Poem - Phishing

Poem - Phishing 'stands before you? Only the one.  Torwold Browntooth grinned, and showed  how he had won his name. no greeting for a brother long away?  Nor you, Asha?  How fares your lady mother?' - From Christ Michaud.  fully arch, the subject line advises. His random email a phishing  a succulent call, to acknowledge him for He will make you a phisher of men. James A Bullion - December 2008

Short Story - Size one, all fits.

Short Story - Size one, all fits

The car that took them the short distance from the Airport to the hotel centre of the City was a Lexus and Ursula was admiring the inside of it but saying nothing when he said to her, “It is the little enhancements that make the difference in the decision of which company to fly for. Assuming you are offered the choice. This is one.” He looked at her, expectantly. “KLM must like you very much,” Ursula told him. “Though I’d rather have diamonds,” he said smiling, broadly. Ursula felt regret. “Stifle it,” she thought, “and go with him”.

He had, or had affected, a sympathetic face and Ursula thought, “well, why not,” when he appeared from nowhere to offer a share in his lift to Dam Square, on condition she was “heading somewhere interesting”. Flight crew. He was on a stop-over before flying on to the United States the next day. Ursula, he decided, looked stranded at the Airport doors. “Well,” Ursula thought, “I was at a loss having woken up to practicalities of quitting the folly of husband-hunting during the approach to Schipol.” She also needed, to be truthful, to get off the plane. As soon as she did, the world moved uniquely again, freshly and slowly. She was, perhaps, saved.

Ursula considered his question about where she was headed and heard herself outline something totally out of character; a most individualistic rejection of her normal one size fits all approach to conversation, where she would have normally have borrowed a lie heard five minutes earlier in a queue of gossiping twitterers. “I am going to pick up a diamond ring,” she told him, “a present from my husband.” Was she indeed? This may have been a drunken lie but as yet – like most drunk lies – it had not been played out. And now the crammed drink from the lounge and the plane was wearing off.

He had opened to car door and pointed to the interior with an open ring-less hand of fanned fingers, palm towards her. She passed by him, noticing. He was neatly groomed. He must have stopped somewhere in the Airport. At staff facilities. Half curled in the back Ursula noticed her own clothes, impeccably chosen and a little crumpled. That, belt, rejected all those years ago, had four 1 carat flawless diamonds embedded of the square of the buckle. She looked now at her tan leather belt with its brightly contrasting embroidered poppy flowers. Back then Ursula knew she would not cross that line even if she could and now she new she could not cross another. What did it matter, really, if her husband had a certain and half plastic red-head on his pillow in a hotel in Milan? Why worry now? Nothing of her earlier conclusions was changed by the knowledge – even if proof of it were on offer.

She had heard an American lawyer outline it at an unbearable dinner that she and David had hosted earlier that year. “The Ladyman” Ursula had christened her in a whisper to her husband when she called him to the kitchen to sort out some small problem with the caterers.

“You need categorical proof,” the lawyer was booming,”ca-te-gor-ric-cal,” she continued in New York staccato. It was no use, it seemed, having suspicions or even confrontations about hearsay. It just leads to mud, and doubt, and loss. All or nothing. The lawyer had belief, or projected belief. Ursula had been riled and pursed. Then the lawyer was off again. On defending a man against the death penalty for murdering his wife who had had an abortion. “The Southern State values the right to life,” the Ladyman forked into the air.”  “Very sensible,” Ursula did not say for fear of upsetting the finance deal in the offing, “so the right to life ends with birth.” Ursula wanted dress up the Ladyman in more feminine clothes, to kiss her, and then throttle her.

Evidence of fidelity then? None. “My husband is still the same,” Ursula thought, “and I won’t gain any.”

But she had gone, metaphorically if not literally, half way. Although how far really was Schipol between London and Milan? “No matter,” she thought. She stretched out her hands and looked at them, “there is a third line too sitting alongside me,” she thought, “can I cross that?”

When Ursula joined the man for a clichéd drink in the Hilton Bar there was a large mirror at the end of the yellow Georgian ball-room where she could look at the shape and aspect of herself together with the man. What did the portrait look like; painterly, Hopper? They were relatively anonymous. An air of almost-intimacy. His hands were in motion a lot. Seemingly weaving her in. Pretty obvious what he was trying to conjure. “Where were the smiles coming from?” she pondered. Ursula saw automatic reactions, and was a little annoyed.

She took a healthy amount of her drink. From that distance she looked like her eldest daughter, Andrea. Ursula placed her in the far corner of the room, smoking. A quiet and clever young woman. A reader. One of those. In black. Ample, though that was not the right way to put it. Not at all confident really. But no sign of it. She never fussed. She always ran from fights. One time at ten years old running into the house from the garden, “Mummy, why is nana so angry? Ursula’s mother in a tirade at not undoing a jar. That fire could be in her other daughter Victoria, Tori, two years younger who would stand for nothing, who dropped men “knowing they had a future that was definitely without her” and could shimmy up a mountain side. Seated in the other corner of the room Tori had surpassed Nana and could open mixers with her teeth. 

She had been avoiding his gaze and now he touched her arm as if to wake her back to their casual chatter that had been crossing between them. The “where are you staying?” All that . Ursula acknowledged him but feeling a quick pang of sharp guilt, placed two dead twin daughters from thirty years ago into the final corners of the room and left them there. They had died at eleven days and Ursula carried the secret potential of them everywhere. All four of the girls now watching her. Her mouth was dry. Ursula thought of an old poem from school.  You have put a fish-hoot in my chest behind the breast-bone. The blood eddies around the metal. 'It pulls,' she said, softly aloud.

Ursula looked at his hand on her, his thumb placed at the right-angle of her elbow and his fingers with their neat nails covering the outside of her forearm. The game had clicked into life properly; here was the line. She was telling him then about her fitting, that the ring would be ready in two days, that it was one of a kind, unique to her.

The weather on the Thursday evening following her return home was beautiful. It was the middle of summer. Almost her birthday. The sunny afterglow of the hot day was reddening in the cooling sky as the wooden studio at the end of garden gratefully retained the heat. Ursula was comfortable and warm in the atmosphere. In this unreal light the easy brush stroke swept across the canvass to recreate from her minds eye the yellow bar of the cornered women. “Almost a name there,” Ursula murmured. She looked at her hand. She was of course, going to have to explain the ring to David, she knew that. There was no covering up four thousand pounds. “You did what?” he might say. She was trying to imagine his reaction as she began a sketch of the man at the bar.

James A Bullion - November 2008

Poem - Pacemaker 12 String Acoustic 1615

Pacemaker 12 String Acoustic 1615

This is an older guitar, 

and is really my mom's, 

although I play it a lot. 

It's at least ten years old if not older. 

I want to say it's an Alder neck, 

but I'm not positive. 

Good action, 

pretty 

darn 

thin 

neck

When I'm playing something acoustic, 

I always use this thing, 

despite it being a twelve string, 

which kind of chunks things up and makes arpeggios and picking hard. 

I don't have a six string acoustic, 

so this thing makes do. 

Good for just strumming regular chords, but it makes barres kind of chunky sounding. 

Not great for body tapping, but  

Very full sound

it's got good action. 

very, very well made, 

with no flaws at all 

right away. 

It has warped a little over the time we've had it, 

it does well live, and it seems to be holding up 

It hasn't worn at all, the finish. 

It does great. 

End of story

James A Bullion

November 2008

Poem - His wife, evicted, leaves by train

His wife, evicted, leaves by train

Imagine her, reclining
Falling to the movement of the train.
An evening start, closing her away.
Watch her white shock
A pale eviction, a bloodless coup then
Hear clunk of metal, wheels moving, a knock
Pillows her head and away, unwife’d.
A sudden detail; thin bare shaky fingers.
This was grown in her heart and his.
The others - they could be guests - fill carriages.
They are in this scene, unknowns.
Nobody comes to a divorce, to mark.
And the guard, the thin blood of the train, is moving through
Towards her, arriving back to front
To ask her where she’s going.
He’ll stop, smile, take her slip, and look.
She won’t turn her head.

James A Bullion, November 2008

Poem - Epiphone WildKat Electric Guitar

Poem - Epiphone WildKat Electric Guitar

I played guitar for many years.

After suffering a stroke, I lost all ability to play.

I am now relearning.

After purchasing a Strat, an Ibanez and a Johnson acoustic, I found they were too difficult to play.

When I saw the Wildcat I was knocked out.

When I put it in my hands, things started coming back.

Beautiful tones, beautiful looks, silky smooth to play.

Like marrying a beautiful woman who can sing, cook,hunt and fish.

Like butter in your hands, effortless to play.

And the tone is incredible.

I play through a 1 12" Bedrock tube amp and it sounds better than ever.

No noise, no buzz, no rattles.

The logo plate was loose when I got the guitar but I tightened the 3 screws and it's fine.

The wiggle bar is great for adding expression but not made

for dive bombing,

you will go out of tune.

I could see making some slight modifications down the road

(replacing the nut)

but I believe I can live with it as is for quite a while.

Ask Santa for one. You won't be disappointed!

I'm a 73 yr. young picker, but with short fingers and small hands.

The action is as good as it gets.

The sounds create what you want.

