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All The
Things I Never Wanted
Stage play in progress. Dedicated to the memory
of Terry Schiavo who died in America, March 05 after her husband ordered
her ventilator to be switched off. The characters and events in the
play are completely fictional and are in no way meant to be a biography
of the real people.
©Linda Cleary 2005
Woman in bed:
I expected more from my
life. Yeh, sure, so does everyone else. But most people want the
things I never wanted; like kids, a house, a steady career. I wanted
fame, my name all lit up in some show somewhere. I wanted sex - with
lots of different guys. Free, uninhibited, hedonism. So maybe I
should've been a porn star. What else did I want? I dunno, to be a
permanent size 10, speak a few languages, play an instrument with deft
skill, stay lucky. Funny thing life; or so they say. I guess, when it
comes down to it, all we have is our memory. Our memories shape us,
direct us. Let's face it without your memory you'd be pretty screwed.
Apart from the fact your learnt behaviour may go out of the
window....yer know...little things like speech, co-ordinated movement,
how to wipe your ass, use cutlery. Then of course there's the other
stuff like remembering your own name and who all those people are that
seem to know you. It can be pretty scary, having complete strangers
invade your personal body space like that, with those Christian types of
smiles. Apparently that's my mom and that guy that looks like he needs
to shed a house or three; that's my husband. Or is he? I mean
technically if you haven't had sex or spoken to your husband for years
does that make your marriage annulled? No, I guess it just makes it
normal. Do you ever stop and think about being on the loop? I mean it
scares the shit out of most people when they do and me...well I never
even knew I was on one - but most of us are. Eat, connect with people,
work, have sex, sleep, go some place or other, come back. That's what
most people call life. Connect with people...how many times did you
ever truly connect? How many times did you turn off the phone, pretend
you didn't hear the doorbell, lie about why you couldn't make that
dinner, say yes instead of no and no instead of yes. I wish I'd done so
much more of the wrong things. The wrong things were fun. God! For
the endless days of smoking dope and listening to Hendrix over and over
and skipping work so I could stay in bed with a stupid but gorgeous guy
who'd just keep fucking me....You know the phrase 'fuck some life into
her' well..no.. you probably don't.. coz I just made it up but maybe
that's exactly what I need. A life affirming fuck. Oh sex and death Mr
Freud; when will that loop be over?
Mother:
I had a lot of problems with her when she was born;
the cord was round her neck and she was blue. She just lay there, small
and blue and lifeless and I remember thinking 'Is this what I get for
all that planning?' Then suddenly she let out this small cough, well it
was more of a splutter and then we knew she was going to pull through.
She had lots of hair. Almost like a thick, black down on her body.
Like a little animal. She was beautiful.
Woman:
Yeh, so beautiful you wanted to make my life a
misery. So fuckin' beautiful it was hard to be in the same room as me.
Dad didn't think I was so beautiful though did he Mom? No, he was
finding beauty in the opening of every new bottle and desperation in its
end.
Dad:
Unfair to speak of the dead. Unfair. Reduce all
bonus points. Cancel all luxuries.
Crowd:
Oh it's terrible what some families do to each
other isn't it. I mean what happened to values. He never cared about
them. Do you know she told her sister that he sold the children's
clothes to get money for drink. Can you believe it. Her rocking horse
as well.
Riposte crowd:
I didn't know she had a sister.
Woman:
Sister sister brother brother dog cat washing
machine. Had 'em all. Had 'em all right there. Right nowhere.
Anywhere let's get on with some facts. Where shall I start? Present,
future, past? Stick to the past, stick to the past.. though very often
it's the past sticking to us like a hideous glue. Oh I'm aching, aching
for a life. Stuck here in this bed. Immobile. Prefix Im. Rather
ironic do you not think.. Im mobile. When one so obviously isn't. So I
was born.
Parents in unison:
As soon as she was born we set up two funds. One
for a wedding and the other; a funeral. We knew it was 50/50, she'd
fulfil at least one of those targets; she'd marry a prince and live
forever – or die.
Voice of unseen sibling:
I'm locked in this cupboard! Can anyone hear me?
Hello! Well, while you're looking for a key I'll tell you how it
happened. What?! This! How this happened! Oh look; let's start at the
beginning..
B
A C K T O T O P
Tales Of Horror & Love
Narratives
Grease 89
The flight was a nightmare. It was my first time
flying and Jonah had sweetly made me some buns for my leaving present.
A penchant for cake coupled with ignorance of the hash he'd put in meant
I'd eaten about five of them by the time he came back in with a cup of
tea. ''Five?!" he exclaimed. "What's wrong with five? I was hungry
and you seemed to be taking ages." I said in defence of over eaters
everywhere. "Well," he shrugged, "it's just that you're gonna be
trippin', that's all". My mum came to see me off at Manchester airport
and gripped by maternal emotionality had decided that she would pay for
my insurance in case of death. She took a photograph of me just before
Customs in case it proved to be my last trip. Safe in the knowledge
that if it was she'd have the body flown back, she waved me on, shouting
to get a seat near the tail, as was her 'how to avert an aviation
disaster' tip. “Bye love! Bye! Sit near the back if you can!
Remember to phone me when you get there, alright, phone me! Oh and
Linda! If you see that father of yours, remind him he never paid a
penny in child support. Bye love!
I spent the entire time on board in a cold sweat,
battling with a belief that I'd got compressed aerosols in my luggage
and was about to bring the plane down. It seemed that the air hostess
had singled me out and she kept asking, “Are you OK?” It made me even
more paranoid, as if it was obvious how unOK I was. Why couldn't she
ask someone else, surely there were more people than me having a hard
time, surely not everyone was coping. I looked around frantic to spot a
non coper, but everyone looked like they were doing just fine. There
they were, settled in, laughing at the movie or reading quietly. I was
gripping the chair arms, my eyes tellingly wide and my face in a rictus
smile, anytime anybody even looked vaguely in my direction and the
journey went in to some stoned Plutonic sub timezone.
We finally arrived at Athens. It was 4am.
My bus wasn't leaving for Patras for another two
hours, so I sat in the deserted coffee bar by the station. Deserted
that was apart from a pervert who came to sit opposite me, playing
footsie and throwing money onto pornographic pictures placed in front of
my coffee cup. "Heh" he growled, kicking my foot and scattering filthy
crumpled notes onto a centrespread. He tapped his fingers on the page
and nodded his head towards it, in international gesture language for
"You do this, I give you this, yes!" It didn't matter that I shook my
head in tired disbelief and increasing anger. For Christ's sake I'd
only just started to get my mind back and now this! Yet he continued to
sit there, turning the pages, pointing at lewd pictures and kicking my
foot. The kicking of the foot was one of the most annoying aspects. He
could sit there if he wanted, I had enough in the resurrection of my own
mind to keep me occupied, but everytime he took another swerve at my
shoe I was reminded of his existence and had to contend with him. It
was my introduction to Greece, a land where the young men vie to be
Kamaki. Where tetestorone rules and the motto is Fuck it Kill it Eat
it.
