My Fault

by Billy Childish

  He stares into the bewhiskered mush of my reclining admiral and shakes his head. ‘Fuck mine, he looks a miserable bastard!’

  ‘He’s based on my dad.’

  He’s at a loss for words; he goes to speak, then changes his mind, then out it comes. ‘Na, na, we cut in marble!’

  He’s telling me about marble now, harping on about the good old days, the days of marble and Michelangelo. He repeats it, reassuring himself, to make sure he knows who he is. I nod vigorously, encouraging him. But he can tell I’m not taking a blind bit of notice. The truth of the matter is I’m arrogant, just a kid, a regular know-all. Marble? I’ve heard it all before, it bores me. He rolls another cigarette.

  ‘I’m not saying anything more than that marble is the stonemason’s natural ally . . . Look, everyone makes such a hullabaloo about carving a little bit of marble, but that’s because they know nothing of climatic variations. Michelangelo had it easy, what your average bricklayer and humble cement-mixer will never get into their thick skulls is that all stone reacts climatically . . . It’s like a barometer . . . a simple temperature gauge, if you like . . . The watchwords are ‘weather’ and ‘climatic variation’, W.C.V! Remember those three little fellows and you won’t get caught out -W.C.V! Now, in England we live in what’s known as a temperate climate. In layman’s terms that means it’s cold and damp . . . I don’t need to tell you that, do I? Good. Now OK, so occasionally we’ll have a freak summer, I grant you, but on the whole it’s pretty nippy, you follow my drift? Now, if there’s one thing a piece of marble can’t abide, that’s the cold and damp. It seizes up and becomes arthritic and brittle. To all intents and purposes it’s unworkable . . . But you try telling that to masons of today and they don’t want to know, they’re nothing but a gang of glorified bricklayers. Masons? Charlatans more like! They don’t know their Jurassic from their Precambrian . . . They haven’t had the training, and where are they going to get it? ’Cos I tell you, it doesn’t exist these days . . . They don’t know the first thing about W.C.V. Of course, the marble’s unworkable, we ain’t living in Pompeii, are we? A schoolboy could tell you as much! Ah, but when the marble is freshly cut from the quarries of old Carrara . . . My, my, my, it’s a different fish altogether, yes, completely different. . . It’s a joy, a real joy — why you can carve it with a pen knife, it’s like cheese! And it doesn’t flake or splinter the way it does in Chatham, my good gracious no, it cuts like a mature cheddar!’

  He sits back breathless, his lids heavy and drugged. I try and picture his cheesy marble, but then he starts up again.

  ‘Remember, the golden rules . . . The stonemason’s worst enemy? Weather! Frost and ice wreak untold damage on the unprotected windward face, years of work and toil gone up in smoke! The finest most intricate gingerbread work, destroyed! rubbed out for ever! in one frost! Don’t even talk to me about marble, I know all there is to know about that fish, and I’ve had it up to here!’

  He glares at me and dares me to contradict him.

  ‘It becomes totally unworkable! Useless and double useless! Splinters flying everywhere! Slithers shooting out in all directions! And they get in your clothes, down your shirt! In your knickers! And they’re sharp, too! Oh yes, they’ll stick in your thumb! your arse! the back of your hand! even your eyes! That’s right, your eyes! Don’t talk to me about slings and arrows, you can’t go pulling one of those out by brute force, oh no! Not if you value your eyesight, you don’t! The trick is, you see, is to pluck a single hair from your head . . . like so, make a little loop . . . like that, hook it round the spear of the marble, and then ease it out . . . Slowly mind! ever so, ever so slowly . . . Aha! An art in itself, paid for with experience! But this stuff?’He takes a vicious kick at my Van Gogh without moustache. ‘Call it stone? Stone?! Don’t make me laugh, chalk more like! Only not half as useful! Give me a good bed of marble any day of the week! Oh . . . oooooh! Aw, my ticker! Give us a swig of that tea!. Oooh, put a tot of rum in there for me, will you, lad . . . Aaah, yes . . . mmm, that’s better

  He takes a long swig on it . . . and frowns his face.