Craftsmanship is as good as any Gibson model.

James A Bullion - July 2008

Short Story - Dead Words

DEAD WORDS

Aunt Mary,

Don’t show this to Michael. I will be coming there in three weeks. The fourth Sunday in April. For about a month. Then I must come back up. This is all I know till I get there. I am sorry everything is such a jumble. Perhaps we can tidy it up together before you speak at the memorial. I ought to warn you. Much of what Arthur wrote privately is terribly dismissive of where he came from. Right enough but Michael won’t understand probably. Tell him I cannot speak to him until I get there. He left two messages in the night. He is drinking again, clearly. These notes are intended to comfort you.  Try to get Michael sober if you can. I don’t really want a repeat of what went on at the funeral. If you think I ought not to come yet I won’t. We didn’t really get time to talk. I will bring the “diaries” with me. I didn’t dare send them. You have to request a copy of the coroner’s report, in writing. I was allowed a read, in person, but was only entitled to a copy of the front sheet (because it is public anyway).

On this front sheet they put the hard facts. It’s a summary. I didn’t tell you this before. It lists Arthur as a single man aged 52, engaged in the building trade! This they got from a note he had on him. He used his real name and not Daniel Lever. The note also gave date of birth, occupation, and nationality. The name and the nationality are right. But the date of birth is six months too late on the corresponding day in June. As for being in the building trade, well it is completely unfathomable at first. Why would he want anyone to think he worked in the building trade instead of social work or that he was the writer Daniel Lever? He gave them no address and they don’t seem to have put themselves out beyond contacting you, visiting the flat, and looking for a note. Another dead Irish man. Off on the plane with him to bury in the homeland. Little they new. 

The time of death is given as 11.34 a.m. How awful it must be for you Mary, but you are strong remember and now we must decide quickly and act to protect your brother’s memory and the interests of your family. I will do what I can, but from here, mostly. I will remain his editor, if that is what you want.

I think that the Coroner must have tried his hand at writing. Mr John Rowlabel. In extraordinary language, he begins the main report:

 

“He posed, arms aloft, face towards the sky, fingers fanned. A temporary statue. No one had seen him climb the tower that forms the northern approach to Blackwall Tunnel. Like a diver he fell, in love with water, his birth sign, ignoring the tarmac; his occupation. As this distressed man fell, he was hit by the oncoming lorry, which roared into him. It tossed him ahead, killing him instantly, snapping, then mangling his body. The driver of the vechile has, in shaking, convulsive, vividly recalled images told this court of a rapturous look upon that man’s face. The driver is blameless. He will, no doubt forever, suffer hauntings of that moment and, so my experience tells me, he will in addition re-rehearse the sounds from those moments when he screamed in harmony with the tearing brakes but could do nothing.”

That does not seem to me to be the usual language of a Coroner but good charm to him. Mr John Rowlabel seems to be of a rather “colonial” disposition. Under different circumstances I would want to meet this British man. The office woman told me that, in his independence, he sometimes sat alone in court facing cases that attracted merely official witnesses. In these cases he would tend to “colour in”, add viable patterns which could be inferred. It seems that this happened to Arthur. Even in death he has managed to capture another odd moment. 

I won’t repeat the medical parts. A horror story list of injuries in the battle between metal and flesh. It lists the cause of death and the probable sequence of physical events in those slowed seconds. The verdict you already know.

  They found a knife is his pocket, and the report mentions that he had cuts to his arms and his left side lower rib cage. He’d maybe started that business again, but it is inconclusive on this point. Though, as you can see from the extract, it is in the writing.

I went to the house two weeks ago, where I found the diaries. You asked me what this was about, how the worm in his heart was grown. I have found out what I can and I will bring those words with me. In the meantime, if you agree, we should seem to not understand the situation ourselves and present this to associates, relatives and the Sunday supplements when they kick in. I am refusing all calls until after the memorial. This process must be managed, which makes me repeat the need to bring Michael under control.

As usual there is no way of knowing when Arthur wrote individual pieces, but I’m reasonably confident of when he wrote the last extract. Perhaps on the morning he left for London, or the night before. Weave what you can into the memorial notes you are writing. If you need me to aid this I can intersperse a few memories of my own. 

There are no further clues at the house. It was completely tidy, just the bed was unmade. The phone book was full of names. No milk or food. The diary was on the floor by the bed, pen in the middle. It is not a bought diary but rather it is bound plain paper. It is filled intermittently and dated by hand, at the top. 

I opened the windows (I thought of what you’d said). 

The place is heavy with him, Mary. 

Mary, the final piece written in the diary is dated in the future - for his next birthday. 

I think that Arthur may have been about to enter another depressive period. I think he may have been covering this up for a while. 

Your brother Arthur felt feelings intensely but he was clever with emotions. He was conscious of them, in my experience, and could control them. Another book by the bed  - there was a pile actually – was by Damasio.

I wonder what you will make of the extract. Do not let it depress you Mary. All of the old themes from the early days are back as you’ll see. There is no humour and little light except those oppressive, scorching, rays which were wickedly designed to show up our “shame” inside, and which, despite some fifty-five years of trying, he did not rid himself of. What a heritage mother Ireland gives us. 

The extract seems to me to be full of mud and heavy rain. Someone pinned down and confused. Unusually he has fused very obviously autobiographical detail using, from what I have gathered, real names (so be careful if you do use this). There was clearly a gathering storm at work. He was due at work on the morning he was in London. The morning he chose for dying. There was a meeting. They won’t say what it was about, but it was clearly important. I spoke, eventually, to the Head of HR to get a feel for things. It may be something, it might be nothing. I mentioned some of the names from the piece I think I get the impression that Arthur had done something improper. Also he had phoned them in the morning, though they are giving nothing away. Arthur was liked there. Lots of generous words about him. “The big fella”.

Although maybe he decided not to go because he was dog tired, or ill. If he did wake in the way that he has that fellow describing it in the extract maybe.

I didn’t tell you at the funeral. It took a month from when you phoned before to tell me you had had no contact, before I saw him. That was two months ago now was it? We went to a pub for food. A carvery. He was fine really. He looked tired but he’d lost weight at any rate, which was a requirement. He had stopped taking anything. Just propanolol, I think he said. To slow his heart.  We talked about George Burchett (the tatooist) and horse racing. I lost £20 on the strength of it. 

Also he told me a funny story about work. He’s in an interview situation. The panel is headed by William J William, the big bean. Only they are not in the room yet. He’s been told to take a seat. Ten minutes later a beautiful young woman pours in, he’s told there’s coffee on the way, and she pours out again. He’s looking for something to do. So he decides that he does not like the layout and that he’s going to move his chair. He wants to be comfortable for the grilling. When he takes hold of its puffy arms they come off in his hands. At that exact moment William J William and the crew roll in. He has to sit there. Chair arms on the floor, drawing attention to themselves. For the love of the Lord Jesus he told me, laughing. But he got through it seems. It was a good story Mary.

I think we should do two things. Keep the dismissive writing away from the local media there, and not dig too far into any work problems (though in all honesty if he has acted improperly it is bound to surface, eventually).

The Social Worker is dead. Arthur Seymour is dead. He is buried. Nobody knew him.

Everybody knew the writer Daniel Lever but we must decide what we will say about him at the memorial.

I do not know what else I should say to you about Arthur

I love you Mary. 

I have always loved you since the time we first touched. When that bastard of a husband of yours dies you can be with me. I’ll bring you here in a boat full of flowers, if you like. Do not weep too much for your brother, Mary. Goodbye for now. 

Please don’t ring.

Diary Extract – Arthur Seymour

24 June 2009.

VOICE

He is dreaming a pitch dark dream. This does not concern him. The authoritative voice having been away for some two years has now returned. He thinks he is asleep. This is crucial. To be hearing this voice whilst awake would be important. It would require change. Asleep it is more legitimate. He is lying there. In the centre of the wooden bed that is too big for him alone, now; which lies next to the ashtray that has become too full for his own good; which rests upon the old wooden radio in use for a little cabinet. Given by the father. In the morning, bowed, sitting sideways on the bed edge, he will pause, reflect, rub his eye lazily, gather some dust from the wooden surface to consider with his fingers, and he will be reminded of his sorrow. But now, deeply, rhythmically, he is breathing slow his dreamy breath, lying chin-raised on his back, naked, thin, abandoned by cover. He lies straightened, his legs crossed and his arms stretched out on either side of him. Hands unclenched, palms up. The authoritative voice is like oak, solid, age old. It roars, mockingly, goading.

AUTHORITATIVE VOICE

Best keep your eyes tight shut just now. Are you lying there comfortably ? I am glad to be here with you again. I love the winter when the nights are long. And if there must be sun let it be cool, weak. I have an idea. Imagine the shape of Suffolk and then imagine you above it hovering - shall we say - God-like. The shape is waiting to fizz and move. To help describe I think it will need a voice don’t you ? There. Done. A boot furrowing voice to walk along the shingle, crack, crunch and kick. Female, of course. 

