When the snow starts,
My body won't be there
You'll miss the warmth you need from me
When I have gone elsewhere
I suppose not, you said,
I have warm solid clothes,
I'm from the north, we understand cold
I know how it goes
You heard my words
But you didn't hear me
Did I say what I wanted to say?
It's not who I can be
When the snow starts,
My body won't be there
Is it just the warmth of me you'll miss,
When I have gone elsewhere?
The clean-cut heroes made it easy for us then
Black and brown, fasces and swastika
Swagger on parade, dirty work out in plain sight
We saw them coming, saw their dark souls
Knew to weigh anchor and sail for safer shores
They still stand in plain sight.
They still hate, still scape the handiest of goats,
In softer voices now, in pastel shades and gaudy rags
Cherry chinos and mustard cords
By way of Zuckerman's Home for Inglorious Patriotism
Fight or flee, the choice is still there
Force the clean-cut to reveal snarling fangs
Drag the black and brown from behind their suited bluster
Shine the light on the creeps beneath the stone
Their heroism is paper thin
Footnote : Inspired by a letter Albert Einstein wrote to his friend and colleague Paul Habicht in 1935. He described the timeliness of his leaving Nazi Germany in 1933 with the line "I weighed anchor just at the right moment from there, so that I at least didn’t get to feel the claws of the clean-cut heroes in my back".
It wasn't a night for sleep. Too cold, too damp. My old bones would seize up, my body give up the fight. So I kept moving, with only the briefest of stops, marvelling at those who could snore away in cardboard and blankets, envying those who'd found a bit of warmth. When you've got this low you can only compare yourself with others at the same depth. The safety of four walls was an unimaginable fantasy.
Four thirty am. I walked down the hill, only one place showing lights. They knew me there, but would be too busy to see me, let alone give me anything. Gabbie's Bakers. Getting the orders ready for the morning deliveries. Rolls mostly, for the sandwich shops and cafes that fed the workers that fed me their spare change. I stopped, squinting while my eyes adjusted to the brightness from the big single window that, with a narrow doorway, was the whole frontage of the shop. Inside the shelves were empty, the cabinets unfilled. They'd be out the back, baking, bagging, bantering and laughing. Always a happy bunch. Gabriel, his son Tony, and Marj.
As I became accustomed to the light I saw a figure come out from the back of the shop, peer, recognise, and wave. Tony. Lovely lad, late twenties, a bit taller than me, but chubby featured, putting on the dough. Floury. Had given me the odd sandwich, or a bit of cake, or a mug of tea. He came to the door, opened up, called me in, stretching his aching muscles while he waited.
"You sure?" Pride survives, a hint of imposing brings shame to the cheeks. Some things don't change, right enough.
"Come in Albert, it's bitter out there and we've got a bit of warmth to spare. It's not like you're just anyone, eh?"
I walked in, ever wary of any welcome, even from the likes of this man. Too many experiences, too much history.
"Nowhere to sleep tonight?"
"Naw, out o luck, too raw to get down unless there's a chance of keeping goin."
"Aye well, good I saw you then. Can't offer you a bed, but there's plenty warmth and a bite to eat if you'll have it. Keep you going until the day comes. Come on through."
I'd never been in the back before, the place where the ovens, and the people, turned raw beige lumps into crisp outers and soft inners, awaiting their fillings. Even in my situation I could see this was a special moment.
"Look who I found" said Tony, making a show of my shape in the doorway. The others must have responded, must have said Hi, but I didn't hear. As soon as I walked in my senses went into overload, my mind had to convince me that I was still alive, and awake, and that this was real.
There had been scents in the shop that made me hungry, the fresh bread smells that please in every bakers shop. But this was an olfactory wall. Wheaty, yeasty, doughy, bready. Sweet from the sugared doughnuts, sharp from the caraway seeds, burny from the well fired rolls, summery from the vanilla tarts. And the heat? Not spring warmth, but full on summer roasting. It was a shock after so many hours in the icy weather outside.
I looked around. Beyond the three red and smiling faces above their white overalls, the big room was packed with ovens, and machines I knew nothing about, and cupboards and racks with tools and ingredients, and steel shelving being steadily filled with the morning produce, and steel work surfaces where making and finishing and packing all happened.
Gabby came up to me, hands wiping apron like a proper baker should. "Put your backpack and coat and stuff in that corner, or you'll melt in here. We'll get you properly warmed up before you go back out. There's a wee seat there so you plonk yourself down there. We're ahead of ourselves this morning so you're welcome in for a bit. What can we get you?"
Generosity makes me dumb. So he reels off the options and I say I'll have a cheese roll and Marj brings me that, and a doughnut, and a tea, and they get on with their work and I just sit there watching them and smelling those smells and feeling the love of baked goods.
"Don't forget to eat, Jimmy!" from Tony.
