YOU’RE GOING TO LOSE THAT GIRL — A HARD DAY’S NIGHT — A LIMITED LIFE
The first two efforts are from the concept of writing stories based on Beatles’ song titles — a silly conceit but i like a challenge. Both are clearly autobiographical but one is from my dim and distant [but fictionalsied] past and one is from only too real present. The third effort is a song lyric.
‘YOU’RE GONNA LOSE THAT GIRL’
This story is based on real events and real people, including me. They are thinly disguised to allow me a little distance from my character in particular. The central conversation between Paul and Simon did not take place. I wish it had. If it had I might have understood myself and my relationships a lot better and a lot quicker than I did, thus saving myself and many others, particularly Sandra, a lot of grief.
January 1978. A small flat in a dormitory village on the outskirts of Birmingham
“Paul… Paul are you awake?” Paul was, just, but he kept his eyes closed. “I have to get up to school for the game, I’m fucking late… Paul!” Paul didn’t budge. He heard the bedroom door shut and,a few seconds later the front door slam. The reverberations in his head reminded Paul of how much he had drunk last night and he quickly determined to move as little as possible in the hope of not triggering the otherwise inevitable headache. His last thought before he drifted back to sleep was to wonder how Simon had managed to get up at all given that he had probably, no certainly, drunk more than him — and he had to referee a football match this morning as well, God help him.
Three hours later Paul was sat in the comfy chair in the living room, as Simon was out he got first use of it for a change, slowly munching his way through his muesli. He had only been up twenty minutes as he had been forced from his bed by the incessant ringing of the phone. Three times he had ignored it and it rang off only to start again just as he was dozing off. On the fourth go he had summoned the strength to move but they had rung off just as he was picking up the phone. As he was up now he decided to stay up as it was past eleven. He wandered into the kitchen and immediately retreated. The scene of devastation and mixture of smells was too much to take. After several deep breaths he eased himself back in there with his eyes narrowed and focussed on his objectives quickly . He could move around the cupboards with his eyes closed and was relieved to find a clean bowl and spoon. He poured the muesli into the bowl and added the milk which he hoped was still fresh — he didn’t have the guts, literally, to smell it. He couldn’t find a clean glass so just took the carton of orange juice back into the living room. As his muesli soaked he found a tape of Brahams and put it in the player, Simon’s player, about the only thing in the flat that was. Getting to play his music was a rare luxury as it was usually monopolised by Simon’s tapes — Beatles, Stones, Who etc. Paul didn’t dislike them but he couldn’t get that excited either. Just as his mood was lifting the phone went again.
‘…yes, Sharon, of course I’ll tell him. As soon as he gets back. I’m surprised he’s not back by now as it was a home game…. yes, I promise. Bye, Sharon, bye…’ Bloody hell, she sounded annoyed. Paul went back into the living room. This was going to be awkward. He couldn’t make him phone her back but he had promised he would try. Simon had promised as well — he had heard him when she phoned on Thursday — but broken promises were becoming a thing with him, like his promises to pay the rent he owed. Paul knew he needed to talk to him about this and a hundred other things but, when you hated confrontation as much as he did, telling your best friend he was being a prat was very difficult. He sat quietly and let the music work on him and allowed himself to calm down.
His reverie was broken fifteen minutes later by the unmistakeable sound of Simon clattering up the linoed floors. As ever he was taking them two or three at a time and was singing quite loudly — ‘Good Day Sunshine’. He heard the key in the lock and bags thrown down then the door slammed shut. He burst into the room
“Brian Clough, eat your heart out! What a win! Six fucking nil!”
“Keep your voice down, Si. Mrs Waters will be complaining again.”
‘Oh, sod her. We cleaned the stairs for her last week so we’re in her good books.”
“It’s not for her, it’s one of the conditions of the lease — you know that.”
“Why does she have to police it, though?”
“Who were you playing?”
“What? Oh, Smithswood so it was even better. I could have kissed every one of my boys but their Dads might have disapproved. A couple of Mum’s there I wouldn’t have minded snogging, though.”
‘Si, for God’s sake… Did you get there on time?”