 

THE VOICE OF SUFFOLK

Here it is now quiet, still and dark. Awaiting the rise of the sun. In the cold blue green copse worms are flexing to move, slowly busy. Then, down from the nested oak tree, a scratching, flitting animal movement to carry out some early bird task. To do and do what they do. Then - feather shiver stop. A sudden head movement to look, wait and listen. The fwoc fwoc of rubber tyres on cold steel cats eyes, dividing lanes. Choices. Jacqui Dawe. Is she coming to the rescue ? Gone by proof of no sound. Feather on. 

Some of my people are already at work. It is inevitable. Not necessarily all dark figures. They are walking, checking, clearing, buffing, resetting. With keys. A torch. Radio communication. Eerie half dark rooms aglow from screen savers with their sway flags moving between each corner of the monitor. Endless colour shifting triangle patterns. A steady blip blip, fans long since on auto save. Everything is backed up, safe. Featous.

Outside idle cars are also waiting, clicking now and then. 

The sun begins to rise. 

In Ipswich, right now, a Port Authority man is killing a youth.

AUTHORITATIVE VOICE

Beautiful. She has a wonderful skeigh tone, eh? It skiffs along. His rapid eye movement. Narrator, be created to answer - can he sense that?

CREATED NARRATOR

 He can, the lids heaving and lifting to accommodate the panicking movement of the eyeball. An urgent sense of his self returned until the authoritative voice begins again. Stay calm. Learn.

AUTHORITATIVE VOICE

For years you have worried and thought me to be God. I am not God. When you experience me it is grey, sounded in the sense of the wind, movement over the earth and not over the water or the deep. The smell of mud. The sky and the stars obscured by tall rustling trees. Leaves stuck to your boot. 

With Him it is searing hot. A sun without shade, a stone wall. Neutral. Complex. Confusing and contradictory. Right. Unanswerable and unresponsive. Had-I-wist. He has managed to become a lot less interfering. Want to know why? He sees my point of view now. A sideways move. Way back He was just a mean son of a bitch sending floods and tumours and really sticking the knife in. Then He eased, sighed and sat back a little. In a moment of guilt He sent in someone New. That led to a famous head to head. The pattern of that dialectical dance is now forever repeated. It has been burned into time. You remember that stuck script? Here goes. Come along for the ride why don’tcha, get behind me for once. Enjoy the show. If you have any questions, just whisper in my ear. I am always listening. I don’t need prayers. All those markings, dances, and incantations and Latin. I don’t even speak the language. Just whisper in a certain kind of way. You’ll get the hang of it. I, for one, am perfectly willing to intervene.

But the world is so complicated now, and I am so busy. Job has split into a million people. I can hardly keep up. Which is why I have to work, night and day. And day. And night.

You think you know the truth?  It was me who created your place. I rent it from Him. I always have. My covenant with Him precedes yours. I made man with spit and lime. He is rebellious against me. That is, He won’t leave it alone. He will not keep to His part of the bargain. Just one more request, just do this for me and I will soar away through sky and let you get on with it. Want to hear the indescribable sound of the rebellow of the whisper of God? It is erotic, terrifying. Eyes closed, loving. 

THE WHISPER OF GOD

I promise you will see me spill away, pour out of the world though a grey black electrifying Moses mocking sky; once I have said my goodbyes. Then back to just you. Remember when it was only you and the animals here, and you at your drawing board? There is just this guy. Here’s the paperwork. 

AUTHORITATIVE VOICE

I close my eyes and love Him. I am betrayed every time. So, here you are. What do you think? I mean, in general, will you be tempted? Will you lie? They are waiting to investigate you. Likely to be dismissed I’d say. They are coming for you. Gathering from all over to talk with you. Listen.

THE VOICE OF SUFFOLK

Here is six from nine. 

One. Hear the sound of the sound of the sea gently translocating.  Remember the man from the Grunsburgh Leg Club? You gave him some Government money for volunteers and his swabs. And a specialist chair. Joe Flint stands then at the side of the sea on damp now uncovered pebbles, his one longer leg lying comfortably lower in the shingle. Sea regarding he looks along from left to right comparing and contrasting how the line of lapping wet was at one place in and another out. A tired line of soldiers with sea spray breath struggling toward the shore. Not like London eh Joe? Where the Thames does the okey kokey on the steps at Greenwich. What are you doing up do early Joe, standing at the side of the Sea? What’s the matter? After 57 years of practice can’t you sleep? Big day ahead Joe. Mrs Kendall unstacking the chairs, will see the suit and ask, shyly as ever, “Are you not with us today, Joe?” “No, Mrs Kendall I have a meeting this morning, in Ipswich”. In awe to repeat “In Ipswich, really?” 

Two. An old home visit. Bet you’d care not to remember this. Want to hear how she is now? At hate am awaking in a sweat will be Patricia Little. Lithe, sexy, deadly. Tending to be middle or upper class, intelligent with at least one alcoholic parent. At risk of self harm. Remember writing that in a letter to the doctor? Poor Patty. Patricia  - I hate myself with venom. Patricia – because I want to punish myself with this cut. Patricia - because it makes me feel like my carcass has some life; because it destroys or lessens or minimises the pain and feelings I have inside; because it is my survival strategy; because when I do not self harm I am suicidal therefore I need to self harm to keep ticking over. My philosophy. Ticking over. 

Three. Laura Tyre’s cab man’s car is ticking over as she emerges from her bungalow, bag on lap, face set, pushing at the wheels of her chair moving with intention, forward. In the car she looks at the papers as, with a fizz on the cab man’s radio, she enters the County of Suffolk. Later she will sit at the meeting wheeling gently in and out two inches as she listens to Mr John Terrier. 

Four. Mr John Terrier in full meeting mode, having risen alone in one smooth movement to sit up in bed, then robe, and walk across fields into town, swinging gently his bag full of evidence. In plenty of time. Smooth dressed. Silken voice, questioning quietly among them, building to agreement, reasonable manipulation. Consensus. When all agree he has it written down. Mr John Terrier rising, concluding, self filing and jacket buttoning and then looking to the door as the door - all look – in through the door comes a suit. No matter who, never mind the identity who. He hands the risen John Terrier a note, then quietly away. “Ah”, says John, “apologies”, he says, showing the note, “we have apologies from Arthur, which should be entered into the minutes”. 

Five. Handing out confidential papers is Mr Frank Fosdike. In his fifties Frank. Had enough of this job Frank, wanting to retire Frank, endlessly handing round papers, mindfully. 

Six. Jacqui Dawe is jangling gold from her wrist to the steering wheel of her car. She is late but she will not arrive, for, at the flick of an authoritative finger, she will slide into sleep. Bloodied, broke, in distress, clacking out Morse code on the plastic dash of her dashed car. Murmuring her apologies. Views not heard, next meeting maybe. Appeal. No one to save you now.

AUTHORITATIVE VOICE

No one to save you now. It is coming like a sheet of rain. Why don't you awake?  Exuviae. 

VOICE

On an instruction to wake, he awakes exhausted, stiff and cold.

James A Bullion  - written 2000, revised June 2008

Novel excerpt - Coming Over; from Heard

Heard

Part one – Coming Over

1972: Belfast ~ Liverpool

Andrea stood facing her father and because of the distance between them she could look over his taller shoulder and through the cabin window at the city she was leaving behind by sea. She recognized little. The small, claustrophobic, and deadly few miles where her father, mother and brother would continue to live were already hidden amongst the houses of Belfast. The City was grey, or the day has become grey in her memory, in the act of her recall.

Clifford Shea looked drawn and tired on the day he sent his ten-year-old daughter away. A troubled man. Yet his wet mud-coloured eyes shone for Andrea. Watching, she waited for him to speak. He had an unlit cigarette between his lips. He was furtive, half in hiding, submerged in his greatcoat, and trying to look relaxed. Heated, he took it off. He was tall, lean and neat in his brown suit, shirt and tie; dressed for work, in fact. On other days at dawn Andrea watched him receding from the house, walking deserted streets, to Shortland’s Printers and then (and only then) he changed into overalls – well, depending.  The print shop was cover. They were fine about it, part of it. On active duty he would walk through the front doors and out through the back. As time went by and got worse, Clifford and others went straight through the print works more often, for months at a time and at one certain point, Clifford went through for good. Clifford was a product of, a participant in, the armed struggle and - much later – an architect of its cessation. 

He clapped his hands lightly together and caught Andrea’s attention.

‘It is a fine ship’s cabin for such a young girl traveller eh?’

Andrea glanced at her mother with a sideward eye. 

Eileen Shea looked like an exotic Jewess to her daughter. A slim, aquiline, nose rested above her gentle red upper lip, slightly parted from a full lower buddy. Her brown eyes were wide, warm, and enquiring (though much later Andrea would conclude that she was rather cold towards her children). Her hair was short and tied back. She had natural poise and elegance. As tall as her husband, she matched him in wit, and in politics. The Sheas were equal in the eyes of their children and united in the decisions they made. Eileen gave instruction to Andrea. 

‘It’s a short crossing Andrea and you will be there after a night’s rest in bed. Don’t wander.’ After a paused she added, ‘You can read here,’ patting the bunk, ‘don’t you think Clifford? She can read here.’ 

Clifford Shea looked at his wife and held up his hands in ascent. All three paused. 

‘Well I will see about food.’

