Pope and Her Lady

by Leon Rooke

  Formatting note:

  In the electronic versions of this book blank pages that appear in the paperback have been removed.

  POPE AND HER LADY

  LEON ROOKE

  Fiction, Poetry, Non-fiction, Translation, Drama and Graphic Books

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Rooke, Leon

  Pope and her lady / Leon Rooke.

  Short stories.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-55096-137-9 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-55096-189-8 (EPUB).--

  ISBN 978-1-55096-190-4 (Kindle).--ISBN 978-1-55096-191-1 (PDF)

  I. Title.

  PS8585.O64P66 2010 C813'.54 C2010-900776-X

  Copyright © 2010 Leon Rooke

  Cover Painting by Leon Rooke

  All characters and events are fictional.

  eBook publication copyright © Exile Editions Limited, 2018. All rights reserved.

  Text pages and cover designed by Michael Callaghan.

  ePUB, Kindle and PDF versions by Melissa Campos Mendivil.

  Published by Exile Editions

  144483 Southgate Road 14

  Holstein, Ontario, N0G 2A0, Canada

  www.ExileEditions.com

  We gratefully acknowledge the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation for their support toward our publishing activities.

  Exile Editions eBooks are for personal use of the original buyer only. You may not modify, transmit, publish, participate in the transfer or sale of, reproduce, create derivative works from, distribute, perform, display, or in any way exploit, any of the content of this eBook, in whole or in part, without the expressed written consent of the publisher; to do so is an infringement of the copyright and other intellectual property laws. Any inquiries regarding publication rights, translation rights, or film rights –or if you consider this version to be a pirated copy – please contact us via e-mail at: info@exileeditions.com

  Contents

  Cover

  Pope and Her Lady

  About the author

  for Jonathan

  The polis nellie escort is eating pakora in a wrapper frae the carry-oot. Thank ye, I et at Sly in the Queen’s box, Pope sez. I’ll no have any, kind of ye to ask. A wee bit plops to the floor but the sodjer hen dont notice, she donay say crap, nothing at aw, she just elbows Pope in the side anytime Pope slows doon. And Pope is slowing, she’s got bricks in her heels, she’s thick with the Mady thoughts as footballers flowing into Ipoxy Park, poor auld Mady. Pope can hear the scoobie chomping away, click clack gaes those teeth, the drippy gub of a bull dog, Pope thinks aboot saying to the woman but.

  But Mady’s up there in Pope’s brain saying Ye mustnay be rude luv rude hurts a person’s feelings, plus as ye maw must had telt you rude is no ladylike ye know.

  I’m hurt, Pope says, I’m hurt bad, me poor Mady is dead, ach, ach me.

  But ye cannay be sapsy either my girl, Mady telts her, like the sang gaes ye gotta toe the line.

  There’s the last gate, Pope can hear the shrieks. Bedlam awaits.

  The nellie leads her to a different cell. They’ve no yet put her in the same yin twice. She’s no to orient herself. She’s no to adjust cause if ye adjust then ye can cope when the roof falls in.

  Shrieks abound. Pope let’s fly a few frae her own gub. It’s still a democratic state, so she’s heard. Just kidding, ye know: a rare day she’s heard any such blather.

  A wee minute later the nellie is back. The screw is rattling the bars, angry ower something. She’s nay frugal in the paps, the shirt is tight in the arms, a bad fit: maybe discomfort is wait a min, what’s she saying?

  Yer claes Pope.

  What?

  Yer apparrel like. Gie them ower.

  Yer want my clothes?

  It have come tae the chief’s attention ye’re wearing the apparel of the lamented occassion.

  ... ? ...

  Aye, same apparel ye’re wearing the now the day yer lassielove gaes to clover by yer own hand, ye cheeky bastid. Owersight, ye could say, of the investigating party.

  I’m to be left scud nakit?

  Ye wont be nakit Pope. Cooperation’s to yer own gude. I have here a wrapower ye’re to put on. Bisexual. And aye, this bedjacket chief sez ye’re to wear. It were yer Mady’s, chief sez.

  ***

  The bedjacket no is Mady’s. Case of the chief having his joke but.

  Stupit, stupit. The wrapower is open in the back, nay more than ye simple hospital gown. Aye the same colour, the same loose fit. Hanging frazie at the knee. It’s been washt paper thin, but still smells. It’s got stains. A woman could come doon with severe sepsis wearing this gown. Ye could bloat up and no answer to yer own name.

