Inkerman Writers - Libby Thompson

Glove at First Sight

When Ashleigh Borowdale, better known as ‘Asbo’ walked into his local paper shop for twenty Bensons and a Yorkie, the first thing he noticed about the new shop assistant, apart from the fact that she was new and rather fit, was that she was wearing gloves. It was April, and warm for the time of year, she was indoors, wore a t-shirt and jeans, and the gloves, well, they just didn ’t go.

They weren’t full-on woolly gloves, just thin white ones. They reminded him a bit of the kind Sergeant Majors wear, but girlier. He wanted to mention them, but thought better of it and managed to complete his purchase without so much as a glance; after all she was really very fit and they could have a future together, even if it was only one night long.

It was with some curiosity, therefore, that he went to buy his ciggies the next day and sure enough, she was wearing the gloves again. His eyes lingered over them for a moment whilst she rang the sale through and gave him his change. He was desperate to ask, but it felt a bit rude. He stuck to the safe option.

“What’s your name then?”

“Tina, what’s yours?”

“Ashleigh, Asbo to my mates”

“Right Asbo, that’s 28p change”

There was a moment of quality eye contact, which could only mean one thing and Asbo left on a high.

The next day, after buying a Daily Mirror (he had wanted the Sun) his curiosity got the better of him.

“What’s with the gloves then?”

“That would be telling” She said, running one gloved hand through her glossy brown hair.

“Well what’s the big secret?

“Like I said, none of yours” She tapped a gloved finger against her nose.

It was infuriating. One the one hand, no pun intended, she looked a right prat, but on the other the whole glove thing gave her an air of mystery. He was completely intrigued and beginning to fancy her big time.

The daily visits and exchanges of chit-chat continued, as did Tina’s glove wearing. Asbo had started to hazard the occasional guess about the reason why she wore them.

“Newspaper ink” he suggested, “You don’t want to get it all over your hands “

“Do I look like I’m that pathetic?”

“It’s the money” was another attempt. “You’ve got that obsessive whatever thingy and you can’t touch money that loads of other people have touched.”

A look was enough to let him know that wasn’t the reason.

The annoying thing was, he was desperate to ask her out. He knew she didn’t have a boyfriend (he’d asked) and he was pretty sure she fancied him, (she’d made it obvious,) but how could he take her out in public, she might wear the gloves. So far he hadn ’t seen her without them, and what would his mates say? They’d never stop taking the piss.

Then one day, two weeks after they had met, she stopped wearing the gloves as suddenly as April turned to May. He took her hands in his over the counter and inspected them for clues. The hands gave nothing away. They were beautiful, soft and perfect, just like their owner.

“Are they gone for good?” He inquired nonchalantly.

“Yep”

“Will you go out with me?”

“Might do”

And so it began. Romance blossomed like the huge horse chestnut tree under which they met in Tina ’s lunch break. They saw each other nearly every day and often in the evening; sometimes going to the pictures, sometimes to the local, sometimes staying in when Asbo ’s mum was at the Bingo. A lot depended on whether Asbo’s giro was due.

The mystery of the gloves was not forgotten, however, and Asbo still hazarded the occasional guess at why she had worn them. It was bonding. It made them laugh.

“Skin rash?” He ventured playfully as they queued in the chippy.

“Nope and yuk!” She replied

Tattoos of LOVE and HATE were being removed from your knuckles by laser treatment. ” He suggested as they watched Casualty one Saturday night in July, not feeling particularly confident about this one.

“That’s just ridiculous, now shut up and watch the telly.

During a scorching August, Tina and Asbo were as hot as the weather. In the park they would sit beneath their tree as tiny conkers formed in their prickly cases, and they kiss their lunchtime crumbs away.

“Circulation problems, needed to keep your hands warm, had heart surgery on the quiet, circulation fine, hands warm, lose the gloves ”

“Hmmm, close that time, keep trying”

“Dirty great big mole, very embarrassing, had it removed, Bob’s your uncle”

“Come here you big daft…”

“Hairs on the palms of your hands, very nasty…”

“ASBO!!!”

But things don’t always last, good weather being one of them, and as the season changed, so did their feelings for each other.

Summer ripened into Autumn. Their tree began to lose its leaves and Tina and Asbo began to lose interest in each other. More rain meant fewer lunchtime meetings in the park and they rarely made the effort to make it the caf é instead. Asbo’s mum hardly ever went to Bingo as the nights drew in, and their sex life suffered.