Andrea watched her mother leave. Outside from the corridor came the sounds of passengers milling about with bags. Turning back Andrea saw that her father had sat down upon the bunk and looked for signs of him remembering to disembark. She kept one ear on any possible announcement. She waited. He rummaged a bag.

The formality, in which he gave his daughter the gift, echoed a presentation, a Head rewarding merit. He was stiff with the act, odd and slow. She thought of her prize drawing of muddy boots, left lying on the back steps of the house, composed over a weekend; of the careful lines, of waiting for evening to watch them in shadow and decide on pastels; a patient act. At home, it hung in the back hall. Her father put the gift in her hands and held hers with his. A book, expensive, covered, properly made. Freed again, Andrea looked at her hands and saw the gold inlaid writing on the green leather cover. She was unprepared for the ceremonial nature of what was happening, of the leaving, that it was happening, there and then. 

‘Something more to keep you occupied.’ 

He tousled her hair. The book had the emblem of Shorthand’s Printers, where her father worked. Andrea frowned thoughtfully. Illustrated Flowers of British Fields. Her father caught the look on her face. 

‘Something beautiful, on the flowers of the Isles, for a flower of the land.’

‘I will study this,’ Andrea told him, seriously.

Her father looked at the neat pile (in size order) of books arranged on the patch of table beside the head of the bunk. Moving to it he fanned the collection out a little bit and smiled at her. With her announcement ear, Andrea heard footsteps outside the cabin door, still ajar.

‘Though I see you have been busy with a small collection of activities of your own Ma, judging by the contents of the bag.’

At her father’s words Andrea turned to her returning mother. His voice was still in the air, ending. Andrea felt red hot, at the centre of matters. Her father’s mock disapproval of the fellow kindness of his wife released Andrea’s tears. She raised her face to her mother’s but did not need to make eye contact. Eileen Shea pulled her daughter to her. Andrea sensed the stiffening in her father she expected of him. He quietly exhaled. This released further sobs from Andrea and she felt a tightening of her mother’s hands around her. Andrea had not heard a question (and thirty years later, when she met him again, Andrea wondered if she had been right; did she ask the question or make a case?) because her father cleared his throat and spoke. 

‘Yes you can, and yes you will.’

In the swaddle of her mother, in darkness, for a moment, Andrea pieced together the decision of her leaving. Her bedroom a few months before, when it was cold and fresh, Clifford came to Andrea and spoke to her about the war. It was after midnight when she heard the front door. Then later his movement in the kitchen, the sound of water. Then the squeak of the living room door. All of the doors had a noise, and they were never eased or oiled. They broadcast movement throughout the house. Finally the sound of his steps and the creak of the wood on the stairs. He scratched lightly on her door like a cat and popped his head around it. Seeing Andrea awake, he came in, in whispers. He smelled of drink. They chatted for a little while about the day, about small things of the house. Something about her brother Callum. Then her father became sombre.

‘I am going away again, except again I am not going anywhere but in my own city. The city is going to be my preoccupation.’ 

He paused and swallowed.

‘What I mean Andrea is that this place is going to take all my energy. And your Ma and I are worried about you and Callum.’ 

Andrea looked at him, uncomprehending. 

‘Ma and I have discussed this,’ he began again, nervously. 

Andrea watched his silhouetted figure against the light from outside the window. She knew that every light in the house was off, to give the appearance of an empty place. To discourage attention. She knew that there were soldiers on the corner. Clifford was bent forward and he looked tired. His eyes swept the curve and shape of the blankets as if scanning the details of a map. He ran his hand lightly across, smoothing the hills and valleys created around her curled legs. 

‘Yourself and Callum are to go and stay with your grandparents a while in London. First yourself in the summer, and Callum by the time of school starting.’

‘What about Ma, is she coming?’

‘Ma will visit you.’

‘I don’t want to go, and why can’t we go to Cork like last time?’

‘Andrea, this is no place for a child, with bombs and guns going off everywhere.’

‘I don’t want to go and why are you sending me to the enemy then?’ 

Her father paid her closer attention.

‘Your grandparents are not the enemy Andrea, and neither are the British working people.’

‘What?’ 

‘I mean the other men, women and children there.’

‘Who is the enemy that wants me to go then?’ 

In her anger Andrea threw to the floor her bedside hair brush. The sound of the thud made her father wince and jump back a little. For there was a boy in the house where Clifford had just come from, a young boy of about ten or twelve who stood by as his father was shot dead. The boy’s father – a prison guard – fell back gracefully, gently waving his arms, to the settee that he had risen from at the sound of  the door splintering, half of his face now gone. The boy looked at his falling father and then turned his eyes away to look at the floor. For a moment the only sound was of someone – perhaps it was the boy’s mother – descending half way down the stairs and stopping. The boy tilted his disbelieving head to Clifford in his heavy black coat and hooded face. The boy dropped to his knees before him. His expression was not pleading; rather someone recalling a fact, searching for an answer to a question, it having been asked. Clifford turned and left, lowering the gun to his side, and was three quarters along the front path when it occurred to him that he had not shouted the man’s name, that he had not stated the reason for the act. He slowed for an instant and then heard the engine start and roar. He got in and the lightless car speed away. In the dark, an arm from the back seat handed him a flask and he took a long drink to quench his parched throat.

On the end of Andrea’s bed Clifford, his throat parched again, looked at his daughter in shadow.

‘I want to send you from this place until the fighting is over, until the soldiers have gone. I want to send all of the children away but I have only the permission to send two. You and your brother. I want to get this summer over with because I think that times will get worse before they will get better. Better is coming, but it will only come at a cost. I do not want you to count as part of the cost.’

‘What cost?’ Andrea asked him.

‘People, my flower. Hearts will have to be broken before history will move.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘You have seen and heard enough already I think.’

‘What will happen after?’

‘I don’t know exactly, we will be together again.’ 

‘What will I find in London?’ 

‘Loving grandparents. A creaky old house. An old man and a wise woman. Some distance from this cloudy place, a riverbank, and plenty of parks. Take some books; visit the gardens like you love to. I’ll stay here, kneeling amongst the weeds, in the evening sky, amongst the flowers like my girl.’ 

He played with her hair then as her mother did now, on the boat, in the swaddle of her, in the pleats of her clothes, in darkness but now with the engines started, rumbling through the ship. 

Andrea lay alone on the cabin bed and counted the two hours gone and the eight remaining. She relaxed into the gentle shudder of the boat’s slow, measured, progress. A heavy sensation; it was regular and there was almost a signature rhythm to it, which Andrea tried to capture the essence of. The deeper, longer, lower sound suggested a determined push and led to a tak-tak sound in the outer wall. The movement of the diamond patterned panel. Tak-tak-click. A lighter sound – a kind of ship’s rising in her mind – then led to movement between the clearances in both her cabin door and the adjacent small cupboard table beside her bunk, on which her books lay. Finally there was a moment of what she imagined to be the peak of the boat’s rise; the point when the vessel seemed to have pushed forward and paused that caused a small incident of stillness. Then the deeper sound again.

Andrea counted these rhythms until the early hundreds but then the patterns changed altogether. Perhaps the ship had changed direction. She listened anew but was distracted by thoughts about the sea itself, and the boat within it. Eventually, fitfully, she fell asleep.

Later, in her paintings she would recreate this image of the struggling ship and the sleeping child. The ship is disproportionately miniature, lost in a large canvas of rough sea, and within its waves were painted the detail of events of a generation of fighting; floating like curious flotsam. A bombed, splintered, shop, Orangemen marching, protest murals, checkpoints, her father interned, her brother’s dirty, exhilarated face as he threw a stone at an RUC man (based on an actual family photograph), a group of men on a street corner by an overturned public bus (the driver among them, his cap and ticket machine still on), three boys approaching a smashed, shabby, British Leyland car - all three with outstretched arms and holding petrol bombs like winning athletes.

Andrea slept her night. 

In the black drizzle the ferry had its shoulder to the wind and shuddered on. The corridors had quietened. The bar was dark. The lounge passengers, journey slumbering, were stretched out in seats. The breathing, the clearing of throats and shuffling movements were submerged in the hum of ship’s noise. A cleaner mopped a toilet, her bucket of dirty water gently shaking in the rise and fall. A girl in the cafeteria stood back admiring the neatly staked shelf of glasses she had arranged, and pulled on a cigarette. On the car deck, a man walked the bare metal floor, pouring sand from a red bucket over oil stains, and shifting traffic cones with his boot. In the lorry lounge four drivers played cards in silent well-known company. The ships radio dish turned slowly, humming. On deck four gulls shivered beneath a lifeboat and thirty feet away a lone passenger in a long overcoat stared out at the murky weather from beneath the rim of his hat, stayed upon his head by his gloved hand. In her dark cabin Andrea laid on her side, curled, her arms wrapped around the pillow, her book of flowers on the floor. In the morning she would stretch awake and turn her head each way into her hair. There would be no movement and a calm sea. She would be new again.

James A Bullion 2008

Jamaica Road

Jamaica Road

I am quizzing my mother on a well-worn old family story about a journey I made aged two. It was sometimes told to evidence a ‘rebellious tendency’, sometimes ‘independence of spirit,’ and always ‘good luck.’ 

‘I want to talk to you,’ I say down the line, ‘about when I stole out to the park alone. When I crossed Jamaica Road.’ 

