by Lloyd Jones
My wonderful Dream is over. How long have I slumbered?
My cheek is rosy and numb, indented with the outline of my watch. My hand is wet and warm with the dribble of sleep. I’ve been dreaming about him again. It’s the Dream… about another woman. The pixie.
Is he being unfaithful to me again? Why such dark doubts? It must have been the cheese…
He’s asleep, wine glass in hand as usual. Snoring gently. The slob. A Fellini film drones in the background; the one with a dwarf nun climbing a ladder lodged in a tree; in the top branches a haggard madman shouts I want a woman, I want a woman…
Ample, saucy evidence of my love lies spattered all over his overalls (such a messy eater, but my own true love). Wild mushroom, chestnut and sage penne – his favourite meal. And a lot of wine. Frascati, Chianti. Valpolicella in a red rim around his mouth. Gradually I come to, though my head is still muzzy. Sitting by the fireside, poking the fire, I drift in a calm sea of fuzzy thoughts. How funny he is when he snores in Italian, when the moon hits his eye like a big pizza pie…
The pixie in my Dream is asleep and all is well. Surely he’s not at it again. Who else would want him at his age? Such a belly on him too. Bald as a coot and sagging everywhere, even down there.
So foolish to have suspicions again. Love is so wobbly. A wobbly tooth to worry me all day. The tingle. My love is a tingle in a wobbly tooth.
Time for bed. I’ll take the glass out of his hand, leave him where he is to sleep.
He can wash up in the morning. My voodoo lover, who dances naked with his pixie on the moors. In my mad, sad, wonderful Dream.
gold
GOOD on the island now, plenty of food again and no killing. Every Season the men come in fast boats to make sure we work, no guns. Since No World we grow food and sleep in the big house. Goog tell us what to do every day. Better since No Hope and I work with my Spade all day without wanting the Old Time again. My Spade is My Friend.
Goog has told me who to Love. I go with the men in the fast boat and they leave me on another island, not so far. They say the woman I will Love sleeps on her own in a tent away from their big house. She has Food Land and a Spade but no Love.
I beat my Spade with a stone and leave Spuds by her tent and Seeds, custom.
Goog says she is my only Love in the world that is left, in all the islands. Nobody else can be my Love, destiny.
In the morning Spuds and Seeds gone, custom. On the tent blue dog picture, I shout Dog and beat my Spade with a stone. She does not come out but smoke and crying.
I am hungry so I root in the woods, sleep in the grass till noon. I go back to the tent and she is in the Food Land, digging and crying. She is ten or twenty years more than me with hair like a rope on her head. She has good tits but legs like a hen, too thin. Her face fatty white with blue paint on her cheeks, pictures. Long green dress, no boots. She digs the Earth, still strong. I beat my Spade with a stone by the edge of her Food Land, custom. She shouts at me, no words I know. She waves her arm, throws stones at me. Custom on this island maybe.
I sit by the edge of the woods, hungry, looking at her tent and her Food Land. I am hungry, but not angry, I am No Hope now. Why is Dog my only Love in the world. Why not Beth in the big house? Goog says so.
Three days I wait eating rabbits and roots, then the boat men come find me. They take me to the tent and talk to Dog, no words I know. Dog’s tent is big, made of skins, warm in there. Skins on her bed too, fire in the middle of the floor. Pot for cooking and a loom for clothes, pretty stones from the beach and flowers hanging from the poles, good smell. Child toys and child clothes by a little bed but no child. Dog has many pictures made on slates taken from the Old Homes under the water I think. The boat men shout at her and point to me, they are angry, but no killing. She cries, they go. After, she makes me a bed by a Child Picture, away from her. In the night when I am in bed she goes out and comes back wet, more slates in her arms. She swims for them in the sea, looks like she gets them from the Old Town in the water and dries them by the fire. Quiet now, no crying.
I am No Hope, no matter she does not want Love, custom. Morning she gives me cold food and takes me to the edge of her Food Land. With stones she makes a Square on the Earth, big, and points to my Spade.
