by Jayne Joso
The picture of the tiled floor darling, is a particularly important one, I am not clumsy with the camera. I am not clumsy at all, nor do I fumble! I had just cleaned the kitchen floor, something I do none too regularly, I do so hate cleaning, and it was all sparkling, no, gleaming! And I thought to myself, golly that is clean, I must just take a picture of it while it looks so beautiful. It’s really not a good thing to clean too often, that way, when one does, it really shows. Yes, it looks all the better for the contrast. I do hope you are not one of the over-domesticated breed. Hateful.
You continue, in some measure, to insinuate that my years denote something ailing. You do so in expressions of far too much surprise with regard to my romantic conquests. Desist! Be impressed by all means, but ‘surprised’, no. You, may well be suffering a kind of accelerated decrepitude – which I sincerely hope we can reverse – but please do not attribute the same to me. I was born with an old head on my shoulders, but bloody well vow to die young!
Now then, the matter of the house. I have it! If you cannot see yourself designing it, why not run it as a competition? That way you can engage the skills of several leading architects, and choose from among a number of marvellous designs. I suggest between four and six as a good number to invite to such a competition, choose only from the best. I would recommend at least that you include the Italian, and I am myself rather taken by the work of that Spaniard – Carlos Santillana. You must have favourites of your own, these are but suggestions, but think how exciting it could be!
There now, I have rattled on, enough. The horseman calls!
My love to you
Selené
Chapter Sixteen
No Good!
Another day, another mailbag. Tom was missing Cara and the kids. They were staying over at her mother’s as punishment for his being no good. Unaccustomed as he was to deception, Tom hadn’t covered his tracks well at all, and Cara, her middle name Suspicion had discovered a receipt for pyjamas, ladies pyjamas, rose-pink pyjamas – oh yes, it said as much on the receipt – in Tom’s jacket pocket. His friend had given him the receipt along with the parcel, and Tom’s mistake… was to keep it. He’d used his friend’s address, but his own name, shit, but it was too late, and now he had it coming to him. Full force. Cara had naturally wanted to know all kinds of things relating to these pyjamas, for a start, where were they? “You didn’t buy ’em for me now did ya, ’cos I just had my birthday and all’s I got was a bunch o’ dopey old flowers, Dopey-ass! And I don’t wear nothin’ in bed, ’cos you don’t like me to!” She was right about that, except that she’d have slept naked her whole life anyway. “Soooo Tom, who in hell’s name you been buying gifts for? And where d’ya get the money?” That was a major sticking point, now he had to confess to lying about how much he’d won on the scratch card.
Cara, having smacked the gui-tar good and hard against the wall, then danced all over Tom’s pride and joy. She did this, in her stilettos. And she sang:
Dance, dance, dance, on Do-pey-Tom’s gui-tar!
Tom Jones would have been as disturbed by the battering of lyrics and their shrieked delivery, as Tom Bradshaw was by the total annihilation of his other love.
“Men ain’t s’posed to cry tears this big, Cara. Not my gui-tar babe, not my gui-tar!” But she was having none of it, and he needed to quit being one too-big-baby, or else! It was a tough situation, but he stopped crying. She interrogated him into the early hours. Were the girl-pyjamas his? Was he a serious cross-dresser? Tom wasn’t too sure what separated ‘serious’ cross-dressers from any other kind, but he didn’t ask her to explain, he just carefully held his mailbag over his groin – in times gone by, he’d seen those stilettos fly. She went on. Was he having an affair? Who with? For how long? How could she believe even one word he said? The rest just all became a big old mangled mess in his tormented head. Cara went around and around and around, and nothing rang true. By four in the morning he was so exhausted he was tempted to invent an affair just to satisfy her, just to shut the bitch up! He didn’t often want to call her names, but shit, she was going way overboard. Then he remembered, he had stolen the scratch card, he had lied, hidden things, and bought a gift for another woman, hell, Cara was right, he was bad!