There is an unusual pause. We are at the end of a call, after the usual catalogue of family enquiry and evaluation of my mother’s poor health. 

‘You want to talk to me about what?’ 

‘I want you to talk about the story about when I disappeared and you found me in the park,’ I tell her. 

She cuts across me now.

‘You know the story.’ She is suspicious of a joke or a trick or a serious discussion.

‘I know roughly, but I haven’t heard it for years. I am trying to write it down.’

‘What, are you taking therapy?’

I laugh at this, and so does she, settling the mood, and we make a date. 

Summer 1967. The far end of Jamaica Road, Rotherhithe, South London; where the road meets the entrance to the Rotherhithe Tunnel. The Royal Arsenal Cooperative Society (RACS) are repairing their houses along the length of this street, the scaffolding slowly progressing up the road. The sound of knocking and splintering has been in the air all year. That din is then mixed with the noise of mid morning traffic outside. The residents are worn down. They are protesting by not shopping in the local Co-op until the work is completed. It is taking too long. Previously they had been protesting because the work had not started. My mother, despite being married to an RACS man, is at the root of these protests.

Today, there is a constant stream of commercial vehicles and cars wanting to cross the river through the tunnel. It is sunny. Cyclists weave along the centre of the road avoiding the grooves left by the tram tracks recently removed. It is a good place to cycle because the drivers avoid it from habit. 

 Our house consists of the basement, garden and first floor of a four-story apartment, a former shop that spills out directly onto Jamaica Road opposite Southwark Park. The house is run-down and unsafe, we want to move but cannot despite a vigorous press campaign run by a journalist aunt. So we too are waiting for the scaffolding to arrive. We are practically last.

My mother Eileen has pushed out Christine, her reluctant daughter of ten years, to school. She will arrive at the end of first break and the teachers, as usual, will not notice - or choose not to notice because they know that Christine will have been helping her mother. Half the time they are right. 

My sister Jackie, aged 5 years, is a mouthy paraplegic and unable to be schooled or tamed. She is trouble. My mother carries her everywhere in her powerful arms, moving between rooms, arranging and responding. Partly she cannot let her alone because of holes in the floor that Jackie might drag herself to (using her own powerful arms). We all fence in Jackie – it seems - until we can find a daytime solution, somewhere for her to go. That ‘we’ includes me, aged two. I am walking and talking and with a considerable amount of freedom most of the time. I have both a well-developed sense of protection for Jackie and a jealous temper.

My father, Alexander, is away on a long haul drive in his lorry for the RACS. He stays away for days, sleeping in the cabin bed of his cab. He is more and more out of touch with his family. We do not have a telephone. He turns up when he does and that is that. This house comes with his job. When he goes for good – which he will in a little while – so does the house. Soon, a Saturday, he packs an unusually large bag for work and climbs into his lorry, and drives off. Christine watches the cab turn the corner, my father feeding the wheel like rope between his hands. In a series of shrugs he’ll be gone. Then we’ll move. For the time being and on this day we are all trapped.

Then Jackie spills my mother’s scalding hot tea over her legs without noticing or crying out. She cannot feel them properly, and therefore does not react strongly. Nevertheless the liquid is burning her skin. My mother is in another room. I get her and silently take her hand, and lead her. In the room, responding, she shakes me free in irritation and begins to deal with my sister, hoisting her away to be cleaned up.

Thirty-nine years later my mother gently takes up the story again for me alone. I am used to a fast, third person comical telling and I realise, without an audience this cannot happen. It feels a little like a different story. 

‘I was busy with Jackie, in a panic. Meanwhile in the hall you, with a stool from the front room; climbed up, turned the door handle and you were gone. It should have been locked, of course. You were only wearing a terry. Gone’

My mother snaps her fingers.

‘I douse your sister’s leg in water for a long time, rub in some butter and wrap it in a towel. Complete balls that butter! Makes a burn worse but I didn’t know that then. And I’m talking to you but you are not answering. Then I hear the sound of the traffic. Outside noises. I stop the tap, I look for you and you are gone.’

My mother laughs nervously, bringing her fingers up to caress her brow.  

Outside the tunnel-bound cars were bumper to bumper because of an accident. Two cars have knocked one another in the centre of the road. It is a sedate affair. Some of the drivers have got out of their vehicles to look, smoke wait or talk. 

One driver sees the blond head of a child bob along from left to right; his small steadying outstretched hand brushing along the bonnet. The child continues to the busy still-flowing opposite side of the road. The driver reacts at last and shouts at the boy, which causes him to start running. Simultaneously he opens his car door and hits his horn. The child stops and turns for a moment to look at the driver. Behind the boy a car whizzes past. The child turns back and walks in front of a van, which clanks on its breaks, roughly swerves away, and misses him by inches. Frightened, the child runs to the safety of the pavement, on and into the entrance of the park.

He is flabbergasted, as he will tell my mother when she eventually rushes out.

‘ere luv, are you looking for a young ‘un. A little boy?’

My mother perfectly mimics his cockney voice. Even now, these many years on, she has half that frantic look on her face from the time. 

‘I rushed out and you were nowhere to be seen. The cars were at a standstill, and I thought ‘that’s it’. I have your sister in my arms and I am just rushing up towards the accident when the driver catches me.  The butter is melting on Jackie’s leg and my hand keeps slipping. I also associate the smell of butter with that day now!’

‘He’s just crossed the road. A right lucky charm. Little bleeder!’

Mother repeats his phrases.

‘He told me that you’d gone into the park and I went after you. But you were gone.’

My mother holds up both her palms and gestures their emptiness.

‘Gone and nowhere to be found.’

‘I wonder where I was.’ I say, ‘and if I was hiding from you?’

I have no memory of any of this time.  She has no knowledge of the events that occurred when I was missing. She searched for me for three hours, intermittently going back to the house in case I had turned up there. When she found me by the swings, I was filthy and I had mud in my mouth.

This usual ending is with laughter, but this time, with just me she is sombre and I am surprised. I don’t recall those hours in the park. I also don’t recall those family times when my father lived with us.

 We speak for a while about the stresses of bringing up three children for her and two for me, about her divorce and mine, about disability and health, and how spread out around Britain our family has become. I remind my mother that when my first marriage fell apart she told me that I had not tried hard enough to hold it together. 

‘I say a lot of things,’ she responds, and then we pause for such a time that our reminiscence stops altogether.

James A Bullion 2008

1500

Short Story - My neighbour who broke down in her own garden

MY NEIGHBOUR WHO BROKE DOWN IN HER OWN GARDEN

So I went out quietly at lunchtime, around 1.30 pm, patting with my hands my chest, sides and legs for keys, cards and money. I had the letter between my lips meanwhile. She was not there then.

I went out of the back door, through the garden, and then down the alleyway between the houses and so I would have seen her. Front doors are for coffins. That is what the older people say around here. All of the houses are terraced and have an alleyway to the back. The front door leads you straight into the first living room. So mostly you go out through the back. I blipped open the car to get my glasses. I don’t need to wear them but I believe I look better in them. They are by Vogue. I posted the car keys back through the front door because there was no point taking them. I had to pull my hand away quickly because of the snap of the gold-metal-coloured letter box spring. It is new. I enjoyed the newness. With the letter now in my hands I smoothed with my thumb, the curling new stamp and I was off, walking quite quickly and aware of my posture as I always am now when I begin a journey on foot. People say to me that, for a young man, I stoop.

I was back by half past four, so its possible she was there for a maximum of three hours before I discovered her. That’s the worst case scenario in terms of time. When I came back I walked in through the front door this time and so I did not discover her straight away. I estimate that I spent around ten minutes with;

• taking my boots off; and
• some on-the-spur tidying; and
• making coffee; and
• washing my hands and getting them super-dry so that I could roll easily a cigarette; and
• stopping to hold the letter in my left hand whilst flicking it with the fingers of my right - because I was considering whether to go back out and post it.

So, three hours ten minutes max. Or maybe three hours and fifteen at the absolute worst.

It was because of the cigarette that I found her. I always smoke outside now. Or in the door way at least, if it is raining. It’s a new rule. Partly it is health related. It’s a hassle having to go to the back door and so, if for example you are watching the TV or glazing your face at the PC, then you are less likely to want to go. So you smoke less. The other part is about discipline. Small disciplinary victories which demonstrate my self control. That’s been going on for about a month now.

And so with a coffee in one hand I leaned to light the cigarette with the other and when I looked up through the smoke I saw her. She was draped over her washing line, amongst the clothes, with her arms hooked over. It was holding her up but the line was bowed with the weight of her and the washing. She was looking with blank eyes at the path. I followed her eyes down to the line pole that was lying at her feet.

It seemed to me that she was gently swaying in the breeze. But the breeze was gentle and the physics would not have allowed for the sway of her in these conditions. So she must have been making the movement herself. The washing looked dry.

Of course I knew her. I knew that she had finished her job through ill health. But that was a physical thing – nothing like this. She gets a pension from her last job and because she is incapable of all work that could be expected of her, she gets an Incapacity Pension from the state also. She is 56. She likes to garden. She had son who died from kidney failure. She is from Russia originally and she came here after the Second World War. That was what I knew.