Several beaver shots in I saw that there were two
young Greek guys walking over. "Jesus, they've got a syndicate going" I
thought, but they saw the pervert off and then asked me in very polite
English if they might sit with me to deter a return. We chatted about
this and that and everything seemed rather pleasant. Then they suddenly
suggested that we all went for a car ride to see their cousin. I
explained that my bus was leaving shortly but they became insistent and
now I had two sex pests and not even a waiter or another customer in
sight. Remembering one of my mum's top tips for getting out of trouble
when abroad I elected to go to the toilet.
I didn't really have a plan. I soon realised that
there is a limit to how long one can stay in a public lavatory. I
rather hoped that when I came out they would have gone. They hadn't.
A difficult and rather frantic row ensued with
gesticulating arms and mutual shouts of abuse but I managed to remain
un-molested and on seeing a trolley attendant I made good my escape and
got on my bus.
I was on my way.
Hotel Notel
I had, it seemed by a miracle, managed to not only
locate my bus but purchase a ticket and board it. The bus station
seemed a slow maurading animal of coffee drinkers and heavy smokers.
Children clinging onto their mothers' skirts, receiving either slaps or
pats. It seemed fairly difficult to work out who actually had a job
there and who didn't. Unless the person was stood behind a counter,
they were indestinguishable amongst the human traffic. It was only
really on seeing a man launch himself into the driver's seat of a bus
that one could make the link of employment. Or in the case of a woman,
if she had a bucket and mop it was a fair assumption that she had some
fiscal association which had a chance of going hand in hand with
knowledge of bus routes and timetables. It also meant that the threat
of further molestation was relieved temporarily.
So in the birthing heat of the day I set off to
Patras. Port of employment, my intergration epicentre into the Greek
life. I was going to blink contendedly in the sunlight whilst going
about my chambermaid duties. For I, young spirited thing that I was,
had managed to secure a job in a large hotel for a moderate wage and a
room. Little matter that I hadn't even seen a photograph of the place,
for what proof does an intrepid traveller need of their destination, is
it not the journey that feeds the soul.
It was late afternoon, the bus had wound its way
around just about every village, town and city available to the route
and I had lost count of the grandmas swathed in black, running children,
mangy dogs, perspiring road workers, building sites, fruit groves and
the pounding heat. I had never been that hot, never before felt so
naturally overheated, sure the scene at the Hacienda could burn with
music, substances and death zombie cocktails but on this bus the rays
intensified through the window and I passed the hours in a heat induced
sloth alternating with nervous excitement and agitation.
It was late afternoon when I finally arrived at my
destination. I found my way to the hotel and stood looking up at it
from the pavement opposite. You know those feeling that you have when
you arrive somewhere for the first time and have a good feeling, feel an
immediate sense of rightness - well I didnt possess anything like that.
Patras seemed dirty, built up, polluted and this hotel was a cement and
brick monstrosity looming up into the retreating light. As all addicts
will identify, when something doesn't feel quite right it's helpful to
have a cigarette and buy yourself some time. Those minutes spent
inhaling blue smoke bring about a repreive to the task ahead, and so I
sat on my rucksack, smoking and looking and wondering as to what I had
done.
Eventually, after a period of self negotiation and
some roll ups later, I pulled myself together and strolled over to the
entrance of the hotel. The doors opened and I walked through and up to
the reception desk. A dark haired Greek girl was working there, dressed
in a blue skirt suit she was remarkably reminiscent of an air hostess
and I began to have flashbacks of the plane journey. She looked up from
her forms and I asked to see the manager, showing the written job offer
from the hotel. Performing another international gesture; the chin
outward nod - meaning 'yes I acknowledge you, now wait'. I waited.
Carpets have often made me feel sick and this one
was no exception. I waited in the lobby, my brain wrestling with
identification processes; were we in a plane or in a hotel, was she an
air hostess or a receptionist. I looked about me, but saw only the day
to day running of a hotel. The open doors ahead through which lay the
dining room. A waiter dressed in black trousers and white shirt
delivering items on a silver tray held at shoulder height. A cleaner
with fat ankles and a big plastic flower in her hair, walking at an
incredibly slow pace, chewing gum and looking menacing. And what did I
look like to them. For here I was, a nineteen year old Irish Mancunian
drop out, fresh from a stoned trip with my rumpled rucksack and
unsettled eyes. Here I was, with just £40 in my pocket and all my money
on an idea in my head.
Then the manager arrived.
He was a short, balding, squat man in a dark blue
suit and with a discreet amount of gold jewellery adorning him. He made
his way assertively over the horrendous carpet to greet me, holding out
his hand and smiling. "Argh! Good, good, so you have made it. I am
Andreas Androulakis, the hotel manager. Welcome, welcome" The settled
feelings that his twice affirmed salutations promoted were incredibly
shortlived, for as he reached for my hand in greeting, he performed the
'pervy bus driver's manouvere'. This technique involves the man
'scratching' the inside palm of the female and is a conduit for the
sexual message that he wishes to convey. I had only ever received it
before as a schoolgirl getting change on the school bus sometimes and
off the odd little old sweaty palmed shopkeeper, and now here, thousands
of miles from the north of England, the same gesture! Incredible.
"Do you like a sweet?" He pushed an orange looking
boiled sweet out towards me and raised an eyebrow.
My mind was doing somersaults, but I kept an
outward calm and replied "No, thanks. I don't like sweets."
"Argh but all girls like sweets, no?" He raised
his other eyebrow. "OK. I show you your room."
He summoned a young porter, who looked ridiculously
like a barrel monkey, but then my mind was looking for escape channels.
The barrel monkey came over, his striped shirt tucked into his high
waisted blue trousers and his youthfully podgy face with sproutings of
hair.
Together we took the lift.
My room was off a landing several floors up, the
early evening light came in to the corridor through a large window. It
seemed that this was not the domain of the plastic flower cleaning lady,
as the dirt on the glass played hazy tricks with the fading sun. The
carpet too was far less precarious in its hue and texture, shabby and
trampled, it told its own story. Mr Androulakis stooped, almost as a
jailer, to open the door, before entering the room. The porter shambled
in after him and I followed, already knowing that this was now only a
countdown to runaway time. "Play the game" I said to myself.
"Well, here you are, yes? Your room." Observed Mr
Androulakis.
"Oh, yeh, cheers. It's great". I lied, and we all
knew it.
How many other 'chambermaids' had looked around
this 3ft by 8ft area, taken in the hospital like bed and the small
cabinet. Perhaps they had placed their bibles there, with shaking hands
and clutching at rosaries, making some midnight prayer to the god of
hotel ratings to up them to a notable five star.
"Well," gestured Mr Androulakis "I will leave you
to unpack and you see me later, yes?"
A small reprieve I thought. Then I noted that he
still had the room key in his hand. "Erm, Mr Androulakis?"
"Yes?" His teeth flickered a canine glint.
"Oh, erm, the key?"
"Argh, yes. The key. I will keep the key and I
lock the door at night from the outside, yes? For safety." He started
to mime the nightly ritual of the door locking, his shoulders hunched,
his hands intent on my imprisonment.
