When the nurse showed me into the room, my Gran was just slumped there in a chair. I could see her eyes watching me. But nothing else seemed to be working. Her mouth was just hanging open and drooping at one side.
‘Look, Vera!’ the nurse said, her voice all bright and cheerful. ‘Look who’s here; it’s your grandson.’
But my Gran didn’t flicker. And the nurse, still talking to my Gran as if she was a deaf daft woman, said, ‘He can’t stop long, Vera, because we’re waiting for the doctor. We think you might have had a little mini stroke, Vera.’
The nurse bent down in front of my Gran then and said, ‘Ah. Poor Vera Madeira.’ She reached out then to try and take hold of my Gran’s hand. But as she did, this red thing rolled out of my Gran’s lap. The nurse took no notice of it. But I said, ‘What is it? What’s that?’
The nurse looked. And picked it up.
‘Oh, Vera, look,’ she said. ‘It’s your red nose, Vera!’
Then turning to me, the nurse said, ‘Ah, and she was having such fun as well. We’ve all been practisin’ wearing our noses and getting ready for Red Nose Day. Everybody’s been so looking forward to it. We came up with this marvellous idea, where all the guests are going to be the comedian of their choice for the whole of Red Nose Day. We’re having custard pies and funny hats, tickle-sticks, and party-poppers. We had our first practice this afternoon. Didn’t we, Vera? And it was hysterical, it was. Everywhere you looked there were Arthur Askeys, Frankie Howerds and Tommy Coopers, Hylda Bakers and Beryl Reids. And Charlie Chaplins? We’ve got some brilliant Charlie Chaplins.’ She turned to my Gran, ‘Haven’t we, Vera?’ she almost shouted. ‘Haven’t we seen some fantastic Charlie Chaplins today?’
But my Gran just stared as the nurse nodded and said, ‘Mind you, your Gran was very good an’ all. I’m not so sure that everybody understood exactly which comedian she was being; because I think your Gran must have lived abroad at some time, didn’t she?’
I just frowned at the nurse and shook my head.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘well, it was definitely a foreign-sounding name. When we asked your Gran which comedian she was, she came up with this name, I thought it was German. And I suppose they must have comedians, even the Germans, mustn’t they?’
I didn’t have the first clue what she was talking about. And then I heard it, heard my Gran making this noise.
‘What was that, Vera?’ the nurse said.
And my Gran took a big struggling breath and said it again, ‘… Wit … Wit … Wit.’
She had spit dribbling out the side of her mouth. And the nurse thought that that was what my Gran was trying to say, ‘spit’.
‘Well, we’ll soon clean that up,’ the nurse said, reaching for a tissue. But as she went to wipe her mouth, my Gran pushed the nurse’s arm away and, her eyes fixed on me, she said, ‘Witt … Witt … Witt … gen … stein.’
‘That was it!’ the nurse suddenly shouted. ‘That’s the comedian your Gran was being. Vitgen, that’s it, Vitgen someone. I told you it sounded German. And you were very good, Vera.’ The nurse said, ‘You got some good laughs today, didn’t you?’
Then the nurse stood back and looked at my Gran. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘she was having such fun.’
The nurse nodded at my Gran. Then she said, ‘Shall we put it back on again, Vera? All right, come on,’ she said, lifting up the piece of red plastic and attaching it to my Gran’s nose.
And that’s how I last saw my Gran. Another nurse arrived and said the doctor was here, so I’d have to leave. And for ages after that, whenever I thought about my Gran, I saw her like that, her speech all gone, a red plastic nose stuck to her face; her body looking like all the bones had been pulled out of it; as she sat there, slumped in a chair; stricken dumb by fun, Wittgenstein, the Red-Nosed Philosopher!