I have to admit that my first thought was that I was going to have to put this cigarette out.
“Mrs Kuprin?” I called but she didn’t answer and so I went up to the fence and stood immediately opposite to her. I called her again and this time I added “What is wrong Mrs Kuprin?”

James Bullion - first published in Spiked Magazine.

Poem - Electric 3 AM

ELECTRIC 3 A.M.

She has a hundred ways to show me she is ill.
A light cough, a hand to cover her mouth
Which leans with difficulty to greet it.
Then the same fingers press the chest lightly.
You look unwell, I don’t say.
I think you are dying, I don’t add.

Someone wrote of them –
“Our parents are the wall between ourselves and death”.
This seems right, now.
Life’s mathematics.
Is the comfort to beat their average?
And then for me?

She was once a towering problem
Slapping the backs of my legs
(Because I walked into a lamp post)
Rubbing my cheeks with hanky and spit
(I cried)
Tut. Look at You. Come Here.
I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again we had a routine.
She winces and breathes hard
And she doesn’t like to grumble
Yet she bloody does.

When we buried her I dissembled
And dreamed she came to the end of my bed
Hello mum, I managed
Want some tea? How are you?
A blink.
Just the clock
And No one. Me



James A Bullion 23/1/00 revised December 2007

Poem - Purple Heather on the Isle of Skye

Purple Heather on the Isle of Skye

Purple heather reminded me of the daughter that we had not had.

It was purple that you used so much until the house was Autumn.

It raised you, then her.

Then, as shadows seeped across the hills like oil,

I spent spare time imagining where she would be by now.

Curled, with a book, perhaps a man. I am not sure.

You were surer footed. You danced along. Wrecked everything.

Tossed off your shoes and ran on. Slammed doors. One in, one out.

I let the basics soak in. A skyful. I welcomed them; dark seasons.

There are four seasons in a day here. There is a long quick life here.

So that I imagined her, purple hair, humping gear at term time. 

I imagined me, my taxi rain rides, the approving shake of your head.

James A Bullion - June 2006

Novel Excerpt - 'the old man of the barn' - from Heard.

The Old Man of the Barn

It was an abandoned barn. There was little of the farmhouse itself left, except for its derelict walls and nearby some old empty stables. It was in a wooded valley, sheltered on three sides by trees, with just one approach for the van. There were animals in the fields (so that there must have been another house too). Andrea heard the long low sound of cows and peered through the back window, her looking face receding from the marble plum eyes of chewing beasts. The van that brought them from the city drove straight in through the wide opened wooden barn door. Callum and Andrea sleepy from the three hour diversion-laden, false trail-laden, switch and check-laden trip and their mother awake through anxiety and fear, emerged from the back doors, the driver helping them down the steps. He then quickly closed the doors. There was a wait of one minute.

- Lieutenant? The driver suddenly said to the empty low lit barn.

There was only the briefest of pauses. After all a Lieutenant should be able to rely upon the skills of his sergeant to get a delivery done without compromising security. Clifford Shea then rose from the hay on the upper loft in the barn. He was in his work clothes. Brushing himself down, he flashed them all a smile.

- Have you brought this goat his feed then?

He stepped back out of sight into shadow, lifted up the stowed hayloft ladder and put it in its perch. As he came down backwards, Eileen was suddenly speaking to him about the consequences, and the further consequences of all this.

- Not even the weeds get messed around this much Clifford Shea.

Under the hay store a table was set out for dinner, and next to it a large settee held presents for the Children. On a little stove a kettle was sat. Clifford went to it and set it going with matches. Coming back to the table he sluiced the contents of a teapot to a large tin barrel on the floor and then picked up a white stone jug.

- You can’t get much fresher than farm milk, he said, sniffing it.

Clifford soothed and reasoned with his wife. He knew that it was her fear for him, that her anger was really a relief at seeing him again. He knew that she understood as well as he that whatever privations they were suffering it was preferable to the internecine war that would be its alternative. They talked openly about whether the problem was being dealt with, and when he could return home. He told her that ‘the old man’ was with him, a good sign. In the midst of this his tea-making hands brushed his children to their treats and he kissed them as he did so. Clifford told his wife that problems were going to get worse before they got better. That it was one thing fighting the British but resolving the kind of internal dialogue about tactics with men that had lost friends and family in the war was a deal harder. He suggested to his wife that she lay low with the children for a while, perhaps in Cork with her family. Eileen left these comments in the air. She took the food from her bags and laid out a cold meal for them all. Andrea and Callum sat on the settee with the unwrapped presents.

- This sofa is damp, Andrea said.

The cold meat meal was consumed in near silence with Clifford trying to entertain his children. The driver or sergeant was on lookout or generally excluded from the occasion. Andrea asked which. Clifford tapped the side of his nose, and then extended his hand to rub her left ear.

- Do you like the toys? He asked them.

Callum looked over to the settee where the tape machine that his father had bought lay. Next to it Andrea’s pastel drawing kit was revealed but unopened in its plastic satchel. She was not going to allow the paper to get damp she told her father.

- It has no batteries Da, Callum said.

- Your Ma will get some for you.

Clifford quietly put his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pound note. He placed it on the table in front of his wife. Eileen’s face was in a state of restraint. It was clear even in that subdued light. Andrea watched her mother’s eyes alight on the money and look away. She could not meet Clifford’s eye. Andrea could see that she was frightened. But Andrea was reassured by her father’s display of bravado. He may be on the run (Andrea understood this concept even at that age of nine) but he was still going to sit down to dinner with his family. Life goes on.

At the end of the meal Eileen stood to clear up and realising where she was, realising the ridiculousness of the proposition of that routine in this setting, she sobbed. Callum did not need to be told. He took Andrea by the arm and led her over to the far corner of the barn. With one eye looking into the lights where his parents were, he began to talk with Andrea about the morning and what she might draw.

Clifford and Eileen spoke for a long while together on the sofa. Andrea began to wonder about the driver. Where had be gone?

Later when Eileen lay quiet with her eyes closed Clifford scooped his children back to the sofa and began to sooth them asleep.

- Do you know what my children? I am a generous man, he said. When I am old, and tired, with my business done I will spend my time watching just your mother and then one morning, unshaven, I call on her for one more act of writing. I will get her to write a deed. To write a promise for me which gives all my things to my children. Right there and then. I won’t need them then. I would be happy to live in a place like this. Every book of learning. Every framed printed design I have drawn – why would I need to look at them in a land like this? Every scrap of furniture and food. And all the money too. With no rules. Spend what you like, when you like. Eh? What about that?

Andrea, fought back sleep and looked at her father who was in almost complete darkness. When had he moved the lamp to the floor? She had not seen that. She made out the shape of his form against whatever background that she could find. The walls were too far away, for he was in front of the three of them on his hunches, but there was a kind of light reflection projected behind him that was moving. For a moment Andrea thought there was someone else nearby and then she looked up. It was the light from the lamp on the floor. Her father’s shadow, not crisp or clear but stretched into an elongated mist. It moved as the lamp flickered, no matter how still he seemed on the ground in front of her.

- Now here is the surprise part. This is what makes the story unique. I will give all that I own not to two children but to three, equally. To my brave son Callum and my beautiful daughter Andrea and to a new child who can only be born into a new Country. The child is not yet born, but is still with us. Though not formless, not glue, the child cannot fix a form. The child tracks us, changing as we do. I do not know if she will be a boy or a girl. We can pick a name that will allow for both. Unity we will call the child. Unity is strong. Red hair and red cheeks. A country animal. Whatever we are doing, wherever we are Unity is with us.

Andrea immediately saw Unity as a girl. She listened on to her father, substituting a ‘she’ for this sexless future child.

- She has an equal share reserved now. We have to prepare for her because we know that she is going to come on the scene. She is a source of comfort. A dream of the future. She is however old you want her to be, whenever you need it. She is a friend and a reminder of what has to be done. Now, what do you say? Shall we allow her to be invented? What do you say?

Callum stayed silent but Andrea could hear his breathing. Andrea felt unable to speak. She lacked an answer to the question. Clifford heard only two sleeping children. He lowered his voice to just a low whisper.

- Now Unity needs a kiss goodnight. Kiss the air so that is gets to her. And I will kiss my lovely children.

She would sketch her out in the morning was Andrea’s thought before leaving the smell of the damp behind her and falling asleep.

Whether it was that that thought was not enough to sustain her until the morning, or whether it was that she had heard a real sound, Andrea woke again that night and encountered her father again in the role of a story teller. Andrea lay awake and allowed her eyes to become used to the light. The lamp had burned down to a glow, but after a while it was sufficient. In the shadow she could make out Callum who had stretched his head across to their mother. She had pulled her arm around him. Andrea was free of both of them. She sat up and looked for the shadow of her father but he was not there. She wondered about the driver that she had not seen since they had arrived. Gingerly Andrea walked in the barn to search for her father. Walking around the inside of its walls she did not find him. Then she remembered the loft. She had a child’s assumption that there would be no danger in this, that the floor would be whole and support her. But in the remnants of the hay she did not find him and decided to descend again. It was then that she noticed the light outside. Walking to the back wall of the hayloft, she peered through a crack and saw the stables for the first time. A lamp was burning there. She carefully descended the wide rungs of the ladder, it taking the full force of both her arms to come down again. She felt herself to the van and went behind it to the closed door. She had no idea how to open it but found that there was sufficient play in it to pull it forward and slip through. Outside she re-oriented herself and walked the edge of the barn until she saw the stables again. They were not far though she had no idea of the land between them. The grass was uneven. In the half moonlit night Andrea descended a small ditch and put her arm out to steady herself.