"But.." my words drifted off, for he had gone.
Along the shadowing corridor and down into the facade of the hotel.
The porter however was still stood, my rucksack on
his shoulder. I wanted to laugh and cry. What an absolutely ridiculous
situation. A pervy hotel manager, a job and a room that was impossible
to keep in the face of unwelcome nightly visits and here, this monkey
boy looking like he could be hitching along a freeway with my bag.
"Don't worry. He do this to every new girl. He
won't come every night." Monkey boy gave a conciliatory smile. "'Ere,
your bag."
I looked at him, looked into his deep brown eyes.
What was he doing here? Had he been left by parents struggling to pay
their debt to Mr Androulakis, who had imposed ridiculous interest rates
in a sardonic and corrupt swipe at humankind. Had this sweet but
somehow impaired boy been a prisoner in this Patras hellhole, watching
Mr Androulakis and his merry Marquis de Sadean dance? Maybe we could
run away together, take our chances out there, snuggle up like fairytale
brother and sister under plastic sheeting in some moonlit orange grove.
The door clicked. Monkey boy had gone. I was left
to myself.
Escape
I whizzed out of the glass doors of the hotel,
shielded in my cloak of invisibility and with dark glasses on for good
measure. I had a hold on a few facts; that I couldn't stay for even one
night, that I therefore didn't have a job and that it was nearing
nightfall and I'd better find somewhere else fast. It was unhelpful to
my mental stability to focus on the fact that I had only £40, spoke no
Greek and had no idea of the town I was in at all. I decided to base my
next steps on those I believed a sensible and cautious person would
take; I would find the YHA.
The streets of Patras were darkening, with dying
light and a seedy undertow coming in on the night wave. There were very
few women on the street. Those that were were hurrying home laden with
shopping, faces covered with scarves and most certainly didn't have time
to engage in incomprehensible dialogue with a non Greek speaking girl.
That left the men, who when approached just smiled and tried to get me
to sit down, have a drink, forget my worries.
The script was something like;
"Excuse me, kali spera, where is the Youth Hostel
please?"
"Argh! You English?"
"Yes. Do you know where the Youth Hostel is?"
"Argh, English! Where? London?"
"No, erm, Manchester, but do you know where the
Youth hostel is?"
"Argh, Manchester! Manchester United yes! Bobby
Charlton! You drink with me, yes?"
"Oh, erm, thank you but I have to find the Youth
Hostel. Is it near?"
"We drink yes, and after I take you, no problem.
Come, we go for sitting."
This script continued for the next several hours.
The places it occured in changed; the street, shops, cafes, and
sometimes I was just greeted with smiles, or groups of people would
gather, listen and then argue amongst themselves in Greek. At times I
seemed to come nearer to the haven of my quest and someone would say,
"Yes. It is up 'ere, walking yes..and after this..er..cafe and you
see. Big house." So I would be revived and walk with returned hope,
feeling that all was within reach, only to get past the said cafe and
see nothing. Just more road, more harbour, more shops - and..cars.
The cars started kerb crawling after I'd been out
for about an hour or so. They tracked my walk using their metal as a
shield, their predatorial minds ticking over as to how long it was worth
following for. The car would come parallel to me, the window would come
down and then there would be the hissing. I tried to ignore them but
sometimes I was simply too incensed. As one would leave, speeding up
for his exit, another would automatically take his place. They seemed
to speak in English too, no doubt they had measured up that I had to be
non Greek being a girl alone at night. "Psst...psst, heh, heh you.
Girl, heh girl, you. Psst, you come with me, eh, for drink, eh?" So it
went on, accompanied with god only knows what - I chose not to look, but
it was obvious from their urgency and their in-car fumblings that
something was going on involving their trousers.
I had been searching for the Youth Hostel for more
than three hours. I went in yet another shop and was yet again met only
with clucks and shaking heads. My anxiety got the better of me, I burst
out crying, ran out of the shop and back onto the stalked streets. I
walked quickly with a worried heart back towards the hotel, perhaps it
was better to take my chances there for the night than to be open to a
series of perverts on the outside.
A cry rang through the night, through my tears and
troubles, "Miss, miss, stop, please." I turned and saw a young girl.
"Miss, why you cry? What is problem?"
Her name was Clery, she was nineteen, spoke pretty
good English and was like an angel in the darkness. She listened as I
told her of the hotel manager, the hopeless search for the Youth Hostel,
the kerb crawlers. And she offered tissues for my tears, and a warm
hand on mine to comfort me and finally when I had finished my tale she
offered me her home. There was to be no debate, we would go at once to
collect my bags from the hotel and then to her home, where I would live
with her and her family and together they would help me.
Clery and I went un-noticed up to my room, we got
my rucksack and headed downstairs to leave Mr Androulakis's domain. Our
escape was almost done as we approached the glass doors, but then there
he was, flying at us over the carpet, "Heh! Where you go? Wait.
Wait."
His hand gripped my shoulder, Clery began to shout
at him in Greek, but I knew she was accusing him of pervert crimes.
They argued fiercely and at the same time she was urging me in her sweet
voice "Go Linda, get out, quick." Mr Androulakis tried one more time to
head us off, but Clary pushed past his squat form hurling her final
insults, almost spitting at his bald head.
Then we were free, Patras was ours.
Adoption
Clery was an undoubted sweetheart and her family
warm and welcoming. It was an oasis, an anchor in the storm, but it
soon led to its own peculiar set of issues.
"My mother wants to know why you are in Greece"
translated Clery on one sunny afternoon sat in the family's upstairs
flat. Mama Clery sat sewing and asking questions of me through her
daughter. She simply couldn't understand what on earth a girl her
daughter's age was doing careering around the Mediteranean. "What do
your mother and father say?" she asked. How could I get it across
without it sounding like a terrible state of affairs that I had only met
my father once and then in a bizzarre circumstance and that my mother
had long since abandoned trying to put reins on my behaviour. How could
I express that in England it was quite usual for girls to leave home, to
be without parental approval, to wander around the world with no money
and no particular destination. Clery's parents believed me to be a
poor, destitute girl who was in need of a good home. Maybe I was. I
was certainly thankful to them for having rescued me from the perverts
of Patras and given me a safe space from which to plot my next move.
Clery's family lived in a modest first floor flat.
There was Clery and her two brothers, Mum, Dad and Grandma. There was a
constant simmering pan of food, and also what seemed a constant stream
of visitors to view the destitute house guest. It was like being softly
interviewed each day as Clery would translate the questions of each
caller and they would smile at me as I answered. The middle aged women
would ask about my family and then about my family, normally concluding
with a question about..my family and then they would
insist that I ate, watch me eat and ask Clery to
ask me if I was enjoying what I was eating. There would normally be
interjections amongst these proceedings as to 'she says you 'ave no
wedding ring, do you not 'ave husband' and 'she says you have beautiful
eyes'. So the days continued in a haze of food, questions and sleep in
Clery's youngest brother's bed, whilst he was ousted to the living room
floor.
