And I cant get in through the back, either! Dammit! Dammit! Security-obsessed Shimmy has bolted the tall side gate. I knock (obviously doors, windows), I sit on the bell, I yell, but all to no avail. Shimmy is listening at quite extraordinary volume to a home-taped recording (off the TV) of Fraggle Rock, his favourite programme. I can hear him singing along to the theme tune, bless him. Damn him.
Dance your cares away!
Worrys for another day
Let the music play,
Down at Fraggle Rock!
Again it plays, and again and again and again. Can he have made himself two separate recordings so he doesnt have to wait to rewind? Has he even got two functional tape recorders? Does he possess the technological know-how for such pointless shenanigans?
I try the back gate for a second time. I return to the front door and smack it into Rogue. Thud.
Were Gobo, Mokey, Wembley, Boober, Red!
I return to the gate. Ive climbed over it before, but only under extreme duress. Theres very little purchase for hand or foot. After scrabbling around for a while I have the brilliant idea of fetching my bike, leaning it up against the gate and using it (the pedal, then the seat) as a kind of portable stepladder.
Everything is proceeding apace. The bike is carefully positioned a brick wedged under the front wheel, the back wheel pushed against the wall of the house. I climb up. Its a little unstable (a little ungainly, come to that) but everythings going perfectly to plan, until
Its difficult to describe what happens next. I am almost half-straddling the gate climbing over boldly, assuredly, very confident when something catches at my waist, I fall forward, inadvertently violently kick out both my feet, and the bike tips sideways, crashing on to the gravel path. I am left hanging over the gate, bent at the hip, a fleshy, top-heavy U-bend, a human peg. To fall back would be difficult even dangerous (the bike is just below. Id hate to land on the spokes and potentially injure my foot, my ankle, my leg). I can only move forward. Its just uh a question of of using my hands to to And then I find that Im that Im that somehow Ive become no! Im stuck! The piece of cord in my old jeans (theyre drawstring, tautened at the waist with a gentle bow) has somehow become hooked over an irregular piece of a little wooden chip, a knot. And so Im Im utterly, irrevocably, undisputedly stuck! I simply cant
I struggle. I struggle for what feels like an age to get my hand under my to loosen the but its too taut. In fact its its almost cutting into me. And its hard to breathe with all this weight my weight on my gut. So I hang forward, to rest, to inhale, but then once rested I find it almost impossible to straighten back up. All the strength has leaked out of me.
I am stuck! Bottom in the air. Legs kicking. Wheezing. Groaning. I am stuck! I am stuck!
The vestiges of my womanly pride restrain me from calling out for help for a full five minutes. Who will come, anyway? Its mid-afternoon on a quiet, unmade road. But after five or ten or seven (time loses all significance under such circumstances) minutes, I begin to yell.
At first an informal, undemanding, Hello?
Hello? Hello? Anyone? Hello? Hello?
Eventually a less formal, more desperate, Help!
Help! Help! Help me! Hello? Help! Im stuck! Is there anyone there? Hello? Hello?
HELLO? HELLO? HELLO?
Oh my bladder, my poor bladder with the gate cutting into it! The chafing. The mortification! The redness of face. The nausea. Hands scrabbling. Feet kicking.
Aaaargh!
I am wailing. I can hear myself. A little, poignant wail. How long has it been now? The wail appears to be coming from the other side of the gate. Although my head is here. And my mouth. How odd! Could it be the cat mewing?
In my mind I am singing that silly song by Bananarama. The chorus goes Robert De Niros waiting, talking Italian talking Ital-i-an. Robert De Niros waiting, talk-king It-al-lian!
I hang in silence for a while, bemused. Singing in my head. I yell for help only every minute or so to preserve my voice for the long haul.
Help!
Help!
Help!
I might be here all afternoon.
In fact I mustve yelled this strange word (help such a strange word! And the more I yell it, the stranger it seems; the hoarser, the darker, the more absurd and despairing) several hundred times when now this is odd (because my head is hung forward the blood pounding in my ears, I am almost faint almost fainting) I hear sudden footsteps on the gravel and something that seems like a human voice but all muffled and jumbled: like Aow-aow-aow-aow wah!
So curious!
Then comes a powerful smell of clementines (Im not making this up!). An attempt to open the gate. A tentative yank on my foot, a hand on my bottom
Oi!
