I'm in Heaven

by Terry Ravenscroft

  A problem resulting from my purge on TV was that once I’d got rid of everything I didn’t like there was very little left apart from sport, Flog It, repeats of Rising Damp and Dad’s Army and a few documentaries. I mentioned this to The Archangel Phil the next time we met.

  “Well what sort of programmes do you enjoy?” he asked me.

  “ Seinfeld. Curb Your Enthusiasm. The Wire. But they’re not on any more. And The

  Sopranos of course. I used to love The Sopranos, the best thing on TV ever for my money; that isn’t on any more either.”

  The Archangel Phil hadn’t seen this as a problem. “So have it on.”

  “What? On DVD you mean? Well I suppose. But I’ve already seen every episode about ten times; even The Sopranos can get a bit boring when you’ve seen it that often.”

  “So have some new episodes.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You’re in heaven.”

  After a moment’s delay while the penny dropped I said, still not able to believe my luck, “You mean I only have to want there to be more The Sopranos and there will be more The Sopranos?”

  “You can be IN The Sopranos.”

  Initially, as the only acting experience I’ve ever had is acting the goat, I was going to be a corpse, a ‘stiff’ as they call them in the States, a candidate for a concrete coffin. Then it dawned on me that all I need do was to ‘want’ to be a good actor and I would be a good actor. And so it turned out. I was actually up for an ‘Emmy’ for Best Supporting Actor. And I’d have got it if I ‘wanted’ to but I didn’t want to go through the trauma of doing an acceptance speech.

  Before leaving to put in my appearance in The Sopranos I had filled in The Archangel Phil about some of the things I’d rid my heaven of.

  “Poverty. There’s no poverty now. Neither in this country nor abroad. Africa especially. No more starving Africans. No more kids with swollen bellies and flies in their eyes. I’ve got rid of Mugabe too. He’s no longer around to make his countrymen’s life a bloody misery. And Omar Al-bashir and Gadaffi and all the other African dictators I could think of. And that Korean nutcase, Kim whatnot, he won’t be doing any more of his evil.”

  The Archangel Phil smiled. “Good for you, Norman, that’s the idea. I’m sure you’ll do very well here.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  And so it turned out. The huge burden that had weighed heavily on my shoulders for the last few months before my death had been lifted and I walked as if on air. I had a wonderful life to look forward to which, while not technically life, was something far better than any life I could ever have even hoped for had I remained fit and well on earth.

  Following the Zulu incident at Michael Caine’s Abode, and not wanting any more deaths on my hands, I was now extra careful about exactly what I ‘wanted’. I managed to avoid another disaster - apart from the time I wanted the Queen’s horse to fall at the final fence in the Grand National when half a mile in the lead, which it duly did, but in doing so caused its jockey to break his neck when he fell heavily. Thankfully I discovered that all I had to do was to want his neck to heal itself and that’s what would happen. So there was no harm done. (Except to the Queen’s hopes of saddling the winner of the Grand National of course, which was the object of the exercise.)

  After six successive Saturdays my days had now settled into a conventional pattern of weeks of Sundays to Saturdays. My past life, my life on earth, seemed light years away instead of just weeks. All my days were wonderful. My fourth Tuesday in heaven was especially wonderful; the sun was shining, the birds were singing, the fragrance of sweet-smelling flowers filled the air, I had the beginnings of a Mediterranean tan, my hair was growing back nicely, I was looking years younger and Kristin had just given me my first ever blow job.

  I felt a bit guilty about the blow job in much the same way I felt guilty about Man U being outplayed by Liverpool only to end up winning in the last seconds; although, as with the football, not guilty enough to stop me having further blow jobs. I ‘wanted’ her to do it of course, and wondered if, left to her own devices, she would perform this wonderful form of sex on me in the normal course of events. I thought I might find out sometime. But not for the moment.