One day we all piled in the family car and went to
see the paternal grandmother who lived about thirty minutes away with
her husband. We were welcomed with light sighs and embraces and ushered
into the dining room. It was a big occasion with about twenty members
of the family present of all ages, from babes in arms to Grandad sat in
his chair smoking. The usual questions ensued times twenty with Clery
and I exchanging smiles and both emitting the now stock answers. Then
dinner was served from steaming pots, amidst minor arguements over who
was chief server and what must have been the fifty year war to get
Grandpa to sit at the table instead of enjoying his smoke and solitude.
Then Grandma noticed that I wasn't eating any
meat. Questions were frantically asked, Clery tried to convey the
principle of vegetarianism but this was so much an alien idea that
Grandma didn't seem able to hold on to it for even a second. She came
around the table to me, pushing her maternal form past the other
sitters. Standing over me, her black eyes on fire with grandmotherly
love, she started to bring a spoon of meat over to my plate. I tried to
protest, Clery attempted to stop the assault, all to no avail. In
desperation I began to mime eating and being sick. Grandma stopped, she
looked confused, I continued my drama pointing to the meat, mimicking
the swallowing of it and then acting as if I was going to throw the
whole lot up. I went on and on repeating the actions so as to get my
point across. I didn't notice that Grandma had sat back down, that all
the family were silent watching me with gasps and that the only sound
was Grandad laughing his remaining teeth out of his head.
"I think my Grandmother was upset", ventured Clery
in the car home, "but don't worry we don't like her food too much
anyhow."
At the end of the first week there was a family
dinner one evening at Clery's home and one of her male cousins
attended. He was in his late thirties and seemed an inoffensive quiet
type of man. Dinner was pleasant and there weren't too many of the
usual questions, when he had left Clery's mother gestured for us to sit
with her whilst the elder brother made the evening coffee.
"She wants to know what you think of Vasilis", said
Clery.
"Oh, well, he seemed nice" I answered.
"He is very good person, very good man, he is
nearly finishing build his house".
"Oh, lovely" I responded vaguely having never found
the extent of a person's chattels very interesting.
"My mother says if your family agree he can marry
you maybe next month. You must phone them tomorrow and ask."
The coffee arrived and the mother passed me a cup
steaming with her visions of marital bliss. She smiled at me, her head
tilted on one side, now I was going to be a permanent fixture of the
family.
"My mother says you can start work in the shop for
some money to help you until you are married."
"The shop?" It seemed that I was unable to grasp
the gravity of the wedding situation and was just amazed that I didn't
know that they owned a shop.
"Yes. It is just a little shop, selling small
things, earrings, watches. I take you there tomorrow. Now come, let us
drink this coffee."
Leaving Home
I felt bad about it but after nearing my second
week with Clery's family I decided to leave the marriage proposal along
with the household. They had been so kind to me but I knew I had to get
on. Family life was never my strongpoint, and so pushing a letter
through the door to thank them in abundance, I left.
Clery had pointed out the YHA a few days earlier
and so I took myself over there, intending to book in for a few days. I
was onto my last drachmas and knew I had to sort things out, but I was
actually waiting for some madcap Mancunian friends to arrive in town and
each new day meant a chance that I would be able to hook up with them
and together we could burn out of there.
Ash and Steve had shared a house with me in
Levenshulme, Manchester. When I had announced that I was leaving for
Greece, Steve enterprising as he was, had promptly gone out and stolen a
van to take us all there. He said he hadn't actually intended to take
it, he was coming back from the chippie and seeing an unlocked self
drive hire van with keys in the ignition he just couldn't turn down the
opportunity.
My mum must have sniffed illegality and it had been
on her insistince that I had taken the plane, which she paid for so as
to stop my protestations.
So I had arranged that Ash and Steve would meet me
at the hotel. Of course with things going awry with Mr Androulakis I
knew I wasn't going to be able to meet them there so I had put dozens of
posters near the hotel and by the shops telling them that I was at the
YHA. Aware of my own difficulties in finding the hostel I was a little
apprehensive to say the least that they would find me. In the worst
case scenario they may have been stopped at Customs and therefore not
have even left Old Blighty, then there would be a myriad of dodgy
situations calling out to them on their trip overland to Greece.
As it was I didn't find them for another four
months.
Corfu - Land of Opportunites
Things were getting serious. I was down to the
equivalent of £10 and had one night left paid for at the hostel. I'd
asked the management of the YHA if I could do some work around the place
and sleep up on the roof for free but they weren't having any of it,
this resulted in a bit of an arguement, with me casting mighty
dispersions on the purpose of the organisation as a whole. The
management were therefore now not kindly disposed towards me and the
situation was rather tense.
I was sharing a room with two Irish girls who were
emphatic that I should pack my bag and take the overnight ferry to
Corfu; a one way ticket costing moreorless what I had left. I had
reservations, for I was hoping that Ash and Steve may suddenly manifest
and I wasn't overkeen on the sound of Corfu. Sun, sea and sex; a haven
for idiots.
"Ay, but the idiots have got money, so they have."
True. Too true. Things were desperate.
I packed my bag.
FunFerry
I boarded the boat about 10pm, trying to keep a low
profile down at the dock as it seemed inhabited by every kerb crawler
resident in Patras. The portside was busy with freight arriving and the
other Corfu destined passengers who all seemed to have everything that
they needed for a pleasant trip.
I was looking at a sad pocketful of drachmas and a
night on deck under my coat. Or so I thought.
The boat set sail with a great crowd of dockside
people waving up enthusiastically at the ferry passengers and vice
versa, in my state of mind I had to wonder if all the waving was in
relief that they were leaving. I looked around for the best place to
put myself; it was to be a long night, a ten hour journey over
antiquated seas.
There was a group of Germans near to me looking
over the railings, they were all in high spirits and completely
prepared; with blankets around their shoulders and night-time picnics
taking place. A young woman began to offer me some of her snacks. We
got talking and she asked which cabin I was in and who I was travelling
with. She was shocked when I told her I'd be on deck for the night,
alone and within minutes she insisted that I shared her cabin as there
was an unclaimed bed.
She took me there and I got changed, put some
lipstick on and set out to see what this ferry had to offer.
The first place I went was the bar. I haven't a
clue as to what my strategy was; but I remember being gripped by a
determination to get something to drink if it killed me.
One young Greek barman was busy cleaning glasses
and checking me out and I knew I had enough for one drink so I went over
and ordered a whiskey. He poured me a decent measure and we began to
chat. He asked where I was from, what I was doing;
"You are alone? No husband?"
That kind of thing.
I got the devil in me and suddenly I came out
with; "I bet I can drink more than you".
That was it! Game on! A girl drink more than a
man! Never!
Rising to the challenge in a puffed up machismo
state he pulled down a large bottle of whiskey from the top shelf and
started to fill two glasses. Then another two, then another two; and so
it went on.
Now had enough presence of mind and canniness to
not throw all the drink down my neck as fast as he was but then suddenly
the bar manager arrived; he believed that the barman had been trying to
lead me astray and made the barman pay for everything. As the row
continued I collected the remaining whiskies and tottered off in search
of a new playground.
One nil to me.
