Inkerman Writers - Bud Craig :Archive

Chloe Crow

Anyway I have to write about something exciting that’s happened to me. In English. That is so not fair, expecting a crow to write a story in a language that’s totally foreign. It’s supposed to be something Ground Levellers (people, human beings, whatever) can relate to.

“You need to communicate directly with the Groundies, Chloe,” said Creative Crow, peering through her horn-rimed glasses.

English was fun at first but it’s not very, what’s the word, expressive? You think our language, crowatian, is just a lot of ‘caws’ but it’s so not. You probably think being a crow is dead simple, too. As if it is.

The day it all started I perched precariously on the back branch, trying to get my white make-up right, squinting into the mirror. It kind of enlarges everything. So I’m, like, “Oh, my god, does my beak look big in this!’ when news of a nest being vandalised in Treesville came on the Crowday programme on Radio Carrion. (Hooded FM is so not allowed in the morning). This set the kids off. They were sitting quietly in their school uniforms – blue shirts and grey trousers – until then. Karl, my 9-year-old brother, started plotting with my sister, Clarissa – she’s ten – about setting up a spy gang to catch the vandals. Kids, eh? Trouble is ‘cos I’m 14 they kind of look up to me. I just know they’ll ask me to lead the gang or something. I was thinking I should make myself scarce before they could talk me into anything stupid when mam started.

“And what time do you think you flew in last night, young lady?” She adjusted her calf length, pleated skirt and beige jumper. (I’ve tried to get her into something more fashionable but she won’t listen.) .

I bet you Groundies never have to put up with that sort of thing. All you have to do is ‘communicate’ through those plastic things you hold against your ears. Oh, and move aimlessly around at ground level in that funny way you have – walking, is it called? - as if you own the place. Have you guys never heard of flying? It’s the best thing ever.

“Not now, mam, I’ll be late.”

She ignored me.

“It’s not every crow gets to attend SACS, you know. You’ll never concentrate on your lessons after gallivanting half the night.”

I pulled on my black cloak and wondered if I could get away with just, like, floating quietly away over the treetops.

“You’re never going to school dressed like that.”

Parents just don’t get it, do they?

“Mam, I’m a Goth.” Like I haven’t told her a thousand times.

“Well, it’s your funeral,” she said with world weary resignation, “but you’ll never get anywhere like this. You don’t want to be a crow all your life do you?”

By now I was flying on my way with a quick ‘bye. No point in telling mam I haven’t

got much choice about being a crow. It’s the species to which I belong. (See, I can do grammar when I want.).

On impulse I went to see Dad at the Crow Bar, the pub he and mam run. He greeted me with a big hug and smile. Dad’s a hulk of a guy and always wears outsize Hawaiian shirts. He offered me a drink of croke but I hadn’t got time. I helped lay the tables for lunch and looked at the menu.

“Mmm, pan-fried wormicelli on a bed of assorted leaves.”

“Yeah, it’s a new recipe. Tables look nice, Chloe, you’re a natural at this.”

“Thanks, dad, but don’t start, please,” I said, giving him a cheeky grin. I knew he would say something about me taking over the bar when he retires.

When I left it was so bright and clear I could see for miles. Sometimes when I’m flying – this is going to sound really stupid – I feel as if the infinite expanse of sky represents my life. Endless possibilities spread out before me and I don’t want to decide anything that might restrict me. Yet I don’t want to let mam and dad down: The Crowbar has been in the family for years.

As I was gliding gracefully on my way I saw the leaves and branches of Treesville to my left and the rock face of Cliff Town to the right. They are so different it’s as if there’s an invisible line dividing them.

Just before I reached school I saw Brian with some of his stupid mates. Brian, what a brill name. It is so not alliterative. I’m a carrion crow but Brian is a hooded crow. They were designated as a separate species a few years ago. Well, OK, and I hope it keeps fine for them but why can’t we all just be crows? Still, I’m not old enough to have an opinion apparently.

