Friday 26 February 2010

Dear Dad - Part 2

Mrs Blake had lived on Anglesea Drive for over thirty years now. She’d watched Rosie’s gender transformation, as well as Frank’s stunted evolution. She thought she remembered Frank’s mother, but her husband Jack assured her it couldn’t be. Rosie always strutted outside Mrs Blake’s home, a queen bee in her hive. She held her head particularly high when she crossed the doorstep of number 11 Anglesea Drive. She did this to exude confidence, hiding the fear Mrs Blake evoked in her.

She would inevitably think back to the night she murdered her wife, for she remembered the light in number 11 turning on as Alice drew her last breath. It was unusually warm that evening. Frank had been put to bed in his nappy, with the window open to ease his first sweat. Alice and Ed shared a glass of wine over which they exchange amorous glances hinting at a heated night ahead. A pineapple stood on the kitchen counter, ready to be carved. Ed was hungry, and fretted that Alice had forgotten to prepare his dinner. She’d been distracted since the arrival of the baby. In truth, she’s been distracted by the events of a fortnight ago and the strong feelings she felt for her husband despite that night’s revelation. Ed had seen her watch him play in the arms of a man, as uninhibited and daring as he’d never been with her. He could feel her stare on his naked back, but never turned around to meet her eye. He’d carried on loving the stranger in his house, occasionally looking up to Alice’s reflection in the mirror. He was amazed at the pleasure he felt, fuelled by his anger at his wife, and the murderous spark he caught in his eye. Alice and Ed never revealed each other’s secret. To Alice, she’d caught her husband with a man. To Ed, he’d enjoyed a passionate moment with an anonymous lover and revelled in the immense pleasure brought on by the presence of a spectator.
Hunger rumbled in Ed’s stomach, echoing the excitement he felt for the upcoming entertainment of the evening. His plan was to woo Alice into alcoholic submission, and squeeze her throat until life spewed out of her. He would then dispose of her useless body in the creek behind number 11; the unimaginative Blakes would never suspect him. And so, on an evening like so many others, she drank, died, and disappeared, leaving behind a son and a relieved husband. He would always blame her for leaving. He would tell her family they had quarrelled and she had left in a rush, crossing their road inadvertently, hit by a bus. Frank slept through his mother’s murder, and awoke the next morning, clueless.

Frank has been clueless since; always led to believe that bad things happen to good people – “that’s just the way it is”, would say Rosie. She would add “you’re a thinker, not a doer, so don’t expect much from life”. She saw him as the simpleton he was, a young man who believed that life would happen to him. He was tall and ginger like her, and easily the most uncharismatic Frank to be born on British soil. He spoke in murmurs and offered a limp handshake to the rare few who extended theirs. His breath smelt of hunger, though he was regularly fed. And the sweat on his brow had never truly left him since that warm evening 22 calendars ago. She would laugh to herself as she found various ways to describe him, one more demeaning than the other. He wasn’t worthy of her love, which is why, she told herself, she would never try to love him. She was left with other duties towards him which she performed negligently. She always assumed the trade-off between her life with Frank’s mother, and their current arrangement, as fair. She kept him warm, clothed and fed in exchange for being at once the woman and the man of the house. She thrived on this thought. Rosie’s teachers at her all boys’ school had once described her as uncompromising; an astute observation, she thought.