And then, pow!
The bow on my trousers is untied (howd he/she/it do that?) and before I know better (or am able to ready/steady/adjust myself) Im tumbling forward over the gate and landing Crump! (trouserless!) on my hand/elbow/face/head/back ow! on the gravel ow! path ow! to the other side.
I lie for a few seconds, breathless and winded.
Aow-aow aow-aow? the strange voice asks, evidently concerned, trying the gate again.
I slowly sit up. Anything broken? Not sure. What I do know is that several pieces of gravel are embedded in my forehead. My legs feel okay and oooh my spine but my ow! my right thumb is hanging loose.
Ive dislocated it! Ive dislocated my thumb! Just look at that! How perfectly ghastly!
Oy vey, bubbellah! Ve Gates? Vat in Gods good name are you doing vith yourself down zere?
Shimmy appears at the back door with his typical, slapstick timing.
Ive dislocated my thumb, Tatteh! I wail, holding it out to him.
Zatll have to wait, Nebekh! Shimmy interrupts. We got us bigger fish to fry here. Look at your poor dad! Im plotzing! Zat damn dog has had hisself another heart attack! Za putz is blocking the front door! I called you a cab already. You gotta take him to the vets.
As Shimmy is speaking I hear footsteps rapidly retreating in the gravel on the other side of the gate. I try to stand up, but it takes me slightly longer to find my feet than Id anticipated.
Call the vet out, Tatteh! Im grumbling. Howre we meant to lift him into a cab? Hes huge. Ive dislocated my thumb! Look! Ive got bits of gravel stuck in my forehead!
You crazy?! Shimmy exclaims. You know how much zey charge to call zem out?! Its a disgrace! Be serious, meine Carla! Get inside! Put your trousers on! We gotta do him a heart massage! Shlof gikher, men darf di ki kishn, girl! Stop your shmying about!
You crazy?! Shimmy exclaims. You know how much zey charge to call zem out?! Its a disgrace! Be serious, meine Carla! Get inside! Put your trousers on! We gotta do him a heart massage! Shlof gikher, men darf di ki kishn, girl! Stop your shmying about!
I gaze at him, disbelieving.
Sleep faster, bubbellah, he repeats, sharply, as a concession (of sorts), but in English this time. We need za pillows!
Oh thanks so much for the translation, Tatteh.
I click my thumb back into position (gritting my teeth), grab my trousers with my good hand and follow him inside, quietly marvelling at his apparently effortless recourse to poetic sarcasm.
11
Mr Clifford Bickerton
I really dont understand why Im becoming a part of this story. Its not that Im angry about it, as such, or resentful. But wheres the need? I ask this in all sincerity. Because its obvious (predictable! Even to a registered thicko like me!) how this thing is going to pan out. Its all about them, isnt it? All about Carla and Franklin D.; Hahn and Huff. Theyre the perfect little double-act. She says, then he says. Like a relaxing game of lawn tennis. Phut! boiiing! phut! Polite outbreak of applause. Yawn (thats me yawning. Its a nervous yawn. A defeated yawn. The kind of yawn produced by a sheepdog when you tie it up to its kennel with a length of rope in the heart of winter just as its starting to sleet).
So what are the actual mechanics of this thing (Yup mechanics. Trust me to get all hot under the collar about the technical stuff!)? I mean how exactly am I meant to to fit into this set-up? Where did I ever fit come to that? Im just way too too big and awkward and and hairy to seamlessly slot in. Too home-grown, too rustic. Ah, stupid, giant, callus-handed old Rusty reliable, practical old Rusty with his pathetic, unrequited crush, his over-long engagement, his over-tight sodding jumper Soppy old Rusty. An all-round bad fit. A poor fit. The spanner in the works. The hole in the elbow. The tear in the seat. The pesky stone in the lace-up boot.
Perhaps Ill be involved in an accident at work at an especially critical moment in the plot (electrocuted by a malfunctioning school heater their regular man, the caretaker, is off on a one-day training course in modern gas-fired central heating systems!), or get tragically drowned on duty with the lifeboat while saving the crew of a sinking trawler. Yes. I quite fancy that idea. Rusty Bickerton: Mr Brave but Mr Dispensable. A tragic afterthought dreamed up by the mean cow of an Author to add that tiny bit of extra depth, a light gloss of polish a nice, reliable pinch of snuff (wheres the tissue? Eh?! Use your sleeve! Thats what Rusty wouldve done, God bless the poor old bugger! RIP etc.) to the main, the important, the real, the actual-grown-up-three-dimensional relationship.
