+ Short Stories

Once Upon A Time

…he wrote*. It was the story of a boy, with blue eyes and brown hair, who grew until he was grown up. As he grew bigger and taller his family grew poorer and larger and poorer. They lived in a labyrinth. This was a city made up of the houses of the people and the grey columned institutions of the empires. They were ruled over by two empires, one of God and one of man.

As he grew up the young man’s mind became a labyrinth as well, just like the teeming and talkative city he lived in. He walked and walked and walked about the city in all its moods from dark, misty, wet nights to sunny bright mornings. The more he walked the ways and by-ways of the city the more he saw inside his mind. The more he saw inside his mind, the more he saw the minds of the people he lived amongst.

His school was good and free to him because he walked inside his mind and spoke and wrote his mind. The school was free as it was God’s school and God had expectations of him through his special representatives in the land, the city and in the school.

Only he couldn’t see why the people put up with everything the two empires said and ordered. All the things that were said and ordered had to live inside the minds of the people. He knew that meant they could not be free, unless they filled their minds with their own thoughts and said and wrote down their thoughts. Then all the different thoughts could mix together and be free.

He wanted to make the people see. He even made up a theory up about it all. But, he could not make any change to the people as they were very set in their ways and pawns in a game. He felt overwhelmed and down-hearted, the city seemed yellow and brown.

So, one day he decided he couldn’t live any more in the labyrinth and decided to escape the two empires and live abroad where it is green and blue. What I need to do is leave and think about my land and the city from the outside, free to think. His friends and families scratched their heads. Is he alright they said.

Then, he went to a new a new land, that was green and blue, and thought and thought and thought and wrote and wrote and wrote. And all the words went into his books, which flew around the world and he became famous and his land became greener and bluer. Even now he makes people scratch their heads, but not because they are not thinking, but because they are thinking.

In his city they have put a statue of him on the street. It makes him look like he is still walking, and seeing and thinking, people talk to him and he speaks to them.

*James Joyce’s opening words in “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man”.

Time Stood Still

The coast was very close now. It is a lovely afternoon and a calm crossing. We are going on holiday and visiting relations in the city and then south to other relations in County Wexford, the city first, near to where the car ferry docks. Dad, mum, sister and me. First one last look over the rail before going down to the enclosed car deck.

Two long wide stone harbour arms stretching out to embrace us, Martello tower to the left. Behind on the rising ground tall church spires, white washed buildings, houses and villas, with very tall TV aerials, stretching away among greenery and palm trees, basking under the bright sun, almost Mediterranean. The beginning of holiday, excitement, no school, different people and places. We haven’t visited for a while, so being older it seems like visiting for the first time as a near adult. We have holidayed in other places recently, for a change. Something else is also happening.

Some time is spent cooped up in the car waiting to get off the ferry and then through the closed in and claustrophobic customs hall, this seems to take ages, there is a lot of activity between the customs people, its hot, car windows open, fumes.

Eventually a uniformed man gives us a wave to go up the ramp and on to tarmac. Metallic bump bump. We’re here. Drive a few yards up hill to the junction with the main road, bright sunlight, promenade, flower beds, fresh air. We stop at the junction.

On the left is a newspaper stand with a man selling the latest edition to people coming off the ferry. The front of his stand has something written across it in black capitals, diagonally on the white background. It looks like “British Ambassador”? Then unmistakably, the vendor shouts, “British Ambassador Assassinated, British Ambassador Assassinated”.

Unreal. We are in a car with GB licence plates and a GB sticker on the rear. Fear. Mum screeches “they’ve shot him”, she looks animated but it’s hard to read; we didn’t know if it was a shooting or a bomb at that moment, was a folk memory of Phoenix Park, Kilmainham, or Michael Collins speaking? Dad screws up his face in a grimace and says nothing, I know what he is thinking. Essentially they are on different sides, they mostly keep the peace, mostly. Occasionally, when they do argue about it, the experience is unreal, like it’s not them any more, fear.

We drive in traffic through the city. Looking at the sights, also feeling, are people looking at us? Arrive at Aunty Angela’s house, an old Georgian house divided into two flats, silver grey painted iron railings and gate, old stone steps leading up to a front door with a wide glass fan light over. Musty hall smell, up the stairs to the big front room, table already laid for tea, brass Spitfire still on the white marble mantle piece, everything exactly the same. Welcome, unpack, talk, fry-up with white pudding, cups of tea and brown bread. The assassination is mentioned but not much more. Aunty says its all politics and not to worry, more cake, more tea. Anyway, Aunty knows God and His Will and nothing intrudes on that, nothing. She has a talent for making us feel the same. Also, as a spinster, we are sure that if she was a man she would have joined the Jesuits she follows. Nowadays her knees are always in bandages, giving her legs a long knobbly appearance, mum says its from always kneeling down in church, behind her back we call her “the camel”. Aunty drags on a cigarette and eyes us all. More cake more tea.

A bit later we watch, briefly, the news on Aunties temperamental still black and white TV with a tiny set top aerial. It was a large bomb exploded as their car passed, just a few miles from Aunties house. The Ambassador’s wife, in the UK, makes a statement. Dublin says, London says, usual statements, familiar reasons to explain away what they can’t stop. It feels like another violent Rubicon has been crossed.

Later still, I sit on one of the high backed chairs next to a tall window looking down into the street. The sun is lowering, long shadows slant along the wide, evening road. Its feels safe now. My eye is attracted to a glint of green grass between two houses across the way, it is a patch of the turf in Croke Park stadium. I don’t yet know about 1920 and the first (was it the first?) Bloody Sunday, there. Looking down on the roof of our car parked by the kerb, I imagine an explosion underneath. I wouldn’t have thought such a thing before we passed the news vendor in the sun by the happy flower beds.

The next day I am given a short shopping list to take across the road to the small shop by the old green painted school. I go into the dark shop and hand the list to a woman who smiles and says, “Look at you, your after growing up, is your mammy in at the moment? Yes, ah, tell her I’ll be over, Angela is overjoyed your visiting, just overjoyed, have you seen Esther yet, what about Dolly?” she reels off names and places. She says more to me in two minutes than the woman in our local shop at home has ever said to me.