Frank is planning to go church this evening. He’ll be taking a shortcut to get there. As he sets off, he rethinks the letter, redrafting it but always using the same beginning and end. He wishes that his Dad could see him today: a hardworking, churchgoing, strapping young lad. He walks through dusk, like a puppy finds its way to the nipple, trustful and instinctive. But tonight his footing is clumsy, he trips over a raised pavement slab. He can’t fathom the reason for his gaucheness. He’s distracted by his inadequacy, convinced that his father must be watching from his seat in heaven, ‘tutting’ away in disapproval. He attempts to correct his gait, clutching his fists, and frowning a determined frown. In doing so he hopes to appear confident once again. He reaches the shortcut fast, and despite his awkwardness, decides to take the narrow alley between number 11 and number 13 Anglesea drive. He peers into Mrs Blake’s window hoping to catch a glimpse of teatime and intimacy. But the lights are off. It seems the Blakes are out for the evening. Emerging from this thought, he notices he’s halfway down the passage. This realisation brings him back to awareness, and he feels uneasy again. The walls are dizzying in their proximity to each other, and a foul smells rises from the stagnant water collected where the sloping cobbles join. He walks as if on ice, afraid to slip, fall and humiliate himself. As an afterthought, he remembers the time, and decides against shortcuts in the future. But there’s an intriguing moistness in the air tonight which is making his thoughts clammy and unclear. It’s compelling somehow. He feels the need to investigate. He sees a lit window looming ahead, towards which he shuffles attentively. He peers in. At first he’s taken aback by the sight of an unusually tall woman, but soon recognizes the shape as that of his aunt Rosie. But she isn’t alone. She’s in the company of a man. Frank is startled and can’t look away. But she sees him, always the eagle eyed member of the family. He panics and sets off like a hunted deer, eyes alight with the burn of the setting sun.
He’s an action film star. He runs, jumps, rolls on the ground, dodging the invisible enemy and showing off. He finds a gate, and attempts to jump over it. But the alley is too narrow to gather speed. He tries the handle and the gate swings back as if waiting for him. He dashes in, breathless.

Wednesday 24 February 2010

Dear Dad- Part 1

Sitting at his desk in a window frame across town is Frank, my childhood friend. Frank is always at his desk lit by a small flickering lamp, like a star assuming its assigned position in a constellation, purposeful and diligent. When away from his desk, Frank can be found in deep contemplation at a chapel two streets down from Anglesea Drive where he lives. I sometimes visit that chapel, if only to catch a glance of an old friend.

‘Dear Dad, I am the son you never had’. That’s how Frank starts his letter to his absent father. He was raised by Rosie, his aunt. She often told him about his mother who died 22 years ago. Frank is 23 today, and according to Rosie, his father doesn’t know he exists.

But Frank’s dad has always been his best friend. The one he speaks to in times of need or even writes his most intimate, most imaginative, thoughts to. He’s always striven to make him proud, choosing to study when others were out playing football, or down at the pub. He studied accounting rather than theology and took maths and physics A-levels instead of art and philosophy as he would’ve liked.
He imagines his Dad to be tall and ginger, just like him, with strong commanding hands instead of stubby fingers and a powerful voice where Frank has a lisp. His Dad has freckles, but only on his face. His Dad is an airline pilot and a war veteran. He fought a meaningful war and grew up in a time of deprivation and rationing, risking his life to make his family proud and bring food to the table. He’s never drunk himself into a beer induced stupor, but distinguishes malt beers from ‘hopsy’ ones. He comes from Esher in Surrey, a sunny little town not far from Kingston where Max, Frank’s friend from school, grew up. He appreciates nice things but is never frugal with his spending. On most days, his name is William, a strong regal name, but he’s also been called Fred when he’s played the piano, or Peter if he’s attended mass. When he walks into a room, heads turn and voices quieten. His women are treated as ladies, and the one he chose to love was Frank’s mother. His passion for her was strong and their relationship tumultuous, but they made a striking pair straight from the studios in Shepperton. Their idyll ended when he was sent off to war, and not because she fell pregnant with an unwanted boy. She was his Yoko, he was her John.
Frank is anxious to meet his true sweetheart, and promises not to make her pregnant until they wed. He pictures her blonde and buxom, a true English princess, an artisan of exquisite pork pies. And when they meet, he will send his father a wedding invitation along with a letter which will end with ‘I hope you are proud Dad, I followed in your footsteps’.

But Frank wasn’t all that observant. He was never really a stickler for detail, much more a poet and a dreamer. Had he been the pragmatic realist his father was, he would have paid more attention to footsteps. And more particularly to his Aunt Rosie’s footsteps. He may then have noticed Rosie’s unusually big feet, and her alarmingly ginger hair. Her strong hand and smoker’s voice. Or the curiously big silhouette she cut against the opening of his bedroom door.