“No thanks to you. I tried to wake you to give us a lift up but you were dead to the world.”
“Well it was a late night and we did put a few away. How did you manage to ref the game?
“With great difficulty. Mind you, it was so one-sided we were in their half most of the game so I only had to run a few yards, well walk fast. Beaver’s under-15’s beat them as well so it was joy all round — particularly after the 5-a-side last week.”
“Oh, the fight?”
‘God it was joyous, never seen anything like it. A player punches out a team-mate for a dirty foul on his mate on the other team. I was so proud of Gary.”
“It must have made it awkward for him at school this week, though?”
“Pete phoned him in the week and he said it’s fine. Old dirty bastard wasn’t going to report it, given that Pete ended up in casualty, and he managed to keep the sixth-former who was reffing sweet so all is sweetness and light. Obviously a few staff know but nobody likes the arsehole anyway.”
“You’re all worse than the kids. Kicking lumps off each other every Friday after school.”
“Most of the time it’s fine, a way to blow off steam but that twat from Smithswood just hates losing. Wish he’d been there today, I’d have laughed in his face though I’d have preferred to punch him. I was just about to plant him last week but Gary got there first.”
“You would really have hit him?”
“Damn right, I wasn’t thinking. When I saw how Pete was I just ran straight for him but Gary ran out of their goal and grabbed him round the throat and practically lifted him off his feet. Got him up against the wall and began pummelling him. A few of their guys dragged him off but I was happy for it to continue.”
“Glad, I wasn’t there.”
“Don’t get fights in badminton, then?” They both laughed.
“Not really. We’re all far too civilised for that unlike you football hooligans.”
“Look, you know Gary, sweetest guy in the world but Pete could have been seriously hurt. The guy’s a fucking bully and needed taking down. It’s like if a fight starts in school. If its one of the nice kids getting bullied you wade in quick and get them apart but if it’s one of the shits getting a pasting you take your time. I do enjoy a good fight in the playground, gives you the chance to throw a few kids around to get them out of the way.” Paul decided not to pursue it any further as he knew the differences between them on the issue were too great to make it worthwhile and he needed to change the subject.”
“You’re late back, by the way. Where have you been?”
“In the Farthings, Went for a couple with Beaver and Terry.”
“Terry was there?”
“There were meant to be two rugby fixtures but King’s Heath pulled out. He was well pissed-off as he only found out right at the end of school and had to stay for an hour phoning parents to let them know. A few turned up anyway and he had to deal with some angry parents. But our wins cheered him up so he took us for a pint.”
“Did you have any money to buy a round? You were skint by the time we got home last night.”
“it was all right, we were in the Farthings. Little Daniel Forrester’s Dad was serving and put my round on the house.”
“What, how do you work that then?”
“His son is in my squad so it’s his way of saying thank you.”
“But I thought you said he was rubbish?”
“He is, I only bring him on for five minutes if the game is over.”
“And you get free beer as a result?”
“Where’s the harm?”
“I wonder if he fancies playing badminton?”
“Keep your hands off him…. he’s mine!”
“Don’t worry… look we need to get a move on.”
“What for?”
“Have you seen the state of the kitchen? And we have to go to the laundry and, you need to make a phone call.”
“What phone call?”
“To Sharon,” Simon groaned. “the phone’s been ringing constantly for the last hour or so. I’m surprised she’s not…” At that point the phone began to ring. Simon jumped up in fright.
“Please Paul, tell her I’m not back yet. Tell her you’ve not heard from me. Look I’ll clean the kitchen and put the hoover round and change my bed… Please, Paul.” The phone kept ringing.
Paul stared at the huge glass window of the tumble dryer and watched, mesmerised, as his and Simon’s clothes slowly went around and around. There was a load of sheets and towels in another dryer further down the row and that should be finished soon but the clothes would be another half an hour at least. He’d been here for bloody ages, Saturday afternoon was definitely the worst time to come but he had little choice. And, of course, he had to do it as Simon couldn’t drive and there was no way he could carry it all on the bus. It would be dark by the time he was finished. No doubt Simon was, by now, sat with his feet up watching a rugby league game on Grandstand having skimmed his way through the cleaning jobs — God, he was useless.
