33 West

by Daisy Goodwin

  For just a moment, everything is light; blinding shimmering golden light dancing on the surface of the water. For just a moment, the seams that bind the vast depths of the sky with the surface of the water are consumed; everything is consumed by the blinding shimmering golden light and he has to look away. Compelled by the river beneath, he looks back, captivated by the infinitely fracturing and rejoining golden light.

  He shares the walk down towards the water’s edge with an older man with an open, sincere face who looks about the same age as his father. Although the older man’s walk is laboured, he notices a purpose in his stride. The older man, seemingly lost to his thoughts, beams a smile with a short nod and says something about it being a lovely day for it and he beams a smile with a short nod back and overtakes the older man and continues along the path.

  There are lovers sitting beside the river, students reading, friends running, police community support officers patrolling, young families cycling, older families sailing, schoolboys rowing and a small girl who looks about the same age as his niece taking a tiny handful of breadcrumbs from a plastic bag held open by her attentive mother. The small girl carries the breadcrumbs with great care the short distance to the river bank and throws them at a pair of expectant swans and then turns gleefully and toddles back to her mother and takes another tiny handful of breadcrumbs and carefully carries them to the river bank and throws them and then turns even more deliriously to take another tiny handful: and he continues along the path.

  For just a moment, his attention is drawn to the vast verdant parkland to his right. During the war, this was where the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force (SHAEF) readied itself for D-Day. Eisenhower found nearby Coombe Hill the perfect antidote to the pressure-cooker intensity of Whitehall and was chauffeured down to Bushy Park by his alleged mistress, Kay Summersby, to oversee every last detail of the plans for the mother-of-all beach landings. There used to be American servicemen all over this part of south-west London. He wonders what those real-life Supermen from sprawling stateside metropolises: Austin, Texas; Denver, Colorado; Indianapolis, Indiana; Milwaukee, Wisconsin; Portland, Oregon; Buffalo, New York, must have made of the quaint 1940s Royal Borough of Kingston upon Thames. But the bombs fell here too, in retaliation for SHAEF’s subsequent successes, most terrifying of all, the Doodlebug, sent over by the Nazis from the Pas-de-Calais.

  Half a dozen brilliant green parakeets swoop over the parkland and settle in the branches of a nearby tree. Neither the lovers nor the students nor the friends nor the police community support officers nor the young families nor the older families nor the schoolboys give any indication whatsoever that they are aware of their presence and he finds this more incredible than the fact that there are half a dozen brilliant green parakeets perched in the branches of a nearby tree in Kingston. There are flocks of brilliant green parakeets all over this part of south-west London. Legend has it that the original birds either escaped from aviaries during the storms of 1987, were accidentally released from a film set at nearby Pinewood, Shepperton or Teddington studios, or were owned by Jimi Hendrix. Like the American servicemen, he wonders what these most exotic of creatures must make of their surroundings. How do they reconcile the immense blinding cold winters of suburban Surrey with the dense Amazonian heat or choking Indian throb of their native habitats, where admittedly they are more likely to be trapped, plucked and put in a curry? Conversely, if they are second or even third generation immigrants then they are practically as British as he.

  Somebody is aware of the brilliant green parakeets perched in the branches of a nearby tree and that is a homeless man who has rolled up his dirty cargo pants to reveal pale grimy legs and looks about the same age as his sister. The homeless man is leaning against a fence next to a boatyard deep in conversation with a little Jack Russell with only one ear. Every so often, the homeless man gestures towards the brilliant green parakeets and each time the Jack Russell’s scruffy little head obediently follows the direction of his master’s outstretched arms. As he watches, the scruffy little Jack Russell does an amusing double-take, and the homeless man erupts first with mirth then sorrow. In turn, he is sure that the brilliant green parakeets are aware of the attentions of the homeless man and the scruffy little Jack Russell as they shift listlessly in the branches of the nearby tree, glancing in their direction and then they flutter and rise, taking-off in a vibrant commotion towards Richmond Park.

