by Park, J. R.
They both laughed.
Martin’s attention was diverted as he looked over the shoulder of Mildred, past the high spirited kids to a beautiful woman in her late thirties. Her striking blue eyes looked through a wave of auburn hair that had caught the gentle breeze and met his gaze. She smiled sweetly and looked pleased to see him return the gesture.
‘Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?’
Martin’s blissful reminiscence was disturbed by a lady seemingly of a similar age to his. Her clothes were vibrant and colourful whilst her fingers and neck were adorned with a multitude of fanciful rings, necklaces and trinkets; a contrast to the grey vista of the seaside view behind her. With the way she dressed and the almost youthful playfulness in her smile her faded glamour seemed reminiscent of the seaside town itself.
Whilst Martin searched for his composure following the sudden intrusion he lost his words, but the lady sat down anyway, not waiting for an answer. She seemed so confident and relaxed, as if they’d known each other for years.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she smiled a friendly beam, ‘I could do with a bit of friendly company. I’m Polly.’
‘Martin,’ he said, at last finding his speech and a smile. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘I hope you don’t mind, Martin, I’m new to the area. Just moved here a few weeks ago. I’ve spent so much time at home trying to get everything sorted, you know? Gas, electric, the internet. Stair lift! Ha, not quite yet. But now I’m retired it won’t be long.’
Polly seemed so at ease with herself and the world around her. She spoke with a mildly husky tone that would suggest she had been a heavy smoker some years back, but it was clear she looked after herself now. Her eyebrows were carefully plucked with precision and her make up applied with well practiced and tasteful aplomb.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Martin felt himself flirt, it had been a long time since he had done that, ‘you seem to have a lot more life in you just yet.’
‘Thank you,’ she laughed. ‘I hope the fire never dies. I spent a long time getting to this age. All my life in fact. Let’s just hope I can enjoy it hey? Have you reached the golden age yet?’
‘Oh no,’ Martin sounded a little embarrassed by such direct questioning but held it in good humour, ‘not just yet. Still a few years to go.’
‘And maybe more than you think if the government have their way. They keep pushing the retirement age up and up,’ Polly took a sip of her tea. ‘It’s a wonder anyone will get there.’
‘I think that’s the idea,’ Martin smiled. Who was this lady? In the space of a few minutes they had already covered the topics of old age and politics. ‘So you’re new to Stanswick? I’ve just moved back here myself.’
‘Moved back? Where have you been?’
‘I’ve been…away,’ Martin looked uncomfortable as he searched for the words to answer without sounding rude, ‘for…some years.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ Polly was blunt but sincere.
‘Not really,’ Martin batted the answer away and steered on to a different subject, ‘although if I plan on staying around I will have to look for work.’ He relaxed again as the conversation continued, ‘I used to be the Punch & Judy man round here many years ago. I don’t suppose there’s much call for a man of my skills now-a-days. It’s all computer games now.’
‘There is still a call for laughter and the rush of real life,’ the passion resonated in her voice, ‘I just hope they all understand it before it’s too late.’
‘I guess the closer you get to the end the more you realise just how wonderful and exciting life can be,’ the old man sighed. ‘They do say the sense of death approaching enriches life.’
‘Who says?’ Polly challenged. ‘Just a load of old words to me. You don’t need to be at the end to enjoy yourself.’
Her challenging nature was like a vital jolt to Martin’s old and tired thoughts. When was the last time he ever questioned philosophies he’d idly made decades ago? He could feel the energy and effervescence exuding from his companion.
‘Very true,’ he replied, ‘every experience sows a memory. And good or bad, after a while memories are all we have.’
‘So let’s get as many memories as we can.’ Polly began to laugh at herself, ‘Oh listen to us geriatrics philosophising. As if we know anything.’
Martin looked at the time on his watch, ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he apologised, ‘I could easily while away the hours and I’m sure we’d work out the secrets of the universe if we kept going but I’ve just literally got back into town. I’m sure my neglected house will need a bit of sorting.’