How had he ended up with such a rubbish tenant? He thought he and Simon were friends but he didn’t half push his luck. Untidy, lazy, slow with the rent, drank too much, smoked in the flat despite requests not too and he was so bloody loud. It was only Paul’s good nature which was stopping him from kicking him out — or was there something else?. He had to do something but he was damned if he could think of a way of doing it. Yes, they had had some great times together but this situation was making him so unhappy and he knew, beneath all the extrovert bullshit, Simon was equally unhappy. Their relationship was in danger of ending badly which would be a shame as Simon’s friendship meant a lot to Paul. They had saved each other during their NQT year. They had a big group of friends on the staff but they had drifted towards one another and, being a scientist, Paul likes the idea of ‘opposites attract’. They had very little in common apart from beer but he enjoyed the way that Simon’s complete lack of inhibition led them into some great adventures. They had had a couple of close shaves with the law and had irate pub locals chasing down the road a few times but Simon was able to turn most things around with his charm — man, that guy could talk. Simon also realised that he provided Simon with security but he was beginning to take advantage of Paul’s kindness. No, more than that, he was taking liberties.
What is more, unlike Paul, he had another relationship with Sharon, his supposed girlfriend back in Bristol, but he was on the brink of messing that up as well. Paul’s attention was drawn to the fact that the sheets were now finished and, a few minutes later, as he tried to fold them carefully into one of their — his — laundry bags a thought began forming in his mind. Paul did not know Sharon particularly well but it was clear that she was a shy and reserved woman — she reminded him of himself. If Paul was going to get Simon out of his flat he had to make it clear to him that there was another safe place he could go — to Sharon. If that meant Simon leaving, going back to Bristol and, perhaps, them losing contact he still though it was the best thing for all concerned. That’s assuming Sharon wanted him back, of course. Given her tone of voice on the phone he wasn’t so sure.
Paul had a major shock when he got back. On entry he was pleased to see that the hallway was cleared of clutter and, on looking in the cupboard, that the bags, vacuum and other odds and ends were stored in tidy order. When he went into the living room he saw Simon asleep on the chair and realised normal service had been resumed. He then become aware that the room was clean; surfaces dusted, newspapers on the table and the carpet vacuumed. He moved quietly to avoid waking him and stood at the kitchen door. He must have run out of puff before getting to the kitchen and, as he opened the door, expected to find the same scene of carnage as earlier. Bloody hell, he’d done it! All the surfaces were clear and cleaned, Cupboards were stacked neatly and things were in the right place and he’d even mopped the floor. He couldn’t believe it. What was he after?
Further inspection demonstrated that he had got as far as the bathroom and that was perfectly presentable, as was his bedroom. Following house rules he had not come into Paul’s room. He didn’t want Simon anyway near his models and books. He returned to the hall and dragged the washing bags into the living room. He looked at Simon and felt bad at disturbing him but they still had a lot to get through. Paul began applauding loudly and cheering as well, “Bravo! Bravo!”
“What the fuck…”
“Well done done, sir. Jolly good show.”
“What the fuck are you on about?”
“The cleaning. Excellent work, young man.”
“Fuck off!”
“No seriously, you’ve done a great job”
“Well, I thought I’d better.”
“Thank you. Now you can help me get the washing sorted and stowed away.”
“Not now, I’m knackered.”
“If we don’t do it now it will be hanging around for weeks… you know what happens.”
“So?”
“Did You phone, Sharon, by the way?” There was a long sigh from Simon, then he sat up.
“Shall I make the beds, then?”
When the final chore had been completed they were back in the living room. Paul had managed to get to the comfy chair first and Simon hovered just behind him. He was trying unsuccessfully to disguise his anxiety.
‘You fancy going out tonight, then?”
“Not really, but I will go out on one condition.”
“What?”
“if you phone Sharon I’ll come to the pub with you.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Paul half-turned and in a tone of voice Simon had only heard him use with students said,
“Sit down.” Simon stared at him. “I said sit down.”