“Off to your posh school?” he cawed, while his mates muttered ‘swot’ behind their wings. As if I am a swot! Brian shouldn’t hang around with those lame brains. Still, he looks so cool and, oh, I dunno, so… hooded, playing with the zip of his leather jacket, slouching against a tree. He always flies dead slowly as if everything’s a great effort. Sometimes we hang out together, just flying and stuff. I’m not going out with him or anything. No way. Anyway he’s from Cliff Town.

I pretended to ignore him and hurried away. Soon I saw the familiar gold sign: School for Advanced Crow Studies: Achieving Excellence in a Caring Environment. School’s OK. I’m doing 3 GCSEs (General Crow Studies Exams):

Looking Down on People; Crowing and Making Annoying Noises.

At break I sat on one of the relaxation branches with my best friend, Kate. She’s, like, really shy and sensitive. At times she looks as if she’s trying to disappear inside her own feathers. She’s a Goth like me of course.

“Hey, did you hear about that nest being vandalised?”

“Hear about it? It was our nest!”

I stared at her in amazement. She was holding back the tears, looking down at her feet.

“Oh, no!”

Between sobs, Kate told me how her mam was going to have to lay her eggs soon and they would have a job getting the nest ready on time.

“They should just not allow anyone from Cliff Town in Treesville, that would put a stop to it,” she said angrily.

I thought of saying it might not be anyone from Cliff Town but kept quiet. Then just as I was making my way back to class, a CRA came smarming up to me. The Crow of Restricted Attractiveness was geeky Clifford – he wears a tie, need I say more? He always lollops languidly along as if he’s something special.

“Hi, Chloe,” he smiled, looking round and preening himself in case one of his imaginary admirers was looking at him.

“Hello, Clifford,” I sighed.

“I was just thinking…”

“There’s a first time for everything…”

“Ha, ha, I like a girl with a sense of humour. We’re gonna have lots of laughs when I take you out tonight.”

“Dream on,” I said nipping smartly into my next lesson. I wouldn’t mind but I know for a fact he’s already asked Kate out. He got in a right mood when she turned him down. Spoiled brat.

That evening straight after tea the kids grabbed me and took me to a secluded branch.

“Chloe, we’ve got a plan,” said Clarissa, flitting excitedly about.

“It’s brilliant,” added clumsy Karl in his booming voice. Just sitting on a branch he knocks leaves all over the place.

“Oh, no,” I groaned.

“No, listen,” pleaded Karl.

I might have known. Five minutes later I’d agreed to take them on a spying expedition. The idea was to wait until dark then hide in the leafy branches until the vandals came out. Quite what we were supposed to do once we’d caught them we weren’t sure.

“You’ll have to wear this as you’re in charge,” Karl said just before we left, plonking this cap thing on my head. “It makes you look older as well.”

“And this,” put in Clarissa, stretching up in her dark blue jump suit and putting a canvas bag over my shoulder, “it gives you a military air.” Great. I was having a night out with my kid brother and sister, looking like a geriatric soldier. Finally, at seven o’clock we set off, Karl strutting unconvincingly in his blue jeans and black T-shirt.

Anyway we spent two, like, totally pointless hours flying round every nest in Treesville. And for what? Nothing. I finally persuaded them to call it a day and we headed for home. Seconds before we got back Karl stopped suddenly.

“Look!” he cried.

Clarissa and I peered through the dark. Someone wearing a white mask was furiously pulling our nest to bits.

Before I could stop him Karl flew at the vandal and lashed out with his wings. The vandal turned and wrestled Karl to the ground. He was much bigger; Karl wouldn’t stand a chance. I swooped down as fast as I could.

Before I had got more than halfway I saw a brief glint of metal. Someone soared down from a great height and skilfully pulled the vandal off Karl and pinned him to the ground.

As I started cawing for the crowstabulary our saviour unmasked the yob and turned so his own face was lit up by the full moon appearing from behind a cloud. The moment I recognised them both I was full of confusing, you know, feelings and stuff.

“So, this Brian, is he your boyfriend,” asked mam the next morning after breakfast. Completely out of the blue.

“No way.”

I finished my make up and turned to get my cloak.

“Seems a nice boy.”