‘But of course,’ Polly spoke like she already knew this, ‘don’t let me hold you up. I hope you do decide to stay in Stanswick and don’t go getting a job before tomorrow otherwise you won’t be able to take me out.’
She gave him a wink that triggered a flattered smile to spread across his face.
‘Really?’ he asked, ‘I would like that.’
‘Wonderful. Shall we say one o’clock on the pier? We could have something to eat, maybe go for a walk?’
‘One o’clock sounds fine,’ Martin wasn’t used to such a forward female but did not mind it one bit.
They said their goodbyes and Martin left the dazzling and fascinating Polly to her tea and cake.
‘Is that everything?’ the girl asked as Martin made his way to the counter to settle his bill.
‘Yes thank you,’ he replied as he handed over his bank card.
She took the card and smiled, ‘Thank you very much Mr…’ She held the card to her face to read the name on the front, but as she did so her voice began to quiver whilst the colour slowly drained from her features. ‘...Powell…,’ she said, ‘Martin…Powell.’
The girl took a step back to steady herself and in doing so she knocked a cup off the counter. It smashed in to little pieces of bone china as it hit the wood paneled floor.
‘Are you okay?’ Martin asked, concerned about the young girl.
‘I’m fine,’ she said shaking her head and handing back the card.
She got down on her knees and began to pick up the fragments of the cup that had scattered from the impact.
‘Would you like a hand?’ Martin asked sympathetically.
‘No it’s my mess. Here, please take your card. Don’t worry about the charge,’ her voice was strained as she tried to stay polite but inside she boiled with a mix of anger and fear.
Martin bent down to help but the girl turned to him with an assertive voice, although keeping her composure this time, ‘Please! It’s fine.’
‘Do I know you?’ Martin asked.
‘I don’t think so. I have one of those faces,’ she replied nervously.
Embarrassed by the scene Martin bid the girl well and made his way out into the storm.
Once she was sure he was out of sight the girl left the mess on the floor and bolted to the phone. She frantically dialed a well remembered number.
‘Hello, Pippa? Pippa, it’s Jo. You’ll never guess who’s back?’
The house smelt damp as winter had gradually soaked through the walls. It had been untouched for the best part of a decade and its lack of occupancy had meant that no one had used the heating in order to halt the advance of the dreary seasons into the brickwork and plasterboard. The curtains had been left closed keeping the house in an eternal nighttime; ideal conditions for the rats and insects that had made it their home.
Their haven was about to be interrupted by the sound of a key sliding slowly into a rusty lock.
The entrance had grown stiff through under use and Martin pushed and pulled at the front door as he forced it open. After a few minutes of effort he forcibly persuaded the wood from the frame and gazed upon the sight of a home he had not seen in years. The light streamed through the doorway and down the hall illuminating an air full of dust particles. Martin watched their merry dance then took his first steps back into his cherished house.
‘Hello home,’ he
softly spoke to the walls as if they were alive, ‘not seen you in a while.’
He went from room to room, opening the curtains and letting the dim light from outside spill into the house, revealing the neglected condition that had been awaiting him. Each room was tidy and neat, but thick with layers of dust, turning a once cream sofa into the colour of old plasters. As he approached the kitchen he could see the table still full of letters and papers. He pulled the curtains back, coughing at the dust he disturbed, and remembered his last day here.
On the table lay a few artifacts that hinted at those times. He brushed aside a pile of old leaflets, Debt Advice, Living with Cancer, New Chinese Takeaway Opening, and thumbed a yellowing newspaper. Its pages had crinkled and dried with time but the print was still readable, the front page headline read: Punch And Judy Man In Court Today.
He looked lost in the words for a moment but was suddenly distracted from any notion of grief when he heard a noise from upstairs.
What was that?