  At the half-way point of his walk, close to the imposing outer walls of Hampton Court, he takes a seat on a bench next to a girl with dark brown hair who looks about his age. She wears a denim jacket tied around the waist of a black summer dress and is purposefully lost in a book of short stories about vampires. He has a swig of water from a half-empty bottle in his green satchel, then, after a brief pause, takes out exactly the same book. ‘Of all the books in published history’ he says in an unconvincing Bogart-esque tone. ‘This could be the start of a beautiful reading group?’ she replies with a sideways frown and a much more passable accent. He laughs, noticing that she wears her hair up to expose a tribal necklace and that her eyes are copper-coloured, framed by freckles and accentuated with black eyeliner which comes to a point just past the corners of her eyes. ‘So, what’s the verdict?’ he asks, motioning to her book. ‘My jury’s out. I’m sucking it and seeing. But from what I’ve read so far, so good. You?’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘I’ve read better. I’ve read worse. But it sure is original!’ They laugh together and, almost imperceptibly, she shifts her body to face him and asks ‘Say, has anyone ever told you you look like…’ ‘Colin Farrell?’ he responds without hesitation. She shakes her head and squirms indignantly. ‘No, Fred from Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’ For a moment he is speechless, having long felt an affinity with that very character. ‘So, that would make you Holly Golightly, right?’ ‘Well, I do have a no-name cat and a Japanese landlord upstairs.’ She smirks. ‘By the way, I’m Emilia. ‘Oscar.’

  Emilia explains how she’d adopted Cat from Hounslow Animal Welfare Society. He’d been rescued from a French magician who’d used him as a prop the same way most others use rabbits and doves. So, she said, this meant every so often Cat performed tricks out of the blue. He could stick his tongue out, fake sneezes, walk backwards on his front paws and even meow ‘La Marseillaise’, although Emilia had only witnessed Cat’s piéce de resistance twice and both times she’d been stoned. ‘And what about your Japanese landlord?’ She shakes her head. ‘Never heard him meow La Marseillaise, stoned or otherwise, but you should try his homemade saké!’ ‘I should…’ he smiles, noticing how the golden light is dancing in her eyes. The hint at potential familiarity makes them both look away and a comfortable silence settles between them. He asks if she is from London and she points over the river towards Thames Ditton. As he looks across, a gleaming pleasure cruiser ambles past and for just a moment he is captivated by their reflection replicated over and over in sequence across its slender windows. ‘I grew up in the north west,’ he tells her, ‘but moved to London. New Malden,’ he motions back towards Kingston, ‘about ten years ago, to follow a girl.’ She shakes her head. ‘Will you boys never learn?’ She asks whether he had noticed anywhere on his walk where she could buy ice-cream and when he responds in the negative, suggests they head back towards Kingston before it’s too late in the day.

  Soon enough, they come across an ice-cream van parked by the side of the river and he asks Emilia what she would like, saying that this is his treat. When she protests, he tells her that she is hurting an old man’s feelings. She asks for a 99 Flake. ‘With bits and juice?’ he asks. She gives him a puzzled look. ‘Hundreds and thousands and strawberry sauce,’ he explains. ‘Just juice.’ She smiles with a disarming shrug. He walks over to the ice-cream van and places their order. The heat of the day is now beginning to wane and she unbuttons her denim jacket, and places it over her shoulders as he pays for and passes her the ice-cream. She immediately takes a giant lick and motions for them to conti
nue their stroll beside the river.

  Other than the ambling pleasure cruiser, the river is still. The schoolboys have completed their herculean practice-laps, returned to their rowing clubs, heaved-out, washed-down and stowed their boats, showered and emerged, exhausted but energised, to amuse themselves in the town centre until the imposition of their curfews. The older families have moored and secured their launches and now find themselves engrossed in preparations for intimate evening meals with their neighbours during which too much valuable wine will be consumed and their companionship reaffirmed through the retelling of favourite memories. The young families will be serving small warm portions of grown-up food and then, as brightly-patterned pyjamas are climbed into and milk teeth scrubbed, a chorus of pleas for just one more story before lights out will sound all over Kingston. He thinks back to the little girl with the tiny fistful of breadcrumbs and reflects that his niece will be pleading louder than most. The friends have long-finished their runs and gone their separate ways, either farewelling until the next weekend or to reconvene later in the evening. The police community support officers have filled-out their reports for what was an unusually quiet day, changed out of their stifling uniforms and blended back into the civilian population. The students will be snatching convenient, cheap and unnutritious suppers before rendezvouing to jest and flirt in front of heaving bars or make hard-earned spending money behind them. But where do the brilliant green parakeets nest and what of the homeless man and the scruffy little Jack Russell with only one ear? And as for the lovers…