I don’t know why I went there. I didn’t live there any more. Twinky and Norman weren’t there any more. And my Gran would never be coming back there, not now. I don’t know why I went. But there was nowhere else to go really, nowhere at all. I was just walking around, that’s all; walking around Failsworth, where I used to live. I didn’t know he was out looking for me, Wilson. I was just walking, that’s all, looking at all the old places, at my old school in Binfield Road, where I’d first known Norman and Twinky; the recreation park where I used to play football and superheroes and camp out with my friends in the summer; the house where we used to live, all different now since the council had fixed it up, a different-coloured door, a different-coloured gate. Then I went to my Gran’s house, expecting it to be dark and locked up but still looking like I’d always remembered it. Only it wasn’t locked up and it wasn’t dark. All the lights were on and it looked like the people inside were having some kind of a party. There was a new glass porch around the front door. And a brand new satellite dish up there on the roof. I wondered if my Mam knew! That he must have sold it, my Uncle Bastard! Sold my Gran’s house, without telling anyone.
But it didn’t matter, not any more. My Gran was never coming back, not now. My Uncle Bastard, his Sickening Spouse and the Brainless Brats could do what they liked. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered any more.
But, Morrissey, I wasn’t doing what they said I was doing. I know I ended up walking down the cut, past the bread shop, through the gate and down past the allotments. But that wasn’t the reason, Morrissey, what they said. It was the ice! The ice! That’s why I couldn’t get back; because of the ice! I could see the frost on the ground; and up in the clear sky, the big bright yellow moon, lighting up everywhere into a sort of daylight, stretching my shadow out behind me as I came out of the lane and over the bridge and down past the backs of the bungalow houses. And of course I knew where I was going! I knew exactly where I was going. But the reason I was going there, Morrissey, the reason had nothing to do with madness and Lerts or earmuffs and mussels and Psycho The Rapists or witches in sandwiches, felonious uncles, fictitious friends and their American fathers; or anything else that was on the computer.
The only reason, Morrissey, the only reason I ended up back there, standing there on the bank, there, in that place at the side of the canal, the only reason, was that my heart felt like it was all broken. And I know it couldn’t be fixed, just by me standing there at the side of a frozen canal at a place where I’d once disappeared! I know that! I knew that when I was stood there; knew it wouldn’t make anything better or bring my friends back, make my Gran into my proper Gran again or stop my Mam from taking a hideous husband. I knew my going back to that place wouldn’t do anything like that. But I just went there! That’s all. Just went there! Because I didn’t have anywhere else to go! That’s why! That’s why I went there. And the only thing I was doing was thinking. Just standing there thinking. And wondering. Wondering what had ever happened. To me. And to the little girl. Wondering about her. And what had ever become of her. And I’d never blamed her, Morrissey. I’d never blamed that little girl. Because what had happened to her had been terrible, much more terrible than anything that had happened to me. But if she hadn’t said, if she hadn’t said it was the Beast of a Boy, I knew I wouldn’t be back standing where I was at that canal, my teeth chattering and the sharp thin wind cutting through my shirt as I thought and wondered, and stared at the moon’s reflection on the glassy surface of the frozen water.
And I would have gone back home, Morrissey, in the end. I would have turned around and just gone home. Because I knew there were no answers for me, not there at that canal. I think I knew, even then, that there aren’t no answers anywhere. Like my Gran always said, ‘It’s the questions, son, they’re what matter; the questions; the answers are barely worth bothering with.’
In the end, I’d had enough of walking round Failsworth; had enough of standing, frozen, by the canal. And I’d remembered the other thing my Gran always said, that thing about self-pity and how it never ever peeled a single potato.
And that’s why I never would have done it, Morrissey, not what they said. I was even
turning to go, turning around and away from the water. And it was the shock. The sudden shock; the noise of it suddenly cutting through the calm quiet air. It just startled me, the big shape of him rushing towards me and the shout, almost a scream exploding in the quiet frosty air as he yelled, ‘RAYMOND!’
I felt my foot as it juddered and slipped and missed; the frost on the coping stone wiping my foot from under me and sending me sprawling, backwards. I was already half turned and toppling, reaching out and grasping nothing but thin air as I saw who it was who’d shouted and startled me, him, the Lert, running down from the bridge towards the towpath, shouting, screaming at me, ‘No, no! Raymond, DON’T DO IT!’