I beat my Spade with a stone and shout My Spade is My Friend. She throws a stone at me and hurts. She takes me to the Square and starts to dig with my Spade, then gives it to me and points. I am No Hope, I dig all day in the sun, she brings me Water and sits on a rock to watch me. Smoke from the tent by night, she makes hot food and we eat on a rock, looking at my Square. I make a hole in the edge of the Square for my Shithole, then I shit. She points to the stream and I wash, then bed, custom. No light in Dog’s tent so she sits in the tentdoor, under the Moon, with a slate. She makes Words with a nail. She has made Words all day with her finger in the Earth by her tent. Some days she stamps on the Words in the Earth and starts again. In the night when I pretend sleep she goes to the Words in the Earth with her slate, writes them down. Finish, she sleeps.
Days this goes on, I dig all the Square and fence about, spend time in the woods thinking. She has not told me to Love her yet, she pushes me away to my bed. Goog says she is my only Love in all the islands, but she does not Love me yet. New Season and our island is hot, the men come in boats with guns. They ask if she has Loved me but I say no. There is more anger, they hit Dog and I watch them. I am No Hope. I ask what is wrong. They say she is Mad. But she is not, I have seen Mad Dan and Dog is not Mad like him after the World drowned. In the beginning many went Mad from the Silence, Dan went Mad too. Noise all over the place before the World Drowned, but new Silence on the island too much, hurt their heads.
The boat men go away and Dog cries, I put my arms around her but she shouts and runs to the woods. I try to read her Words but only a few I know, Spade and Man and Child.
Dog stays in the woods for three days, comes back Mad, breaks many slates and rips her tent pictures. For a day she sits on the child bed, playing with toys. No Spade work, no planting in the Food Land. No hot food, no Words on the slates, only crying. Next day Dog makes me sit on the rock and she paints me, blue on my face and red on my chest and back, patterns. She rips her dress and paints her body red in patterns, custom. She sings a baby song, then we Love each other. This is my Love, Goog told me. Every day we Love and Dig, she writes Words on her slates and I plant the Spuds in her Food Land, Harrow the Square and fetch firewood from dead trees. One night she goes from the bed and sits in the tentdoor, moon shadow. When I wake she has gone. Maybe she has gone to the big house or the woods again to think. I look at her slates and they are full of Words, there are Words in the Earth and painted on the tent, all over it. They go round and round the tent, red Words painted with her finger. For days I wait for her to come back and then I go to the big house, but she is not there. I look in the woods but it is empty. I shout Dog and there is an eko but she does not come, the world is empty. I am No Hope but I feel again, hot pain in my chest. More days go by and the men from the big house come to the tent, angry. They push me and beat me, I don’t know why. I speak to them but they do not understand. They take me to the edge of the water where she went for slates, and she is there, on her face in the water. Dog is Dead, I run in the water to pull her out, but she is blue and the paint has run on her face. Her eyes are not there, her face nearly gone, but it is her, blue and Dead. Her hair like a rope is loose on her back, green with weed. Her mouth a bit open and there is a gold tooth, it shines in the sun, and a green crab in her mouth too. They leave us, I make a hole in the woods and I put her in the Earth, custom. A hot burn in my chest and I am feeling again. Years without crying, now my face wet again. For many days I do nothing, leave my Spade and eat the Spuds I put in the Earth. I try to know the Words but no good, I give up. At the end of the Season the boat men come for me. They ask me for Dog and I point to the Earth in the woods. They go to the big house and come back angry. They tie me up and take me in their b
oat. I try to tell them but they do not listen. On the way to my Home they leave me in another place, a small island with no people, no trees, no animals, no birds. They are going when I cry for my Spade, I shout My Spade is My Friend. They throw it in the water, I go in and get it. Only me and my Spade on this island, No Hope again and no animals, no birds. I am No Hope. There is no water, for days I suck the leaves at dawn, no food but roots, I sleep in the sand and I feel again, my chest is hot and I cry. I write in the sand with my finger, Dog and Spade and Love. I write My Spade is My Friend with stones, and much bigger, HELP in stones on the sand. For days I sleep, hardly move, a pain in my belly and my Spade is rusty, I look at the brown on its Blade every morning, getting bigger. When I am No Hope again a boat comes, it is Beth and a man from the big house. I cry, I have Hope again, it is an old feeling and it makes me ill. I hold her dress and I cry, there is sand in my mouth which is dry and my lips are big, they will not move. I say to Beth Goog was wrong. Dog not the only Love for me in the world, in all the islands. I say to Beth the truth, Dog is Dead and Love is Dead. She asks what happened and I tell her. There is no Dog for me to Love, she is Dead in the water, drowned looking for slates in the Old Town under the water I think. I tell Beth about the Words and the Pictures.