  ***

  We got ye Pope.

  Aye. Nay question.

  She looks aye fetching dont she Jack?

  Smashing I’ll say. Designer attire, that’s our Pope. Yer Inter-Faith item.

  Time Oh twa hunnert hour forty-six min, continuation interview with suspect Pope. What was it Pope? Was it the pipe? Ye belt yer sweetie slangiside the head wi a pipe?

  What pipe? What’s she saying, pipe?

  Chief means ye slammed yer true luv wi a pipe ye pork.

  I knownay aboot nay pipe. What pipe? I’m no would hit a woman with nay pipe, smart chance. No a man either other than it’s me or him.

  Ye did it. Wi the pipe.

  Nay with no pipe. What pipe?

  The one ye smacked yer jam with Pope.

  Ye got the wrong lassie. A pipe ye’re saying? Then ye got the wrong pook. Ye’re talking tyre tool, car lift, pry bar, could be I’d comprehend.

  Tyre tool?

  Sure. Tools. I brought tools in frae the car.

  What car?

  In the rain. Ye remember the rain. Hellacious doonpour, that rain.

  What car Pope?

  Mady’s car.

  Hold on a sec Pope. Dont go niwheres.

  ***

  Pope watches them huddle by the door, whispering. A third polis comes in and aw three whisper. What the fuck’s wi this car? they are saying. D’we have her car? Well jesus christ. Chief’s pants is chalky. She’s seated herself doon in something.

  Pope closes her eyes. They dont like her looking at them.

  The new scrooch disappears and the other two reseat themselves. Time Oh twa fourteen hour some min, the chief yin sez into the spool. Continuation interview wi suspect Pope.

  Ye was telling us ye brought int the pipe frae the victim’s car. Gae on Pope.

  Nay pipe. I never say I brought in nay pipe.

  Gae on Pope. Yer own words like.

  I usher in tools, right. I’m building Mady this bookcase made to fit the wall, ye see. Top to bottom. Customized, ye could say. Gude wood, the best. I build it right there in the room, the sitting room, on the spot. A big mither, nay yin party can lift that mither. But I manage. I get them shelves standing, only initially, initially they donay the pure fit.

  What the fuck she’s saying?

  What the fuck ye saying Pope?

  It’s too snug the fit I’m saying? Corner to corner, ceiling high, a fucking Godzilla. The yin unit, see. Nay the sectionola idea, sections, they’s dandy for some but no for me. It’s the challenge, ye see, yin piece. Like. It’s what I telt Mady, fuck sections, any rack can do the sectionola, we want something permanent, do we nay? Like that bookcase’ll be hanging in here the next century like. Mady could see that. Mady she sez, Pope this beauty be here long after ye and me’ve baith pooped.

  Calm doon Pope.

  What the fuck’s she saying?

  Jesus Pope dont split the chair.

&nb
sp; Ye want a fag Pope?

  Naw I quit the fags. We baith quit. Mady she said I no can quit if ye donay quit, so we say fuck it and quit the gether. Aw the gether, ye following? Are ye following? We was like that, tight, Madeline and me. I’m no saying it was easy.

  Aw come on Pope have a fag. Roll the lassie a fag Jack.

  Naw, it wouldnay be right, me lighting up a fag the now. Maybe later. Sure, later. I didnay telt her I was quitting forever. But it wouldnay be right the now. Her memory, I’m saying.

  Ye’re a load of shite Pope, that’s what ye are.

  If ye say so Jack. It’s Jack int it? Ye’re in the driver’s seat Jack.

  Fuck ye Pope. Ye’re making us mad, passing up that fag. Ye’re telling us ye quit we know better.

  Naw I quit. It like to kilt me, kilt us baith, but we quit. Ye can do a thing, ye got the imperative. The will power, she said. Madeline said Pope ye and me can do what the bejesus we want, we got the will power.

  Have a fag Pope.

  Maybe yin day ower Mady’s grave, that were be fitting. Appropriate. Here and gone, like that smoke. Ye understanding me?

  Ower the grave where ye put her, that’s a gude yin Pope. That’s a gude yin int it Jack?

  That’s how to do it, me having that smoke by Mady’s grave. We can have us a wee conversation, me and her. She’d like that. She was yin for the chats. I donay know how many times she said to me, Let’s have erselves a chat hun. A gude blether. I never known it were possible afore her. To chat with yer sweetie the way yer would with yer bosom maw or pap. Or yer kitty cat. First time we met it was her saying Ye look nice, d’ye want to chat? At the Brideshead this was, the pub, ye know it?

