Appollinaire: (The Other Side of Nowhere)

by Robert William Saul Harvey

  ‘We’re going to turn your head into one big, pus-filled pimple. He, he.’

  To add to his woes, Pol wasn’t much good at arithmetic, no good at reading, and his writing left a lot to be desired. When it came to communicating with anyone in authority, face to face, he tended to blush with embarrassment assuming all anyone could see were his oozing pimples. Was it any wonder he had failed every job interview he had ever attended? Even without a face full of spots, he guessed he would still be apprehensive whenever anyone asked him a question, and he would freeze up, even if he knew the answer. He would probably babble on, incoherently slurring his words, as if he was on drugs, or was boozed-up to the eyeballs. Any interview would be doomed to failure...

  Chapter 5

  Pol stared forlornly at the plain well-worn padded counterpane on his bed and gritted his teeth.

  ‘I’m bloody fed up with this shit. I’ve got to get the hell out of here, one way, or another.’

  But,

  Depressingly, he knew there was little chance of this happening any time in the near future, mainly because his mother took all of his dole money, and did not allow him any pocket money.

  ‘Can’t even afford to buy a bloody lottery ticket so no chance of me winning a fortune.’

  Heaving a heavy, exaggerated sigh, he angrily rammed his hands into his pockets, and hunched his shoulders as he shuffled morosely over towards the window. As he leaned over the chest of drawers and looked out at the thick blanket of gray clouds drifting slowly over the top of the drab block of apartments opposite, he made a frown, and loudly ‘Tutted’ his disapproval.

  ‘Typical. Now, it looks like it’s going to rain.’

  July the twelfth!

  ‘July’s supposed to be the middle of summer, red hot wall to wall sunshine. Huh! Not this year. So far, it’s hardly stopped bloody raining. And, it’s bloody cold! Nobody should have to wear a sodding sweatshirt and a fleece in the middle of July; it should be sun cream, tee shirts, and shorts with open-toed sandals. All those shapely young teenage girls ought to be wearing short skirts with low-cut tops and no bras at this time of year. There’s been none of that so far. Bloody stupid weather.’

  Apparently, according to the lovely weather-girl on the TV, the shitty weather was all to do with where something called the jet stream decided to go.

  ‘Stupid bloody system. Who invented the sodding jet stream anyway?’

  Pol’s shoulders slumped when he remembered he had not finished doing his allotted chores just yet. He still had the washing-up to do and this included drying the dishes and putting them away as well.

  “Bugger.”

  He glanced down at his watch and saw the hands were pointing to half past ten. The second hand ticked slowly past the small window through which he could just make out the number twelve.

  “Poor Tinker. He’ll be waiting, downstairs, still curled up in his bed, wondering what the heck’s keeping me.”

  The dog would probably be making a big sulk because he and Pol were usually out of the house by this time.

  ‘Tough titty, Tinker. You’ll have to wait a bit longer. Not my fault. Blame the Bitch.’

  In fact, Pol did not mind washing the dishes. What he did not like doing, was drying the bloody things, nor putting everything away afterwards. For whatever reason, he usually managed to put at least one thing in the wrong place. This never failed to bring forth a stream of criticism from his pain-in-the-ass of a mother.

  ‘Nag, nag, nag.’

  Nothing he did seemed to please her.

  Pol was quite sure in his own mind; every woman, on the day she was born, must have the nag facility implanted into her brain where it waits, on a hair-trigger, for those errant males, like him, whom were foolhardy enough to set it off.

  Thinking about the washing up, Pol thought, ‘I’m going to use paper plates when I get my own place and plastic cutlery. No washing-up then. I’ll just throw everything in the bin.’

  He morphed a face, as if he was in pain, and, deciding to leave it where it was, threw a nod at the spider as he meekly headed for the door.

  ‘Nothing wrong with the odd spider here and there. Helps to keep the little beasties down.’