The next day aunty, mum, sister and me are setting off to walk into the city centre, dad stays in, he prefers to look under the bonnet of the car than trail around shops. I go out to the car with dad and wait for the others to come out of the house. A man stops by us and starts apologising for the assassination, says its all wrong, that Ireland will end up in he pay of Germany, he seems genuinely upset and confused. It is mildly upsetting and embarrassing, there is nothing much we can say. “they are forcing us to chose sides again”, he says as he parts from us.

The others come down the steps and we head off into town. On the way we walk down a shabby street of dilapidated Georgian houses. Mum proposes going another way, but aunty waves off any objection and on she marches. One house strikes me particularly. The front door is propped open, inside the hall is dark. On the steps small unkempt children sit. At the bottom of the steps is an unattended pram by the railings. The fan light over the door consists of smashed panes. There is an empty brick strewn plot on the left, the house is propped up by huge timber supports. Mum says she didn’t think people still lived that way, it’s like the 1930’s. Did Aunty mean us to see this?

Soon we are walking in a pedestrianised shopping street part of a crowded scene. As we walk on, I become vaguely aware of some shouting behind us. People start to stop and look around. Like many others we carry on walking. Then something happens. A noise erupts in the crowd. Like a flock of birds everyone starts moving in the same direction as us. Voices shout don’t run, all the same the pace quickens. Aunty speaks to someone, but continues on walking, without saying anything to us. Mum overhears someone say there is a bomb warning. Now hearts start to race. Fear. Films of bombings come into my head: the fronts of rows of shops exploding into the street. The voices are now shouting keep in the middle of the street. Aunty says stay with me. Mum shouts stay with me, grabs sisters hand, trys to grab mine, I pull away, I was sixteen last month, but decide they are not leaving my sight and keep very close. Then there is shouting up ahead. Like a murmuration the entire crowd turns and starts heading back in the opposite direction. So where is the danger? Are we walking away from it, or into it? Does anybody know? Unreal. Time stands still. Check the shop fronts, they are still there. Look up in the sky, no smoke, yet. We are near a green painted pillar box, they put bombs in those. We keep an eye on Aunty, hope mum doesn’t let the panic out. Feel panicky inside. Aunty speaks to someone again. Then she says follow her now, she strides off across the crowd, for a short way, then points up a side alley, we vanish along it and out, onto another shopping street.

In the new street everything seems normal, one or two people ask us if something is happening. Next thing we are inside the local version of M & S. Aunty is rummaging through clothes. Mum says she feels like going back to the house having a sit down and a cup of tea, really she is desperate to get back, but doesn’t say. Aunty says it was just a hoax and that they happen all the time, it will be just some joker in a phone box. I get the feeling she doesn’t say if your time is up there is nothing you can do about it, as it is Gods will. This is turning into some holiday. At least I have forgotten I’m waiting for exam results.

When we get back to the house we excitedly tell dad we were in a bomb scare. “Were you now, you’re all OK then”, he smiles at us. Sister looks relieved to be told it’s over. His real thoughts didn’t get expressed in words, probably just as well, he could easily envisage us all vanishing; we didn’t appreciate he would have been reminded of World War Two, Nottingham Co-op Bakery, Tunisia, Italy, Greece, first hand unreality mixed with real fear. Aunty has gone out again, on her own to church, to tell God her real thoughts.

In the evening other relations come around. We are reassured again about the hoax. The three sisters start reminiscing about the old days, Aunty Maisie has everyone laughing. More cake, more tea.

For the next couple of days we drive to places away from the centre, or to peoples houses.

Then it is time to go to the farm in County Wexford. Driving along the beautiful coast road south in the sun with the breeze blowing, we stop for the view. We look at the cliffs, sea, sky, the bright colours of broom, sea thrift and fuchsia, breath in the sea air. It is difficult to admit a sense of relief after leaving the city and the unspoken “troubles”: the others are still in the city, they live there, Angela, Maisie and everyone. The relief remains felt but also unspoken.

Alter-Ego

He closed the laptop and looked out into the garden. Not much to do out there now, too cold even to sit out. Autumn was getting into its stride, brown was winning the seasonal battle against green, there was that misty damp rotting leaves atmosphere in the air, the sun, a watery eye and low.

Mary, would be home at five. Then they would join the crowds doing the Friday weekly shop, playing dodgems with the trolley, examining purchases minutely, waiting ages at the check out. Joining the rush hour traffic, thirty minutes to do one and a half miles. He could have ordered everything online, then they could stay in, but he was not allowed, “I’m not having their nearly out of date stuff foisted on me and they always substitute things they want to get shut of”, she would state. Then there will be the immovable stress fest of unpacking and getting the dinner on at the same time. Why wouldn’t it be better to stay in, light the fire, have a drink and get the supper at leisure? Well…yes.

Just now he had been replying to an e-mail. He didn’t usually send e-mails to Florida. He didn’t usually discover more relations in North America, but that is where his on-line genealogical research had led him. He had been having another discussion with Jim a recently discovered second cousin. Jim was chatty, open, relaxed, enjoying his life, good humoured, called him friend and cousin. He knew more about the family history than anyone in the UK, shared everything, was on top of the detail, but not bogged down by it.

When he sent Jim a very neutral photo of Mary and himself standing a foot apart from each other in the garden, both wearing inscrutable faces, Jim wrote back saying he liked the photo, “you both look like real British!” But then Jim shares genes with me, we are partly identical, he pondered. From now his train of thought developed in a direction that didn’t include the Friday shop. A distant relation with a bit of me in him might be living in the Florida Keys, say as a writer: free, independent, flying down to stay for months at a time in his second home, by the Gulf of Mexico. It could be an alternative me, say I emigrated ages back. What would such a person, me, be called, maybe, Scott, well why not? Yes, what would a new day, a new dawn, look like?

Crimson, gold, purple, the vibrant sky show in the east brings in a new day, the colours stream in though the open shutters. I arrived back in Key South late last night. This is my first morning back for a while. Rise early shower, shorts, tee shirt, sandals. Go downstairs put coffee on, juice, fruit. I take the coffee to my desk by a window, set it down to brew. Have a walk round the garden, partially shaded by palms, fragrance from the blooms already wafting past on the warm birdsong filled breeze, the vibrant colours of Bougainvillea and Desert Rose changing against the brightening blue sky. Looking back at the house, historic, two stories, whitewashed, with pale yellow shutters and black wrought iron balcony and veranda front and back. This is going to be good day, the difficult transition chapter should be finished by midday. The critics think Scott is having problems with his latest. Not now, not with this change of scene, I can feel the words pulling at me to be written, the old excitement.