  Brideshead she say? Where the fuck— ?

  On the Wren chief. Swanky digs.

  This bird? Swanky?

  Swanky aye. Such was me Mady. Me Madeline. Aw git up in this black gauzy mantle, brown satin gown, lavender gloves, stockings pearly blae. Waving this silver smelling bottle in the left wee hand. A knockoot. That were Mady. Hunnerts of surprises she was, like.

  Aye, a fine upstanding queer chippie, so we’re telt. Built, we’re telt. Tarty tae some eyes, we’re telt but. That how come you tae bosh her wi the pipe Pope?

  ...

  Pope ye are compelt tae answer, the machine cannay read silence.

  It were a crying shame, the now I think on it. Her quitting the fags. When look what happent. It int fair, it int, though that’s life. That’s yer scrimmage, life. Fair donay mean shite, I mean look at me here in this fix, it werenay fair to neither of us. No I was expecting fair, woman in my shoes an eejit to expect fair. Hand me the moon, ye see what I’m saying?

  Ye lost us Pope. What moon? What the fuck’s she saying Jack?

  We got ye cold Pope. Sure we dont doubt ye word but everyone knows romance sours.

  A fact of life int it?

  So ye slammed yer sweetie wee jessie. Ye bosht her napper.

  I could of treated her better I’m no denying that.

  Ye bosht her.

  Ye knockt her fucking dead.

  Let the squirrel talk Jack. Gie the squirrel room.

  Aye, a nice chat. Close ye legs Pope.

  Legs?

  Knees the gether Pope.

  We’re no interested in parviewing yer intimacies Pope.

  ...

  It was I were unaccustomed to the role, a gude woman like Mady having the nosh for me. I mean the mind boggled but. There it was, I could cite a thousand times she—

  Fuck Pope ye’re fuckt and ye know it.

  I’m hearing ye chief. I’d of said the same onct, what ye said, romance sours. Shouted it frae the rooftop. Were nay souring with me and Mady though, nayn, no ever. Souring loomed, Mady she’d perk right up, she’d say Pope sit yeself doon, let’s chat. Sit yerself doon, I’m telling ye, sit, let’s blether.

  Yer saying she was bossy? Yer saying that’s why ye corkt her? That what she’s saying Jack?

  Bossy we can understand. Bossy lassies, they’s common as fly shite on a coopad. Ye gae right on, the chief and me are getting the picture.

  Gae on Pope.

  Bossy naw Madeline were nay bossy. Usually it were me had fuckt up was what brought on the requirement for the chat. The sitdoon. On account I was unaccustomed to thinking birthdays, Maw’s Day, the like, ye hear what I’m saying? “Good morning sweetie.” Hear what I’m saying? Being thoughtful, ye see. It wasnay in me upbringing, her very words: “Ye nay knowing to be thoughtful nice, a dear heart Pope but I know ye heart is pure.” Her very words, a direct quote, I shite ye no. It’s like water in the well, ye’re parched, ye’re missing that water, it’s only natchril, natural, that were ...

  Plug ye tears Pope. We’re on tae ye gude. We got ye covered.

  Did ye like it Pope? That feeling the power when ye done it? Bong wi that pipe boiiinnng, she’s oot of ye hair. She was bossy, we understand.

  Fucking deserved it, chief here is saying.

  Yer queer tender psyche was woundit.

  ***

  On and on it gaes, on and on. The two sodjers pop up as in pops another. Bad oot there, this yin says, bad, I’m doon wi a, doon wi, achoo, he sez, his goo flying aw ower. We got yer miff’s car, he sez, it’s ower for ye ye murderin puke, blood and gore aw ower.

  Nay way, Pope replies. Speck on that car auld Mady loses her knickers.

  Then its everybody ducking aw ower, the newcomer letting fly more of those achoos. Fucking hell, fucking hell, everybody saying.

  I’d mind you a lady’s present, ye stupit pigs.

  ***

  Trouble is, Pope cannay keep the gown thingie tied tight. One minute she’s securely tucked in, safe from prying eyes, next cool air fans her backside or her skin gaes sticky to the chair. Plus ye cannay sit quietly upright, stoic, ye could say, forever, nay ye got to squirm, squirming is natchril, it’s natural, that gaes without saying, gaes without saying.