  The quicker Pole got the washing-up out of the way, the quicker he would be able to escape from this prison, and take his beloved Tinker out for a long walk. If they can reach a certain old dilapidated barn before the rain comes, he and Tinker would be able to park themselves in the hayloft for the rest of the morning; he with a couple of old comics he had stashed there a while ago, and Tinker with an even older bone.

  Heaven!

  ‘With a bit of luck, the old cow will be off to the bingo before we get back. The fat git will be off down the pub. It’ll be just me and Tinker with the TV all to ourselves.’

  He exited the bedroom, leaving the door ajar behind him something he knew would infuriate his mother and walked down the stairs with lighter steps than those he had made when coming up...

  Chapter 6

  As Pol entered the living room, he threw a regretful grin at Tinker, and made a sign for the dog to remain in his bed. Not so lucky, Joan received a disparaging glare. If it were a laser beam, the glare would have burned a neat hole through her head, completely disintegrated the colour photograph of a handsome young man in a soldier’s uniform, and the ancient, faded yellow flowered wallpaper on the wall behind the armchair she was sitting on. He did not bother to look at his father, knowing instinctively how the fat old git would have his nose buried in the racing pages of the newspaper, completely ignoring Pol’s existence. Ted left the job of raising their offspring to his wife. Only right in his opinion. Women were the ones who wanted babies in the first place, so, let them look after the whining little asses.

  When Pol walked past Tinker and headed towards the kitchen, the dog lowered his head and made sad eyes. He had been hoping it was time to go for a walk when he had heard Pol coming downstairs. Now he was going to have to wait for a bit longer before getting an opportunity to empty his aching bladder.

  Luckily, for Pol, the washing-up consisted of no more than three dinner plates, likewise knives and forks, a single saucepan, and a wooden spoon. A couple of inches of hot water, a dash of cheap vegetable-based washing-up liquid, and a whisk around with a scouring sponge soon sorted them out. He made a face at the silly little mop lying by the taps, the one his mother used to wash the dishes. Stupid thing.

  ‘How can anyone use a stupid little thing like this to wash the dishes?’

  Pol wondered how his lazy-assed father would manage using such a girlie little thing, not that his father ever did the washing up, he considered it to be a ‘woman’s work’ although he never mentioned this when Pol was made to do it.

  Oh,

  And not forgetting Tinker’s stainless steel bowl, which, thankfully, the dog had already licked clean. Pol was glad he did not have to scrape out any of the usual dried-on yucky contents into the foul-smelling re-cycling bin, or flush any of the remaining goo down the drain. At least twice a year, the Water Board would have to come out, remove the manhole cover at the bottom of the avenue, and jet-wash the sewer to remove something called a fat-berg. The fat-bergs were created by an accumulation of all the grease, fat, and rubbish people flushed down their plugholes. This gunk always got trapped in the same place, a place where the underground pipe had at some time in the past collapsed to such an extent it acted as a small dam, although it was not sever enough to stop the water flowing completely, not until the fat-berg blocked the available space that is. The Water Board must think it was cheaper to keep jet washing the fat-berg out of the way rather than dig up the road and replace the damaged pipe work. To Pol, this seemed a bit stupid; at some point, the accrued cost of jet washing twice a year was going to catch up with, and overtake, the cost of replacing the damaged pipe work.

  Stupid.

  ‘Why don’t they just do the job, then, they won’t have to jet it ever again? There’s no way they’re going to stop pe
ople from flushing rubbish down the sink.’

  After quickly wiping everything, including Tinker’s bowl, with an old frayed tea towel, which had a faded picture of Warwick Castle on one side, and placing the dishes in their respective places, Pol smiled to himself and hung the damp towel on the handle of the electric oven to dry whilst thinking,

  ‘Thank goodness for beans on toast...’

  Chapter 7

  Ten minutes to eleven and Tinker needed no further encouragement. The shrill whistle Pol hurled his way were signal enough. The dog was out of his bed like a shot and quickly scampered towards the kitchen, in case the nasty Joan-creature was to attempt to stop him.