The cracks in the conker shells when little boys stamped on them were nothing compared to those appearing in Tina and Asbo ’s relationship. Those endearing little ‘ways’ became aggravating habits. Asbo showed no more sign of getting a job in October than he had in April, and was always skint. Tina was sick of subbing him and had started to fancy the paper boy ’s dad. She knew things weren’t right when she found Asbo’s guesses completely irritating and just not funny any more.

“Fungal nail disease” He exclaimed with his mouth full of cheese and pickle sandwich one lunchtime.

“No. and don’t talk with your mouth full”

“Warts” He murmured contentedly from his post coital stupor.

“Ridiculous!” She snapped from her post coital disappointment

Around the same time that the small boys had had enough of collecting conkers. Tina and Asbo had had enough of each other. The end was just a matter of time.

They were nursing a pint at the ‘Traveller’s’ on a cold damp, miserable evening in November, each with nothing and everything to say. The night dragged on, they couldn ’t even be bothered to argue. Asbo found the energy from somewhere, to make an effort.

“Scabies”

“What?”

“Scabies, you know those little burrowing…”

“Yes, thank you, I know what they are, and no, and look, Ash”

She took a deep breath, considered seriously what she was about to do, and took the plunge.

“It was hair dye”

“You what?”

“Hair dye, I dyed my mate’s hair red, cinnamon actually, We lost the plastic gloves. My hands got dyed, well, cinnamon colour. It took two weeks to fade.

“Hair dye!” He sounded disappointed.“

“Yeh”

Asbo sighed, “Well I guess that’s that then”

“I guess so”

He downed his pint and left.

Tina bought herself another drink and sat for a little while longer, feeling a bit sad, but mostly relieved She stared at her hands for a few moments, turning them over, thinking.

It wasn’t hair dye, but there was no need for him to know.

And Tina’s secret remained just that.

Wallflower

Nobody noticed me

Or asked me to dance

I stood by the wall

And hoped for a chance

I’m not very chatty

Or funny, or bright

Or pretty or witty

But clean and polite

Because they ignored me

For such a long while

I started to blend in

Chamelion style

I looked down at my dress

And thought it seemed strange

The colours and pattern

Had started to change

Then to my horror

I saw it begin

The very same artwork

Invaded my skin

I melted, I blended

I felt myself flatten

My dress and my flesh

Matched the wallpaper pattern

Nobody noticed

Then, as I had feared

Into the background

I just disappeared

I’m nothing, I’m no-one

As plain as can be

I’m part of the furniture

Can you find me?

I’ve got a boyfriend

Shout it from the rooftops

I’ve got a boyfriend

Allah must be praised

I’ve got a boyfriend

Must have been the outfit

I’ve got a boyfriend

Don’t look so amazed

I’m in a couple

Let’s have a dinner party

I’m in a couple

With couples by the score

I’m in a couple

Halfway to a foursome

I’m in a couple

A gooseberry no more

Somebody likes me

That means I’m attractive

Somebody likes me

That means I am thin

Somebody liked my

Wit and charm offensive

Somebody likes me

And I like him

I’m not a singly

No more lonely evenings

I’m not a singly

Miserable at home

I’m not a singly

Reading trashy novels

I’m not a singly

And drinking on my own

I’ve got a boyfriend

Goody goody gumdrops

I’ve got a boyfriend

Shoobi doobi doo

I’ve got a boyfriend

Nah nah nah nah nah

I’ve got a boyfriend

So raspberries to you!

Ode to a Bumble Bee

I watched you for half an hour

Visiting flower after flower

Always seen so smartly dressed

In your black and yellow vest

Epitome of industry

Watching you is tiring me

Resting here I watch your haste

Will you go home?

And write a poem?

About the idle human race?

List Poem

My To Do List:

Tidy house

Wash dishes

Iron clothes

Do shopping

Clean bathroom

Dust and vacuum

My Will Do List:

Read book

Write poem

Go for walk

Watch movie

Potter in garden

Sit in sunshine and

Drink glass of wine

Night Out (A Sonnet)

I’m standing at the bar without a date

You catch my eye and hold my gaze awhile

I’m feeling pretty bold, it’s getting late

So stare right back and give a little smile

You wander over, offer me a drink

I say “red wine” and though you are quite fit

I play it cool, I don’t want you to think

I’m desperate, although I am a bit.

We drink and flirt and flirt and drink and flirt

I’m rather drunk from knocking back the wine

You make a move, a hand upon my skirt

We make a big decision, yours or mine

We take each other’s hand and it feels right

And slowly stagger off into the night.