The morning drifts by quickly as the writing is going well. The southern light and fresh warm sea breeze spur me on. E-mail from Lev next door, he will be in The Captain’s Bar at twelve. More coffee and a final thousand words, its done! Around twelve I leave the house, shades and hat needed now the sun is high. Walk along the street past the villas and gardens, say hi to a couple of neighbours out front, “Hi Scott” they reply. Turn into Main, past the white clapboard St Josephs Church, the pink, sage green and blue painted stores and dive shops, all busy with business and customers and into The Captain’s Bar on the next corner. Inside it is spacious, cool, with traditional ceiling fans and cane furniture leading up to a carved bar with a shrine to crystal behind it. “Hi Scott”, its Lev at the bar, we catch up on the last couple of months, I get the usual digs for not being here for most of the hurricane season. Meanwhile, Alexi the maestro, is mixing our drinks, a performance we both respectfully keep one eye on. When he’s finished he presents them to us. The Key Lime Martinis glow lime in frosted glasses on the bar, beautiful fragrance rising elegantly from them. After savouring the Martinis its a Cuban sandwich and an equally frosted beer. We take the beers out back and sit on benches looking out over the turquoise and jade sea to the outlying Keys. Lev regails me with stories from his tough New York upbringing, he is a successful writer too, “take your past and turn it into your future, it owes you”, he says.

After leaving Lev I return home and take it easy on the back veranda, scribble a few ideas down and doze off mid-afternoon. Later on I leave the house and turn away from Main to where my street gives out to beach. White sand, palms, quiet at the moment. I walk slowly into the mild water, so clear to look down into it is almost invisible, but for the gentle ripples and the splash of the waves, the re-assuring music of calm water. Swimming out you become detached, released and at the same time buoyed, supported and cradled. The sun waves about like it is on a stick above you. Below multi striped colourful fish float and dart around coral of crusty shape and form in bronze, red, purple and orange. A Cormorant standing on a nearby rock flaps its wings. I float around for what seems like ages, but is probably only a few minutes soaking up the feeling of the moment, timeless warm now.

Back home another shower, change. Downstairs fix a salad and cold drink, catch up on e-mails. Read for a while on the front balcony, watch people, wave at some, show them I’m back, soak up the feeling of community, sense the pulse of the town as it moves through late afternoon, end of the working week. Tonight a group of us are going to one of the uninhabited keys close by for a barbecue.

Early evening I walk back through town. The atmosphere has changed now, the sun is lower people are gathering for the evening, and are sitting in outside spaces, some relaxed, some, the immortal handsome girls and pretty boys, anticipating a party. I arrive at the jetty where people are boarding the boat which will take us out to the key. We are a collection friends, acquaintances and a smattering of relatives, mostly active in the arts, so it is a bit of a busman’s holiday, but on a night like this, nobody is complaining. Coloured lanterns are strung up around the boat, people walk around the deck to see what they look like illuminated in different shades, any ice is broken. Any left is in the drinks.

Soon we set off motoring serenely across the shortish stretch of water, accompanied by a couple, or so, of dolphins, curious and wanting to lead and follow, curving in and out of the water, smiling, they too being illuminated by the different shades.

Landing on the key we gather round the bar and then disperse somewhat onto the beach around. Conversation and drink flow, the barbecue sizzles into life and is soon sending appetizing incense among us. A mix of salsa and reggae music is added to the evening. As the light fades on the day the sunset streams with crimson, gold and purple, building to a crescendo and fading gently down into the sea. Just after dark a full moon rises out of the sea. Some now dance and sing, others move into the palms for privacy. Talk and bursts of laughter echo out across the water. Soon someone is in the water swimming, when a shout goes up, there is luminescence in the water when a cloud appears in front of the moon. We paddle and swim and catch sight of a magicians electric blue fizzing almost to white, then the cloud passes and the moon returns. We return to the party, some stay by the water.

After a few drinks, the perception of time itself now floats, drifts on its own way unconcerned by the demands of the day. For a few moments we feel we could sail off with this island into infinity.

Time though arrives to board the boat and return to our jetty. A happy but tired bunch return under the coloured lanterns. On the jetty good nights are said, a few go for night caps, one or two diehards fancy clubbing. I walk back through the town, things have settled down now, there is relaxed and well earned feeling, its the end of a good day and there are going to be more.

As I pass The Captain’s Bar Lev appears at the door and invites me in. “Tomorrow maybe, not tonight I’m done.” I say. No, I’m heading home any more and I would end up like the now mortal girls and boys and ruin tomorrow. Who would want to do that in a place like this? I want to be up early, swim, then crack on with the next chapter, today has given me some good ideas. Anyway, the memory of those sparkling Key Lime Martini’s on the bar will keep me going yet, till a new day, a new dawn.

“ERNEST, I’m back, you ready, make haste, or there’ll be no bread left again”, Mary shouts from the hallway. She goes into the kitchen after looking in the lounge, arranges some shopping bags.

“You should have gone to the toilet before I got back”

“ERNEST”

“Where are you, you’ll be the death of me”

Still no answer. She looks out into the garden, then goes to the foot of the stairs.

“ERNEST SCOTT WILLIAMS ANSWER ME”

No answer. She rushes back into the kitchen, sees Ernest’s capsule bottles still by the kettle.

“Oh God Ernie, you’ve gone out without them again, where can you be?”.

Sculptor

Pharaonic Egypt, ancient Greece, Imperial Rome, Renaissance, the moderns, here is enough sculptural inheritance and inspiration for any lifetime said clever slinky Konrad my dealer. He wants more pieces to sell in his swanky gallery. Maybe I want another dealer. The history of sculpture is a glossy coffee table book to him something he can pick up in a lazy moment and put down when he wants to sidle up to a potential customer. Fair enough, I bet he can’t deal with a block of granite like I can.