  Pol had already slipped his fleece on before coming downstairs and he quickly hooked the lead to Tinker’s collar before the dog had a chance to slip past in his eagerness to reach the back door. Within seconds, they were out of the house, heading down the garden path.

  After closing the garden gate behind them, Pol and Tinker turned left on the pavement and headed along the street towards the humpback bridge over the canal on the other side of the intersection with the main road. Tinker, of course, was ahead of Pol, eagerly tugging at the lead; he knew where they were going and needed no encouragement from Pol. Once they were on the towpath, away from any traffic, Pol intended to let the dog off his lead so he could run free.

  Pol was wearing an old faded pair of thick blue denim jeans, the bottoms of which were tucked into a pair of light-brown Rigger boots, inside which he was wearing thick, gray walking socks. A red, blue, and white checked shirt, with long sleeves, beneath a dark blue sweatshirt, and the recently-washed thick black fleece hoodie-jacket to keep out the unseasonal chill wind, which was blowing down from the north, completed his attire.

  Tinker, of course, was wearing only the hair on his body, which was much more efficient than clothes, better at keeping the weather out than any cheap fabricated fleece.

  The damp, chill wind caused Pol to shiver and he dug his hands a little deeper into his pockets.

  “Bugger,” he moaned. “Anyone would think it’s the middle of winter, not the middle of bloody summer. What do you say, Tinker?”

  Tinker said nothing. He did not care what the weather was like. Rain, wind, or snow, he did not mind at all. Hot weather was his problem. Being mainly black, he tended to absorb the heat, and all he wanted to do in such weather was to lay curled up in a cool shady place and sleep.

  But,

  Hey-ho, if you do not like the British weather; wait for a minute. It’ll soon change.

  Pol flicked a hasty glance towards the sky and grimaced.

  ‘Rain’s definitely on its way. Best to get a move on.’

  He did not want to be caught out in the rain if he could help it. It was bloody cold enough as it was without getting soaked to the skin into the bargain.

  Clucking loudly, a signal for his best pal to shift his backside, Pol increased his pace. Tinker obediently trotted along in front, as far ahead as the lead would let him...

  Chapter 8

  Tinker.

  Ten years old. A so-called Whippet-Collie cross, but crossed with what else, Pol had no idea. Black all over, apart from the white blaze on his chest and another white spot on the tip of his tail, Tinker was more like a Whippet than a Collie; he could run like one, as well, although he was as clever as any Collie. He was faithful and did not like to be parted from his master, whom he thought of as ‘the Pol-creature.’ Tinker had been brought home by Pol’s father as a pup because Pol had always been afraid of dogs as a youngster and it was thought how owning and looking after one might help to banish his fear. The pair had bonded straight away and they were now inseparable.

  Using an extending dog-lead, Pol let the brake off to allow Tinker to have a bit of freedom to sniff around fence-posts, lampposts, and the like, without Pol having his arm nearly ripped out of its socket whenever the dog decided to stop suddenly in order to inspect a new smell, or do a pee at someone’s front gate.

  The quarter mile long avenue, along which they were walking, was lined on each side with identical semi-detached houses, each with a short front garden separating it from the road and the accompanying footpaths. Some frontages had hedges, some wire, or wooden fences, and a few had low brick walls. All but one of the gardens had wooden front gates, the one without had a posh custom-made wrought iron gate, which had been clandestinely made in the workshops of the local colliery using a few stolen materials. Lawns, some well tended, some not so well looked after, flowerbeds, and a few trees were the norm, apart from the large garden on the corner where the avenue met with the main road that ran through the village. This particular excuse for a garden sported the rusting hulk of an engine-less, wheel-less Ford Cortina, which had not moved in the previous fifteen years to Pol’s knowledge. The owner of the vehicle had driven it onto his drive after arriving home from work one day and overnight all of the wheels plus the engine had been stolen. Surprisingly, none of the neighbors claims to have heard a thing. Having neither, insurance or driving license, the owner left the vehicle where it was, having no means of removing it. Even the local scrap man had not been interested in taking it away. So, there it remained a monument to the folly of trying to cheat the system.