  As they finish-off their cones, she asks him to tell her a joke. ‘What, like a made-up story about a performing cat?’ She punches him playfully on the arm and reaches into her purse, producing a badly-focused picture of a cat walking backwards on his front paws. He scratches his head, purses his lips and says ‘Okay. You ready? Here’s one of my best. A man walks into the Doctor’s dressed only in clingfilm. The Doctor says “Well I can clearly see you’re nuts”.’ Emilia walks around and away from him protesting ‘That’s awful!’ ‘Let’s see you do better then.’ She thinks for just a moment, then says ‘I’ll tell you something funny that happened to me recently instead.’ She explains that she had just returned from a ten-day yoga retreat on the west coast of India where she had been awoken by a bell at 4.30 every morning and, for the following twelve hours, put through a gruelling round of yoga routines of ever-increasing intensity, interspersed with guided meditation, a minimum quantity of food and all this conducted in absolute silence. As a special treat on the afternoon of the last day, her cohort of international delegates were lead by their Swami to an idyllic beach and invited to recite a traditional song from their culture. Emilia thought that the idea was that everyone would join in, so chose “If you’re happy and you know it”. As she clapped, nodded and stomped along, she was aware that no-one was joining in, but put that down to the fact that she was first up and, after ten days of silence, it would inevitably take time for the ice to melt. She soon realised the error of her ways when the second delegate from Sweden sang an ancient Norse sea shanty, the third from Sri Lanka a mystical chant translated from Sanskrit, the fourth from New Zealand a sacred Maori funereal blessing and so on. ‘How embarrassing’ he whispers. ‘Good job you don’t blush’. ‘Yeah, now I know how Raymond Stantz felt when he thought of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man!’

  The golden light is starting to fade now and he asks if she has any plans to watch the World Cup final later. She shakes her head slowly, smiling and he asks if she likes football. Again she shakes her head slowly, widening her smile. Undaunted, he says that they should head back towards Kingston together for a drink. Under the streetlights, Kingston is amber. The whole of Kingston, its roads and its pavements, its walls and its buildings, its grass and its trees, its men and women, their clothes and their dogs and their shiny cars, her hand he is holding and even the few clouds above. If there was never any sunlight again, the whole of Kingston would be amber for ever. On the bridge, they pause and he leans forward, closing his eyes and slowly kisses her lips. Lost to the moment, he feels an energy all around them which almost lifts him off the ground. Emilia opens her eyes and looks up at him mischievously. ‘Hmm, what would Holly do?’ ‘Probably jump off the bridge!’ Her face suddenly becomes serious and she leans over the edge of the bridge seemingly gauging the drop to the water below. ‘You can swim can’t you?’ she says, poking him in the stomach. He nods his head slowly, frowning, at which point she takes a short running jump and pushes herself up and over the ledge. For just a moment he pauses, shaking his head in disbelief, then rushes to the ledge. Looking down into the void, he is just able to make out where she has broken the surface of the water below. As she surfaces, Emilia shouts up gleefully ‘And what would Fred do?’

  He falls and everything is darkness; immense blinding cold darkness enshrouding under the surface of the water. For just a moment, the seams that bind the vast depths of the water with the surface of the water are consumed, everything is consumed by immense blinding cold darkness. As he nears Emilia, he feels the energy pulling him towards her outstretched arms and the amber of Kingston’s streetlights fading behind them. ‘I think we’re going to miss kick-off. I’m sorry,’ she gasps as he reaches and pulls her towards him. ‘And I think we’re going to struggle to match this first meeting of our beautiful reading group.’