Try working alone in a workshop in the middle of England in November. How do I see what I want to do? How do I do what I want to do? A block of stone three, four billion years in the formation is a far greater challenge than a blank canvas, or a white sheet of paper. I can’t scrap paint off a canvas or just use a fresh sheet of foolscap. The stone already has the finished object inside, but it is invisible locked in rock and I have yet to see it. The stone and I have to communicate, or nothing happens, or worse destruction happens.

You see the stone, the rock lives. It is a wild animal. Rock has no conception of our form of life. Yet it has properties, qualities, abilities, strength, weakness, behaviour, character and personality; the real facets of rock. If I don’t read these characteristics I can’t create.

Wild animal? Yes. The rock resists. It opposes with hardness. It’s strata and veins confuse and trick. It can destroy itself with crack and shatter. It has weapons, dust, flying fragments, falling lumps, shrapnel, bullets. Just when you think it is an iron monster, you will be fooled with sudden softness, crumbling away in front of the chisel, retreat and capitulation where you don’t want it.

Yet it is my chosen material, the one I fight and work and sweat with. I also think, ponder, imagine, have visions at the mere sight of it. I finesse, stroke, cajole, feel and persuade with eye, hand, mallet and chisel. I keep my mind and spirit focused. When the stone, the tools and I merge, it is then progress happens, something begins to form, when geological life and biological life begin to meet, then a piece begins to be expressed.

As a form nears completion it is the time I am at my most expectant and most nervous. One false move could ruin everything destroy the emerging beauty, plunge me into despair. At the same time I am experiencing the joy of seeing something I have created out of the beautiful rock being born. The nearing of the end of the trial and effort, with the promise of rest.

The act of creation is such a reward in itself that it makes the decision to stop a hard one, but it must be made to preserve what now has life. To continue could compromise the form, risk failure. When I decide to stop I throw any tools in my hands over to the bench so I can’t involuntarily hit or even tap the form again, that would be violence.

I stand back, suddenly, I become aware of the dusty workshop the scene and weather outside the windows, the rest of the world. I have to leave the workshop and rest. It is essential to clear my mind so I can return later and check that what I think I have formed really is.

Then the final finishing, with gentle tools, files, polishing. These moments are my time alone with my creation before it leaves for it’s life in the world. Quiet reflective days, sense of achievement and meaning. I go on learning about stone, the craft, form.

Thinking about the piece of granite I have been working on puts things in a perspective, my reflective mood grows, I start speculating to myself. The granite has been part of the earths crust, which is just the small thin piece floating on the surface of the planet, what we call the continents with puddles in it that are the oceans. Lower down the rock is molten and circulates in convection currents. Below that is a liquid metal and at the core, unbelievably, solid iron spinning at a different rate than the liquid. Save the planet they say. Most of the planet is very safe, thank you very much. When we humans say save the planet we, as usual, mean us and what we like to see around us, what we want to save it from is ourselves; ask “my” piece of granite: see, I say “my” granite, we are all imbued with imperial thinking. We were very happy careering along like maniacs for two hundred years, until things started snapping back at us. We are the victims of our own super evolution; it’s another crunch time, like discovering the Bomb. The piece of granite is probably laughing at us, if it is not ignoring us, or simply has not yet noticed us.

Oh well, enough navel gazing. Next stop for the new sculpture slinky clever Konrad’s where you will be dusted three times a day beautifully lit, accompanied by a backstory about the difficult but sympathetic genius who has created you and explanations of all your possible meanings. His friends will supply appropriate critique and there will be an exclusive viewing. Price on application (after he has looked you up and down, asked a few very clever questions and had you fill in the form). Konrad will tell me how slow the market is how much his costs are rocketing, poor dear. Fair enough. At least I will be able to buy some more blocks for my yard. Will have a stroll around the yard tomorrow to see which block might want to take my eye for the next piece, or give me an idea for the piece.

Here in my yard is enough material for many years of work. The problem is no two blocks are the same, I always want another variation or type I haven’t got. Different quarries produce different colours and textures of the same rock. There is always a colour or texture you wish you had. Strata and colour are infinite, as are the working qualities. Quarries from time to time produce from a new seam. Old stocks, some legendary, occasionally come up for sale.

Granite, limestone, sandstone and marble are my main materials. Granite, black, grey, green, red, blue. Very hard and difficult. You progress by chipping and breaking pieces off. Quartz crystals in the rock give it a shine and even sparkle that you might not expect from such an uncompromising material. It takes a high polish and is resistant to weathering. Limestone is buff, grey or grey-white in colour is softer, better for carving detail, shows a bedding vein which can be used to bring out texture, doesn’t keep polished surface for too long outside. Sandstone, yes sandy in colour, also brown or red. Medium hard with distinct strata. Unsurprisingly, can have a sandpaper surface, can crumble. Marble, white, green, red, black, many variations available and yes “marbled” effects. Moderately hard will take and keep fine detail. An historic favourite. Crystal structure that will allow a very high polish. Doesn’t like weathering, best kept inside.

These blocks accumulate in the yard, like a sort of community waiting for something, for transformation in this strange insubstantial world of the planet surface. I brush dust off stones, wash with water to remind me of colour, internal form and texture. It’s like they know that to live in this world of air they must loose massiveness become form, shape and meaning to justify their existence in the world of human thought, speed and change. So very different from their geological past; as we are different from our pre-historic past? When did we start to try to become the carvers and not the carved?

Now I have had some success I will not do commissions unless I am given two free hands. This is a very difficult position, it has to be maintained against pressure, including from slinky Konrad. I did reduce this pressure somewhat a few years ago with my rejected bust of Lady Marcia, which I was very pleased she and her friends hated. As the years go by I am more drawn to the language in the stone, its native form, colour and texture. Subject is not as important as the work, the obsession, shape: the landscape of the form. Carving.

Carving equals work. People “carve” out a career, a place in the world, it’s not something that just happens it has to be seen, wanted, actually done. Effort, risk, bad patches, loss, will be encountered along the way. In a sense everyone carves, it could be used as a metaphor for life. The word also gets used in a negative, or derogatory way, “it’s a carve up”, “they’ve carved it up between themselves”, quite extensively. Food, especially meat, is carved. It is another metaphor for greed, selfishness, amorality.