I just, like, shrugged. Well, she would think he was a nice boy after he had rescued Karl last night. Brian was the hero of the hour. The crowstabulary are talking about giving him a medal.

“Mam,” I said, “if Brian were my boyfriend, would you mind?”

“As long as it didn’t interfere with your school work.”

I wasn’t expecting this. “What, even though he’s from Cliff Town?”

“I don’t think that sort of thing matters in this day and age, does it?”

I wasn’t expecting that either. Was this what they meant by communication?

“Look at that Clifford,” my mam went on, “he’s a Treesvillien from a so-called good family and he’s been vandalising the family nests of all the girls who’ve refused him a date.”

“I always knew he was creepy,” I said.

“If it hadn’t been for Brian he would have gone on forever,” mam went on, “I mean, who’d go out with Clifford?”

Take your chance, girl, I said to myself, it might never come again.

“So if Brian wanted to be my boyfriend and I wanted him to be my boyfriend, I’m not saying I do but if I did, you’d be OK about it.”

“Yes. You have to make your own decisions. And your own mistakes.”

“Mistakes?”

By now I was ready to go but for some strange reason I wanted to hear what my mam had to say.

“Well, we all make them. This Brian might seem exciting now with his leather jacket and his slouching but that might not last. Or maybe it will. Either way, that’s life.”

“Were you frightened?” asked Kate later that morning after I finished telling her all about Brian and Clifford and everything.

“Yeah, I suppose it was quite scary,” I said, though there wasn’t really time to be scared. It’s funny, even while I was talking to Kate my mind wasn’t really on the events of last night. I kept thinking about what my mother said to me. There was a thought at the back of my mind that wouldn’t go away. It’s just the idea that my mam, like, knows stuff. That is scary.

Correlation Between Excessive Acceleration and The Desire to Sing Only the Lonely

I have ruined many love affairs by walking too fast

Just when I thought it was going to last

I’d move my feet swiftly over rain-spattered ground

And she’d be gone before I could even look round

One girl I remember, her clothes were so trendy

She had an open face that closed half day Wednesday

She had lovely big breasts, never wore a bra

And we made love like sparking plugs starting a car

But I lost her because she couldn’t keep pace

She floated off like a feather, disappeared without trace

Now I live all alone and cook my own tea

If I only walked slowly how happy I’d be

Tackling Death (Extract)

Louise locked the black mini and made a run for it, cursing the Mancunian weather. Striding purposefully across the car park, she stuffed her car keys into her jeans pockets. The wind hurled rainwater towards her, dirtying the pink laces of her red kickers. She took a final, long drag on her cigarette, coughed and stubbed it out on the Pay and Display machine before depositing it in the bin. Rain kept her company once more, pouring insistently into the puddles on the tarmac. Was it never going to stop? It was supposed to be bloody summer for God’s sake. A skulking passer-by listening to his iPod whistled Sunshine of Your Love through his teeth, reminding her of the time she met Gus. She didn’t want to think about Gus. Or feel guilty about him. She was not, repeat not, responsible for what happened to Gus.

An ancient, mustard yellow camper van farted blue exhaust fumes as it chugged past the chipped sign on the Swetton Arms and the functional concrete structure that housed the Probation Hostel. The smell of old chip fat from the Happy Fryer mingled with petrol, tobacco and damp pavements. As she approached the door of Ordsall Tower, her canvas shoulder bag tugged at her like a demanding child. She sheltered under the porch and punched in the security code. She pulled down the hood of her green anorak as she went in and ran her hands through her spiky blonde hair.

At the lifts she pressed the third floor button: Salford Children’s Services. As she waited she looked at the plaques spelling out the other inhabitants of the multi-storey building. Her eyes got as far as: Fourth Floor: Long Life Insurance. She swore under her breath. She had meant to renew her car insurance. Must leave herself a note to do it on Monday morning. Handy having that place so near. Handy for Long Life as well. Their manager – what was his name? – was always popping in, touting for business. He and Bill Copelaw were practically best mates now.