The next morning, when they’d all upped and left, he was feeling out of sorts, and out of favour. Imagine how pleased he was when he finally got to work and discovered a letter from Italy as part of Mrs Ore’s mail. Mail, from Alessandro Cannizzaro! That Alessandro, he was a genuine… a gen-u-ine nice guy. He remembered Alessandro’s gentle turn of phrase, he remembered the invitation to Italy. He knew she hadn’t gone, mailmen can tell when the occupants are away, and she hadn’t been anywhere, and he speculated that it might be nice for her, change of scenery and all, that had to help. He didn’t open this letter; although glad to have read the first one, a part of him knew it was pretty bad to keep on with that type of thing. Letters, they’re private type-things. He grew sentimental; that morning he’d walked out of his own miserable front door and straight into a gloom-cloud. He missed his occasional morning banter with Charles. Charles’ passing had put the natural rhythm of his deliveries out of step. His day had partly unravelled. For a posh, ed-jucated kind of guy, Charles was alright. Why was it always the good ones that died too soon? Tom felt forlorn, then he glanced back down at the mail, pleased that at least there seemed to be another good guy, despite his being Italian and all, that cared in some measure for the widow. He couldn’t help himself, and despite the severe bullying that Mrs Ore had cost him, he still felt compassionate towards her, he still didn’t like to think of her all alone in the world. A letter from a good guy in Italy, that was nice. The sun came out, hey, life goes on, he muttered to himself, smiling as he pushed Gaia’s letters through the door.
As he wandered back up the street, he heard a dog barking, it made him wince. He thought about Perry, the baby they’d lost. He thought about the dog. He wished he’d never bought that stupid pit bull. He wished he’d never set eyes on Poochi, what the hell kind o’ stupid name was that anyway? What was it with people, that they always gotta give pets such dumb-ass names? Stupid name, stupid dog! Stupid me! Tom was in the habit of blaming himself, and as Cara had pointed out at the funeral, buying that dog was all Tom’s stupid fault, stupid idea, and he was the dumbest excuse for a father a kid could ever have. She had to be right, she always was, he sobbed under his cap, hiding from the glare of the sunshine. Sometimes I just hate the sun! Then he realised he was talking to himself and sobbed a little deeper into his handkerchief.
He’d thought the funeral would finish him off, it wasn’t right to bury your child before yourself, specially not a little ’un. Little Perry, little coffin, little life. It was cold the day of the funeral, Tom felt his marrow like brittle ice running through his no good bones. Throughout his life, Tom had been given plenty of opportunity to feel no good, other people, usually women, helped him feel that way, but this day, he didn’t need any help. This day things were plain and ice cold clear. He was no good. No good at all.
He hauled himself back into the present, Perry had been dead ages now, but it wasn’t an easy thing to get over, and he probably never would. He realised he’d stopped delivering letters. His face was red with crying, and hell, there might even be more – he hated how tears could come up like that, out of nowhere, and take even the strongest of men by surprise. Shit! He couldn’t face the possibility of bumping into anyone, not any of those people, behind those doors, or those crossing his path as they headed off to their asshole jobs, so he cut his round short, his mailbag still half full. WELL SO WHAT! They could wait another day, assholes! People in those fancy houses, middle class, upper-middle-class ponces, with their smug little lives, assholes mostly anyways, yeah, they could wait! His legs were almost jelly, he had to pull himself together.
He figured Cara hadn’t really meant what she’d said about him being a useless father, a
no-good husband. Women say that stuff when they’re upset, it’s normal, right? Had to be, his mum was the same way, and shit she’d had a lot to put up with, his dad being no good, and then him being a disappointing son. Hell, women, gotta give birth and all that stuff, seems like most of ’em never get over it. If they talk about the pain still, when you’re a full grown man, then that has to be one big kind of pain, right? Tom found himself starting to laugh through the weight of his tears. My ma used to say I was the dumbest excuse for a kid a mother could ever have, and now my Cara says I’m the dumbest excuse for a father a kid could ever have! Ah shit, those women deserve better than that. He would just have to try harder.