  Pigs aye what a woman has to put up with. Fuck it but. Aye ye are fuckt Pope, this gown is auld and frayed, it’s near transparent. It’s loosy-goosy, balooney, Jack waves his arms and up the thingie flies. She’s gude as nakit, never she was of the modest category, coming from a family ten in the weans will see to that. Aye but what to do aboot this Jack’s hands, ye cannay just rubber-ear a rat must has his feel, ye’re me sponge cake is the rat’s tune.

  Knees the gether Pope. Ye’re no at the orgy.

  ***

  Continuation of interview wi suspect Pope, something something hundred hour, the Jack sodjer saying, snapping back Pope’s head, pinching the bare diddie, saying, Ye awake, wake up, ye stupit or what?

  Dash H2O on her Jack.

  The now aboot that pipe.

  What pipe? What pipe? What pipe?

  ***

  It were too snug, that bookcase. A monster. I cannay shove that bastid in there.

  Fuck the bookcase ye nutcase.

  Hold on Jack. What she’s saying, what Pope here is saying is she couldni cope wi that bookcase, she’s seeing red ower that Godzilla bookcase, Mady’s yammering, Mady wants her drink, so our nellie bosht her.

  That what yer saying Pope? We seen yer bottles. Yer was baith blootered I expect.

  The car lift on yin end, me crowbar at yin other end, huffing and puffing. Lift her up, bolt her in there. Bloody awfy, I tell you.

  Bejesus she’s bookcase obsessed.

  So, getting the lift – see, it were the tool I had went to get frae Mady’s car ... I get these frae her car – oh man that arse-freezing doonpour – I seen the tool in there, I’m thinking I can use that piece, tyre tool, lift, and suchlike. That’s what I’m saying. There’s tool on the crime scene, yer pry bar, yer jemmy or such, there’s yer answer int it?

  We seen nay fucking tyre tool Pope. We seen the common pipe yer name writ on it int blood, hair, ’n’ guts. Bong against the napper, right Pope?

  Boiiinnng boiiinnng boiiinnng, three times we’re telt.

  Twice the bookcase near to come doon, Mady and me sc
rambling, them shelves ponging aw ower. But I get her in there, I get her in there, she’s a beaut.

  Ye’re no a carpenter Pope. Ye’re a slag and windbag and Brusquandering bampot the same as the whole of ye fucking Popes. Call yerself a carpenter eh? What next?

  I learnt it. It come natchril, natural. My auld grandfayther he was a carp.

  Haw haw a carp dear god.

  We seen yer bookcase. Aw catticorner it were, aw falling apart. Yer granpap me arse. Ye ever lifted a worktool ye fucking heart would explode.

  Madeline were a book lover. I never seen so many, nay even a book store, a book store is wickit by comparison. The fucking National Library is wickit by comparison. I meet her at the Brideshead that night her head’s in a book. Afore she gie me the eye. Wilum Mickle, his lifetime works that book were.

  Who?

  Mickle fucking Wilum she says.

  Ye look nice, ye want to chat Mady sez to me and while I’m tumbling off the stool she’s speaking aloud frae that book, it were so beautiful us in the ale house has tears washing the eyes.

  And gie to me my bigonet

  My bishop’s satin gown

  For I maun tell the bailie’s wife

  That Colin’s come to town.

  My Turkey slippers maun gae on

  My stockings pearly blae ...

  Jack? Jack?

  Aye chief?

  Gie this pongy juicehead the bejesus oot my sight, I canni take her shite nay more.

  ***

  A word in ye ear Pope. We understand tactical omissions occur when a fellow citizen is recounting her lifetime tribulation leading up tae the frightsome moment, sae just sae ye tae consider where ye are, in the fallow circumstances, I’m ye closest friend.

  Yeh, fuck ye too Jack, ye fucking christly knee-bent kirk rapist bastid.

  ***

  Another polis comes in, hobbles Pope off. Doon this way, up that way, through this door, steps, more steps, now doon the long hall. Pope knows the route aye, she’s done the back and forth oft enough ower recent hours. The nellie wants to hold Pope’s arm, brush up against her, its like she wants her nose in Pope’s hair. The sodjer is youngish, a tall keelie, with what Pope observes are overlarge hands, these wide-apart feet the like were Mady’s, aye the same quick gait as well, aye gude ault Mady laying doon the law – “Ye got business then ye best tend to it, no sit on ye bum like a sorry setting hen, ye poop.” This party slim too, slim like Mady were, or nearaboot, nay as chesty however, nay as shipshape in the caboose.