Maybe. Some of this is unfortunate. You will, I hope, forgive me if I actually do refer to those carvers of the past. They have left monuments, statues and sculpture that has lasted and has meaning and value. We are still a community. Many institutions employ sculptors, Cathedrals still have workshops close by, which can be discovered, with full-time staff producing amazing work daily. Just maintaining the legacy is an industry. New work is also being produced. Criticism, controversy and cost are just live issues as they always have been. Work is being produced for galleries and gardens. Civic commissions seem to be difficult. Traditional is safe if you want work.

Some manage to get through, like me, how many others working as artisan craftspeople don’t see an opportunity to develop their own ideas, or even believe they have ideas which can be developed? Is new sculpture seen as something that happened in the past and that we cannot do anymore, apart from marginal “art” pieces. The competition in visual arts and possibilities of technology continue to grow. There is the political taint from the forced efforts of authoritarian regimes in the twentieth century and the “rocky” ride that “modern art” still receives. Fair enough.

I’ll say it again. What is important for me now is the stone, not the subject. The essential building blocks of the earth are their own subject and they have a lot to express, especially when we are concerned about the health of the planet surface we live on, they connect us to the real earth.

What is permanent and beautiful is the rock and the carving it can produce. If you want something that has solidity and movement, contains texture and contrast, colour and shade, records the history of the earth, was made by nature and expresses a partnership between humanity and the planet, stone sculpture has that and much more. We need to rediscover the essential sculptural characteristics of these materials in all their dazzling forms, textures and colours, as themselves.

David

The first time I visited David he said to me, “don’t mind me I do nothing all day!”

However, as carers we were there to mind him. David was cheerful, independent and possibly inherently slightly eccentric. It quickly became apparent that he was self-effacing, also that he was gent of the old school and coping with significant short term memory loss in his own way: his condition he dismissed as,

“Memory not what it was, I can hold something for five seconds, then it’s gone.”

Though David had been retired for over twenty years he still treated every day as a day off. Each morning he would walk to the local shop to get the newspaper, always the Daily Telegraph. The local shop was the only destination he could trust himself to get to and return from without getting lost. Whilst at the store he would buy the provisions he was living on before meal deliveries were organized for him, packets of crisps, biscuits and bottles of beer or pop. Mugs of tea were his mainstay. In his kitchen only the fridge worked. He didn’t bother with housework, something he said, possibly tongue in cheek, “I inherited from my mother”.

The morning walk to the shop was usually followed by another in the afternoon, after a sleep. One day he said he was in the shop and the girl serving pointed out to him that he was wearing a blue and white drying up cloth as a scarf. He was rather put out by this saying to her, “well I rather like the colours and it’s warm.”

Physically spare and tallish David walked with a slight stoop and talked with an educated accent. Facially he looked remarkably like the elderly Renoir.

As the weeks went past he would reveal occasional stories from his past. He still talked with disbelief over the way his father was partly “sent to Coventry” after he returned from the First World War. A member of a pals battalion which took severe losses, there were relations of fallen comrades who resented him for returning home alive. In World War Two an uncle George, a keen football fan, who hated sleeping in the air raid shelter would sleep in his house even if the warning siren was sounded, assertively reasoning that he did not live near a real target. One night, though, a lone raider missed the adjacent railway yard and his bomb destroyed uncles house with him in it. Later the next day the people searching the wreckage, calling out for George were loosing hope. Then they heard a noise, “is that you George are you all right?” they shouted. Back came the angry reply, “off course it’s me, but how did City get on?”

We often had to encourage David to eat the ready meals which were delivered to him. When he did eat he often enjoyed them. He might say something like, “give my compliments to the chef, if you are going that way when you leave”

Much of the day he spent sitting on his chair in the kitchen looking out of the window at the birds flying and hopping about the pear tree he had planted in the back garden. He encouraged the birds by putting food out for them, including any ready meals he did not like. He would throw empty packets and tins to fall by he back door, deliberately, from his kitchen chair, saying, “that way I’ll remember to pick them up and put them in the bin on my way out.”

David had mostly lost the thread of his social friendships and contacts. There were people, though, who did visit him: relatives who lived out of the area, a neighbour and a couple of friends, who stood by him. These social contacts pleased him and he would talk about visits, if he could remember details. The exception was if he felt they were trying to interfere, which could be difficult given his insouciant view of his conditions and his independent spirit. These were the only times he approached being upset or annoyed. Strangely, he was the only person with dementia I encountered who seemed consistently aware he was subject to an overriding condition. His response to it was just to accept it.

Of his school and university days David talked with fondness, he progressed to a higher degree in a science subject and went on to a scientific career: he once mentioned casually that on a project he had translated specialist papers from the original German. Another memory was of having seen the Halle under Barbarolli and other orchestras in the post-war era. After it emerged that classic music was a passion of his, we realised he did not possess any audio equipment that still worked. We started to collect together various CD’s that were scattered about the house and decided to get him a CD player so he could hear his music again. Seeing the CD’s David began to talk about concerts and composers he could remember. Specifically, he revealed that Jean Sibelius was his favourite composer. The Symphony Number 2 he particularly appreciated and would like to hear again. As we were getting a new player he would be hearing it soon.

One bright morning David was sitting on his chair in the kitchen, as usual, looking out of the window and I commented on the warm weather. He thought for a moment, smiled, then said,

“Do you know Maralinga? I was there, that was hot, a desert really”.

“Where is Maralinga? I asked.

“In Australia. For my National Service I did scientific work. I didn’t have to wear a uniform and go marching around a parade ground, being shouted a by a Sergeant”, he smiled again.

“Why were you sent to Australia, David?” This was his reply.

“I can still hear the noise sitting here talking to you now. It was a sound like no other you will ever hear”. At this he shook his head several times.

David began to recount something in his life which had left impressions he could still recall in some detail. He continued.

“Where we were it was remote, but I can still remember seeing indigenous people staring at us from the bushes. It was said that we were catching up with the Russians, but for us we were trying to keep up with the U.S, without the latest bomb we would have really become a colony. At Maralinga we were testing the British nuclear bombs. It was supposed to be a safe place, we didn’t know really.

It was a lonely place, we saw Kangaroos, there was only the work to do. Sometimes people went in a truck to a town, but there was wasn’t much there. We were waiting to do a test on a nuclear bomb, it was going to be detonated on the range where we were, one of a series of tests. It was delayed and we waited.