But I wasn’t, Morrissey; I wasn’t doing it. I wasn’t doing anything. It was just happening to me, that’s all. And I couldn’t stop it. Because I was in mid air and falling, my forehead smacking against the solid stone lip of the bank before I crashed down onto the ice where I lay and felt the warm blood from my head as it trickled down the cold skin of my face. And just for the smallest moment of a second, I thought it would all be all right and that I’d just get up and clamber back up the bank. I even reached out my arm and started to try and push myself up. Only that’s when I heard it, the scream of the ice; like something squealing in terrible agony as it shattered beneath me, slowly at first and then suddenly cracking open, setting free the icy fingers of the water that reached out and grabbed me, numbing me as they seized me and pulled me down under the ice, into the water. I tried to come back up, Morrissey. Even with the pain that was in my head and the paralysing cold of the water, I tried to come back up. But it was the ice, you see, the ice; it had closed back over me and it wouldn’t open again, not from underneath. I kept pushing at it, kept trying to find the place where I’d slipped through. But the pain in my head, Morrissey. And the numbness, Morrissey; pushing up at the ice, it was like trying to push the whole of the world; it wouldn’t move. And the more I tried to push it, the more my arms just lost their strength. Till in the end it didn’t seem like it was worth pushing any more. It felt sort of nice when I just gave up, gave in. Even the pain in my head started to disappear. And all the paralysing cold of the water seemed like it wasn’t even cold any more; seemed almost like it was a warm blanket wrapped all around me.
And that’s when I saw him, the Nice Boy. He was just there, swimming in front of me, swimming towards me, his face smiling as he approached me, as he lifted up his arm and waved to greet me; as he stretched out his hand towards me. And with the last shred of strength that was in me, I reached out, took hold of his hand. And started to softly sink, down and down, gently down; and into the darkest depths of the water.
Yours sincerely,
Raymond Marks
A Churchyard,
Plinxton,
North Derbyshire
(I think!)
Dear Morrissey,
I know I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be anywhere near here. I never ever meant to come to Plinxton. I’d never even heard of it before tonight. But I had to come, Morrissey; even though it’s meant I’m miles out of my way by now, miles and miles and miles. But I had to come to Plinxton. Because something’s happened, Morrissey. And that’s why I had to come here!
I always thought Country and Western people were to be pitied. And avoided! I thought they were like morris dancers and stamp collectors, people who polish steam engines and those who wax lyrical on the beauty of real ale; harmless but hideous!
I even felt a bit guilty about getting into the van; especially when I was still three places down in the hitchhikers’ stacking system, with the salvation-seeker and the body-metal girl with the shaved head still ahead of me. But the van had driven straight past them and stopped specially for me. I was still sitting there on the grass when it pulled over and I heard this voice saying, ‘ ’ey up, partner. Jump in!’
So I did. Somebody pushed open the back doors and I jumped in the van as quick as I could, with the salvation-seeker and the tongue-studded girl shouting at me and saying I was a bastard for jumping the queue!
But it wasn’t them who were being offered the lift, it was me.
The Dewsbury Desperadoes had seen me sat there and spotting my guitar, they’d assumed that like them I was a Country and Western artiste, headed for the Country Music Convention that’s being held at Plinxton Allied Butchers’ and Architects’ Club. And good Country cousins that they are, the Dewsbury Desperadoes had stopped and picked me up. But it was only when I was sat there parked on a flight case with the van pulling away that they got a good look at me. And when they did, when they saw my Morrissey tee shirt, I think they were all a bit disappointed. They were too polite to ask me to get out again though. So I just sat there, trying to be as comfortable as I could with the Dewsbury Desperadoes all staring at me.
When they did finally speak, it was Cindy-Charlene, the Desperadoes’ country chanteuse, who nodded at the picture on my tee shirt and said, ‘Who’s that then?’
I said, ‘It’s Edith Sitwell.’
Cindy-Charlene just nodded, somewhat cautiously. And the Desperado called Deak, who seemed to have a particularly peptic disposition, scowled and said, ‘Who?’
I said, ‘Edith Sitwell.’ But Deak just looked at me rather blankly; and concluding that he must be the drummer with the group, I said, ‘Edwardian poet, performance artist and English eccentric.’
‘And right ugly fucker and all!’ Deak said. ‘Look at the gob on her!’
I didn’t say nowt but I thought, I’ll bet Dolly Parton and Emmy Lou Harris are not looking too shit hot when they get to be nearly ninety!