“Okay, okay.” Simon slumped on the sofa like a sulking teenager. “I bloody knew it/”
“Knew what?”
“You’re going to turn on me now. I thought you were a mate.”
“I am ,which is why I have to say what I have to say.”
‘Oh, shit, you’re kicking me out, aren’t you?”
“If it comes to it, I will, Si, but I don’t want to. But I’m hoping we can handle this in such a way that we stay friends. Because, despite everything, you are my friend and I want to do what is best for you.”
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be all right. I’ll find another house share somewhere. Somebody from school will have a spare room I can doss in.”
‘Come off it, Si. You’re last house share was a disaster and who from work is going to have you when they know I’ve thrown… asked you to leave?”
“Pat or Anne would take me in.”
“Yeh, but they’d both want more than a house share, wouldn’t they?”
“Yeh, I suppose so.”
“And Sharon isn’t going to be too happy about that either, is she?” Simon groaned and buried his head in a cushion at the end of the sofa, “But there’s your answer.” Simon sat up, “Go back to Sharon or persuade her to move up here.” There was a long pause.
“Ain’t gonna happen, either way.”
“Why not.” Another long pause.
“Well, for a start I can’t see her leaving Bristol.”
“Have you asked her?”
“No, but I just can’t see her doing it, she’s too close to her parents.”
“”Well move back home yourself, there’s nothing keeping you here, is there?”
“But what would you do without me, Paul?”
“I’m not going to miss the regular rent money, am I?” Simon bowed his head.
“Fair point.”
“Sorry, that was mean…”
“No, no, you’d be much better off without me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you still don’t get it, do you?”
“Get, what?”
“When we first met I never thought we’d end up such close friends. You had everything going for you. Funny, intelligent, good-looking, brilliant at the job…”
“That’s a bloody joke…”
“Only because you’ve turned it into one. You’re good, Si, really good, but you’re lazy and you’re selfish and you take so much for granted. You’re getting found out now and you’re trying to run away from that. I’ve seen your work book,Si, you’re planning is a joke and your marking is a disgrace.” Simon stood up and walked to the window.
“I know, I know… don’t rub it in my face. Dave called me in last week. If it doesn’t improve I’ll be on a disciplinary.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Exactly, What am I going to do, Paul? Finding teaching jobs in Bristol is really tough, that’s why I ended up here. And I’m not likely to get a great reference, am I?”
“You could try something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know…um… what about social work?”
“That’s tough, though.”
“Yeh, but you’d be brilliant.”
“But I’ve got no experience.”
“Well you’re teaching experience has got to count for something and you’ve done two summers of BYV camps.”
“How’s that relevant?”
“You helped run summer camps for inner-city Birmingham kids and each time you had the kids eating out of your hands. Cas or Alan would give you a reference at the drop of a hat. And you wouldn’t have to worry about preparation or marking. Right up your street. Or you could run a youth club.”
“Working evenings would keep me out of the pub, I suppose”
“There you are, then, there are alternatives to teaching.” Simon fell silent
“One problem, though. One major problem.”
“What?”
“We are assuming that Sharon will have me back. Perhaps she wants to speak to me to finish it off.”
“I don’t think so.”
“How do you know?”
“For a start she’s clung on to your relationship for nearly… six years is it?” Simon nodded. “She might well be fed up but, her voice on the phone, she sounded angry and frustrated but not resigned.”
“But there’s also the problem of whether I want to be with her.” Paul threw his hands up in the air then brought his fists down hard on the arms of the well-upholstered chair.
“For crying out loud. There have been so many times when you’ve told me how much you love her…”
“I was probably pissed.”
“In vino veritas, mate. You weren’t drunk on all the occasions. She is beautiful, kind, patient, loving and, by god, she loves you. She’s far too good for you and I haven’t got a clue what she sees in you…”
“Exactly. If we lived together she’d eventually find out what a waste of space I am… like you did. I’m fucking scared she’ll work it all out and dump me.”
“But it could work the other way.”
“What do you mean/”
“It’s like me and you….”
“No it bloody isn’t?”