  ‘Is it dinner time yet? Did you hear the hooter? I was lost in thought there . . . I must of dozed off . . . Let’s get out of this swamp! You go sitting around here all day, you’ll end up getting piles! Did I tell about my granny? She got hers caught in her bicycle chain and went clean over the handle bars! Har har! Aah! Na, na, don’t make me laugh, ouch! Poor thing . . . Na don’t, aaaah, heehee! Teeheehee!’

  33. THREE CORPSES IN THE SUN

  OOne thing we were never short of in our situation was something to look at, that was our advantage, overlooking the Medway like that. The tide comes in, it goes out again. The dredger takes a tea break. A nuclear sub surfaces and comes alongside for a refit, engines in full reverse, between the lock gates. A magical moment. Waves this high! Almost up to the conning tower. The little chap with the peaked cap and spaghetti on his shoulders, he’s having a whale of a time up there, only a speck, almost out of sight, reduced by distance, the perspective of the quayside.

  We down tools and hightail it over to the other camber. They’ve caught a sub in there by all accounts, and a big one judging by the commotion! We drop our cheese sandwiches and make a dash. And there she blows! Bottle green, whale-like, but no fish this one, more like a submarine. Nuclear, according to Bill. ‘Winston Churchill, HMS thereof, our Prime Minister,’ he explains.

  I nod, I can see her with my own two eyes. She’s got to slow down, to put the brakes on, or she’ll be in collision with the dock. The commander jams her into full reverse, a million turbos, tidal waves as high as a house. A sight to behold. Those engines kicking up whole riverbeds of silt, acres of seaweed. Porridge, crabs and jellyfish, bits of reef even. We stand back and savour the stink.

  ‘Don’t get too near the edge!’ Bill warns me. ‘We’ve almost lost you twice today already!’

  He smiles at me to reassure me, I take his point and take a step back. Shielding my eyes, staring up at the conning tower, two or three faces up there, silhouetted against the sun . . . A flag and a loud hailer, the little men in blue and white galloping over the decks.

  ‘Look! Can you see them?’

  ‘No, where?’

  ‘There behind the Big Chief . . .’

  ‘Oh . . . yeah, yeah, I see ’em . . .’

  A murmur rises, then a hush falls over the quayside.

  ‘There they are!’

  I hear what they’re saying, but I see nothing.

  ‘Under the flags, three of ’em! Drowned on manoeuvres.’

  Bill wags a truncheon in their direction, three caskets, draped with white ensigns. Bill nudges me and I doff my cap and cup my balls. The flag dips to half mast and the bugle sounds off all forlorn . . .

  ‘They rammed their own minesweeper in the night, and dragged it to the bottom of the oggin. All they found of the crew were these three poor bastards!’ Bill whispers to me, almost shouting.

  Three black limos show up. The relatives, white-faced, shaking hands with the top brass . . . A real admiral, humbling himself . . . Trying to show the sincerity of his grief . . . We shuffle our feet and look away, studying old Winston. What we’re standing here for really has naff all to do with showing our last respects: we’re solely here for the horror show. We sit back and gawp. What we want to see is the dead, the cheerless sun bleaching out their cold faces. We want to get as close up as possible, without getting contaminated.

  The corpses are trussed up on the poop, round and bloated, a whole sea of water slopping around in their guts. The wind playing tag with the flags, teasing us . . . We stand there, dry-mouthed . . . I have to stand on tiptoes. That’s me all over, curious as a kitten. There’s a sudden surge from behind when the boiler-makers show up, and we almost slip in over the edge. I cling onto Bill, short, rotund, an anchor man. He coughs and stares out past his nose. Then the wind lifts the flag clean off the fattest body, but we see no mottled corpse, he’s completely swathed in polythen
e sheeting. A howl of discontentment goes up. The crowd doesn’t get its money’s worth at all, not a peek! We feel cheated, we want a refund.

  Actually, we’re incredulous. We stand dumbfounded as old Winnie comes in alongside, the quayside crawling with men. One minute there’s not a soul in sight, the next — bedlam! The air grows dark with hemp . . .

  It’s time for us to get lost. Me ’n’ Bill pick our way back to the quarry, we catch a last glimpse, then nothing . . . We hear the bugler playing the Last Post, there’s three minutes silence, then the hooter sounds for back to work . . . The dredger starts up again; the great cycle of life, the resettlement of silt.