That evening, as Frank sat at his desk redrafting the letter, Rosie stood behind him peering over his shoulder, her shadow so large it was easily confused with the looming dusk. As she read the lines of Frank’s correspondence she smiled and thought of that night she’d spent with Frank’s mother, the night he was conceived. She thought again of the night she strangled Frank’s mother when Frank himself was but a year old. She smiled again as she thought of the deceit Frank lived in, and the comfort he took in the stories he made up about his father.
If Frank were really so keen to follow in his father’s footsteps, thought Rosie, perhaps he should pay more attention to feet. This intended pun made her laugh to herself, appeased by the familiarity of this scene; yet another deceitful situation of her design.
Rosie never thought of Frank as a son. She was barren, as the doctor had informed once he’d completed the change. And this suited her. She had never felt maternal despite all the other feminine emotions she’d been subjected to since adolescence. She’s settled with the contempt she suffered for Frank, and blamed this on his general lack of intelligence. She took pleasure in mocking him, and watching him grow into an insecure young man. He occupied a room in her house and ate the meals she heated up for him, never asking for more. This she considered a good thing because she wasn’t ready to part with any of her creature comforts, let alone make any form of compromise to better accommodate his existence. He lived off his inheritance from his mother. She delighted in the idea of this malformed adult that she shared space with, and his awkward ways that made hers seem so graceful.

Monday 22 February 2010

Letter from LS

Dear LS readers (ie my very good friends),

I think it’s time to tell you a little about this blog’s reason for existence.
The main objective is to get me writing. You’ll find below a series of promises, principles according to which this blog will function.

My first pledge to you is that this project will never become an online journal.
Instead, you’ll find some fiction pieces posted from time to time. Some of these are assignments for my Creative Writing class. This is particularly relevant to Friday the 20th of February's posting which could easily be mistaken for a journal entry. It is not, so to my friends out there, don’t worry, the dark thoughts aren’t mine.

Alternatively, you’ll come across some book reviews, art reviews, as well as my humble opinion on films and magazines. It’ll also soon become apparent that I like to eat but that’s the understatement of the decade! I absolutely live to eat. And write. So writing about food is the epitome of pleasure for me. I do however pledge not to make this blog JUST about food.

I'm also considering adding a column about people. That’s all I’ll say for now.

Another pledge I make to my readers (and to myself), is to write/ or post a photo as often as humanly possible.

It would be really great to hear from you, whoever you are out there … I don’t kid myself, I can name the people who've read me so far, and you’re very good friends for doing so. But I’m hopeful that with time, my reader base will expand way beyond SW London and the suburbs of Beirut. So please spread the word!

Thank you for reading, and stay tuned!