She looked at her watch and sighed deeply as she stepped into the lift. Six thirty. These late emergencies were a killer. Who’d be a social worker? She asked herself the same question from time to time, usually on days like this. The daily grind of a long hard week and the accompanying stress and exhaustion conspired to sour her mood. You love it really, she told herself less convincingly than usual, even after thirty odd years. That’s why you turned down that team manager’s job. The things you complain about give you a buzz. The last minute Friday afternoon child protection referral – thank you Val Hawthorn; the angry parents; the young father storming out, howling threats against the whole of Social Services. Anyway, downhill all the way, now. A quick word with Bill Copelaw if he was still around, put some notes in the computer and Friday night could begin in earnest. What Friday night, she asked herself?

The office was deserted, the overhead lights casting a pale glow. She noticed a light under the door of her boss’s office. Still here then. The building would not close, she knew, until 7 at the earliest. The computer geeks on the top floor often stayed even later. Flopping down at her desk she removed her waterproof to reveal a long-sleeved sweatshirt with the logo: A Fish Without a Bicycle is Like a Chip Without… She glanced at the Guardian on her desk. Kylie Mother: ‘I have not given up hope’. That baby girl who went missing in, when was it, 1989? She would be eighteen today. Louise glanced at a blurred photograph of a five month old baby and then and now pictures of her mother. Tracy Anderson had somehow maintained her glamour. One of the reasons the story had taken hold, Louise couldn’t help but think. She didn’t have time to read it now. It would have to wait till later. Face it girl, she said to herself, you’ve got sod all else to do. She’d take the paper home, pour herself a nice glass of red. And probably fall asleep half way through the article.

Logging on to the computer she began to update her case notes. Coffee, must have coffee, she decided after two minutes, and got up to get the kettle from the filing cabinet against the wall.

She walked past the light oak door on the left with the crooked sign: MR. W. COPELAW, OPERATIONAL MANAGER. Makes him sound like a bloody surgeon, she thought. May as well see him now. The door was slightly ajar. Pushing it lightly she saw a small packet on the floor, which she picked up. Durex Fetherlite, she read. For customers of Maxwell’s Hotel, York. So that’s what he got up to on that course. Smiling, she imagined herself giving the packet back to Copelaw and saying, “You must have dropped these, glad to see you’re taking safe sex seriously”. That would give her a laugh before she went home. She pushed the door wider and went further into the room. On the floor she saw an overturned chair, a chipped Salford City Reds coffee mug and a dog-eared calendar, showing today’s date. 15 ^th June 2007. She stared straight ahead and a February shiver trembled through her.

What really goes through the mind of those market research people who accost you in the street …

Lots of Make up No Mirror

NICOLA:

“Market Research! Freeze!” I shouted, sticking the gun in the matronly woman’s ear. My breath steamed out on a December day.

“Nicola Penrose; Questions Dot Com.” I flashed my ID, waving the laminated plastic photo hanging round my neck.

Her watery eyes looked up in gormless alarm. Outside the bookshop a busker, all designer stubble and denim, was murdering Jealous Guy to mark the 25th anniversary of John Lennon’s death. The window of Tourist Information next door advertised the charms of Lovington, ‘in the heart of Lovendale, a hidden gem in the North East of England.’ Hidden, that’s what I’d like to be.

“Here’s the deal,” I instructed, “we go to the Copper Kettle, you get tea or coffee, cake or scone…”

“Well, actually…”

“Not both…”

“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she murmured as an icy wind whipped litter around the kerbside in Lovington town centre. KFC wrappers chased fag ends into the gutters. Crisp packets swirled around an Amnesty International vigil for Human Rights Day. “A few questions, a bit of paperwork and you’re on your way within twenty minutes guaranteed.”

“I’ll miss the number 74.”

“Yeah, right.”

My life ceased when I had a baby. My husband ordered me to give up being a high-flying accountant. Already helpless, I ceded control to others completely. I joined the huddle of market researchers, their anorak grey faces lined with insincere smiles desperately trying to mask deep frustration. On the days my mother in law deigned to baby sit that was my life. An endless scurry of people fleeing from my entreaties with a “bus to catch” type excuse

“Co-operate and nobody gets hurt,” I snarled, releasing the safety catch. I had finally snapped after months of sleepless nights watching gangster films on TCM and tired days of pleading with passers by to stop and talk to me.