Ferries are nothing more really than shopping malls
on the sea, I had no cash to flash so I wandered around until I
saw...the eating area. Again by some miracle I was about to receive the
bounty of a stranger. As I entered the room a large seemingly out of
control American sporting an equally loud Hawaiin shirt was shouting, "
Who wants a pizza? C'mon for Christ sake who wants a fuckin' pizza?"
The other diners were turned away from him, in the
way that people do when they hope that by keeping a low profile the
nutter will move on. This guy was going nowhere, in fact he was very
much a feature of the room, a very large feature.
"Jesus Christ! There must be someone here that
just wants to have a bit of fun! C'mon!"
"I wouldn't mind" I ventured
Well what the hell. I was hungry, I was drunk, I
thought I might as well team up with the other clear drinker around
there and get some dinner out of it.
So I sat with the big guy and ate to my heart's
content. He wasn't all bad, and the pizza was great and needs must when
on an apple, a wing and a prayer.
After my successful evening's entertainment I
walked contentedly back to my comfortable cabin, basking in the feeling
that for one night only I was to be a tourist.
Corfu
I arrived. Blinking in the first openings of
sunlight as I stepped off the boat.
The Irish girls had given me the name of a place to
head for on the island and so I set about looking for the bus to take me
there. There were the usual hotel and nightclub touts hanging about,
eagerly giving out flyers for places such as 'The Pink Palace' or
'Tropicana'. I wandered around the main square, picking up some
provisions and took a quick stroll in the gardens by the sea to get
aquainted with the body of my new host. Looking out on to the old
streets near to the park I noted the ice cream parlours and cafes and
the slow unwinding of morning and felt a certain surprise at the feeling
of good nature in this place. It was hard to equate the stories of
tourism with the everyday scenes taking place.
Getting to Kontaki wasn't too much trouble and I
decided to look for work straight away - needs must. Luck was quick to
come that day and in the fourth cafe I was offered a job as waitress and
washer upper to start the next morning. The place was run by two
English women who seemed pleased to be able to contribute to my welfare
and gave me a cup of tea and some food before I left to locate the youth
hostel.
This youth hostel posed no difficulties and the
manager was an easy going man who said I could stay there on a promise
and pay with my first wages when I got them.
So! The Irish girls had been right. In my first
few hours on this island I had a job and somewhere to live. Things were
looking good.
The Primeminister's Yacht
I was invited out to the local bar that night by
some of the girls in my room. Again the hospitality of others moved me;
OK it was only a couple of beers, but it still denoted a kindness. I
was in good spirits and chatting away when I met a young Australian
woman called Gabby. She was a dive instructor and had lived on the
island on and off for some time. She told me that there was a big yacht
just in belonging to the Dutch Primeminister and that they were looking
for a cleaner to prepare it for his imminent attendance. I felt a bit
torn; for the yacht job sounded a bit more interesting than the cafe and
Gabby thought the pay would be good, but the ladies from the cafe had
been so kind and it seemed so lucky to have got that job with them so
quickly. I elected to visit the yacht in the morning before I went to
the cafe.
I never did step over the threshold of the cafe
again. Suffice to say I was offered the yacht job and ever after when I
would attempt to visit the kind English ladies I was never able to find
the place again. Perhaps they had never existed and I had imagined
their tea and smiles; the dreamings of a thirsty traveller.
The yacht however did exist quite manifestly.
Manned by a crew of three; captain, skipper and cook. Three Dutchmen
with a pretty healthy expense budget and a fondness for good food, wine
and long siestas.
The Singing Captain
A quirk of circumstance had found me working on the
Primeminister of Netherlands's private yacht moored in Corfu. I was to
prepare it for a Meditarranean cruise.
The Captain loved me. The Cook was very kind and
the Skipper..he was fine but ex-customs and a little cool. Anyhow it
was the Captain that paid my wages and since in his eyes I could do no
wrong things were tiptop.
Every morning on my arrival at work I was greeted
by smiles and hellos, then after about half an hour of cleaning duties
below deck the Captain would appear with two crates of drink. One a
supply of fruit juice and the other; beer. "Ah Linda!" He would
exclaim. "Drink as you like and we will see you at dinner."
Being young and easily swayed I would try to drink
the soft option but end up on the alcohol and by noon was usually quite
pickled. My cleaning methods became rather erratic; I would put dust
and rubbish into my pockets, spill cleaning fluids, trip over the mop &
bucket and once broke a framed photgraph hanging on the wall which the
Cook informed me later was the Primeminister's favourite; a treasured
family photo. "But not to worry about it Linda, I am sure he will never
know."
Sometimes I was so hot and drunk I had to have
little lie downs in the Primeminister's master bedroom, dozing between
cool luxury cotton or I would climb upon the posh sofas and wake up
dribbling onto embroidered cushions. My pan and brush abandoned on the
floor.
Each dinnertime the Captain would sing up on deck
for my company; he was forever calling me Ava Maria and singing parts of
opera to me. The crew would then more often than not take me out for
lovely dinners in expensive restaurants or at times the Cook would
rustle something up. But it seemed the Cook tired of cooking and so we
would normally all go out.
The dinners would go on for hours and we would then
return to the boat for a supposed continuation of work. I would attempt
to perhaps 'shine the brass' on deck which was a hopeless task; I have
no stamina in these matters even when sober. I would generally end up
collapsed on the wooden decking and the Captain's booming laugh would
echo over me, followed by yet another mini operatic score. "Oh dear
Linda, go home for today. I think you need to rest."
Then he would pay me for all the hours that I had
been away from my hostel. He paid me for the time I was drinking, the
time I was eating, the time I was incapable. And never did any of those
people act improperly towards me. It was as if I was just amusing for
them; a daft Mancunian girl that made their own days a bit more fun.
But the glory days were soon to come to an end.
The Priestesses of Ancient Corinth
It had been Vasilis' birthday and in Greece, or so
Vasilis said, it meant he had to buy everyone else a drink. Sounded a
bit unfair but we took the tradition on and got pissed out of our minds
on Ouzo paid for by his hard working birthday boy hands. The bar we
were in was on a rooftop in Ancient Corinth; the whole village only
amounted to about a ¼ of a mile and consisted of four bars, the ruins of
the temple of Ancient Corinth and a few buildings. The one dusty street
culminated in the remains of the ampitheatre opposite the carpark where
we lived in our stately home of a Ford Transit van.
I left the bar at some unknown time presumably to
get to the van and sleep but being very drunk I stumbled and fell in the
gutter. A mangy dog was passing by and decided to relieve itself. The
stream of piss began to amble warm and golden towards me. I was unable
to move and it kind of had the makings of a low moment as I watched the
rivulet head my way. But then I turned my head and saw the most
miraculous thing; across the road it was day and the temples had come to
life. Ritually dressed priestesses were making libations; smoke was
drifting upwards from the offerings being burnt and people seeking
divine intervention were approaching the steps of the temple and
kneeling. A huge gong resounded between the pillars as devotees
processed. The sun beat down and the green of the cypress trees was a
cool respite against the glare.