They just ignored me after that though. And Sowerby Slim, the big bass player and obviously the boss of the Desperadoes, told them all it was time for their vocal warm-up. Deak the drummer muttered something about what was the point but Cindy-Charlene turned on him then and told him that as well as being a shagawful drummer he was a right bilious bastard.
‘And the point,’ she told him, ‘the point is that we’ve got to rehearse. And we’ve got to do this gig. Whether you like it or not, we’re doing it; for the sake of the Cowboy; for his memory.’
I didn’t know who she was talking about. But Sowerby Slim started singing then, the others joined in and I just had to sit there and suffer it all as these musically retarded unfortunates polluted the air with a compendium of wrist-slashing Country classics such as ‘I’ve Never Been To Bed With An Ugly Woman But I’ve Sure Woken Up With A Few’.
It was all so depressing and melancholic that I even started to feel quite at home actually. But then, in the middle of something excruciatingly appalling called ‘The Dog Don’t Wag His Tail Since You’ve Been Gone’, Desperado Deak just banged his fist against the side of the van and in a somewhat tortured tone, he wailed, ‘It’s wrong! We shouldn’t be doing it. I don’t care what any fucker says, we shouldn’t be doin’ it. It’s wrong playing in that place, that place where it all happened, it’s not right.’
Cindy-Charlene began to remonstrate with him again. But Sowerby Slim appealed for calm and said, ‘Deak, it’s hard, it’s hard for all of us, mate. But be strong, Deak, try and be strong. Tell y’self you’re doing it for the Cowboy. For the memory of the Cowboy.’
Deak just nodded and snuffled a bit then. And Cindy-Charlene handed him a paper hankie but he declined it manfully and just wiped away his snuffles with the back of his hand. Mercifully, though, they didn’t do no more rehearsing after that. And instead they all just sat there looking depressed and deflated.
And I don’t even know why I asked because I’ve never had the slightest interest in Country music or the sort of people who feel compelled to inflict it on a world that’s already seen enough suffering. But I heard myself saying, ‘What happened to him then? The Cowboy person?’
They all turned and looked at me like they’d forgotten I was there. And I thought I might have upset them by being nosey or talking out of turn. But it was the opposite of that and they were like persons who’ve
been bereaved and want to rekindle and relive the memory of the departed, by telling a willing listener all about their long-gone loved one.
Cindy-Charlene asked me what my name was and when I told her it was Raymond, she said, ‘Well, Raymond, if you could have seen him! If you could have met him yourself and seen that Cowboy. The Kexborough Cowboy. What a man!’
I just nodded. Because I wasn’t paying that much attention really. If they’d been telling me about you, Morrissey, or The Smiths then it would have been different. But I couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for hearing about some obscure Country singer with a somewhat unfortunate name.
‘We didn’t even know who he was,’ Cindy-Charlene said. ‘We didn’t know him as the Cowboy, not then. He just turned up, y’ see. He just appeared, arrived unannounced one day, from out of the west.’
I looked at Cindy-Charlene and nodded. ‘America?’ I said.
‘No, Bolton,’ she said. ‘Bolton or Burnley or somewhere like that, somewhere in Lancashire, the other side of the moors, judging from the way he spoke. We’d certainly never seen him before, not on the Country circuit. We didn’t know him. He was just the stranger. The Stranger who turned up at that audition.’
‘We were just packing up, y’ see,’ Sowerby Slim said. ‘Three days we’d been auditioning, trying to find a replacement guitarist. But we were getting nowhere fast. We’d seen just about everyone. But no matter who played with us, there just didn’t seem to be that … spark. Anyroad, end of that final day of auditions we were right down in the dumps, none of us saying nowt, just starting to pack up the gear and wondering if we’d ever find a guitarist to suit.’
‘And that’s when we heard it,’ Cindy-Charlene said, ‘coming from somewhere back down in the dimness of the hall; we heard this cough. And then this voice, all sort of hesitant and a bit shy like, saying, “Erm … I’m sorry to erm … I’m very sorry to bother you but I did hear how you might be lookin’ for a guitarist.” And then he appeared, this Stranger; just sort of materialised out of the gloom and stood there at the foot of the stage, guitar in hand.’
The Wrong Boy Page 34