They take me in the boat to my Home and we go to the big house, they make me better. Did you kill her they ask, I say no but I put her in the Earth, custom. Every night when she comes home from the Food Land she sits by me, Beth, and asks me the same thing. Did I kill her. No I say. I promise her. She makes me tell her many times, over and over again. I tell her about the slates, and the paint on her face, the Words in the Earth. I tell her about Love.
At last they let me go, with my Spade but it is brown now, rust on it. My Spade is My Friend, but I am No Hope again, I do not dig in the Food Land with the rest. All day I walk in the woods with the animals and the birds, I go thin and weak.
Beth comes to find me and sits with me under the trees, we talk about Goog and my only Love in all the world, Dog who is Dead. I am without need for my Spade, I do not want to Labour in the Food Land, but Beth brings me a bit of food and a skin to keep me warm in the wood when it is dark. I am No Hope, I walk about in the green wood, I call to the birds and the animals, making their noises and whistles.
When the Season ends the men from the boats look for me with guns but I hide. In the rain and the mud I make a place to hide, cover it with branches and leaves. When it rains I sit there and listen to the rain on the green leaves, and the sound of the wind in the green trees, I listen to it for ever. My Spade is with me, it is brown now. I look at it and ask if I will use it in the Food Land again, with the others. No is the answer in my head, never again. I am thin and my hair is long, my beard on my chest. I paint my cheeks blue, a picture like Dog made, and I make my hair in a rope. I look for slates in the ruins and I make Words I know, Spade and Dog and Tent. In the days of sun I collect stones from the ruins and I make a House of Stone with a roof of branches and mud. I beat the earth to make a floor, I cover it with sand from the beach. On my slates I draw pictures with my Knife, pictures of me and Dog and our Days of Love. It was the best Love in all the islands, in all the world. I will tell my story on the slates. On the biggest slate I make a picture of Dog. In the Big Slate Picture she has a green dress made from moss stain I rub in with my finger. Her hair is real, made from Beth hair. I do not know how to fill her smile, I have no gold for her tooth. I have asked Beth for gold, she has seen the picture. I have been in the mines and there is yellow in the rock, I will make a tooth for the Big Slate Picture and She will be perfect. Beth says for me to go to the big house now, they want me to Dig again with my Spade but I will stay here. If I go with her the boat men will find me and take me away, custom.
I have been to the mines but I can’t make Gold. Beth brings me no food now and I am thin, weak from roots and berries, no hot food. In the nights I think how to get Gold and I see a way. When the boat men are here to tell us what to do I will steal a boat and go back to Dog, take her gold tooth out and bring it here to the Big Slate Picture, put it in the stone. Make candles all round it, go to it every morning and talk to her, my only Love in the islands.
Today they come from the big house for my Spade and I am angry, My Spade is My Friend. I kill two of them fighting, there is rust on their faces, a strange light in their eyes. I beat my Spade with a stone and shout My Spade is My Friend. Black crows all around me, they will feed well tonight. Many I fought, strong was my arm, two will sleep forever tonight. As the crows fatten there will be many tears in the big house, no fire on the hearth, my brothers and sisters will cry in the dark. In the morning they came boastful, shaking Spades, shouting Come Out No Hope, fight with us or we will take your Spade. And I answered them: no pup will take my Spade, I will fight with you. And they came from all around me through the green trees shouting and waving their Spades, but I met them fast and strong, I killed two where the crows walk in their cold black blood. Crying tonight in the house of their sisters and wives, their rooms will be cold and their children hungry. I talk to Dog in the small light before dawn, she tells me to have Hope. She will look after me. She says I must kill Beth to get Gold, she has a ring on her finger.
