Might As Well Try Casting Shadows On The Moon

Coats ballooning in the wind, two people pass by, strolling along a deserted promenade. There’ll be people on the beach, no matter what the weather, the time of year. There was always someone walking, with their dog barking, chasing thrown stones, bits of driftwood, and then again there’d be our dog, me chattering, and him saying, ‘You can talk, so you can; talk the seagulls out of the sky, and the fish out of the sea.’ But that was then, and time changes so much.

‘Are you going to stare out that window all morning?’
‘The seafront’s looking grim these days, Jeannie.’
‘It’s not what it used to be. Now do you want to order?’
‘Tea, and can I have the full breakfast please.’
‘I was talking to your Mam the other day. Told me you were on your way home to see your Dad.’
‘A bit quiet in here, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t know how we stay open, but we do and it’s work, so I’ll not grumble. I’ll get your tea, enjoy the view.’
‘I’ll try to, and yes back to see Dad.’

A man walks by with his dog straining on the lead. He’s passes silent amusement arcades, the occasional timid graffiti scrawled across their shuttered fronts. He crosses the road, and the dog is released. It skitters off down Watts Slope, pissing on the way to the beach.

‘Are you going to eat that?’
‘Yes. The front’s dead isn’t it?’
‘You’ve been gone a while, haven’t you? and what about Maddie, have you seen her?’
‘No.’
‘Well talk of the devil, and with little Robbie in tow, God love him. This’ll be interesting.’
‘Thanks Jeannie.’
‘All part of the service. Got to keep myself occupied somehow.’

Don’t know what to say. Didn’t want to leave, couldn’t stay. Things change, don’t they?

‘You’re back then.’
‘I was going to try to get in touch-’
‘You didn’t.’
’No.’
‘Just on my way to work, and I need to drop Robbie off.’
‘I was going to get in touch, after I’d been to see Dad.’
‘How is he?’
‘Out of intensive. I’m off to see him after this. You’re working then?’
‘Part time. Sorry to hear about your Dad. We should talk. I’m off at one o’clock. See you here after that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d better.’

We’d be walking, with me playing and Mickey chasing stones, bits of drift wood, things I threw. We’d stop by the rocks, collect stones to drop into a rock pool. ‘Watch,’ he’d say. ‘Watch the ripples radiate, until the surface is calm, until there’s nothing more than an echo. But still echoes.’

‘You handled that well.’
‘Don’t Jeannie.’
‘You upset her too much.’
‘I know-’
‘Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.’

Something in the Silence

Bouquets of flowers, each carrying a card, arranged on the dining room table. In the living room the conversation is halting, a little awkward. They stare at mute pictures scattered across a coffee table.
A photograph is picked up, and stories begin to unfold. They point, talk. I listen to scattered phrases, unfinished sentences implicitly understood. Pictures, memories, silent reminders of absence. The talk continues, each adding their own story, overlaying, embroidering, quilting these often awkward photographs with their own thoughts. Gaps are filled with smiles, slight gestures, they all mean something, have a value.
Two small square pictures, taken in quick succession, the same soft light illuminating the scene; backyard, water butt, dog kennel.
‘But you don’t remember?’
‘No.’
‘The dog never slept in that, took one look and was straight back indoors.’

I think about a sunlit backyard, rosebay willow herb growing out of the brickwork. It must have been summer because he’s standing leaning against the wall, sleeves rolled up, staring at the camera. He strokes Mickey’s head. I see tattoos, a sailing ship on one arm, dancing girl on the other. Even then, to me, they had the look of something fading, merging, being absorbed into weathered skin. Mickey, ‘Heinz 57 varieties, our pedigree mongrel,’ is how he talked about the dog. The outside toilet, coalbunker, just out of sight, next to the back door leading into the lane. Washing hung out, and waiting for kids to be chased by angry mothers.
‘Those little sods’ll feel the back of my hand. Look at my sheets, I’ve spent all morning washing them.’
‘Little devils, eh.’
‘Little devils with sore backsides when I catch them.’

Another photograph taken moments later. She stands against the same wall, caught in the same slanting light, but not by him; separate, just like their lives. The photographs are gone, lost, no doubt left behind in one too many moves. I still have a few things, his Rosary, their death certificates, and those pictures I can still see.

Someone looks out the window,’They’ve arrived’, and we file out to the waiting limousines. The flowers follow.