  Did I tell you about it? A whole crane chained to a raft, a kind of floating platform, barge-like, but square. Still with the caterpillar tracks on. He sits there in his cab, a little figure at sea, working his levers . . . Mobbed by seagulls, their screams fill the air, competing with his engine. It whines in agony . . . He’s caught something big, it almost pulls him in with it.

  We sit ourselves down and get a brew going. A couple of card games start up. We need the rest, it’s been a hard day. Bill holds out his mug and I pour the tea. One of the brickie’s apprentices sounds off, ‘Did you see him? The fat one? when the flag lifted . . . all green and purple, like a stilton!’

  Bill doesn’t even look up, he just stares into his tea. I get the message, I look down and adjust my zip.

  34. SPRING-HEEL JACK

  The old girl gets me up for half six. She brings me tea. I sip at it and flex my eyelids. It takes her six or seven attempts ’til I finally quit pulling my dick, get up and jump out into that iced room. No kidding, sheets of the stuff, on the inside of the windows! My damp little corner . . . I grab my kacks, climb in, button up and walk downstairs. She hands me my sarnies and I head off into the fog looking for my bus . . . one last cuppa and I’m off . . . Thousands of us heading for that gate, into the yard, my grandfather before me, Reg, on my mother’s side.

  The big joke is that once we’ve clocked on at half seven, we go straight for our first tea break of the day. We punch in, re-find our names and head for the tea hut.

  As soon as I walked in there, I felt his eyes on me like two hot stones. I tried to look away, not to notice, to laugh even, but it doesn’t matter where you run to in this world, the beatings will follow you. From the schools to the workplace, from the workplace to the High Street, there’s always another berk ready to stand in, punch you down and rub your nose in the dirt. Man is nothing if he’s not a bully. The bully — the flunky of the ruling classes. Unavoidable! Regular as shit! Panting at the leash, ready to shut up the kid who thinks he’s different. From the school yard to the grave.

  ‘So, you think you’re better than everybody else, do you? Oi, you, I’m talking to you! Are you listening to me? Answer me! Answer me boy!’

  You look down and examine your feet — busted plimsolls — you kick about with your toe, chew it over, ponderings in the dust.

  ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you!’

  You check the rubber toe-cap, peeling off. You kind of think you are, but no voice rises. The truth is not required, not here, not anywhere, not now, not never, not no how.

  And so I try to speak the truth, to write down the facts, but they tell me it’s not true, that I’m dreaming, that I’ve made the whole thing up . . . And it’s a tough thing to learn to shut up: tough for a kid. You can’t answer back, answers aren’t good enough. Answers? Just words, abstract and meaningless! You just can’t nail words down, they won’t do as they’re told. Man: the cunt of a million colours! He’ll always have another angle, a billion treacherous deceits and lies! The harbinger of grief, grief for every sorry little soul, Amen!

  As soon as I walked into that dump it started up all over again, the offers of fights after work. And not skinny blokes either, big lugs, twice my size! For absolutely nothing, just for having the wrong type of hair, for wearing a hat without permission, for having the audacity to be different. That’s reason enough in this world of ours, more than enough . . .

  You stride out into this world full of laughter and joy, then you have to think again, to check your step and avoid the streets, the work places, the pubs, all the great festivals of the desperate and the unamused. All who demand to be entertained, row upon row of the bastards.

  I saw it coming again, like a brick, in the distance, gathering speed. You make out the molecules, particles of dust, red, flaking, breaking away from the mass, heading in your direction — that’s the brick. Revolving, little somersaults of doom. The brick with your name on it, cast in a kiln. Definitely a brick — awesome, regular and predictable.

  You think that you left all that petty bullshit behind you in the school yard. But here it is again, alive and kicking, heading in your direction. The desperate little breaths inwards, the taste of gob, that taste of fear, and it’s on you again like a hot little animal, its tongue at your neck, like a dog, tasting the salt. . . the little hairs . . . And you turn and you embrace it, because deep down in our inadequate little hearts we believe that we deserve it, like we deserve suffering, like we don’t deserve love . . .