For the first time Unity took her hand and helped (as two years later Andrea when she backed away from her grandfather and looked at herself in the bedroom mirror of her new London home as she considered talk on her future. And this future girl remembered about one year before, aboard the ferry, when combing her hair in front of that mirror, that the boat pitched enough to unbalance Andrea and she again would put out her hand to Unity to keep steady). Years later, in the act of adult recall, all three ages of self locked minds still to remember those stables, and remember the memory of Unity’s emergence (her un-yet birth), her lesser form. It was the beginning of Andrea’s learning too, about the extent of their father’s involvement in The Troubles.

■

As Andrea neared the barn voices were just becoming perceptible, and Andrea recognised her father’s. She first felt relief that she knew where he was. She found the door locked but at its base was a hatch big enough for she (and Unity) to crawl though. The stables were divided by sections. A lamp was burning at the other end. Her father was speaking to other men. They were in the final divide, the biggest. Andrea knew immediately that it would need to be a secret if she was not going to disturb her father. She moved slowly along the line of divides until she approached the last one containing the men. She slipped into the divide immediately adjacent and located the largest of the holes in the wooden structure that was at a height she would be able to see through.

Her father had his back to the far wall and was looking straight at her. There was a sudden movement in the divide in front of her and she would have screamed had not Unity stifled her. The men were inches in front of her on the other side of the divide, and their movement shifted the structure. They seemed to be seated on the floor. It took Andrea a while to realise what her father was leaning upon, his arms spread out. Then it was unmistakeable. It was a coffin. Clifford was still and then looked towards the floor. The gentle sounds of a farm night were sounding; wind, rustle, and the panic of birds. Breathing in, he met the gaze (as Andrea imagined) of the three men squatting immediately in front of the divide before her.

- It seems to me that there are two branches of solitude; that of an isolation in space and the other; a quiet soul, alone. Gerard Rimmon has had his share of both. He was seen, touched and heard by almost no one in the course of what he was doing. Was he alone?

The men did not answer him. Clifford’s voice was light, self questioning, almost.

- No. There is an old saying to the effect that sympathy can people our solitude with a crowd. A fisherman at sea can remember his lodgings and be warmed by its memory. A priest bears with him the best wishes of his congregation, shaken out on a Sunday afternoon. And a soldier in the belief of what he does carries with him the longing of others for his own return from campaigns, and with him also the stirrings and signs of future victory, of a unity therefore with his goal. Our soldiers carry belief; it is the true edge over the reluctant recruits that we face. Not that we live without doubts or questions, nor should we.

Clifford paused a moment, seemingly reflecting on the doubts.

- And what of that other loneliness? That quiet of the soul? It is as if we are in a crowd of indifference. We are still alone, among the glazed eyes of others who cannot see our soul; who cannot see into us; or our cause; or understand its tactics. Even if we do it on their behalf. That is more like the loneliness that Gerard lived with. The loneliness of the soul can proceed along two possible further branches. Firstly those that are self reliant can ignore it. They carry on regardless. Those are the soldiers with iron in the soul, the surgeons who cut out the cancer without shrinking from it, and even the statesmen who stay with the task no matter how unpopular they become. Such men are needed to achieve but they achieve at a cost. We might ponder that and say such men are prone to enormous defeat when they are overpowered by it. Overpowered as Gerard was when he was captured by the British police and then handed over to the unionist soldiers. In such a situation a man who was merely self reliant would have snapped. Gerard would not have been that man, for there is the other branch where loneliness goes, another response that the quietened soul can be armed with. It will seem like a contradiction.

In front of Andrea then men shuffled, settling themselves.

- For the other way for the quietened soul of the soldier is about sympathy. It is turning the doubts I mentioned earlier into strengths. The sympathetic soldier trembles to be alone, is afraid of the chill and loneliness that comes from adhering to a cause or truth that others do not yet fully accept. Yet he has enough of the first way about him to bridge the gaps between the trembles and carry on. That was Gerard. He felt sympathy and wanted it too. Oh I know. His misty eyes and tears. Yet in the sun he remained unblinking the next morning. His eyes were not cast down.

Clifford withdrew one leaning hand from the coffin and placed the other in the middle of it, as if her were finding the space above Gerard’s heart.

- He knew that he was likely to die and most likely that he would die alone. It chose him, this individual fate. I mean the particular circumstances. The ongoing struggles, the trembles if you like, will have prepared him. We should not be more horrified that he would have been. Yes. That was his solitude. That is the solitude. The inability to be understood; the necessity of solitude in order not to be discovered. So that the maximum is to be half known.

Clifford paused, using his free hand to pull at the skin on the side of his face.

- Unless it is all, is it nothing? Is that what is particular to the struggle that we are engaged in? Of necessity we hold a position that cannot be lodged in the hearts of either the two people’s that we transact with; the British or the Irish. What are we to make of them, his dying words? ‘I am alone.’ I see it as an elevation. And I think it is the elevation of Gerard to the cause, and that which separated him from the sympathy of others. Because they do chose not to act. Gerard’s act elevates him above the inaction of others, and of their lack of sympathy for this. If there were any other dynamic they would condemn themselves for not acting.

Andrea thought that her father seemed unsteady with the adult words he was speaking. He seemed to be going in circles but she noticed even then (as she would study very carefully later) that there seemed to be a rhythm in his speech; waves of the sea on the shore.

- We have dwelt on the hardship long enough. What of the beginning? There are moments in every life when the old routines of duty, obligation and belonging are not large enough. For example the parental roof becomes too low, when the catechisms of the day seem too narrow and have to be thrown aside. There are times too when events beyond the end of your own street crash in upon you and demand a response. That is the first true lonely lonely moment. When the young realize that this is an awful place to be, that this state is rotten through, and that there is no rescue plan from those who should be our allies. The moment came to Gerard at an early age. His teens. His spirit of enquiry was opened and his sense of injustice sharp. Mercifully he first discovered books before he found the rocks. He found a voice which would eventually recruit your good selves with its articulation of the issues. He devoured those books and then pointed out the sour taste in his mouth. He had bitten fruit that was not yet ripe. We still wait, in Gerard’s behalf, for that sour to become sweet. We celebrate today that his conversion renewed his soul. He used these words himself. A new child was born within himself. His action combined with his notion of possibility gave birth to unity. A new unity of purpose. He never swerved from the course despite his reasonable doubts and worries. He closed the questioning appropriately each time and carried out his engagements, but left space for it to return. So that he could reconsider it. Now, now and now. The price was loneliness, the prize was possibility. Each man must take up his life-plan alone and persevere in it in a perfect privacy with which no strangers can meddle. Until the very end. What exacting language is the language that we use.

Clifford held both hands out in front of him, towards the men.

- Each of us is in a different cell. When Gerard was tried, he was tried alone. When he was sifted by the security men, he was sifted alone. We do not know what he experienced in his last moments of loneliness. We know however, that he understood both its purpose, and its value. When the vicious is pitted against the holy it is easier. It is virtue against virtue where all the difficulty lies. And there are lies. Lies about how Gerard had the trembles in front of those security men. That he went through terrible times and was tempted from his cell. That he named names and he denied us. True, the security men would have offered him everything. You can be certain, we can be certain, that Gerard chose death rather than give up that unity. He literally turned his back on them. The bullet hole shows the blow came into the back of his heart.

Andrea noticed her own quickened breath as she imagined Gerard. She wanted to leave, she had heard enough, but she could not conceive of leaving again without noise. There was complete silence as the men listened. The low hum of voices that was there when she entered would not help her again. Unity seemed absent and Andrea, imagining that other child had become more fascinated that she, imagining also that she was stronger than she, imagined finally that she had gone round the other side of the divide to look. To look at the men’s faces as they listened. To see how they viewed the argument. Alone, Andrea gripped a nailed strip of wood connecting the upright panels of the divide. She felt uncomfortable standing and wanted to sit down. Quietly and gently she turned herself around and leaned her back against the divide. She stretched her arms out and reached for the edges of the wooden baton. Her father was continuing.

- We must adore Gerard but not pity him, not fear what he suffered. He would have known strength at the end. It is one thing to defend truth and unity when you know that your audience are already pre-disposed to the argument; it is another to go down in the majesty of darkness. Crushed and shot, but not subdued, even as the light dims in your eyes.

Andrea closed her eyes and let her head fall sleepily forward. There was silence and for an instant Andrea wondered if it was she that had silenced everything around her with the closure of her eyes. In the darkness of her near horror she heard the crack of a gun and literally felt a body slumping forward. She had become the body. She felt something pierce her back. She felt pain and cried out as she actually hit the floor of the barn herself. She heard the feet of the security men. They had no faces; they were hooded ghouls, handling her now. Their voices were all at once. They were angry and concerned. She screamed and a hand covered her mouth.