  By then I was deeply in love with Kristin. She was aged just 23 when I’d seen her in her second film, Under the Cherry Moon, and had first become aware of her. She was quite beautiful then, and now, at the age of fifty, had lost none of her beauty. She was all I ever wanted in a woman and now the wanting was over. Sex with her was fantastic. Much, much better than any sex I’d had before. Not that I’d ever had much, and what bit I did have wasn’t very frequent and often furtive, due to the surroundings in which it took place, usually outdoors in the park or in a bus shelter, and on one occasion on the back seat of Piggy Higginbottom’s car; this last an even more furtive fuck than usual as Piggy refused to vacate the driver’s seat whilst I was having it.

  I looked at Kristin by my side, gave a huge sigh of content and counted my blessings.

  I spared a thought, not for the first time, for my fellow patients in the cancer ward back on earth. If they only knew what I knew they’d be telling the doctors where they could stick their ‘chemo’, they’d be getting the whole sorry business over with and joining me in heaven. Well in their own heavens. Instead they’d still be subjecting themselves daily to all manner of humiliations in the hope of eking out a bit more low quality time on earth. Hanging on to life like limpets when they’d be far better off jumping off the end of a cliff like lemmings.

  Kristin broke into my thoughts. “You’ve changed, Norman,” she said. She was propped up on an elbow looking critically at me.

  We were sharing a post-coital Marlborough cigarette. (‘Smoking Kills’ packets of cigarettes were not to be had in my heaven, I’d soon seen to that. I had briefly toyed with the idea of having them replaced with ‘Smoking Might Very Well Kill But Who Gives A Shit You’re Better Off Dead’ cigarettes but in the end decided they should simply revert to their former names as my proposed name wouldn’t all go on the packet in big enough letters for anyone to see it.

  “How do you mean changed, Kristin?” I said to my love.

  “You’re so much more confident than when we first met. Much more at ease. More comfortable. Both with yourself and with me. Especially with me.”

  “Am I?” The question was disingenuous; I knew she was right. Sleeping on a regular basis with one of the world’s most beautiful women, seeing the envious looks of other men when we were out together, had done wonders for my self-esteem. Being freed from all the worries I’d had over the last few years of my life hadn’t done much harm either.

  “That first night.” She smiled, recalling it. “I thought I was never going to get you into bed. Now I can hardly keep you out of it.”

  I was immediately concerned. “It’s not too much for you is it? I mean I’m not being too greedy?”

  She smiled and pecked me on the cheek. “You’re just perfect, Norman darling.”

  I rolled over to face her. I could have lived in her eyes. “Oh well in that case.” I reached out for her.

  She squealed and slipped deftly out of bed, snorted with laughter as I was left grabbing thin air. Safe from horny old me she said, “We should do something this morning.”

  “That was the idea.”

  “I mean other than making love again.”

  “Right.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “I’ll leave it to you, darling.” I used to think it was soppy when people called each other ‘Darling’. Not any more. Not now I had Kristin.

  “What’s the weather like?” She went to the window and looked anxiously up at the sky.

  She was living with me now. For my first few days in heaven I’d only seen her at night, when I got back to the Midland after football and food, then later at Bobby Charlton’s house. But living with her was what I really wanted and of course whatever I wanted I got. I courted her first, not because I
had to but because I thought it was the right thing to do. Kristin allowed herself to be courted, seemed to enjoy being courted, and when I thought I’d courted her for long enough I asked her to move in with me, and she agreed. Job done properly.

  By then we’d been together for almost a month. There had only been one minor blip; when I asked her what her next film was going to be. A few times, with my encouragement, she had reminisced about some of her many film roles, the fun or otherwise she’d had whilst making them. As a long time film fan I enjoyed listening to her behind-the-scenes tales. I especially liked her talking about my favourite of her films, The English Patient, the film in which she first exposed her enchanted forest of pubic hair, a sight I had since pictured in my mind’s eye a thousand times and could now, wonderfully, picture without recourse to memory.

  But not once had she mentioned any future plans. When I brought up the subject she told me she had no idea what she’d be doing next; she was having a lovely time with me, she might take a bit of a break from films altogether for a while, she was in no rush to get back. I suspected that the only reason she wasn’t in any rush to get back was because that was the way I wanted it to be.