He was the only one here. Had someone broken in? Stanswick Sands wasn’t the type of place to attract squatters but perhaps times had changed. It was a new world to Martin Powell, one he needed to get used to.
Cautiously Martin crept up the stairs, treading lightly so as not to make the steps creak under his weight. As he reached the top of the landing he was back in a world of darkness and cobwebs.
‘Hello? Who’s there?’ he called out nervously.
He tilted his head to the side and strained his ears to listen. No reply came but he was definite he’d heard the sound of movement. Determined to discover its source he tip toed down the landing, tracing the sound to his old bedroom. He entered a still and empty room and reached down by the side of his bed. His hand found a large wooden bat that had been leaning against the wall. He was mildly surprised, firstly to have remembered it would be there but also because it was still exactly where he had left it all those years ago. This train of thought did not last long; stronger emotions currently ruled his mind. His heart thumped in his dry throat as he clenched the handle tight.
The room seemed empty, but the curtains were tall and reached to the floor. Was that a bulge in the curtains he could see? It was hard to make out through the gloom. A small twitch in the fabric confirmed his suspicions. There was someone hiding there!
Slowly Martin raised the bat behind his head, ready to swing. He wasn’t a man of violence but this was his home and he was going to protect it. Wildly he swung his weapon, the curtain crumpled revealing the potential hiding place to be empty. But as it swayed from the impact a huge, black rat ran out from the behind the cotton veil. It dashed over his foot and into a wardrobe that had been left ajar on the other side of the room.
‘Bloody rats!’ Martin almost laughed with relief.
He would have to get some traps later as there may be more, but right now he needed to get this little blighter out of his bedroom.
Lightly walking across to the wardrobe he began very slowly to open it. He had to catch the creature by surprise, so once he had a good handle on the door he raised his bat ready for another swing. He was not going to be caught out this time. Slowly he counted in his head to three and then, with a sudden rush, threw the wardrobe door wide open.
From out of nowhere a huge, evil grin flashed in front of him as a man’s head swung forward from the top of the wardrobe, coming face to face with his own. Its fixed grimace and wild staring eyes bore an unhinged expression into a terrified Martin. He stumbled backwards in fear and in the panic to flee from the crazed figure he fell, crashing to the floor. Reaching out for something to break his fall he caught hold of the curtain and pulled it from its fixings as he made his heavy landing. The curtain fell to the floor and daylight cut through the gloom, shining on the figure that swung from the wardrobe.
As his eyes adjusted Martin looked back at this potential assailant and realised it was not a wild-eyed attacker after all. Its hooked nose and protruding chin was that of a mask from a costume he once wore.
His fear turned to nostalgic recognition as he slowly rose to his feet.
‘Mr Punch.’
Within a few hours the place was beginning to feel more like home. Martin had aired the house through and got the heating going again. He had spent some time dusting the place down although it was clear that many things still needed a good wash. He smiled as the night drew in and the lights went on. It was beginning to look cosy and welcoming and less like a museum of neglect and dilapidation. The phone rang as he was laying some newly acquired rat traps.
‘Oh hello Frank,’ he answered the phone with a genuine joy to hear the voice of the caller, ‘yes thanks I’m back in now. Thanks for sorting out the electricity and the bank card, although you could have warned me the phone was set up. It gave me a terrible start. You’ve made it so much easier for me though; you’ve been so helpful. Did you know they’ve changed the twenty pound note?’
Sitting down on the sofa with the phone to his ear he began to idly wipe down the Mr Punch costume with a damp cloth. Propped up on the sofa like a companion it almost looked alive. The care and attention that Martin gave to it as he cleaned off the years of grime would have certainly given weight to this theory.
Beside him a cast of Punch and Judy puppets were lovingly laid out on display. Each one had been carefully taken out of an individual, velvet lined case.