Then Andrea was in her father’s arms. She opened her eyes but she could not see him. He carried her round to the lighted side of the divide and placed her on top of the coffin. She tried to struggle free from her father, in horror, realising where she was.

- No! She cried.

- Shush, her father told her, it’s alright flower. Do we have a drink? He asked one of the men.

- We do. Here, give her a little drop of this. The child is perished.

It was the first time that one of the men had spoken. His voice was older, a little rough and unkind. The other men were all around her now. The old man put a glass to her lips and she involuntarily took a gulp of the drink. It burned her throat and she coughed.

- There, her father told her, relax flower. It’s alright. You’re alright.

- She is a regular night-walker, one of the men said.

The old man spoke again to her father as he took off his coat and, lifting Andrea from the coffin, wrapped her in it.

- They should not be here Clifford, he said.

- They will be gone in the morning, he replied, as will I.

Clifford squatted against the divide and held his daughter in his arms, swaying and soothing her. She turned her head and looked at the men. She saw that there were two young men, and the older man. They had gathered round the coffin and raised their glasses and spoke in Irish.

- Do you have some words for us? Andrea’s father asked the old man.

Clifford had his hand upon the shoulder of the old man a head shorter than him.

- A few he said.

And turning to Clifford he asked him directly, harshly.

- Are you going to stay, or do you want to get her back?

- I am here for this. Say your words.

The two young men returned to their places and Clifford held his daughter so that all was completely out of her sight.

The old man was looking away from the men and to the floor. His close cropped white hair a moon for the room. He had the face of a farmer, a man near to the elements, eyes creased from watching the scenery. In his brain he had crammed the history of all struggles. He would be no good with explosives at his age, or running, he was for inspiration and for understanding. The old man stood for a while with his hands in his pockets. He was with himself. Then he began to speak, again as if unaware of the rest of the room. How the wise, or those who would be wise, or seem wise, affect a state which only seems a concern to them.

- Know thy enemy. And forewarned, be prepared. Be entrenched in views and you will not be dislodged. We should not conceal the truth. Gerard had both the British and the Irish for his enemies. Which of us, and our men, have not? The British see him with spite and the Irish think him mad. Gerard accepts this because his cause itself contains the path to replace both positions. To get there a critical mass of energy is required. Gerard has passed his torch. Will you accept it?

There was a murmur from the men.

- A hot fire. A hot fire destroys the holding positions of both enemies so that they can perceive what is possible. Till the Irish want, and the British want, the same thing. Yes and hate the same too, but still want it. What is needed for the energy is zeal. And so to what is sapped. What is sapped by Gerard’s death is zeal. It is that which we are here to put back. We will give a little more ourselves and we will recruit.

The old man walked to the coffin and wrapped on it rudely with his hand, as if he were calling him to rise again.

- The body in the box and the journey to the ground with a stone marker is ritual, and follow the ritual we will, but we will not bury the zeal with him. The memory of it is a gift.

He stopped speaking for a moment and gently scrapped the floor with a slow boot; as if he were preparing a space in the ground. A long slow triangle. The boards shuddered gently, hay scuffed or dancing for him. The men waited for him to continue.

- There are three considerations here. Firstly the condition of the world; secondly the obligations of the movement; and third the cause of justice and unity.

He stopped speaking for the barest of moments.

- What can we say about the condition of this world? The universal experience of the former colonies of Britain is one of a suffering in transition. Is there anywhere the birth pangs of freedom have not charred and burned the hopes of the peoples who have struggled for freedom, and then achieved it? Even when the British have the sense to see sense early on they are unable themselves to prevent the mess; the historical forces are beyond their control. Persia, Palestine, India, Pakistan, Uganda, Rhodesia. The list goes on. Ireland is in there too. No wonder then that the Irish themselves do not wish to face this. We must face the truth. The Irish want to remain unchanged too. For what they have now would become dead. It is as well to recognise it. To welcome it even. Religion would be dead. Dead in religion. Dead in law. And tell me, who would want to join a land so strong in the grip of the Catholic and Apostolic religion?

One of the men let out a small protest but the old man brushed it away.

- Oh I know that you do not all agree. But you ask them when you recruit and take it up there and you will get more insight. This struggle for unity is the unity of something new. You ask them. Is it not quite right for the British people of the North not to want to be bound by a series of outmoded rituals and moral constraints of priests? The Irish state is in a condition of delusion about this and unless it is addressed unity will always seem a step backwards. British acquiescence will never come without it. And yet. There is something in the corner of my eye as I talk in the Irish homes about this. Yes something quite there, and coming. People see the corruption of the current Church institutions as much as they can see the good within individual acts. They see a need for change. I tell them, and they listen. They listen, and in portals of their ears I pour. They listen. Not in silence but with respect I think. It has been the experience of all liberated nations; it is not the notion of freedom and unity that is won, it is the changes following the act which are the more important. I mean to say that after zeal, action. Will Ireland be different from the other colonies? Perhaps if it is half liberated? People ask. They hope. I doubt it. No I do not think so. There is a strong odour of corruption about the place in the current politics which unity will need to respond to, and supersede. Yes, something there and coming. Let us drink to our understanding of the condition of the world.

Gently Clifford rose and went to the corner of the stables where the glasses and drink lay. They did not help him. Helping themselves to drink, the men drank, and Andrea moved and turned, and still slept in her father’s arms. When they had finished their glasses and were seated again, the old man continued.

- What are our obligations to the movement? This may seem an odd question when we have one representation of the ultimate obligation in front of us here. But to start with death is too fast an understanding. Gerard has died so that we increase the possibility of living differently. He is – was – not such a sufficient man as that his sole dying alone will do the matter for us. There were others, there will be others as I cannot yet see the end emerging. The whole situation has become tenser of late, and maybe one side will crack. I cannot see it yet. British stomachs are strong. Irish weak. Gerard was a tool chipping away. What were his, and our, obligations? And what life does it allow?

The old man looked at Clifford holding Andrea. Clifford met his eyes from an upturned face still cast down towards where he had been looking at his daughter. He said nothing.

- If we live at all we live an imparted life. We live because the notion of unity with our brothers, in our country, has been drafted into our lives through some carrier. It may have been injustice, it may have been righteousness, but carried it was, formless until we codified it. We gave it aims. We sifted it into emotions, understanding, into the very weave of history. It is only then when we can understand it properly. It takes a kind of devotion, a living sacrifice. Politicisation is an active personal process of sacrifice and devotion.

That same man again gave protest, with movement and a sigh, but not yet words. The old man brushed it aside again.

- Listen, all I mean to say is that once these events have occurred in us, it is utterly antagonistic with continuing with the ordinary procedures of life that were there before. We are still living, but in a very different way. That is the precursor to moving away from selfish anger towards action on behalf of others. The anger becomes a pleasure in the performance of duty for the movement. Though I have noticed that Irish pleasure often sounds like lament. Every shot fired is a pleasure. Every parcel ripped open by plastic explosive, every nail tinkling in the air is like the galloping of a hard working horse in a happy exerted motion. There is no neutrality in this war. There is clarity of not being caught in a cross-fire. There is our fire and there is theirs. The movement demands that we act militarily, and that, understanding our strategy we act to change that place where we live – or where we seek to live – to make it a land that will welcome back its soldiers. If we do not do that we will achieve change, but not the justice and unity that we want. That is our obligation to the movement. Let us drink again.

Clifford showed his hand to indicate that he would not. The men took their time, and drank again. The old man continued, an audible slur in his voice now.

- Justice is our master motive. Unity is the form. It forces us along. It carries us away with the impetuosity of a torrent. It is our inspiration in our actions now, and in our belief about what is to come. It is our obedience. It is not fear, for in fear there is no heart to it. In the history of all sacrifices, which is growing and growing, Gerard’s is another that has clung to the loved object that is justice. A father would gladly bare his breast to shield his child from danger. That is natural. A mother would gladly die for the offspring of her womb. That is more natural still. What Gerard has achieved is sacrifice that is stronger still. No desertion could affect it, nor ingratitude from the people of this island, not treachery and not death. He loved home, he loved friends, he loved letters, loved rest, and travel. It was Unity and Justice however that was his emperor. Do you know the story of Napoleon’s soldier?

The men stayed silent.

- ‘A little deeper’, said the veteran when they were probing in his bosom for a bullet that had mortally wounded him, and he was told that they had reached his heart, ‘a little deeper and you will find the Emperor’. Surely we, with death busy in the midst of us, can aim for this level of devotion ourselves. What? We can I think.

In the air outside the stables Clifford felt his head clear a little. He was warmed by his bundled daughter and tightened her to him to keep her warm. He turned to the old man.

- What are we to do with Gerard? He asked

- You will take him with you when you go back. Give him to his people.

Andrea’s awake young mind in those stables caught just the edges of the argument. She did not remember that trip to the barn in the night or the return to her mother’s arms where she awoke the next morning. She surely did go. She has faithfully tried to recall the going and coming, but it is not really real for her. The vividness is in the memory of the darkness, the voice of her father and the old man, the scrape of their movement, their discomforts and endurance of the ritual, the crack of her own fall, the sound of feet on wood, her discovery, the silence and meaning of the coffin.

James A Bullion - Excerpt from Heard published January 2008