Poetry
Loss
Addiction.
Perfect.
About halfway through my stretch, I got a visit from the Chaplain. I was lying on my bunk, reading. My cell mate was at an AA meeting. The Chaplain had manners, asked,
‘Might I come in?’
‘Sure.’
Any diversion. He sat on the opposite bunk, scanned my line of books. There was
Philosophy
Literature
Thrillers
Poetry.
He said, ‘Your reading is eclectic.’
I thought he said electric, answered,
‘Whatever gets you wired.’
He gave a religious smile, all front, no warmth, said,
‘No — eclectic, it means random.’
I liked it, said,
‘I like it.’
He picked up a volume of poetry, said,
‘Rilke, now that’s surprising.’
I tried to remember the line, tried:
‘Everything terrible is something that needs our love.’
It worked. He was stunned. I pushed, asked,
‘The cons here, do you think they need love?’
He went evangelical, said,
‘Most of the men here aren’t terrible, just...’
But he couldn’t find an appropriate adjective. I said,
‘You obviously haven’t chowed down with us. Yesterday a guy got knifed in the face for his creme caramel.’
‘How unfortunate.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
I sat up, rolled a cig, offered the Chaplain.
‘No, but thank you.’
I was half interested in him, asked,
‘Do you drive?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘A car. I just like to hear about motors.’
‘No, I ride a bike.’
Of course.
He folded his hands on his knees, adapted his face to empathy mode, asked,
‘Is anything troubling you?’
I laughed out loud, indicated the world outside the cell, answered,
‘Take a wild guess.’
‘It’s good to share.’
‘Keep your voice down Padre, that talk could spark a riot.’
He stood up, his duty done, said,
‘You’re an interesting man, might I visit on another day?’
I lay back on the bunk, said,
‘My door is always open.’
Course, he never did visit again.
Next morning I was listening to Capitol when the phone went. Picked it up, said,
‘Yeah.’
‘Mitch? This is Sarah.’
‘Right. Did you get a story?’
‘No, but I might have got you a job.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t thank me yet. I have an aunt in Holland Park. She lives in a huge house and it’s in dire need of repairs. The snag is she’s a difficult woman and no other workmen will go there anymore. Believe me, she’s had an army of them.’
‘Why will I be different?’
Long pause, then,
‘Well, she’ll forgive a man anything if he’s handsome.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you want to give it a whirl? She’ll pay awfully well.’
‘Sure, why not.’
‘She lives at The Elms, you can’t miss it, just after the beginning of Holland Park, it has an impressive driveway.’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘I’m sure you will. Do you know anything about the theatre?’
‘No.’
‘You won’t have come across Lillian Palmer then.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘I don’t suppose it matters. Anyway, that’s her, my aunt.’
‘I look forward to meeting her.’
‘Don’t be so sure. Well, good luck.’
I decided to chance it, felt I might be on a roll, asked,
‘Listen Sarah, do you fancy a drink sometime?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m not part of the package.’
And she hung up.
So much for the roll.
I had no equipment for work but figured I’d make it up as I went along. I know enough cowboys to borrow almost anything.
First off, I’d go and see the place, see what I’d need. If I was to be a handyman, I thought casual clothes would be best. Sweatshirt and jeans should be fine.
As I headed for the tube, I thought, ‘I’ve a home, clothes, job offers, and I’d only been out twenty-four hours’.
Those cons had got it wrong, life on the outside was a breeze.
In Alcoholics Anonymous, they refer to HP. It means Higher Power. On the street they also refer to HP... for Homeless Person. The connection between both is booze. Alcoholics have to abstain to survive. The homeless depend on it to survive.
I dunno what set off this in my head. A legacy of jail is this travelling on a tangent of thought.
Whatever, by the time I snapped out of it, I was nearing Holland Park. I got off the tube at Notting Hill and walked up. Found The Elms, no problem. Like Sarah said, there was a huge driveway. Strolled up, looking at the trees that lined the way.
Then the house and I muttered — ‘Wow’.
It was a mansion, no other description would apply.
It shouted:
WEALTH.
I moved to the door, made of solid oak. Up close the house looked rundown, shabby even. Lots of work here. I lifted the heavy knocker, gave it a wallop.
The door opened. A butler stood there in full regalia. I couldn’t believe it. I thought all the butlers had gone to California or sit-coms or both. He was small and sturdy. In truth, like Oddjob from the Bond movie. I was too taken aback to speak. He asked,
‘Yes?’
I gave my name, mentioned Sarah and expected the bum’s rush.
He said, ‘Madam is expecting you, come this way.’
I did.
Into a large hall. He’d have taken my coat if I had one. Led me to a drawing room and said,
‘Madam will appear presently.’
Then he fucked off.
The room was vast with regency furniture. I know that cos it looked like no one ever sat on it. Hundreds of framed photographs with a blonde woman in them all. She looked like a laid back Lauren Bacall with the ferocity. A massive portrait above the fireplace. The blonde again. On the walls were framed posters with ‘LILLIAN PALMER IN STREETCAR’, ‘MOURNING BECOMES ELECTRA’, ‘SWEET BIRD OF YOUTH’.
Like that.
Despite the expensive frame they looked old. Heavy drapes covered the windows and I figured I’d let a little light in.
Pulled them back to reveal bay windows. An overgrown garden stretched all the way back. Without thinking I began to roll a cig. Lit up. I was staring out the window when a shout near put me through it.
‘PUT OUT THAT CIGARETTE!’
I turned round to face whoever. A woman brushed past me, screaming,
‘How dare you open those drapes? The light will ruin the posters!’
As she covered the windows I got a look. She was dressed in a long black gown. Blonde hair down her back. Then she turned.
Not at all like Bacall. More like John Cassavettes’ wife who I’d seen in Gloria
I’m bad at ages but I reckoned she was an expensive sixty.
Money and care had helped keep the face intact. She had startling blue eyes and used them to scrutinise me, then:
‘I presume you’re here for an interview. Well? Speak up. What have you to say?’
Her voice was deep, almost coarse. The timbre that cigarettes and whiskey add. Course, arrogance helps too. I said,
‘I need an ashtray.’
She indicated a large crystal dish. I stubbed out the cig.
It’s hard to credit but the butt threw the room off. In that dish, the lone stub seemed like an affront. I wanted to put it in my pocket. She said,
‘You expect to make a good impression by dressing like a runner?’