The amazement I felt had given me strength and I
walked across the road to watch the spectacle close up. Eventually
after some time it started to fade but I was fired up and weaved my way
back to the other side to climb up to see my friend Alex who lorded it
over us, living on a rooftop; or rather the penthouse suite as we called
it. To us, living in the carpark, this rooftop with corrugated iron
sheeting and pile of bricks was swish. Just before Alex's roof there
was a smaller sloping roof and fired by my visions and drink I began to
dance my way across it. Back and forth, reciting, babbling, singing
praises and devotions to the priestesses. Some of the villagers
gathered on the pavement, then more, and I was exclaiming the wonder of
what I had seen. Eventually Alex, aware of the health and saftey
aspects to my rooftop dance on that sloped setting 15 ft up, climbed up
and got me to the side. On the pretence that we would continue the
exclamations higher up on 'his floor'.
That night I slept up there like Alex with my head
on a brick and my body upon a grid of metal, but the warmth of the night
kissed my dreams and the priestesses' laughter was a melody divine.
Destination Bangkok
Thailand was going to be the big break from drugs.
A month in paradise to do some executive R&R and get my head together
before going to Sydney and MEETING DAD FOR ONLY 2nd TIME IN
MY LIFE. I had been living in Holland for about a year and a daily diet
of speed, ecstasy and insane grass had addled my mind to the point where
I couldn't even buy a plane ticket. In fact I couldn't even go over the
doorway of a travel agency. The attention span needed to go into a
travel agency and go through a list of questions & answers on times,
dates and ticket prices was beyond me. I was good for about 2 minutes
max and would then have to walk out. The travel agents; all Dutch women
in power suits, were intimidating. Their orange foundation, blonde hair
and piercing blue eyes made me feel as if I was under the stamp of a
Nazi Avon team. I tried agencies in Leiden, Hillegom, Amsterdam,
Utrecht and Den Haag; all to no avail. I could not hold down the
necessary communication exchange. I made a call to a friend in England
"I've got to get out of this place but I can't do it. Come and save
me."
So. Me ole spar from Manchester Clare arrived to
take control.
Me, Clare and me bessy Dutch mate Wanda boarded the
Air Romania flight for the first leg of the journey to Thailand. Being
scared of flying I had bought along a litre of tequila; just to help
settle things down. Flying with Air Romania didn't inspire confidence.
The plane was old and most of the passengers; including ourselves, didnt
have seat belts. The air stewardesses were huge, hefty women with mad
blue eyeshadow and scary faces. They didn't bother to do an emergency
procedure demonstration and there were no drinks or in-flight meals.
They just sat us down, looked gruffly at us and then disappeared behind
the curtain. In a way I fancied that their technique was refreshingly
honest; I mean in-flight meals are crap, no-one survives crashes anyway;
so why bother pretending and what use is a seat belt when your whole
seat gets ripped out and plunged into Death's ever awaiting hands?
We arrived at Bucharest airport pissed out of our
minds.
The airport seemed less of an airport and more of a
big, wooden shed. It was patrolled by army personnel carrying large
automatic weapons and looking rather gruff; but this was the start of
our holiday and we weren't going to be put off by daft men in khaki.
We headed for the bar.
We were a little unsure as to whether we had
located the bar or not; I mean, yes it was a bar, but only about 2
metres in length and with only one optic. Vodka. The one barman was
very amiable; in fact downright happy and he poured us generous measures
and, on our insistence, turned his tiny transistor up to the max. We
could never have been called 'shy or demure girls' and we were soon
dancing upon one of the airport/shed tables. I'm ashamed to say that
tequila used to make me feel decidedly self important and give me
delusions of grandeur and I began to feel abusive towards the other
people from our plane that were waiting as we were for the connecting
flight to Thailand. "You fuckin' bunch of stiffs! C'mon, have a laugh,
dance!" I implored; gesticulating madly towards the barman's radio as
if it were some sonic boom sound system. The barman was still smiling
and waved back which only egged me on to shout further abusive
comments. This sort of 'out of control disco' went on for a while and
then luckily for us all the plane was ready for boarding. Me and my two
friends seemed to get frisked for some time by a man sporting something
like a missile launcher and then horror upon horror's head we had to
queue with all the passengers that we had just previously laid vile
comments upon. I was getting a monster hangover and remorse piled upon
me, pushing me downwards to the floor. As I tried to keep standing I
tapped person after person on the shoulder "Sorry about that" I
ventured. "We were just having a laugh." Yes; the great Mancunian get
out clause; 'We were just having a laugh'. Anyhow, we got on the
plane. Destination Bangkok.
The Island
Bangkok had been dirty, hot and noisy; not a good
recipe when one is trying to detox. Paranoia seemed to roll with the
sweat and tempers were as high as the sun. I had to be seriously
together and get my visa sorted for Australia. Careering back and forth
in tuk-tuks to the Embassy as each day they insisted on another piece of
evidence that I was a bona-fide citizen. Not. Giving them my dad's
details in Sydney seemed to tip it but little did they know that I
wouldn't even be able to pick him out of a crowd.
Once I had the visa in the bag and we'd bought our
plane tickets for Australia for a month later, I was down to Kho
Pangang. Thirteen hours on a packed, rickety bus; falling in and out of
delerium, sipping Mekong poached from good looking boys sitting ahead of
us and pleasuring myself at the thought of their hot Adonis energy as we
ramshackled southwards towards the sea.
Clare and I were sharing a pretty, cool, beach hut
and we soon became friends with a young Thai guy. Ton looked like a
south sea pirate with coiled hair, talismans and tattoos. He would be
the cause of some worry to me as I found myself entranced by his beauty
and yet he was merely sixteen years old. So, Ton's beauty would have to
rest with another and my fate with him was merely to smoke vast
quantities of dope. Yes, this was the big break from drugs. By the end
of the first week, Ton had introduced us to every heavyweight dope fiend
on the island and each morning Clare and I would troop into the jungle,
following Ton as if he was our little puppy. He would lead us far in to
the dense undergrowth to a circle of bandanaed Thai guys sat around a
huge bong. It was amazing really that Clare and I came to no harm;
other than what our lungs and remaining brain cells went through. After
however long we would wake up, dribbling at some place on a dusty road
back towards the beach. We could never remember leaving the bong den or
walking out of the jungle. One day I said to Clare, "Have you actually
seen the dope they're putting in that bong? It kinda looks a bit weird,
like really powdery and light brown and have you noticed we lose
consciousness for hours?" Between what was left of our minds we sort of
realised that we were perhaps partaking in something a bit stronger than
dope - Ton just laughed when I asked him if it was opium and said "Miss
Linda, why are you worried?" and I couldn't really answer.
After about three weeks Clare and I realised that
we hadn't been anywhere. Everyday on the way to the bong den we would
pass the other westerners with their itineries. Not only did they have
itineries but they had maps and scuba diving trips arranged, trips to
waterfalls and visits to neighboring islands. It made me feel a bit of
a loser; "Clare", I said one late afternoon, "Don't you think we should
try and go somewhere, do something?" "Yeh" she said through a load of
dribble and we both fell asleep. Ton said that he'd take us to Kho Tao,
the next island along, which at the time was practically uninhabited but
it never happened. However, there was a lot to be said for hanging out
with the guys and praising the big boom shanka with them; they were
naturally spiritualised people and at night they would tell us stories
about the constellations and draw the stars upon the sand. If anyone
spoke about the encroaching west, their free disposition would become
hesitant and they would speak of their fear of a life ever changed by
service to the money god.