I have killed Beth in the afternoon. She brought me food and I killed her outside the House of Stones. She was not looking, I did it quick but not with my spade. My Spade is My Friend. Then I looked at her and cried, no Love now for me or her. Her gold ring I beat flat with a stone, it is in the picture of Dog. My Love is pleased with me, my work is good. I take the dead people to the mine and cover them with stones. After many days I take my Spade to the Food Land and start to dig. The others stay away from me, they leave me alone. I beat my Spade with a stone and shout My Spade is My Friend, custom. They gather round. I tell them what to do now. Goog is no good now. When the men in boats come we will kill them. I am the Goog of the big house now, Goog of the Spade Men and I Love all the women, destiny. All the women have blue paint on their cheeks, pattern like Dog, every woman has her hair like a rope on her head, custom. Every day I talk to Dog and she is Happy with what I have done, I have Hope.
Written in the House of Stones, in the First Year of Dog.
Custom.
pink
AN old man sits in a room, alone. He lives in the country, in a house set apart, grey and silent. Autumn’s infringing sadness billows the turquoise curtains with earth-cooled air and invades the house with spores, invisible moulds and nostalgia; another tired year is turning over in bed. Time has tipped to over-ripeness.
The old man feels sad. After dinner, in an infant gale which doesn’t know its own strength, he watches the Sunday afternoon film without moving once – without taking a sip of water or nibbling a biscuit. Of all the films in all the world, it’s Casablanca. He considers the great romantic films. He can’t remember many.
After tea on his own, sardines on toast and a tin of rice pudding straight from the can, cold, because he can’t be bothered any more, he sits down in his deep armchair and imagines his own Love Story. A strong evening sun, beating through the window behind him, projects a yellow screen onto the wall in front of him and he sets his own film in motion – his own Cinema Paradiso, or maybe The Last Picture Show.
Then, in his imagination, he stops the film and makes a few telephone calls. Still sitting there, he looks at the yellow screen on the wall and invites some friends round to watch his film. He needs a Love Committee: a handful of people who’ve been around him for a long time, to sit in the room with him and mediate.
He mumbles to himself as he picks his Love Committee. He chooses them in the way playground captains pick their football teams at school, instinctively and cunningly.
Big burly Tom the policeman, red with effort and drink but still functioning in the upstairs department – Tom will be able to jog his memory and remind him of his first days of love. Primavera. They’re the same age; he rewinds the tape some fifty years, to the time when Tom was a r
ookie copper on the night shift. Every night for a summer, when the town clock struck twelve, Tom would rap his friend’s bedroom window with his truncheon to wake him up so that he could run barefoot across the dewy fields to Morfudd in her father’s barn.
He will need Frances there – the librarian: proud, punctilious, much too frank with the drink inside her, tragically dismayed at her own marriage. Impeccably dressed in plum or serge, her perfume armorial, not an invitation… her miniature affairs dotted on her skin, freckles of ardour. Three decades of calm punctuated by a handful of brief volcanic eruptions; frantic couplings separated by years of formality and politeness, her inner heat invigilated by the lifeless books in her library. Her passion was governed by the laws of diminishing returns, since every Heathcliff or Darcy in the town had aged or gone grey with doubt. But real love was all in the mind; real love was different. She mourned it and put a spade in the ground every night, wanting to find it like a crock of gold.
And who else should be there in his Love Committee? Jonty, undoubtedly. A haggard man, thin and secretive – retired from the sea but still in love with the waves. He seemed to live in a crow’s nest near the top of the cliff, a niche on the path which dropped to the shore, his berth a double seat carved into the rockface. He sat there every day with his binoculars, on a waterproof cushion which he stuffed into his coat when he left the place, if he ever did. He knew about the creatures of the deep, and their watery romances. Whales tended to be promiscuous. Dolphins copulated belly to belly after lengthy foreplay. Like humans they had sex just for fun occasionally, and got fruity with other animals, even humans. Dolphins could be gay, too. Jonty divulged all this in a sad monotone, never looking at the listener, his eyes forever scanning the sea for fins and spumes.