“I didn’t mean… why are we friends, Si?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Come on, why are we friends?”
“I don’t know… we like the same stuff…”
“No we don’t. When we met we had virtually nothing in common apart form working in the same school and both liking a pint.”
“But we do stuff other that go to pubs. We go the folk clubs and we did the camps. I play badminton…”
“Which I know you hate but you come along anyway. We’ve done that stuff since we became friends because we realised we wanted to do things together. Because we need each other. You saw in me someone who was safe and secure, someone who would look after you.”
“I’m not entirely comfortable saying this but what did you see in me?”
“Excitement, fun a bit of a bad boy. Exactly what Sharon sees.”
“You reckon?”
“She’s not going to be attracted to your consideration and loyalty is she?”
“So, if I phone her and tell her I want to come back and live with her then all I’ve got to do is persuade her to her agree…
“And that you mean it.”
“…and that I mean it. Then all I have to do is find a job and she will have to find us somewhere to live as I’m buggered if I’m living at home or her at her house…”
“Why not?”
“There is no way I’m living with my Mum again. I love her dearly and I want to keep it that way. Don’t fancy living in her house, either, to be honest. Her bedroom’s tiny and there’s only one living room — we’d have no privacy at all.”
“Are you going to make the phone call then?”
“What time did she say she’d be back?
“Just after seven and it’s nearly that now.”
“I could murder a pint but a cup of tea will do for now.”
“Well?”
“I could hardly get a word in edgeways for the first ten minutes.”
“I thought you were quiet.”
“She berated me for never phoning her or my Mum and that I was thoughtless and did I really want the relationship to continue and she was beginning to feel that it wasn’t worth continuing and then I made a grave mistake by blurting out that I agreed and it suddenly went very quiet and I had to pedal back very rapidly and explain that I agreed about me being thoughtless but I did think it was worth continuing and that I had a plan. The silence was even greater then.”
“So what did you say?”
“Basically, what we said. I told her I was unhappy and that I wanted to come home but that it might be difficult to get a job and that I’d phone Dad to keep an eye out for jobs with the council.”
“Didn’t you say he wouldn’t help you before?”
“Yeh he said it was potentially corrupt for him, as a councillor, to help a relative find a job. I only want him to keep an eye on the vacancies for me. I’ll phone him tomorrow.”
“What did she say about where you might live?”
“She said she’d find us somewhere. She said she’d start looking straight away but I had to explain that it would be Easter before I could leave. She thought I could give two weeks or a month’s notice at the most like her job.”
“It gives you a bit of time to sort yourself out.”
“Or time for her to change her mind.”
“She won’t, she’s a sticker.”
“Paul, I’m bloody scared!”
“Quite right too!”
“Eh?”
“If you weren’t scared it would mean you didn’t care?”
“So you think it’s going to be all right?”
“Definitely.” Simon could not see Paul’s hands, which were tucked down the side of his chair, so could not see that his fingers were crossed.