Full Moon Animation
After our meal a young guy came over and started
talking about the then holy grail of acid trips; The Blue Lotus which
came in four parts making up the picture of the flower. He'd bought it
in India and wanted to take it along with three other Blue Lotus
devotees that night. I wasn't immediately convinced; then he mentioned
he'd got it off Dr Eric. I'd first heard about Dr Eric in Amsterdam;
he was a lysergic god who could deliver whatever fantasy you wanted. He
could prescribe to your specification. So we opened our mouths and
received communion.
I was a cartoon heroine with telepathic powers,
clothed in a platinum dress and power boots that allowed me to speed
hover above the sands at a cosmic rate. Huge rainbow fish leapt out of
pink and blue sea, the night was magnificent with an omnipotent moon
kissing each and every one of us irridescently and I could feel only
love and happiness. There was only beauty. Clare however was having
quite a different experience; unable to make it over to the main part of
the beach due to a wide river of dark, blood. She was desperate;
uttering whimpers and babbled sentences about the thick, red liquid that
threatened to take her. She wasn't responding to my telepathic messages
of platinum power love and I couldn't stay still long enough in my hover
boots to establish a rescue mission. She stayed on the 'other side' all
night. At one point I was dancing in full goddess fashion with a young
guy who seemed as golden and light as a cupid. Our auras were mixing
with pure divinity when some of the other beautiful people led him
away. I learnt the next day that in 'reality' he was a naked weirdo
who'd stumbled into the gathering, was bleeding from a head wound and
seemed intent on molesting women.
Long after the dawn had risen I began to feel an
energy of speech heating again in my throat. My vocal chords created
murmers and sounds but I held back from full words and instead looked at
people pleadingly. The auras were leaving, my telepathic powers were
declined and my platinum dress had gone to the LSD dress agency until
its next booking.
On my way back to the hut I met Riza. Riza was a
free spirited, hot blooded Israeli girl who embraced her non attachment
to the grind by random thrustings and twirlings as she walked. "Linda",
she breathlessly intoned, "I want to paint you! I want to paint your
breasts, your face, I want to paint butterflies upon you and blue.
Blue." I tried to make a sound which could be interpreted as "I
appreciate your love Riza but I've got to pack and leave the island and
meet my dad in Sydney for only the 2nd time in my life and
I'm still coming down from this explosive trip." but Riza didn't get it
and she skipped, chanted and twirled ahead of me, begging me to be
painted until we reached the hut.
Clare, who seemed full functioning, scowled at Riza
and re-introduced me to the notion of time, "Get yer shit together.
We're leaving in an hour."
I started trying to pack; and it was, very trying.
In fact it was an ordeal. I had literally lost it to the point that I
couldn't actually physically put things from my hands into the bag. I
stood there with crumpled clothes repeating over and over again, "But
how..how do you do it?". I could pick things up, bring them to
the bag but then would freeze at the point of putting them in to
the bag's recesses. The inside of the bag represented some strange
world that I couldn't conceive of, or project myself into. Clare
couldn't look at me and also, quietly annoyed about having spent a long
night of terror alone by the blood waters, she went for a walk.
Alan, the veteran, Californian hippie stopped by
with his Super 8; intent on making a film to show every would-be drug
taker that came to the island ever after. He trained the lens upon me
as I posed my infinite question, "How do you do it? How?".
Then Clare came back. She got all my things,
stuffed them in my rucksack, shoved it onto my back and pushed me out of
the door. Thank god I had friends like Clare.
The Daddy Tapes
So, here we were, in the land of opportunity (as
long as you were white). On the pungent tarmac at Sydney airport,
needing water to remedy toxic sweat. I thought I hadn't done so bad
this time with $100 in my pocket even if I had no return ticket but
Clare was freaking out; which I found odd as she had more money than me;
“I'm a Taurean!” she screamed, “I have to have stability!” I just
wanted to head to the nearest bar and find a bed along the way. I knew
from experience that we'd get sorted and anyhow now wasn't the time to
worry; we still had money. “Ring your dad! I'm not leaving this
terminal. Phone him.” OK I had had it in mind to meet him, but I
figured that could happen anytime, I wanted to explore Sydney first,
have some adventures. I'd left home at 16, I didn't 'do' families, my
family didn't 'do' me. I frankly found Clare's proposal that we stay
with my dad an absolutely hideous and nerve wrecking idea; “I've met
this person once” I tried to explain to her, “for half an hour!” but
Clare would not budge, she had her squat beastly feet very firmly
planted on this matter.
I was scared of making that call; I'd only spoken
to my dad a few times on the phone; twice in fact. The first time when
I was about five and found his number in my mum's address book while she
was out with the police looking for me; it's a long story... the second
time I was on mushrooms trying to play Monopoly and the phone rang at my
boyfriend's flat; he left it to the ansa machine and we all tranced out
listening to my dad leave a message from the Holiday Inn in Manchester;
announcing his arrival in Manchester as part of his world tour. My
tripped out friends empathised so profusely they persuaded me to speak
to him, the group of them staggering to the phone like love zombies. I
took the call but had to do it with a sock over the receiver (don't ask
me why... the mushrooms dictated) Dave taped the whole conversation and
years later put it to a drum n bass track; snippets of me saying “I'm
speaking to you through a sock. Can you say that again?”
Anyhow here was Clare, my friend that had got me
out of Holland, I owed her bigtime, so I pretended I was a character in
a film and found a payphone.
“Eh! You're in Sydney then?” my Dad was upbeat and
breezy, a sharp contrast to my neurosis. How strange that, that he had
no trace of disturbance. The rest of the phone call happened almost as
if through a chloroform haze then next thing I knew we were on a train
heading to a suburb. Clare was in her element, getting excited about
hanging her clothes up and having a shower, I was trying to work out how
the hell I'd recognise Dad at the station.
Disembarking at Guildford I decided to wait until
everyone else had left the platform and then, it became visually
obvious, the two people left were my father and his wife.
The Road to Uluru
My errant boyfriend and I were travelling in
virtual poverty across Australia in a lilac VW combie; managing to get
petrol via vouchers from St Vinny's and sporadic earnings from hairwraps
and getting people to pay for lifts.
We were on our way to Uluru; that vast red
dreaming, otherwise known as Ayers Rock and we had two stiffs along for
the ride that had paid to get up to Darwin. David the misinformed
surfer; had a board taking up the entire back section and would under no
account listen to us telling him that he wouldnt be able to surf up in
Darwin due to the saltwater crocs. Jenny came with a huge suitcase
filled with what looked like beanie dolls and mementos of home.
We were 80 miles from our destination when the
whole clutch system gave out. Less of a bang; more of a snap, chug,
whine, stop.