  *

  The Archangel Phil confirmed this when I met up with him a day or two later.

  “So if I want her to start making films again she will?”

  “It’s entirely up to you. Whatever you wish. You are....”

  “....in heaven. I know.”

  “I believe Mr Brownlow’s Kristin Scott Thomas hasn’t made a film for fifteen years.”

  I blinked in surprise. “What?”

  “Mr Brownlow’s Kristin.”

  “Mr Brownlow’s Kristin?”

  “Another chap I mentored. He’s seeing Miss Scott Thomas too.”

  “Seeing her? What do you mean, seeing her?”

  “Living with her. At least I think he is. He was the last I heard; they have a place in Nice, near the Promenade des Anglais.”

  To say I was flabbergasted is putting it mildly. “But....I mean he can’t be; she’s living with me.”

  The Archangel Phil smiled patiently. “There are literally millions of men in heaven, Norman. Each one of them in his own heaven. Surely you don’t think you’re the only one amongst them who wants Kristin Scott Thomas as a girlfriend?”

  It had never even entered my head. When it did I wished it hadn’t, it was a thought I could have done without. My next thought was even worse. I voiced it. “Are there any more of them?”

  “More?”

  “Men seeing Kristin?”

  “Well of course.”

  I hardly dared ask. “How many?”

  The Archangel Phil shrugged. “It’s hard to say exactly. I’d have to check. But well over a thousand. Miss Scott Thomas is a very desirable woman.”

  It was a chastening experience for me to be informed that the English Rose of my dreams was the heaven bicycle and for over a week I found it difficult to come to terms with. During this time I didn’t see Kristin at all. At first I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see her again. Then I thought I’d maybe send her off to make another film while I sorted my head out. Then I changed my mind and decided I’d try to forget about it. I tried to forget but couldn’t .

  The first night without her, alone in bed, I almost forsook her completely and wished that Helena Bonham Carter was between the sheets with me. But then I thought better of it. Wouldn’t it be the same story? Wouldn’t Miss Bonham Carter have to be shared with a thousand other lovers? With that cheeky little face of hers and pert bottom she was almost as desirable as Kristin.

  In the end I just accepted it. After all it was unlikely I would see any of the thousand odd other men with their Kristin, in fact, when I came to think about it, it was impossible, because I would never ‘want’ that to happen; things didn’t happen in your heaven if you didn’t want them to. Or that’s what I thought.

  *

  Now, standing at the window of Bobby Charlton’s (and mine) house in Lymm, Kristin said: “Well the weather’s fine at the moment. I was going to suggest a drive to the Lakes? Perhaps have lunch at a lovely little pub I know near Keswick, The Anchor I think it’s called, or The Compass, something nautical anyway.” The prospect pleased her and she warmed to it. “We could go up Latrigg; that would be lovely. Have you ever climbed Latrigg?”

  “Only once,” I said, with a grimace. I had bad memories of Latrigg.

  *

  A neighbour had told my mother how nice Latrigg was. How wonderful the views were. My mother wasn’t having that, she didn’t have to put up with the neighbours telling her how nice being up Latrigg was, she wanted to go up Latrigg to find out how nice it was for herself. I pointed out to her that she was in no condition to climb a small mountain. Mother, however, had done her research. You could drive more than three quarters of the way up it, she informed me. I could carry her the rest of the way. And I did. Piggyback. About a mile. Most of the way with her telling me to shift my fool head out of the way, she couldn’t see anything, I made a better door than a window. On reaching the top, exhausted, I set her down. She took one look at the view, which many believe to be the finest in the whole of the Lake District if not the world, said it was “No better than the view you get in Heaton Park” and told me to take her back down, anyway she was hungry. I told her I’d booked a boat trip for us on Lake Windermere. She cursed me.

  *

  At the window Kristin looked anxiously for rainclouds. “If it turns out like it did yesterday there won’t be much point, we wouldn’t see very much.”