The funny thing is that while you were working on the bomb you didn’t really know about it scientifically. We were all allocated a small discrete section of scientific work, which you concentrated on in isolation. Very few actually knew how it all fitted together and worked.

The forces people and the scientific people didn’t really mix. Everything was sensitive and high security. There were probably people keeping an eye on us. Boredom and loneliness was the result. Socially we kept to small groups of colleagues, even then talk was kept to work and bland subjects. With the delays the time dragged out.

When the day came they said we could watch the explosion. The requirement for watching was that we stand in a shallow slit trench and face away from the explosion until the flash had happened, then we could turn around and watch the blast. Simple.

We all wanted to watch. I was a clever clogs. I was pretty sure I knew the event sequence. I decided to turn around at the detonation and watch the flash. I think I had some sunglasses, or goggles. All the same, when I turned, what I saw was an incredible powerful light and rising mountain of flame which pulsed and rolled out and up. Immediately after that it seemed like it was over, then we saw the low trees and tall grass in the distance being flattened in a racing wave which sped towards us. As it swept over us it was accompanied by a deafening bang that was also a physical blow, a noise that filled you up, we thought the sky was falling in, it made you reel… After that a huge dust column and cloud rose up in the distance, quiet, awesome, taking its time.

I’ll never forget that day. I can still hear the sound. Though I forget many things now, I never forget Maralinga. It was a relief to leave that place, return home, but it has never left me”.

Over the next few years David would refer to his experience seeing the bomb explode. It was always the overpowering sight of the explosive flash and the physical force and noise of the blast which he returned to. He reflected on the loneliness of the place, the mutual incredulity of seeing the indigenous people, the element of naivety in the way he and his colleagues stood in the open eagerly awaiting the nuclear explosion.

Though David would describe his experience he would not be judgmental about the bomb in a conventional political way. He seemed to see it a permanent step in human knowledge with unknown consequences. It certainly awed and frightened him. I think he spent the rest of his life coping with the emotional effect. It is an open question whether his dementia and other problems were caused, or exacerbated, by the radiation exposure he certainly received.

One day his new CD player arrived. I set it up and asked what he wanted to listen to first. It was of course Sibelius Symphony No2. David seemed to doubt the machine would work. He was walking across the kitchen when those first lyrical notes and bars played out. He stopped and listened in astonishment, his eyes moistened. His hand started to move with the music, he remembered every note. Later on he said this about Sibelius’s music.

“Sometimes you think he is going mad, but then, he returns to a beautiful place.”

I think that was a very real consolation for David who had been sent to the end of the earth to practice the end of the world.

Flight

Jack was an old man when I knew him, by now living on his own. He had lived a long life, worked and had brought up a family. Most days he stayed in, or walked a short distance from his home, friends or relations visited. Much of the time he was on his own with his memories, which were shrinking with the progress of Alzheimer’s disease. Short term memory loss meant he spent a lot of time walking aimlessly around his house and was challenged by everyday tasks. 

Poland was where Jack was born and brought up, though he talked very little about his past. He still talked with a distinct accent and had hearing problems. I don’t speak Polish. I didn’t expect he would ever be able say much about his past in Poland to me. On occasion I would try to encourage him to talk about the past, but once he realized what was being asked, he would shake his head and say something like, “no, you not interest, that all gone”. On one or two other occasions he had began to say something, but would again shake his head, get up of the sofa and wander off into another room. 

I had known Jack about three years and was visiting him one afternoon in late winter; we sat, in silence, on the sofa as the light began to fade, Jack was looking at the far wall and seemed far away, but very relaxed. I was just thinking of leaving and about to get up to switch a light on, when he started speaking. What he was saying was clear and deliberate and coherent. I didn’t leave or switch on the light, he’d never talked like this before, instead just sat still looked at Jack and listened to what it was  he was saying: below is what Jack said to me, I’ve tried to retain the manner in which he told me his story. 

“When I was was very young in Poland aircraft were rare, they were even rarer where we lived. On occasion, if one flew over, everyone came out of their houses to point and stare at the plane, everyone would shout and chat excitedly. It was an event, a happy one. As a youngster I became fascinated by the planes and as time went on I decided I wanted to work with aircraft, to fly and even be pilot. I wanted to fly, like the people in the planes over our town. As I got older and progressed through school the ambition to be a pilot grew.

By the later 1930’s, after school, I had decided to join the Polish Air Force. They wouldn’t let me be a pilot straight away! They said I could go to an air force technical school and train to be a navigator. So I did that, but still wanted to be pilot. When I finished the school I asked again to be a pilot. They said there may be a war, everyone wants to be pilot, all the places are taken, but you we will put on the list. A least I was in the air force and flying.

Then the Germans invaded our country. All of us in my unit wanted to be part of the defence of our land. We waited to be put into action. We heard reports of battles. Things were not going well, but we still had hope. Then the Russians also invaded, but from the east. We thought we will now be put into action, but we weren’t. The situation approached defeat. Now as a unit we decided we must carry on the fight somehow. It was that bad we had to leave Poland, or be prisoners of Germans or Russians. We could be useful to allies France and Britain in the west. 

The only way out for us was to cross the border into Romania. We arrived in Romania as a complete military unit, undefeated. This we were proud of and it gave us hope. However, there was still threat to us. Though Romania was not yet in the war, many there had sympathy with the Germans, this was not safe for us. So eventually we make our way to Greece as quick as we can.

In Greece we offered ourselves to the British and waited. Eventually we were told we would be picked up by ship. We carry on waiting, then a ship came, it was French and took us to France. In France we were moved around, eventually, we were given a role. As things settled down I again asked to be put into pilot training, things seemed hopeful this time. I was now waiting for training as a pilot to start. Then the Germans invaded France and the situation quickly got worse. Again we retreated.

Again we faced capture. We ended up on the French coast a long way from the fighting, but expecting the Germans to arrive, as everything was happening quickly. One night a ship arrived and we were put on it. We did not know where we going, everything was in darkness. In the morning we were in a port. Only then did we find out we were in England. Then we went on train. Some people in England think we are German.

 As in France we moved about. We were asked to join the RAF, which we did. Yet again I ask to be pilot, again everyone want to be pilot, but go on list. Now I went on my first mission over Germany in bomber as navigator. Now I am in war and can fight our enemies. With amazing bad luck the aircraft was shot down. With better luck I survived. At first we were in hands of nervous local army and afraid of being shot, but then regulars take us away.  

