘Spread knees’ could be the name of an audacious new deodorant.
Had I been a copywriter. Mercy me. In the days when one travelled alone. One had yet to become a threesome. Lindsey and I had met but were yet to form a relationship. We had slept together. We had slept together. Sigh. One could only sigh. A reflective exhalation.
Sounds, what were the sounds. Banging through the wall. Who lived through the wall? Ye gods. The mystery of it, and to remain so; destined as such.
I heard this banging at odd hours. An old-fashioned author was required to make of that a mystery so dreadful, of such awe-inspiring
Oh my, more banging.
I focused closely on visual rather than aural matter.
In the backcourt parts of the ground had been cemented over. There were also dirt patches and here weeds blossomed. Bits of charred wood, remnants from the fire last month, strewn among rusted push-pram parts and holey bedspreads.
Jesus Christ a ragman! An actual ragman! I thought they had died out centuries ago! This guy! A fucking ragman! He was dragging a sack behind him and stopping every two or three strides to poke under articles. He was doing it on the off chance. Spoiled articles. Old newspaper or linoleum, it looked like linoleum. And his dog was there. That was odds on, a dog. Ragmen always had dogs. Oft times they were known as ‘rag and bone’ men. That would be the nineteenth century when bones lay about the streets in the name of God.
But I remembered those men from childhood, rummaging around for stuff, any kind of stuff, every kind of stuff. I hadnt seen one for years.
Mercy me he was going to leave! Hold it! Hold it hold it. Hold it hold it hold it.
The ragman stayed barely a minute. Three balloons for your coat and hat. Any bones? The dog sniffing at his heels. The dog had that hopeful demeanour one expects from the canine as opposed to the feline.