‘Oh you know,’ he continued his conversation with Frank, ‘I’m just finding my feet. The house needs a little work but nothing major. I reckon a couple of weeks before it’s ready to sell.’ He stopped short as Frank interjected with his comments. Martin then carried on, ‘I have been tempted, I did meet a very nice lady today and the town is still so beautiful. It’s carnival time again. I’d completely forgotten it would be on. Shame about the weather. I haven’t really been out of the house much just yet, it feels quite amazing just to be back home.’
Holding the chin of the costume he looked down each side of the face, checking for damage.
‘Seeing all my old things. It’s one thing to remember,’ Martin exclaimed excitedly down the phone, ‘but to see all these things after all these years. I found my old Punch costume. Remember?’ His mind cast back nearly twenty years ago, ‘You and your friends used to love it when I came to your birthday parties in that. I couldn’t make it for your tenth birthday and you were so upset I had to call you and do the Punch voice down the phone.’
Martin picked up a small device consisting of two metal strips that were bound into an elliptical shape round a reed. This was his swazzle, the apparatus with which Martin voiced the characters from his show. He placed it into the roof of his mouth and began to talk down the phone.
‘Hello Frank!’ he sounded wild and crazy like any good Mr Punch should. ‘That’s the way to do it!’
Taking the contraption out of his mouth he regained his sensible composure with a small cough, clearly embarrassed by the reaction of Frank on the other end of the phone, ‘Well you all have to grow up sometime. I guess even me.’
Martin sat back on his sofa, allowing the cushioned backrest to envelop his shoulders. This was a comfort he was not used to.
‘I’m fine, really,’ he reassured Frank, ‘after all this time I’m so pleased the only bars I’m going to see are ones you can order a drink from.’
There was a relaxation in his own voice that he hadn’t heard for years. His tone was symptomatic of a deeper sense of peace that this waking day had brought him. He had waited so long for such a day to come and it had not disappointed.
The sound of the cell door slamming shut felt like fingernails scraping down his soul. The crash of metal on metal echoed in his ears and vibrated through the fillings in his teeth, making him clench his jaw in agonizing pain. Shadows of the bars to his cage cast long, dark impressions along the floor and walls like ghostly, formless sentries, deaf to his anguish.
Martin sat on the bed of his cell with his head in his hands. His grief was clear as the tears ran d
own his cheeks. He tried in vain to sob quietly. It would be a while yet before such displays of emotion were beaten out of him.
‘You’re scum, Powell,’ sneered a prison warden as he stood the other side of the bars tapping a baton against the steel pillars, ‘you deserve everything you get.’
Martin’s fear turned to inside the cell as two inmates rose from their bunks and walked towards him. A blade glinted in the hand of one of the men as he picked up the puppeteer and threw him against a wall.
The two men were both strong and rained punches with iron-like knuckles into the face of Martin. He crumpled to the floor, defenceless and catatonic with misery.
‘Please,’ he cried as he spat blood from his mouth.
The two criminals did not listen and rolled Martin onto his back. He kicked and shook to free himself but their might was too powerful for him. He felt his wrists being tied together behind his back with a belt.
The banging of a hammer made Martin look up. As he did so he saw a court room judge in the corner of the cell, going as red as his gown and screaming, ‘Ten years! Ten years!’ over and over again. Insanity crackled in the judge’s voice as he repeated his sentence with disdain.
The prisoners continued to hold Martin down. He thrashed wildly, his panic bringing about a kind of fit. As his eyes rolled around the room he caught glimpses of strange images.
Two young girls, smiling, holding hands.
A gravestone.
The mad judge.
‘You can be our little bitch,’ one of the inmates said as he leaned close enough to Martin’s ear that he could feel the warmth of his breath. It smelt like sewers.
Spittle drooled from the man’s thick lips and rolled down Martin’s face. The second inmate kicked him hard in the side. He let out a cry of pain and began to feel his trousers being taken off.
‘That’s right little man,’ the prisoner’s voice was dripping with menace against the ear of his victim, ‘you can be my puppet now.’