Now I am in German prisoner of war camp with other military prisoners. I am afraid as I am Polish in British uniform and Germans may not like this. We heard in France and England what is happening inside our country. They could shoot us, like that, or we go to to other camp. As it happened we were treated same as British because of uniform. Later we saw Russian prisoners and were glad we were not treated same as them.

The Germans at the camp were mostly O.K, they were bit like us, we all mind our own business- much as possible in prisoner camp! Sometimes the camp was visited by officials and Nazis. They looked almost funny with all their saluting and carry on, but we knew they were dangerous. These we hated.  

We were always thinking of food. Originally it was nearly O.K. Later it got worse, when guards still getting good food. Some guards we could talk with and sometimes get things. Near the end it got much worse, I can never forget things we ate, some you call rotten.

Near the end of war Germans decide to evacuate camp as Russians advancing. We are near Poland, but have to go to the west. This is hard, but we don’t want to be captured by Russians, who are now with allies, but we don’t trust. We go on foot and march every day. Some just drop down and won’t get up. Some are left by guards, others not. One night we are allowed into barn, other nights sleep where we are, by road. Often no food. Marching seems to go on for ever, will we ever arrive anywhere? One day we near a town we stop, the guards speak among themselves then come to us. They say, you on your own now, we go, you too slow. They just disappeared.

At first we actually feel lost. Then we go into the town for food. We don’t care how we get food. This is Germany, they don’t care about Poland. For most of us food most important. Some of us though are filled already with need for revenge and this is opportunity. These go off and revenge on Germans, they want us all to do same, we don’t, but can’t stop them.  

Then everything confused we don’t know what is happening or going to happen, nobody in charge. Then, after day or so, a man comes walking down the road into the town. He comes over to us and says all this needs to stop now, Germany finished, we all go home, peace now for us. This is British officer. His appearance and what he says seem absurd, too normal, but it is the end of the war for us.

We are moved out well to the west. Still doubt. Where are we going next? Russia, Poland, England, USA? Stalin’s Russians in all Poland now, we can’t trust, they would shoot us, like that. Soon people start being taken away in aircraft from the side of the camp. We doubtful, told they are going to England. We know games played by leaders and politicians, they make deals with us we don’t know about. One day I am put on plane. Not until we arrive in England and am there a while do I begin to believe my journey may be over. I am not home, but this becomes my home, you see.  

Ha! I never did become pilot!”

What Jack related to me above is his personal memory. It was the only time he ever spoke for so long, in the time that I knew him. It seemed remarkable in that he could still remember so much. He did not mention his pre-war family in Poland, something he never did. If you tried to approach the subject he would say something vague about how long ago it was, or how everything has changed. What he did say is an extraordinary and vivid historical record of one mans experience of war. His part was to be caught between sides and to never return home as many did. His personal experience took him around Europe in the most difficult and dangerous times. Even after all that and with Alzheimer’s  he retained a sense of humour. As he related his story he definitely showed the dry humour of world war two getting in the way of his becoming a pilot and the irony that it would stop him being one, not enable him to become one. This and his wider experiences reflected the desperate situation of his country in those years, Poland. 

Junkyard of Phrases

Today, as a reporter on the local paper, doing a series on recycling, its a morning visit to the phrases junkyard to do some research for a story.

At the entrance to the yard is a large sign, “Wordsworth & Son Dealers in Used Conceptual Units-I.D. Required.” I go in am greeted by Mr Wordsworth standing outside a small brick office building. A large, ruddy complexioned man with oily overalls and a flat cap, he beckoned me over.

“Morning, saw you on the camera. Welcome to Wordsworth’s we were established early in the nineteenth century by my ancestor William. We deal in all grades of phrase from all sources and are proud of our ability to get the maximum out of the most unlikely, discarded and dilapidated old phrase. Right, time is money lad, we’ll start over here.”

We walked over to several heaps of roughly sorted common phrases, all of which were in various stages of wear and deterioration. The first one turned out to be a pile of rusting, lichen covered, “It’ll only take a minute”, with the morning shadows slowly moving across it. Then there was a huge pile of of suspiciously smelling items all bent out of shape and contorted in strange ways, which were all, “its not my fault”. Then we came to a dank moss and verdigris covered pile still dripping from last nights rain, which were all, “I’ll think about it” and “I’ll come back later”. Next was a gently but pungently smelling pile of assorted minor threats. It was surprising how large the yard was and the heaps of common phrases, we walked around, stretched out into the distance. Here and there people were depositing their used phrases, sometimes furtively, closely watched by employees, who had a keen eye for a choice phrase.

“Of course these phrases are no use now, what we aim to do is break them down to recover any reusable words and the rest goes to recycling”, Mr Wordsworth said, he continued, “larger sentences and paragraphs are dealt with by the big firms. Whole chapters and stories are taken by the biggest mills and manufacturers. Its a 24/7 business. I’ll take you over to medium risk processing now”.

We approached a long well built building open to our side, evidently, with a lot of activity going on inside. There was the sound of fork lift trucks entering and leaving, hammers and cutting torches within. We walked around inside, I thought I recognized a political slogan and a nasty threat.

Mr Wordsworth explained, “This is where we bring phrases associated with broken promises, pledges, commitments and contracts. They can be personal, corporate, political, or institutional, it doesn’t matter to us. This is also where the proper swearing phrases and threats end up as well, not much left to the imagination, as you can see. Over there are the broken marriage vows- never see a complete set. We get an increasing amount of media stuff in from your lot, especially in the last few years with the internet and this fake news business. O.K. This next bit, we can go over and have a look at the installation, but you can’t go in for health and safety reasons: It’s high risk processing.”

We walked over to an outlaying part of the yard and through a cutting in a high earth bank. On the other side was a large concrete bunker with closed steel doors guarded by a security kiosk and barriers, there were cameras around the building and bank. A notice said the area was patrolled.

“We can’t go any further than this”, said Mr Wordsworth, continuing, “this is where the toxic material ends up. It is a requirement that every word is separated out and no complete or partial phrases emerge, not even two words linked together. I can’t go into detail about whats in there but its quite a spectrum and includes the extreme and hate stuff. It requires special handling and protective clothing and equipment. When the individual words come out they are sent to our dedicated scouring plant.”