  “Oh it’ll be a beautiful day,” I said confidently. “I’ve ordered it specially.”

  I wasn’t joking. I decided what the weather was going to be like every day. Until yesterday each day of my time in heaven had been a beautiful, sunny day. Yesterday it had teemed down with rain. All day, stair rods, cats and dogs without let up. For yesterday I wanted it to be a bad day.

  *

  Although The Archangel Phil had told me that almost everyone who came to heaven wanted to return to earth sooner or later I just couldn’t see it happening to me; in fact I don’t think he would have said it if he’d known fully about the rotten time I’d had before I died. Even so I was mindful of what he’d said about enjoying myself too much; that it was all very well enjoying yourself but if you did it too often you’d soon get blasé about it, which would eventually lead to discontentment.

  Where I could easily see that this might apply to other people I found it difficult to imagine it would happen to me. Besides, with my luck I’d probably end up with the sort of life I’d had on the two previous occasions. Or even worse. What if I were to go back as somebody like Mr Swindells, with his Huntington’s Chorea? Or a starving African? Or, worse, a Liverpool supporter? Life wouldn’t be worth living. So to guard against it ever happening I’d come up with a plan. My idea was simplicity itself. Every few days or so I would have a bad day. Then, having had the bad day, I would return refreshed for yet more wonderful days. Yesterday had been my first bad day. And it had been truly awful.

  After getting up and using the lavatory only to find there was no toilet paper and tripping up and cracking my head on the washbasin when on my way to the airing cupboard for another toilet roll whilst trying to hold up my trousers I completed my ablutions only to discover there were no eggs for breakfast. I love my boiled egg every morning (now the finest quality free-range of course), so went out to get half a dozen, but on the way back it suddenly started pouring down with rain. In my hurry to get home I dropped the box of eggs and trod on them, breaking all six. By then I was absolutely soaked to the skin and returned home eggless and in a foul mood and had my first ever row with Kristin.

  The rest of the morning was one disaster after another. I banged my thumb with a hammer whilst putting up a picture, as soon as I’d got the picture up it fell down, the glass shattered, I cut my finger clearing it up and I couldn’t find a plaster. Kristin had gone out “To get away from you if
that’s the sort of mood you’re in”, the doorbell had rung, I’d gone to answer it dripping blood only to find about a hundred Jehovah’s Witnesses at the door waving Watchtowers.

  Thereafter it was downhill all the way. It eventually stopped raining and at a loose end I went for a drive in the country in my new Maserati. I hadn’t gone a mile when the rain started up again, worse than ever, now accompanied by a howling gale. A minute later I started with toothache and, distracted by the pain, ran the Maserati into the back of a Ford Mondeo. The Mondeo’s driver, a slaphead with ‘Liverpool Forever’ tattooed on his forehead, jumped out of his car, wrenched open the door of the Maserati, called me a fucking stupid twat, hauled me bodily out of the car and punched me on the jaw. Believing my jaw to be broken I drove myself to hospital where I spent the next six hours waiting in A&E sat between to a woman with two crying babies, one of which vomited over me, and a down-and-out with BO. When the doctor finally saw me I was told I hadn’t got a broken jaw but had got nits, probably from the down-and-out with BO. By the time I got home, having been deloused, Kristin was back. She kissed me and said the row was all her fault, she should have been more understanding. I told her not to be silly, it was my fault. She said that she was a least partially to blame. I said no she wasn’t. She said yes she was and we continued bickering about whose fault it was and ended up having another full-scale row. She sulked all evening. I watched television. There was another episode of The Sopranos on. I wasn’t in it but Ant and Dec were. Dec shot Tony Soprano and Ant shot shit. I turned it off and went to bed. Kristin followed about an hour later. I apologised to her. She accepted my apology. She got into bed. I kissed her tenderly. She smiled that sexy smile of hers. I asked her if she’d like to make love. She said she’d love to but she’d got her period. I made a mental note that I would probably only need a bad day every few weeks rather than every few days, put out the light and went to sleep.

  *