Finding yourself in the wrong body

Somebody swallowed me, now I’m trapped within

This papery skin

I see my new guise

Through moist and misty eyes

Somebody swallowed me, somebody sitting

And sitting, just knitting

(I never keep still

Unless I am ill)

The person who swallowed me has silvery hair

It gave me a scare

(My actual hair

Is long and fair)

Somebody swallowed me, somebody frail

And horribly pail

(My usual self

Is a picture of health)

Somebody swallowed me, somebody deaf

Of that there’s no doubt

For they can’t hear me scream

Let me out, let me out

Recipe for Sibling Harmony

Take two girls of different ages

At least two years apart is recommended to ensure

Different friends, interests, and taste in t.v. programmes.

Now,,,put them together in the same family, and under one roof.

(One may have a bigger bedroom than the other.)

Next throw in some choice name calling,

Add lots of hair pulling

Stir in a few well-aimed kicks, and a handful of nips.

Bites are recommended, but optional.

Into the mixture fold in 9 or 10 “you did” “I didn’t”s

And at least as many “it was” “it wasn’t”s

Heat the mixture slowly using a sweltering summer’s day

When boiling, sprinkle in more arguments over property,

(And bedroom size, if being used)

Throw in two “I hate you”s

Leave to simmer for the rest of the day.

Allow to cool and settle as the sun goes down.

Cover and leave overnight

12 hours later the finished product should be ready, and you will have two

Affectionate, loving and friendly sisters

Usually enough for one average family.

Playing Out

Every year,

As winter fades,

The “calling for” begins.

As days grow longer,

The merry band grows stronger,

The tribe of neighbourhood children take to the street.

Suburban urchins, bows and arrows flying, hiding, seeking, spying,

Bikes abandoned, mealtimes missed, bedtimes passed.

Scabs are badges of honour, worn with pride,

Sticks and stones for trophies pass

Wheels a must but any will do, go carts

Bikes, rollerblades, skateboards, scooters too.

Shouts bounce around the gardens,

Faces filthy, nails broken,

Not a care, their youthful

Work continues, until

Days shorten and cool,

And playing out late,

Will have to wait,

Til next year.

Remember

Remember that fight

You hit me and I hit you

Our marriage was new

I thought it had ended

But we tried

And it mended

Remember the shouting

We both had to be right

So we’d fight.

But we grew

Remember the babies

The sleepless nights

Tempers frayed

But we stayed

And made

It work

It used to be tough

Patches rough

But you loved me enough

And I you

Beware the Shoes

Beware men wearing

Shiny shoes that creak

They will be insurance salesmen

Or estate agents

Or religious freaks

Who ring the bell

And talk of Hell

Real men don’t wear

Shiny shoes that creak

But rather trainers, docs or boots

Jeans instead of suits

If you speak

To men who’s shoes

Are shiny and creak

You’ll find you’ve agreed

To something you don’t need

Delivered in one week.

Baking Day

Monday’s always been my day to bake

You will not tolerate that shop bought bread

It’s something shops have never learned to fake

So I simply keep on baking it instead

I keep you sweet and try to stay ahead

With quiches, pastries, puddings, biscuits, cakes

For better or for worse as once I said

So Monday’s always been my day to bake

I quickly learned the hard way, by mistakes

Your temper’s something I have learned to dread

So if you want a sandwich for your steak

You will not tolerate that shop bought bread

I do my best to stop you seeing red

It’s easier for everybody’s sake

The very sight of you fills me with dread

It’s something I have never learned to fake

I wonder how much more of this to take

Especially Sunday nights, when laid in bed

Desire to shop for bread keeps me awake

But I simply keep on baking it instead.

I fantasize about you being dead

As a dozen cheese topped buns I make

Into the mixture for your bloody bread

There must be something deadly I could shake

And Monday’s always been my day to bake!

Teenager’s Song

Wind your Mother up

Sit

Back

Watch her crack

Wind your Father up

Watch

As

His mood turns black

Wear too much make-up

Shorten your skirt

Smoke in your bedroom

That’s where it hurts

Snog with your boyfriend

Let them see

Stagger home

At half past three

Wind your Mother up

Wind your Father up

Sit

Back

Watch them crack

The residents and visitors of a residential home all have their secrets....

Someone Feeling Something

"Come on now Lizzy, don’t be difficult, one big spoonful so I know you’ve had something. You won’t grow up to be big and strong if you don’t eat your supper now will you?"

Eliza Jackson met the care workers gaze with as much determination as an infirm seventy six year old woman could muster and kept her mouth firmly closed.