Great.
I mean is that honestly the best I can hope for? To be the harmless blameless idiot caught totally unawares in the background of a dramatic photograph of an awful car crash (quietly inspecting the times on a vandalized bus shelter)? Face slightly blurry. Right ear, arm, shoulder ruthlessly cut out. Or the nervous man adjusting his comb-over in a high wind just behind the pretty, buxom woman who is laughing and letting go of a large bunch of red balloons after winning £1,000 in a charity prize draw?
Am I just a little bit of local colour? Is that really the sum of it? Although now I come to think about it, youve already got Mrs Barrow (with her nineteenth-century ways, her housecoat and her uh, sorry totally unconvincing Sussex accent) to tick that particular box.
Perhaps Im suddenly being shuffled into focus to offer a useful but boring sense of perspective? An outsider view? Perhaps Im simply serving as a manly foil a handy, helpful, humble, practical contrast to the clever but mysterious and (lets face it) slightly uptight and poncy Mr Franklin D. Huff? Fine. Fine. Whatever you like. However you want to play it. I might grumble (I likes a bit of a grumble, me), but I cant really be bothered getting all fired up about it now. Just so long as Im back home before milking. Ill grit my teeth and Ill get on with it. Same as I always do.
Although Although (while Ive got your attention have I got it? Hello? Oh. Yes. Hello) what about that poor parrot? Baldie? Baldo? Hows he/she fit into this mess? What did that blessed parrot ever do to anybody? Doesnt seem right fair to have his/her/our innermost thoughts our private feelings and ideas (uninspiring as they most certainly are) casually picked over (exploited, lets make no bones about it) for the sake of a little light relief.
I remember in RE classes at school (bear with me for a minute) being taught the biblical parable of the talents and thinking, If this parable expresses the moral, emotional and philosophical aspirations of the One, True Religion then theres something badly wrong with it something horribly I dont know cynical (I was a precocious boy. Grew out of it soon enough, though). For those of you who dont recall, the parable involves a series of servants being given talents (some kind of coin, I suppose) by their cruel master before he goes away on a long voyage. The servant given the most talents (the most ahem talented servant) invests them well and doubles his money (slave trade? Opium poppies? Tobacco industry? Who knows?). When the master returns he is naturally delighted by the servants achievements and the servant is justly rewarded (several rhino horns. A giant, ivory dildo. Something grand and extravagant along those lines). Then there is the servant who has been given two talents. Like the four talent servant he doubles his money (slaughtering dolphins, skinning minks) and the master is delighted with him (warm smile, slightly intimidating wink, soft pat on the buttock ).
Finally theres the servant who is given only one talent. This servant is not as clever or as successful as the other servants (one talent, and we dont even know what that talent is. Im guessing juggling, or unicycling reading tarot, badly), and he is rightly anxious about stuffing up (the ire of the cruel master might be too much to bear!) so he takes his one talent and he buries it in a large hole in the ground to ensure that it isnt lost or stolen. When the master returns, he promptly digs it up again and hands it over to him (slightly muddy, but still intact).
Is the master happy to get the talent back? Is he heck! The master (fresh from those three, fine weeks in Magaluf) is absolutely bloody filthy that the most idiotic of his servants has done so little with his pathetic one talent (gurning. Or possibly the ability to place his leg behind his head. Hes oddly flexible).
Why didnt you just give it to the bankers, you foolish man, he demands, and earn me some paltry interest at the very least? Of course this is the moment at which that poor, long downtrodden (but basically ignorant) servant can finally take the opportunity to tell his master that all the local banks have been investing heavily in companies supporting child labour (chimney sweeps! Thats right! Send the little blighters up those chimneys! Let em earn their keep!) and so he (quite naturally, quite rightly) felt compelled to take a passionate stand against it. Yes. That wouldve been very brave, very principled of him (telling his master and the stand). But then could the master be expected to listen to his mumbled excuses? Nah! Of course he couldnt! Hes just a servant an untalented servant! Why would the master be remotely interested in issues of racial, social or gender equality? Forget it! He isnt. So the servant is bawled at, publicly humiliated and unceremoniously cast out.