  And so we encompass it, the million and one facets of the human soul, the whole stinking barrel. Opportunist, vain and antagonistic, with vague feelings of good will, but above all crawling with fear.

  There were some pretty snotty fellows in that tea hut, supping from their tin mugs. One in particular, a lad of the dance-floor, little blonde highlights, a hint of moustache, two or three drawings on each arm. Red-knuckled and spitting. He eyed me and dared me to look him back, sucking the sweet stuff between his teeth. A little trickle of juice escaping, blending with his tash - cocoa. He made plenty of noise about it, a great swilling, then he stared me down. I found my seat, but no Bill. I look around, I check his locker — empty!

  ‘Has anyone seen Bill? Is he coming in today?’

  I ask about, but find only silence; I go from table to table ’til I come to my friend with the grudge. I smile and give him a good morning. I accept responsibility — it’s my fault, you see, I’ve got this arrogance, it oozes from my pores, it comes across in conversation, in the way I part my hair. I try and humble myself before him, I mumble and apologise. But still he reads it, written right across my ugly mug: superiority! I really do try to be polite, but I’m naturally lippy. I make unfunny jokes. I go on and on, repeating myself. The truth is, I just don’t know when to shut it.

  ‘Alright mate? Have you seen Bill?’

  I have to repeat it twice before he even lifts his stupid face — he shakes his head, and eyes me with his sharkies. Narrowed, pissed off . . . he swallows, sucks at his teeth and spits.

  ‘Na, but I’ll see you outside the gate at four o’clock!’

  I nod and try to laugh it off. He pushes his chair back and goes to stand. It’s all bravado, he’s full of shit. I offer him a cigarette, I’ve got a fresh pack of Navy Cut. I pull off the foil and offer them around, I take one for myself, just to prove that I don’t think it’s below me. Charlie shouts over, one of the old lags, he steps in and comes to my rescue.

  ‘Did you say you was looking for Bill? I thought you said Phil. Na, Bill’s been taken poorly . . . he ain’t coming in, it’s his chest this time . . . You’d better go see the charge hand, old Spring-heel Jack . . . that ponce’ll put you wise . . . His wife says he’s poorly. I shouldn’t be surprised if he don’t come back at all this time, if you get my drift. . . Not that I’d wish him bad or nothing, not a bit of it, but . . . well, you know . . . it stands to reason, don’t it? If you weigh it all up, I mean it can’t go on, can it? Your best bet is to go see old Spring-heel, that ponce’ll put you straight!’

  I blow out some smoke, I nod and thank him, this old dad. Bill’s come over all queasy, seems like he’s out for the count, hmm . . . And I should see the charge-hand, old Spring-heel Jack. That much is obvious. I disentangle myself, pluck up my flask and say my farewells . . . I pocket what’s left of my ciggies
and leave . . . avoiding Sharky’s eyes. I make for the door, I trip and open the door in one go, casual like.

  35. GOD SENDS NUTS TO PEOPLE WITHOUT TEETH

  With Bill laid up for what could be the duration, they decide to send me out to Upnor, on the opposite side of the river. A six mile round trip, over Rochester bridge, Strood, then some scenery, a few hills, a little copse, down the lane, follow your nose.

  ‘Just ask for Frank. He’s making a path to the car park. He’s a miserable old git. Don’t cross him and you’ll be alright. .. You’ll recognise him, a bit of a limp, but don’t mention it. Tell him I sent you. What’s your name?’

  ‘Steven.’

  He licks at his pencil and writes it down, he labours over it, letter by letter.

  ‘OK, Jack, tell him that I sent you, you know who you’re looking for? Up by the car park, the van will pick you up, a white van, D.O.E. . . . got it?’ He checks his onion. ‘It’s about due any minute now . . . you’d best wait outside . . . We’ll call you once old Bill’s on the mend. So don’t forget, ask for Frank, he’ll be wearing a cap.’

  I stand around in the fog, flapping my arms about. Then I hear it, the van, it comes round the corner, D.O.E. . . . This must be the fellow. It looms out of the mist, dark, menacing, I hear the engine racing, D.O.E. written on its side, a white van . . .