Love,

Lapland

Saturday 20 February 2010

An outing goes seriously wrong

I died yesterday or maybe today, I can’t remember. Talk about an evening ending badly; for everyone but me. It had been a still and rainy February afternoon disturbed only by a phone call from a friend suggesting dinner and drinks. I do remember that exact moment as if it were the moment I died. I’d enveloped myself in my large red fleece dressing gown, also enveloped in the sad comfort of my solitude. I’d always been one to accept facts and I’d indeed accepted that I would be a solitary, overweight, underpaid thirty-something Londoner. My days were cloned replicas of each other, and this couldn’t be disturbed. I don’t remember why or when I withdrew from the world. It wasn’t an amorous disappointment or a professional failure. It wasn’t a death in the family, or the loss of a pet or a child. It just happened. The doctors called it depression, but I couldn’t agree with them. To me it felt like my calling. Just like some are designed to become brokers or vets, I felt at ease in my sadness. I actually thought I was at my best. I couldn’t imagine life any different. The idea of leaving my warm, spotless cocoon was a travesty. The thought of the exterior, of fresh air and human contact, sent me into a panic. I reveled in my independence and the soft light of my living room. The familiar touch of my keyboard and the format of the websites I visited the most. My mother accused me of living by correspondence, she called it ‘distance living’ and liked to repeat that term amused by her play on words. No one made me feel more alone than my mother and her detached parenting. She’d show concern, and offer advice, but I could always hear her rummaging around the house, leaning over to pick up my dad’s mess, putting away the washing or googling depression as we spoke. To google is another of my mother’s modern terms.
I used to have friends but their achievements drove me away. I couldn’t continue pretending I felt the same sense of purpose as they did, or their yearning for husbands, wives and children. I would never associate myself with a man, I couldn’t conceive of sharing my intimate self. I would lose myself. As for children, I would feel guilty bringing them into this world.
As a result I was alone. Not even a cat lady by now. Just an independent individual with a mock sense of purpose. My days were ruled by the television schedule, cooking times for light and improved recipes, laptop battery life and the delicate cycle on my washing machine. Twice a week, I’d enter slots in my calendar for the supermarket delivery man, and the cleaning lady. Once a month, I’d go to the local clinic for my prescription anti-depressants which I pretended to take. I lived off my unemployment allowance, and let my Mum pay my rent.
But I still seemed to have some unrelenting contacts with the outside world. People who’d once been friends; if the term applies. They still called, emailed, sent letters and even knocked at my door. I wouldn’t answer. It wasn’t my place to afflict myself on others. I feared I’d suck the colour out of them too.
But for some reason, that day I took the phone call. I never really questioned my actions, having given up on that infuriating hobby a while ago. Instead I acted on impulse. I was greeted by Maureen’s overly cheerful “hiya hon!”. She made lots of noise about it being my birthday. Delving in to my register of quirks, I picked out the impulsive streak again and acted without thinking. I reminded myself of my mother.
I surprised myself by dressing up for the event. I chose my flowery wrap dress said to suit curvaceous bodies, pairing it up with pink sling backs and a touch of makeup. I was acting completely out of character. But I was acting, I was still in control.
We met up at the local pub and drank. I didn’t eat because I was on a new diet. But I drank white wine. I lost count of the drinks I ingested, but didn’t forget to take my pills. I’d prepared a cocktail of anti-depressants for the evening. I thought I’d go with the celebratory theme. The people in attendance drank as well that evening. And Max drove us home.
As we drove, we passed a series of trees. This leitmotiv of tree-darkness-tree-darkness, made me content. I shut my eyes.

Tuesday 16 February 2010

Red

What I so greatly feared happened. My boyfriend left, and with him he took my red hat.

And not just any hat might I add, the one I kept lying in the bottom of my suitcase; my travel hat. “Why? Did he travel?” asked my grandmother Edith. “No”, I replied “he just left”. It had been a very still night, the ground was still damp from a recent downpour and he and I had eaten bone dry chicken on a bed of dehydrated broccoli. The television was on mute as our incomplete video game stood on standby, and the CD to which I cooked our parched dinner had played its last track. The dishwasher was full and the flowers watered on top of the stagnant water I’d added a few days back. He paced the living room, a wild cat in a caged enclosure, lifting in his wake the dust that had settled and my heart that had not. This silence which feigned comfort was thick with untold storied and unrealized wishes. The man in the room would never reveal his, the woman, however, would break the silence with a trite ‘what’s wrong’? Even the furniture in their 8 * 6’ living box knew the answer. This was a conversation which had been on loop for a while now, always prompted by the evenings settling into nights. He would answer: “What…What’s wrong?”, she would offer: “You know what I mean”, which inevitably ended in: “no, I don’t”. But in tonight’s performance of their scripted three-line scenario, there was a twist. Tonight, he would decide that he did know what she meant, that he felt the same appetite for melodrama as she did. Tonight, he would star in a romantic drama of his making, featuring his monologue. And she would sit and cover her legs with the living room quilt, arrange the remote controls on the sofa by her right thigh in order of size. And he would speak. She would carefully select a strand of hair and slowly roll it around her middle finger, and then, slowly, unroll it. And he would speak. She would reach for her manicure kit and apply her cuticle softener. And he would speak. She would unplug her laptop and open her browser. And he would speak. And then silence. In the second act of tonight’s ‘improv’, he would search for a suitcase to pack his belongings. And she would stand up, concerned. He would reach for his smaller bag, and then decide on hers, bigger. She would stagger towards him in disbelief. And he would speak again, in interjections hurried by his urgent packing. He would pack the essentials as well as his ukulele. She would stare as the ukulele arranged itself on top of a hat in the bag. And he would walk out the door faster than she would catch up. He’d be gone without further words. She’d be left with no memory of the conversation. She would return to her sofa, to the ‘remote’ and the cuticle softener, and the memory of their last trip together, the one where she wore a hat to shield her head from the sun. It was a red hat, she remembered clearly.