  SUTTON

  Belmont Nights

  Nicola Monaghan

  1. Night Bus

  The night bus trundled along, onward, endlessly, past all the battered shop fronts on its way to the very edge of London. Charlie was getting used to this journey now, beginning to know its sway and flow across the streets, to recognise the places where the signs were so out of date they still read 01 for the dial code.

  London no longer looked strange or exotic to her. Bizarre to think now how south London had when she’d first moved there, in a knock off, run down, shabby kind of way. It had looked like a place other families lived, other types of people who weren’t like Charlie’s folks back home. Now, though, it just looked like Clapham or Balham or Tooting or Sutton. It was just places on the way home to Belmont, about as exotic as a cup of tea. Charlie had wanted to move to London, wished for it with every birthday candle until she expected it to happen and, inevitably, it had come as a bit of an anticlimax.

  For starters, she wasn’t sure she lived in London at all. Belmont was officially London. It was the very edge of the London borough of Sutton and, some of it at least, was even in the A to Z, which had to mean something. She had walked to the very edge of London one day, followed the map like Alice down the rabbit hole. She wasn’t sure what she thought might happen. It hadn’t been far from her dingy little studio flat that she’d stood, one foot in London and one in Surrey. An old gent walking past had given her a funny look. She didn’t know exactly what she had expected it to feel like, but it wasn’t like this.

  The bus shuddered as it pulled out from a stop and Charlie’s stomach flipped. She thought about that night’s gig. It had gone okay but she hadn’t been on top form. She wasn’t sure about the band she was working with. They were called Something for the Weekend and she’d kind of liked the name, which was why she’d auditioned. Of course, they’d loved her. A young, punkish, pretty girl with long blonde hair and a nose stud who could really play the drums; she never exactly had problems getting bands to take her on. This one, though, wasn’t working out as well as she would have liked. She hated to admit it, but they were a bit of an old man band. The singer must have been late forties if he was a day. Tonight, she’d been put off by his sex face when he was singing. She’d noticed some male singers did this, holding the microphone like it was a lover, face up and close and eyes pulled tight, and she was just certain it was the same face they’d pull when they came. The thing that had disturbed Charlie tonight is that she’d been kind of fascinated by Zed’s version of this face. She’d hardly been able to look away but it hadn’t been like rubbernecking; she’d b
een kind of attracted. She shuddered, thinking about it. He was way too old!

  The bass player, Adam, he was younger, but he wasn’t exactly a dude or anything. He was already balding, and wore the rest of his hair long and lank, as if that might make up for it. He was incredibly talented, and could play anything but he worked as a music teacher. She couldn’t imagine him making it in the real world. By rights, based on talent, Adam should have been really famous but he didn’t have the X-factor – there was no other way to describe it. She hated that show, with a passion, it was the one thing in the business she had sworn she’d never have any part of. But there was something to it, to the idea of what it took to make it as a musician or band. It wasn’t about looks, not really. It was something much less definable than that. Charisma or a presence maybe. The thing that was missing in Adam almost defined what it took, when Charlie really thought about it and, despite his age, Zed had it in spades.

  Weekend, as they were known to fans, got plenty of gigs. Zed lived in Tooting and so a lot of their performances were in pubs around there but they were offered stuff in town regularly too. They were entertaining and they didn’t play their own stuff so the punters could sing along. That was what it boiled down to, Charlie thought. They would never make it big, though, get to recording their own songs or even writing them. Zed talked about it sometimes, his eyes far away with hope and his face red with the force of his ideas, but he never got round to putting pen to paper. Charlie was a realist; as much as she liked them, these guys were a stepping stone, a chance to be seen out and about and picked up by someone better. People who were going somewhere.

  Meanwhile, she was going somewhere. Home, eventually. It would be a while, yet, though. The bus banked a corner viciously and sent her flying to the window. She’d been miles away. She was still miles away, not even in Sutton yet. It had started raining, making wet tracks down the massive windscreen in front of her. She watched through the glass as the borough she lived in came into view. She felt cold, and pulled her coat around her. Perhaps she would look for somewhere more central to live soon. Zed had mentioned a mate who was looking for lodger. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to afford it but maybe she’d be better going without food than living such a trek out of the way. She would like to be able to tell people that she lived in London without feeling like she was lying to them.