Pat French leaned in closer to the old woman and hissed in her ear

"Eat it or wear it you troublesome bitch."

Eliza refused. Pat attempted to force the spoonful of shepherd’s pie into her mouth roughly, carefully positioning her body to shield her action from the view of other staff or residents. Not that many of the staff would have cared. Many of them had been there for a long time and felt the same way she did, full of loathing and disgust about the feeble specimens in their care.

She hadn’t always felt this way. When she first started work at the ‘New Pastures’ nursing home she had actually quite liked the old dears, it was one of the reasons she ’d taken for the job. She used to find the clients on the whole quite funny and endearing, but as the years went by she began to resent their vulnerability, unpredictability, their rudeness and ill health. In short she resented the fact that they were old and there wasn ’t an awful lot they could do about that. Pat began to feel that if she dressed one more sticky bedsore, changed one more reeking incontinence pad or dabbed one more trickle of spittle running from the corner of a mouth she would kill someone. And she wasn ’t joking.

**************

Eliza resisted the metal spoonful of lukewarm mush by turning her face away sharply and bringing her right hand up suddenly, knocking the loaded spoon out of Pat ’s hand and onto the floor.

Eliza Jackson was past caring. There was nothing good to expect here at ‘Out to pasture’. Knackers yard more like! A sly nip here, an insult there, a quiet death threat in the dark of the night, all par for the course. Hairbrushing was one of the favoured methods of torture, pulling at the tangles mercilessly until her eyes watered, just like when she was a little girl and not a damn thing she could do about it. Even if she could complain, she was likely to suffer for it, but strokes had left Eliza with slurred and unclear speech and she had all but stopped talking to people. It was too much like hard work and she was tired.

***************

Pat signalled to a member of the domestic staff to sort out the mess the evil old cow had made. She could have easily done it herself but she wasn ’t going to let Lizzy Jackson see her on hands and knees cleaning up after her. Casting a look of disgust at the troublemaking resident Pat felt, not for the first time a pang of gratitude that her own mother hadn ’t ended up in such a pathetic state. She was dead and had been spared the ignominy of old age. Actually she had been her adoptive mother, her own had not wanted her for whatever reason. But the mother and father she had known had been good to her. They really had loved her and given her everything she needed, and wanted, within their moderate means.

And they had been good grandparents to her own daughter Carol. She was grown up now of course and had a life of her own. Pat didn ’t see as much of her as she would have liked. Carol lived down south and had an important job with her local hospital. She was often on call at the weekend and unable to come and visit. Never mind. Perhaps when she had children of her own she would see more of her.

***************

Lizzy watched the domestic cleaning up the mess she had made and felt bad. Sometimes playing up backfired.That cleaner was nice to her. Spoke to her like a real person, and remembered to call her Eliza as her records stated as her preference. Sometimes when she wasn ’t too busy, Sue, the cleaner, sat with Eliza and read snippets from the daily papers to her. This was one of her favourite things. Eliza felt it was important to keep up with the outside world. She didn ’t get many visitors, not like some of the people in here. Some had the same people, day in day out. A regular visitation of guilty consciences, Eliza could spot them a mile off. But at least they had someone feeling something.

***************

Pat French threw her plastic feeding apron in the bin and went to the staff toilets to calm down and clean up. As she splashed cold water on her face she took a look at herself in the mirror. She looked every one of her 59 years and partly blamed this shitty job for taking its toll on her looks. She examined the deep lines on her forehead and tried pulling them flat with her fingers for that homemade facelift effect. Her once almost jet black hair was giving way more and more to course grey strands, and the dark circles under her eyes were the result of sleepless days when adjusting to a new phase of nightshifts. Her too full figure was also a direct casualty of the job. It wasn ’t the most active of occupations and the residents’ poor appetites resulted in plenty of leftovers to pick at.

How was she going to get through this shift? It had got off to a bad start already and she still had ten hours to go. Staff shortages had left them all with twelve hour shifts to cover, voluntarily of course, but who would turn them down. With their wages, every minute of overtime was a godsend.

Pat emerged from the toilets feeling a little calmer. It was prime visiting time for the next couple of hours so the demands on her for help with toileting, requests for drinks, assistance with ailments etc were greatly reduced. Let the relatives do something for them for once, she thought. Pat deeply resented the fact that dozens of family members were leaving the care of their mother or father to her and her colleagues, who neither loved them nor liked them.