The woman came quietly. In the teashop she opted for the cake. A few non-committal answers about her favourite deodorant and whether David Cameron is a sex god and she went on her way.

Thanks to a clever lawyer I got probation – the gun was a fake – and a suspended sentence. The baby? Oh, my husband got custody. So Josh - or is it Jonathan, I’m terrible with names? - lives with his grandma and I don’t have to see him any more. I’m back at work full-time in a new and better job. I’ve got my life back.

STEVE:

“Another pint, please.” Beryl, a woman of indeterminate age, took my glass. ‘Lots of make up; no mirror’ we call her.

“Certainly, dear,” she said. I’ve told her my name’s Steve but it’s always ‘dear’.

“You know she’s gone?” In the empty early evening bar there was nobody else to talk to. I sniffed at the stale air of my local in Bentley in Lovendale and breathed in the trademark Grey Horse smell. Chips. It gets everywhere: the beer pumps, the tables, the Christmas decorations. I swear you can even catch a whiff on the dartboard. The thought turned my depression up another notch as did Slade belting out their seasonal hit. Again. Beryl looked blankly at me.

“Nicola, she’s left me.”

When she had the baby she wanted to continue her career. I agreed for a while but, well, things were starting to fall apart at home. Shirts not ironed, tea not on the table when I got home. So I put a stop to it. As a compromise I let her do the odd day’s work down the town. Gets her out of the house. Firm but fair that’s me.

“Has she, dear? Because of the business with the…?” Beryl nodded meaningfully.

Why’s she’s being so coy? Thanks to the Northern Echo the whole world knows what happened. My wife was doing her Market Research by the Lovendale Shopping Complex when she cracked up. She held a woman up at gunpoint – well, a replica - and forced her to take part in a survey. Got fed up of people rushing past and ignoring her apparently. When the cops phoned I decided to go down to the police station and see for myself -. I’d look a right prat if I organised a brief and it turned out to be her idea of a joke. It was no joke.

I got her a top solicitor – I’m a junior partner in Pym and Sigson’s, the North East’s most prestigious law firm - and the judge put it down to that post-natal whatsit.

She only got probation, psychiatric treatment and six months suspended.

“The minute she got out of court the cheeky cow said she wanted a divorce,” I explained to a bored looking Beryl.

“She never did.”

“True as I’m standing here,” I insisted. “she said she wasn’t cut out for marriage and motherhood.”

Beryl shook her head in disbelief and rearranged the beer mats on the bar.

“You know, loss of identity and other feminist bollocks.”

Still, soon find somebody else. Tell you what, once the birds find out you’re a single father you’re beating them off with a stick.

“There we are, dear.” I handed over the cash as Beryl presented me with the pint. I drank half of it and tried not to look at the fixed grin stuck on her face.

“I got custody and now me and Jonathan live with my mam.”

“That’s nice, dear.”

That’s one way of putting it, I thought, drinking up quickly. I went out into the night, turning up my collar against a wind as cold as American beer. To warm myself up I walked quickly and got to thinking about the name we have for Beryl. ‘Lots of make up; no mirror.’ That’s me really, I thought, wondering what was making me so introspective. I had created the right cosmetic effect on the outside but underneath…? It all looked good: career, marriage, child, house, car. All the boxes ticked. What I had needed was a mirror that reflected the truth. I could have looked deep into it to see what was really there, what was staring me in the face. Too late now though.

LINDA:

I met Christopher Dale in February at a Lovington Athletic match. I’ve been a fan from being a girl. It was just after the dust settled on that business with Nicola, my daughter in law. She threatened some poor woman with a replica gun while doing Market Research outside Ottakars. She’s in London now, finding herself. I was left holding the baby. ‘Let Linda do it,’ that was Nicola’s motto. I remember overhearing her telling Stephen, ‘Your mum will look after Jonathan.’ This after she’d wittered on about stereotyped gender roles for so long I nearly rang the Guinness Book of Records.