A HARD DAY’S NIGHT
He was sweating, sweating like a pig as his Nan used to say — bad Nan that is. It kind of worked even though he had no idea how, or even if, pigs sweated. He supposed that was why they wallowed in mud — mud, mud, glorious mud, nothing quite like it for cooling the blood… It was an odd phrase for bad Nan to use — sweating like a pig — he reckoned she never used it in her own house ‘cos every time he went there as a kid it was bloody freezing, even in summer. She could freeze a room. She only ever used it at their house as a snide comment on Mum’s profligate use of heating. Mum had been brought up in a cold, cold house and was determined never to go cold again. And she hated draughts, she could feel a draught a mile off. She said her mum, bad Nan, was as mean as cat-shit. Is cat-shit mean? Cats are only little, for god’s sake, so they aren’t going to produce huge amounts, are they? Or was it the sphincter thing? Reminded him of the old Ken Dodd joke about the bloke who invented cat’s eyes, apparently inspired by seeing his headlights reflected in a cat’s eyes walking towards him down a country lane. The joke was that if the cat had been walking away from him he would have invented the pencil sharpener. Love that joke but Ken Dodd, weird fucker — not Jimmy Saville weird but…but cat’s, yeh, mean shit ‘cos of the sphincter. He fucking hated cats, whiney little bastards… God, it’s hot. What’s god got to do with it? Cue Tina…’WHAT’S GOD GOT TO DO WITH IT?’ More to the point, why was it so hot? It was September and it had been cool all day and they hadn’t had the heating on — ‘cast n’er a clout…no, wrong time of year. When do the clocks go back…forward? Spring forward, fall back. Americanisms have their uses… but it could be the other way around — spring back, fall forward. Stupid Americans, stupid daylight saving. How long till daylight? What was the time? Clock was on her side and he couldn’t be assed to look over. His watch wasn’t fluorescent. He wanted one — a fluorescent watch like he had as a kid. He used to leave it dangling by his lit bed-side lamp and, when he turned it off it would glow for ages. You could read by it, nearly. Well,not really and it didn’t last that long anyway. It was shit really. Then they got him a diver’s watch which he could use in up to thirty metres of water but he only wore in the deep end at Bristol South baths and he thought he’d never lose it cos he never needed to take it off but Mr.Chubb made him take it for PE and he forgot to put it in the valuables box one day and it got knicked. Well that’s what he told his Mum. No, forget it. Sing…’round, like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel, never ending or beginning on an ever spinning reel,like a snowball down a mountain or a carnival balloon, like a…. fuck. Start another one ‘What a dream I had, pressed in organdy, clothed in crinoline of smoky burgundy, softer that the rain. I wandered empty streets down past the shop display, I heard cathedral bells tripping down the alleyway.’…that was another one he wrote in England, Paul Simon… fuck, just sing, don’t think about stuff. How do you stop thinking? If only. Do the breathing, do the breathing. In on four…1,2,3,4 hold for six, 1,2,3,4,5,6….. out on eight… 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8. Christ, set his cough off. Fuck! Gonna have to. Please don’t let me be sick, please don’t let me be sick, Bathroom light stings his eyes. Running tap, handful of water, rinse his mouth, spit, nothing, more water — don’t fucking swallow! Shit, hat’s done it, he can feel it start then he heaves and the yellow-green mess half-fills the sink bowl. It came from his mouth and his nose and mucus hangs from his nostrils and his lips. No point being careful now, rinses his mouth, another heave, more solid this time. Like yellow-green lumps in custard. A few more follow then a few more retches then he can relax. Why, why, why, why, why? Been over six hours since he’d eaten yet he’s still brought up loads. Plus the meds he’s had before bed — a waste of time, now. Rinsed his mouth out a few more times and drifted back to bed — she was still asleep. Got himself comfortable, pulled the duvet up to his chin. He was still in a sweat, but a cold sweat…cue James…’Ha!…’
LIVING A LIMITED LIFE
Wrote this is a song lyric which I’ll probably send to my friend Jon Voake to set to music. My acceptance of my situation in the lyrics are how I feel most of the time but, on any given day, I could be raving and ranting against it. Not sure I could write that song as I have to be calm to write and I’m not sure a song lyric consisting entirely of the word ‘fuck’ repeated ad infinitum would have a great deal of validity however cathartic it might be for me
I can’t go far or fast but I walk when or where I can
Lester and me going nowhere slow
My dancing days are numbered, can’t hit those flips and spins
A four-beat shuffle is all I’ve got to show.
I’m living a limited life
A something is better than nothing life
A glass half full not empty life
It’s Hobson’s choice, it’s how it has to be.
Even as I write this song it won’t be me who sings it
My voice comes from the bottom of a well
Can’t talk for England any more, though the words buzz in my head
I can mumble but I can’t yell.
I’m living a limited life
A something is better than nothing life
A glass half full not empty life
It’s Hobson’s choice, it’s how it has to be.
Can’t eat in the finest restaurants or even the local caff
Can’t quaff champagne or slurp a cup of tea
I can cook but can’t taste or swallow
So no dream of Masterchef for me
I’m living a limited life
A something is better than nothing life
A glass half full not empty life
It’s Hobson’s choice, it’s how it has to be.