Nick and I had about 10 dollars to our name; the
rest of the money was in the tank and on a promise of future income from
various scams and jobs enroute. We’d spent David and Jenny’s money as
soon as we’d got it; and now, 360 miles from a mechanic we were well and
truly stuck.
I wanted to walk out bush, David was moaning about
his schedule getting messed up, Nick was shouting at David and Jenny was
snivelling into a crisp, cotton hankie. Then in a surreal and
unexpected twist a Woolworth’s truck stopped; in the middle of a dusty
road on a desert track; good, old, dependable Woolworths.
The driver asked the problem and within minutes was
engineering the amazing feat of getting the combie into the back of the
truck. Another passing driver offered David and Jenny a lift to Alice
Springs and we arranged to meet up with them later at a backpackers whre
they could wave their visa cards around and get as many hot showers as
they wished. Me and Nick got in with the truckie. The ride however was
far from fairytale; this salt of the earth truck driver was a through
and through redneck who delighted in telling us about the truckie’s
favourite pastime when in the outback; killing aboriginals. He said
that he and his friends would keep scores as to how many ‘abbos’ they
managed to run over; it was horrific beyond belief. Eventually we got
to Alice and he left us on what he termed as the wrong side of the
tracks; where the dried out Todd River flowed with plastic and beer cans
and the pioneer hopes of the Great Ghan Railway had ended, when the
floods came; predicted by the indigenous people and ignored by the
settlers.
We would be there for some weeks, camped in our
broken down vehicle, receiving threatening visits from racist thugs who
said they’d heard we were ‘abbo lovers’ but alternated with beautiful
visits from the people on the reservation; one of them a lovely man
named Peter who would come and sit with us late into the night, telling
us the most soulful, dreamtime stories.
David and Jenny became the bane of our lives as
they came almost daily wanting their money’s worth of food rations that
they said they’d paid for; even though we were getting our provisions
laid on down at the soup kitchen; in line with the other ostracised folk
from the encampment.
We eventually sorted out money and the combi was
fixed but not until we’d endured yet another weird and wacky aspect of
that interior lunacy.
The Car Crash
Rod and I had considered ourselves the ride of the
century; with a stock of grass, beer, Lou Reed and The Doors. We loved
to stop when we saw something wild; like a lightening storm across the
desert or a breath-taking sunset or just to sit on that jewelled red
earth, in the singing darkness and let the ancestral hum come up through
our bodies whispering ancient stories.
Wanting to save money on petrol costs and employing
his Dutch pragmatics; Rod found two contenders for part of our epic
coast to coast journey; an English rose called Emily and an American,
Felstein.
Emily seriously wore a bonnet for the whole time
she was with us; a proper bonnet that tied under her chin. She had a
sort of picnic basket too, that she guarded staunchly; pursing her lips
at the hundreds of impolite flies. She hadn't known Felstein before the
trip and they didn't seem to click. Felstein was OK but had this thing
about eating Philidelphia cheese and crackers which he refused point
blank to eat in the van and would only partake at given rest stops.
"Guys, I kinda need a rest stop. Is anyone wanting a rest stop? I'd
really like to eat my Philly right now. Could we get a stop?" They
were, what you might say, 'high maintenance'.
Getting back in the van after one of Felstein's
Philly Fits, Rod said he wanted me to drive for a bit. He said this out
of earshot from the other two as he knew my reaction; "But Rod, I can't
drive." He turned to Emily and Felstein, telling them we were just
going on a quick run alone 'to build my confidence' as I'd 'not driven
for a while'. So I got in the driving seat, and he began the master
lesson. "Just keep your foot steady on that pedal, look at the
dial there, stay at about 70 and just go straight."
Then he handed me a joint, told me to stop the car, and we took
advantage of being away from the stiffs as we called them.
When we returned. Emily came up front with me,
clutching her basket and Felstein shared the back with Rod, who'd gone
straight to post coital sleep.
It was going fine for quite some time. Emily got a
bit worried about me trying to change the tape over due to my one handed
driving and she said the volume was a bit anxious making. "But it's
Jim, Emily." No. Emily was not a Jim fan. I don't know what
turned her on. Mr Rochester probably. At one point I noted that I
seemed to be fine keeping straight on the right but on the left I was
going towards the verge every now and then. I started with an out of
balance brain hemisphere theory but I could see Emily was getting
uptight. I began, "I'm not saying I think I've got a problem,
I'm just musing on it. I mean the main thing is that I don't
drive." She retorted, "Haven't driven for a while, you mean?" "No", I
said,"don't drive. I've never driven before." Emily sank into her
chair and went a paler shade of alba. "Well, I do hope you'll be OK
with the left turn that's coming up?" she said. Left turn? I thought
wildly. Rod hadn't said anything about making turns; left or right. He
had definitely instructed me to go straight. Going straight was no
problem, but a turn. "Well as long as you tell me when it's coming up",
I said. "Why do I have to tell you, won't you see the sign?" she asked
me in a voice that rose by the vowel. "Erm, no. I can't really see
anything. I lost my glasses. So, if you could just tell me. Thanks."
Then suddenly Emily began shouting, "Turn! Here! Now!" She panicked
me and was so insistent that I just turned the wheel. I didn't think
about how fast one was supposed to go round a corner. I'd never driven
a car round a corner in my life. Or driven a car. Or watched what
speed other people did it at. Sensible people with driving licences and
normal lives. So I turned the wheel at a 90º angle and at about 100 k
an hour.
We shot across the road, in front of the path of a
roadtrain coming the other way and hurtled into the scrub. I went into
slalem driver mode, dodging all the trees that were in our path in a way
that could have got me into the Grand Prix. Then an 8 ft termite mound
loomed ahead. My foot was jammed onto the accelerator by a stupid
wooden ashtray Rod had made that had slid off the deck. We hit the
termite mound and the car flew for a glorious few seconds then it
crashed onto the earth and went into its second race forwards. I could
see a sandbank coming up and made a decision to crash headlong into it
rather than continuing for god knows how long with my foot stuck on the
pedal. The van embedded itself. It had stopped. We sat, dazed, for a
moment. The sound of steam hissing outwardly from the engine. The
scene was soon punctuated by Rod sitting up in the back and saying
sleepily, "Did we just crash?".
We got out unscathed. It was a miracle really.
Not even one scratch. Emily still had her bonnet on, Felstein was
holding on tight to his Philadelphia. I stood blinking in the sunlight
and began to shake. Then Rod came round and before he looked at me he
inspected the van. His van. His mashed up, smashed up, good for
nothing van. Oh god I thought, this is it, he's gonna go balistic on
me, I've just written off his transport and we're marooned in the
outback with two stiffs that hold us, me, personally responsible
for their predicament which is entirely reasonable as I just nearly
killed everyone and we owed them money. Rod walked slowly
towards me and I closed my eyes, waiting. His strong arms locked around
me and he started to laugh like a maniac. My god I thought, he's gone
mad, next he'll get violent for sure. But he didn't. He just laughed
and laughed and then I laughed and we kissed madly and I knew then, that
this, was love.
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