You could say the whole thing was doing my head in. I know I look young but I’m too old to be starting again with nappies and stuff. Steve would leave it all to me if I let him but I insist he pulls his weight. Well, I’m entitled to a life of my own. I suppose it’s a shame to have another broken marriage in the family though. My track record isn’t that great as far as long-term relationships go. I’ve been round the block a few times but, well, you always want to try just one more circuit, don ’t you?

As I sat down next to Chris that day an ex-pupil called out so everyone could hear, “How’s your little grandson, Mrs. Blake?” Nice one, I thought, ruining my image. After me spending a small fortune at Toni and Guy’s on blonde highlights the other day an’ all. I’d bought the leather jacket and designer jeans at the Next sale that very morning after an hour at the gym. That’s how I keep my girlish figure. Before I left Lovington town centre I picked up a Socialist Worker for old time’s sake.

“You’re never a grandmother!” he said with a Dwight Yorke grin, Caribbean cadences colliding with vowels from the North of England. The only black man in the vicinity, tall, handsome and smartly dressed, he had those touches of grey at the temples. Distinguished, around my age.

After the match it turned out we were going the same way. Naturally he asked me in for a drink when we reached his house first. It was warm in his living room so I took off my jacket and jumper. This revealed my T-shirt with a picture of Sam Cooke, American pioneer of Soul Music and Rod Stewart ’s favourite singer.

“Sam Cooke!” he cried out. We’re both fans as it turned out and we talked about Sam’s music, his early death and his part in the Civil Rights movement. Somehow we got onto whether a Socialist society will ever be possible over a smooth glass of Californian Pinot Noir.

“Linda,” he said after a while. “I was just about to cook myself something to eat, why not join me?”

Well, you know the golden rule? If you find a man who can cook latch on to him quick. Ask him what’s on the menu first, mind. If he says spaghetti Bolognese, make an excuse and leave. Chances are it’s the only dish he can manage.

I struck lucky; it was Monkfish Ragout with Vermouth.

Waiting for the food to be ready, I phoned my son to say I was having a meal with Chris. (Chris just happens to be the name of my closest female friend so Stephen may have got hold of the wrong end of the stick.)

Over dinner I opened up to him about the Nicola incident, the first time I’d been able to talk about it. He was so understanding, I soon felt better. After a while we got onto football and how Wayne Rooney needs to calm down sometimes.

“He gets overheated with excitement,” I said, savouring the last mouthful of fish.

“It’s a long time,” Chris said, looking up at me, “since I’ve been overheated with excitement.”

Well! I thought. What can he possibly mean?

“That’s a shame.” I stopped eating and held his gaze.

We carried on eating and chatting in the same way but something had definitely passed deliciously between us. Surely he wasn’t going to take advantage of a poor vulnerable woman? ‘With any luck, Linda,’ I said to myself, ‘with any luck.’

Chris cleared away and went into the kitchen. I looked through his CD collection and picked out Sam Cooke’s Greatest Hits. I went into the kitchen where, for form’s sake, I asked if I could help with anything. He stood up from stacking the dishwasher and faced me.

“Everything’s fine.”

I complimented him on his cooking as we stood awkwardly waiting for something to happen. The CD moved on to Bring it on Home to Me, my favourite.

“Oh, I love this,” I said. The piano intro sent an orgasmic shiver down my spine. Suddenly we were in one another’s arms, smooching in the kitchen like teenagers.

The music seemed to come from slave plantations across years of injustice, through centuries of painful progress as we kissed for the first time. At that familiar dizzying sensation I thought how lucky we were. To be born in a time and place where this was possible.

Bring it to me.

But it all came back to this. Two people together about to share that one special experience. Everything else was blotted out. I was nobody’s granny or mother, just me. No more nutty Nicola, no more crying baby, no more useless Stephen. This moment defined me.

Bring your sweet lovin’.

It was going to happen. All in good time. This laugh about it, shout about, can’t do without it thing. We walked out of the kitchen hand in hand, knowing where we were going and why. I wondered at the magical coincidence that had brought us together. A retired teacher and an ICI Financial Executive. A working class girl from Lovendale and a black kid from the streets of Kingston, Jamaica.

Bring it on home to me.