Her better humour was challenged slightly when she noticed that that nuisance Lizzy Jackson had a visitor again. She didn ’t usually have anyone come to see her, but in recent months a middle aged lady dressed in smart clothes and looking quite business-like had been 3 or 4 times. Pat hated the fact that Lizzy had someone visiting. To her knowledge Lizzy had no family, but the two women seemed comfortable with each other, almost to the point of intimacy. Her hackles rose, and in order to preserve her sanity, Pat took herself off to the staffroom to catch up with the other carers on her shift. If Janice or Laura were on, she might even have a laugh.

***************

The evening didn’t improve as it wore on. Fat Margaret Robinson pissed herself just after getting into bed again. There was going to be a meeting at the end of the week about her, wet beds were becoming the norm. Barry Figgis had a funny turn and needed taking to hospital at about 9.30, and some new old git that Pat didn ’t know the name of needed sedating when he was supposed to be getting ready for bed, shouting and screaming for someone called Joan?" Joan is either dead or doesn ’t want you any more mate, Pat thought grimly. It was all very irritating when you just want things nice and quiet and to get through your shift. Perhaps the last straw for Pat French was the last minute change of plan that left her with the job of getting Eliza Jackson into bed. She was so tired, and wound up by the events of the night that this really was the last thing she needed, and she went into Eliza ’s room full of hell.

****************

"Hey Eliza Doolittle. Hey Lizzy Dripping," Pat peered round Eliza’s door and made her way over to the bed.

"That was a nice trick you played on me at tea-time. "

Eliza was compliant. It wasn’t safe to cause trouble when the so called carers were alone with you. She didn’t want to make Pat angry, but Pat was already angry.

"Not so full of it when there’s no-one around huh?"

She took Eliza’s clothes off roughly and got her into her nightie, then manhandled her into bed. She didn ’t leave straight away but moved around the room slowly, straightening the flowered curtains and running her finger through the dust on the dressing table as if stalling for time. She started for the door, then hesitated; wondering, dreaming. She glanced back at Eliza. She looked like a tucked up child, vulnerable and pathetic. Pat went over to the bed and stroked her face almost tenderly. Then she stood up, took the spare pillow from the wardrobe and placed it deliberately and carefully over Eliza ’s face, pressing gently. The old lady’s eyes widened with fear. Pat felt an unexpected pang of pity and guilt and quickly lifted the pillow. She returned it to its original position and turned to Eliza.

"Just teasing Lizzy" she murmured. "Not tonight Lizzy"

She left the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

Eliza lay in the dark, shaking with anger and fear. A few months ago she mightn’t have cared so much, maybe even wished she had gone through with it. Put her out of her misery once and for all. All the better if that bitch had gone to jail for it too!

But she didn’t feel like that any more. Now things were going to be different. After months of waiting, finally some news. Now, with a bit of luck, she would have someone on her side. She made herself as comfortable as she could and for the first time in years fell asleep not dreading her tomorrows.

**************

At 6.35 am. Pat French opened the front door of her house and went inside, noticing the silence as she did every day. Divorced for eight years, Pat was used to the routine of living alone, but not to the empty feeling that hit her every time she walked through that door.

She made herself a large vodka and tonic and drank it quickly in bed whilst reading yesterday ’s Daily Mirror. She fell asleep quickly, but slept badly, as usual, and found herself wide awake as the postman delivered at about eleven o ’clock. Thoughts of the previous shift and the shift to come crowded her mind already. Pat considered the fact that she might really do it one day. but she wasn ’t quite sure whether she meant resign, or kill someone. She tried to find the funny side as she boiled the kettle and opened the post. Apart from the usual quota of junk there was one letter that looked a little different and Pat began opening it with a certain amount of interest.

The letter was from an agency called ‘LINK’

Pat scanned the page picking out odd words and phrases, unable to make sense of what she saw …. Reunite… birth mother …5th February 1948, her own birth date…. Her mind was racing, what did it mean? She wasn’t looking for her birth mother, she hadn’t started it, she hadn’t wanted it.

Maybe her daughter had initiated the search, she’d always been curious about her real grandparents. Could she do that? She continued down the page. It was becoming clearer. Her real mother was trying to find her. She was still alive and she still cared. Pat’s heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. She steadied herself against the kitchen table hardly daring to go on. She hadn’t asked for this but now she felt like she wanted it, as if she had always wanted it and it was with expectation and renewed hope that she read on to discover the name of her biological mother.

The all too familiar name screamed at her from the page and her legs gave way.

Pat struggled to refrain from vomiting before she reached the bathroom.