“Do you have any problems with this business”, I asked.

“I don’t decide what comes in here. It’s the people who use this stuff for a thrill, or are willfully negligent of consequence that produce this. Always been part of what we do, life produces friction. Been a growing business though. Someone always has to deal with it, or it would pile up in the streets again, like before the war. Anyway, onward Mr Reporter, lets go and have a look at the oddities, I keep them in the original warehouse built in 1856 by my ancestor George, you’ll like this.”

We went into a Victorian warehouse of five floors with iron pillars and tall windows. For the rest of the morning I explored the building with Mr Wordsworth’s guidance.

First he pointed out some idioms. Looking carefully I could make out a “break a leg”, blue in colour and a “stabbed in the back”, with sharp edges, both seemed quite old. Mr Wordsworth saw me looking at them and said, “These are medium risk really, because of their manual handling issues, but I keep them in here out of the way. They both have ancestry. The “break a leg” was used across the House of Commons by Disraeli to Gladstone and is a rare surviving example of nineteenth century “un-Parliamentary”. The “stabbed in the back” one is political as well, it was used by Edward Heath, I remember it being brought into yard, it was quite warm to touch then. These are part of some of the more antique phrases, with pedigree, we come across from time to time I like to collect.”

Mr Wordsworth led me across the floor to a phrase with peeling white paint which he held up, that proclaimed “peace in our time”.

“This is an original”, he said proudly, continuing, “Dad spotted this coming into the yard in the late forties, we’ve kept it ever since. It’s not worth much though, the historians use reproduction ones and there’s no demand for originals. Good conversation piece though.

Then we went upstairs to the next floor. There was the usual wide array of phrases covering the floor and on shelving all around the room. Some were hanging from the ceiling. Some just singles, others in multiples with dozens in a pile. All sorts of condition were displayed from very old to very new, some battered, some pristine. It struck me then how many shapes and forms phrasing comes in. They are also very varied in colour, some one colour others multi coloured, dark ones and bright ones, red, yellow, green, blue and every shade. Some colours were matte and others seemed to have a glow. Surface texture varied from very smooth and polished to rough and spiky. The lettering came in every sort of typeface, words could be solid or fretted, raised or flat. Looking at all these things meant I didn’t realize immediately these phrases were not in English.

“Is this your foreign language collection, Mr Wordsworth?”

“Yes. Its got its own history all this lot. We’ve always done some business in “foreign”, as we call it. When I stared here we had a continuing small Latin and French business”, he pointed to a “bone fide” and a “bon voyage”, “then things started to increase after the war, “status quo” and “cherchez la femme” did well in the sixties and seventies. I remember being with dad in the yard in the eighties when our first “vorsprung durch technik” came in, complete with its own “as they say in German”. If its in common use it won’t be separated out from the English, it gets processed just the same anyway. It will come up here if translation is needed to assess risk. I saw a wonderful, “droch aird chugat la gaoithe” in gold Celtic lettering one day and had it put up behind my desk in the office. It was only later that Sean told me it means, “may you be badly positioned on a windy day”, in Irish Gaelic. I don’t mind though. I like to think of it looking down on my slow payers when they are in the office.”

My mind spinning slightly, we went up to another floor. On the landing Mr Wordsworth said “look out the window here you get a good view of the yard.” Sure enough I could see back over the landscape of heaps and piles of phrases we had walked through and many more we had not had time to see. There were the buildings we had seen and others we had not, for storing, sorting processing and dispatching. Additional entrances became evident and there was a steady stream of traffic in and out and around the complex, not least by local council collection trucks dropping off phrase refuse picked up on their rounds. Then we went into the adjoining room.

“This is where I keep some usage anomalies.” Mr Wordsworth said, holding up an orange, “you can’t beat a few well frozen worms”, then putting it down and holding up a purple “lavatories of innovation”. “You know what they are don’t you Mr Reporter?”.

“Malapropisms”, I replied

“That’s right. You should see me dance the flamingo. Everyone knows what the next lot are”

Now he held up a pink “fast passion” and then a blue “bed and butter”.

“Freudian slips of course, also known as…” Then he held up a broken off green “parapraxis.”

“People are usually a bit shy of their Freudian slips, they don’t tend to come in personally with them, but put them in the bin or bury them instead. We’ll move a bit further down here to the Spoonerisms.”

Then he held up a red “Joris Bohnson”. “Otherwise known as the Prime Minister.” Followed by a black “a blushing crow”. “That’s a crushing blow. A bit like me saying I’m a mcrap setal dealer with a cat flap on my head !” A laughing Mr Wordwsorth said, concluding. “Lets go down to my office and have sit down after all this walking about.”

In the office I was invited to sit down in front of the desk, with Mr Wordsworth in his own chair behind. “Look at that, it’s 12 o’clock already. Do your interviews always take this long?”

“Er..no” I replied. He opened a desk draw and pulled out two Cornish pasties, he insisted I have one, in addition to a large glass of whiskey. I chomped on the pasty and sipped the whiskey, under the sign wishing me to be badly positioned on a windy day, whilst he continued.

“Phrases, to use a turn of phrase, they’ll last a lifetime. Eventually though, time will tell, and they end up here and places like it. Way back the business was all local, made of the area accent, usually about making ends meet and biblical stuff. A bit of variety came from the toffs, but not much. They usually learnt and used their phrases in places like Oxford and London. Its all different now. You’ve seen some of the variety out there and its changing quicker. The old mills and factories have shut. The new businesses that spring up are often word factories using education and the internet. How long we will be able to continue like this I don’t know, the processing is getting bigger and more mechanized, or off-shored”.

Then he stood up and pointed at a glass cabinet on the wall. “That’s my trending display. At the moment it’s got “the new normal” in it. What is the new normal? The old normal was long gone anyway. One thing is for certain though, people don’t want what they have moved on from and that keeps us busy.”

I got the feeling he was finishing so stood up and thanked him for his time and the tour and the pasty and whiskey. Then he said he will keep an eye out for my story and we parted.

On my way out a car pulled into the yard with a brown”keep your distance” and a red and white striped “unprecedented times” sticking out of the boot.