  Tinker stopped and peed on one of the posts supporting the wrought iron gate, one of his favorite spots, much to the chagrin of the house owner and his wife who regularly came out to wash his piss away using a garden hose.

  When they reached the intersection with the main road, Tinker automatically stopped, and waited patiently by the curb until Pol considered it to be safe to step into the road, then they crossed over and quickly covered the short distance to the hump back bridge.

  Another two minutes and they were walking along the towpath beside the canal. Pol saw only the one narrow boat moored alongside, which was a good way off, and in the opposite direction to which he and Tinker were going.

  He glanced forward, along the empty towpath.

  ‘That’s better. No more dogs around.’

  Good. Tinker was unpredictable when it came to other dogs. Some dogs he liked others he did not like. He was apt to have a go at those dogs that did not meet with his immediate approval. Pol knew most of those local dogs, which tended to annoy Tinker, and always made a point of keeping him on his lead until the coast was clear, so to speak.

  Satisfied it was safe to do so, Pol let Tinker off his lead.

  “There you go, boy. Have fun.”

  Now, the dog was able to sniff around, and piss and crap to his heart’s content.

  Tinker raced off ahead, making for the next set of lock gates, where he knew of a spot where he would be able to stand on a ledge, with his front paws in the water, and get himself a drink.

  Pol looked down at the muddy brown water and made a disapproving grimace.

  ‘You silly dog,’ he thought. ‘You’ve got fresh water at home, but you still prefer to drink this shit.’

  To the dog, dirty, brown canal water probably tasted a lot better than tap water.

  Pol further hunched his shoulders against the wind, pulled his hood up over the top of his head, and lengthened his strides. It was at such quiet times when he could turn things over in his mind, daydream about the future, and bemoan both the current and the past...

  Chapter 9

  The previous day, Pol had thought his luck was in when he had gone to the Job Centre in order to ‘sign on,’ and the rather overweight, pretty girl behind the counter had helpfully telephoned a local Farmer who was advertising for a farmhand. The money was not great, only minimum wage, but the job would get him out of the house and give him a bit of money of his own. The girl had asked the farmer if she could send Pol along for an interview, but the farmer had gruffly told her the job had already been filled.

  Typical.

  ‘I dare say I wouldn’t have gotten the job anyway,’ thought Pol. ‘The farmer would obviously have wanted someone who could drive a tractor. I can’t drive a tractor. I can’
t drive anything. And, he would be bound to say he wanted someone with experience. They always want someone with experience. How the shit am I expected to get experience of anything if no one will give me a sodding job in the first place?’

  “Bastards...”

  Chapter 10

  Glancing to his right, Pol spotted a solitary horse standing in the middle of a field with its head bowed against the wind. There did not appear to be much grazing because what little grass there was looked barely long enough for a rabbit to nibble let alone a horse. However, there was a large bale of hay in one corner next to a wooden gate. Twine, holding the bale together, had been cut and hay was easily accessible to the horse. Adjacent to the bale of hay Pol could see an old cast iron bath, which was half-full of water. A hosepipe lying nearby was probably used to replenish the water in the bath.

  ‘Oh, you silly animal,’ thought Pol with a tight-lipped smile.

  Having a kind heart where animals were concerned, he immediately felt sorry for the poor horse standing all alone like a statue. The horse was looking a bit sorry for itself with its head bowed and its eyes closed. It may even have been asleep for all Pol knew, and he could not but help wondering why it did not just trot across to the corner of the field opposite where the hay bale and the bath were situated. There was a brick-built stable with its wooden door standing open. Surely, the horse must have been aware it could go and shelter from the cold in there.