He rounded another corner, gradually the tears slowed, and then dried up. He felt calmer, too calm, almost dead on his feet. He looked down at his mailbag.
Ah shucks! I ain’t never missed my round, ’cept for funerals, and the time I was really sick, and I ain’t gonna start now! Tom checked that his face was free of escaping tears. Then he delivered the rest of the mail.
Cara, she had a very particular kind of tongue, the same kind of tongue Tom’s mother had, the kind that needed snipping.
Chapter Seventeen
Delusion
Gaia was surprised and pleased to receive another letter from the Italian. Another invitation, and more beautiful words. Alessandro had a charisma that lifted from the page, a gentleness, a warmth of spirit. Italy, Italy, Italy! Gaia managed to fool herself well enough that she had no real interest in meeting Alessandro himself, but that she simply must get away for awhile; would benefit from a change of scenery, a different air… a change of pace. So yes, she would visit Italy, and she would accept the architect’s invitation. For if she was to include him in The Competition – Selené, you have the most wonderful ideas – then it would not do to be impolite, and it would seem ungracious not to accept. – The English, and those raised by them, often enjoy the luxury and convenience of self-deception; and Gaia, adopted by the same, was influenced by the blindest, bluest English blood.
Letter: Yes, yes yes!
Gaia to Selené
Dear Selené,
Forgive me, you must know by now, I mean you no offence, I just have these clumsy ways of expressing myself. I believe you and I could easily step into each others’ age quite comfortably, I am certainly far closer to old in any pejorative sense, than you, and you quite clearly are bountifully blessed by youth.
How sweet and funny, that you record your freshly-cleaned floor!
Now then, I am desperate to tell you these things – firstly that I believe your idea of a competition is an absolute winner! Secondly, that I have heard from the Italian again, another invitation, and feel that I simply have to accept, particularly if I am going to ask him to submit a design, which is exactly what I have in mind. I would like to follow your advice and include Carlos Santillana, although I do have reservations about his work, I know he has an obsession with ‘transience and immediate shelter’, and I can’t help but think… I’ll need more than a tent!
I will have to think about who else to include, but I’m drawn towards the Englishman: Edwin Ray. I like his ideas, and he seems to have been working with this rather magical material, translucent concrete! It’s really impressive. They cast thousands of tiny optical fibres into concrete so that it transmits either natural or artificial light, it’s even possible to see colour in the light. For my own taste white light would be preferable, but this material seems to be really quite something. Sorry, I think I am becoming a little over-excited.
Back to the architects themselves, and I am tending to think that four contenders might be the right number. That might be sufficient for my needs. I’ll have to give it a great deal of thought, of course, but roughly speaking, that is what I have in mind. Anyway, any further guidance will be greatly appreciated.
My love
Gaia
Letter: Carlos Santillana
Selené to Gaia
Dear Gaia,
Whilst I am delighted that you’ve gone for the idea of the competition, I am absolutely mortified by your attitude towards the work of Carlos Santillana! Goodness me, I am quite stuck for something to say on the matter. I can only advise that you familiarise yourself somewhat better than you are at present with this great man’s great work. Really, I found you most dismissive. And on no account include him just to save my feelings. If he is to be included, it must be because he is ‘right’ to be included. I think you are out of step with quite how important this man’s architectural expertise and philosophy really are. Acquaint yourself more thoroughly with his work, and we will discuss further. But when, oh when will you stop following, you have even used the word in your last letter. You can be quite a ninny at times. Don’t follow, lead!
Edwin Ray, yes good choice. Though are you sure that material is suitable for a house? Perhaps so, I’m sceptical, but it is to be your house, and if Mr Ray is as excited as you are, who knows what might come – So, along with the Italian, that gives you two definites, Carlos as a possible, and, as you say, there must be at least one more. There is much work to be done. Get your thinking cap on, girl!
My love to you
Selené
Back at Tom’s place, the days passed, Cara didn’t come home, the kids didn’t come home, and no one was answering his calls. Cara and the kids would come back… he expected… hoped… but he knew that it would have to be in Cara’s own good time. – The problem with forgiving a guy when he’d done wrong, real wrong, was that in the act of forgiving, you were also laying the foundations for him to do it again, “And how’s I ever gonna learn you Tom, if I don’t make a stand, if I don’t show you the error of your ways,” she really could sound like a preacher at times, and God knows re-lig-ion was something she’d never been fooled by, you had to give her that at least. “If I don’t show you your errors, then who the hell else is going to? Answer me that?” Like she’d give him chance to. “I said, who the hell else is going to?… No, I didn’t think you’d have an answer. No good, that’s what you are, no good. And if you think I’m gonna let you off lightly this time, you got it all wrong, boy. I’m staying away until you have had time to reflect on just what you have done!” What had he done? He could barely recall anymore. And hadn’t he been punished enough already? “That was my guitar you trashed honey, my gui-taaar!”
Normally in these situations, when Cara upped and left, Tom could entertain himself pretty well, watching TV, maybe a few evenings with his buddies catching up on stuff: job cuts, sex, sport, and negative equity, but mostly he was consoled by his other love… his gui-tar. But now, the other love was trashed.
It was four days now, and there was still no sign of them coming home. Tom grew fretful. Naturally he didn’t tell anyone what had happened, loyalty and all, so he sucked it up and suffered on his lonesome. He found himself wandering about the symmetry of the streets again, tracing repeat patterns, up and down, until, horrid déjà vu, he and Gaia backed into one another. The mailman and the widow collided, again. This time it was him that was falling, his knees, that failed.
He remembered her words:
He’s dead.
He’s dead, Charles.
He’s dead!
The pavement, cold and damp. The scene held a horrible familiarity. He felt the blood drain from his head, he was close to passing out. Too much death. There had been too much.
Gaia knelt on one knee to steady him, poor man, what had happened to him?
“Shush, now, don’t try to speak.” Gently, she ran her hand across his brow, “Shush, shush.” It was some minutes before he realised what had happened, if he’d had the energy, he’d have felt mightily embarrassed, but as it was, he was so wiped out he could barely muster a response.
He let the widow guide him to her place where she administered a cold flannel and offered hot tea, “Tea!” it c
ame out all wrong, as though he was offended, he felt it sounded rude, “Sorry there Mrs Ore, can’t qui-te get…”
“That’s alright, take your time, get your breath. You should call me Gaia by the way, seems silly to call me Mrs Ore.” She moved to the sink.
“Right,” his tremulous response caused her to turn around.
“Are you alright Tom? It is Tom, isn’t it? Not Thomas?”
“Yeah that’s righ-t… just Tom.”
Tom, it sounded so lovely how she said it, all soft and warm, he smiled inside.
Gaia had an idea, “I’ll pop up and get my whiskey, that’s what you need. It works for me! Why don’t you pick out some music… take a look.”
Tom glanced over at the music library, that’s what it was, not a coll-ection, not a sel-ection, no, they had a LIBRARY. Wow! How cool is that, he thought. He’d noticed the music system, or part of it at least, the first time he’d been in the Construct, but he hadn’t taken in this awesome LIBRARY, this was something else. This was great. His eyes widened, scanning the lists, darting back and forth in a new found mania. There was Django Reinhardt, Charlie Christian, Springsteen, Tim Buckley, Jeff Buckley – shit their lyrics were good! If anything could make a man’s heart miss a beat, this could. – The guys at work said that satellite TV had some heart-stopping stuff on the more continental type channels – the kind of channel Cara forbid him to look at – but hell, even that stuff don’t beat mu-mu-mu-mu-sic! Not of this calibre anyways.