"Don't let your tea get cold" from Marj.
They smile, I take a bite from my roll, surprised because I really had forgotten it was in my hand, so transfixed have I been by the scene, by the sensual overwhelment of the moment, and I drink my tea there, in that hot, busy room, watching those hot busy people, I don't think that I will have to go back out soon, that life will be shit again, that I will have to figure out where to sleep safe, where the next meal is, who will hate me or pity me or tell me to get a job, because now, this moment, in here with these people and the sounds and smells and the roll and tea going down me, is a bookmark in my life, a page on which I was happy, content, at one with my bit of the world. A smile, a roll, a hot drink, and a full sensual experience too. And all I'll need to be back here is the smell of a loaf.
Given talent and time
Maybe I could write the perfect poem
But would it be right?
The right thing to do
In times like these?
These times are not clear
Or simple
Or obvious
These people who treat the world
With simplicity
These people make it
A more complicated world to live in
Certainty creating uncertainty
Order creating chaos
Riches creating poverty
These are not the times for perfect
These are the times are for action
Resistance
Solidarity
And the one they dread the most
Empathy
Empathy trumps perfection
Empathy overcomes the pen
Empathy is never perfect
Now is not the time for perfect
Let these words stand as they are
In all their imperfection
Let us stand as we are
To be better than them
'Happy New Year Dave'
'Happy New Year to you too - but I'm not Dave. Who are you?'
'Oops, sorry. Must have written his number down wrong. I'm Gerry.'
'No problem. I'm Graham. In Aberdeen.'
"Opposite end of the island. St Ives.'
And so it began. A mistyped digit, a series of texts, and two curious minds. The first exchange didn't last long, but a couple of days later it turned out we both had a bit of time on our hands, and we started to question, answer, find out things. At first it was just the usual chat - jobs, families, had we always lived there? That sort of stuff. Something clicked, no one defining moment, but a growing appreciation that we were on the same wavelength on so many subjects - music, art, TV, even politics (although it took a few months to get to that one...).
Gerry was thirteen years younger, so we were at slightly different points in our lives, but that never mattered. There was always something to talk about, to discuss in detail. Text gave way to Whatsapp, and emails. Photos exchanged, plans discussed, we were in touch most days.
And confidences. It turned out that both of us, independently of one another, had decided this relationship was something to keep to ourselves, a bit of life that was for us only. We were both only children, so maybe that had a part in those decisions. But I think it was a deeper, darker need in both our lives. Sharing secrets doesn't come naturally to men, not with other men. Especially not if it involves thoughts you're ashamed of. Even to yourself.
It took over a year for me to ask Gerry if he was happy with his life. Like, really happy. We'd both moaned about work of course, and about our kids. But I'd tried to hint at a bigger problem, one I hadn't shared with anyone else. Was I being smart, and reading between the lines, or engaging in wish fulfilment, to think that my virtual pal was giving off similar clues? Smart was the answer. Both of us had unhappy marriages, both of us knew we wouldn't have the nerve to leave, both of us had kept going without confiding in anyone. Face to face would have been impossible for our uptight natures, but a virtual pal was another matter.
Once the initial barrier had been cracked it allowed both to let go of those banged up feelings, resentments, fears, and push them across the anonymity of the internet to a fellow sufferer. It brought us closer together, and ensured we never met. Our talk of one day meeting up had always been in the hypothetical dimension of our friendship, we both knew we couldn't find an excuse to get away without owning up to our spouses, and that was never going to happen. Now it wasn't what we wanted either, and talk of the real world dissolved.
I'd 'known' Gerry for almost ten years when he told me. Told me before he told anyone else. He had the big C. Pancreatic. Diagnosed way too late for much to be done. He had six months, maybe a year. Did he want to talk? Like, really talk, using our actual voices? It was a question that had never come up before. But neither had death.
We did talk. Twice. Laughed at the accents, joked we couldn't understand, and, for once, avoided the truth. Neither of us could cope with this when it was a clearly a real human being on the other end. We returned to the virtual.
Together we went through his treatments, his agonies, his terrors and joys. We laughed. I cried. He probably did too.
His messages became less frequent. And, heartbreakingly, much funnier. I made him laugh in return. There was a gap of over a week. Every day my anguish expanded, my dread got deeper. How long did I have to give it before I could admit that he'd gone? Really gone.
And then he wasn't. He'd been rushed to hospital in the middle of the night, but they'd managed to stabilise him and he was back home. Photos of Gerry in one of those ridiculous hospital gowns, comprehensively tubed and wired, giving a thumbs up. He was exhausted, but still going, stuck in bed, stuck at home, missing me during those long few days. I wanted to ask, but couldn't. So he old me anyway. No, there was no way of knowing which of his messages to me would be his last. That night had been a reminder of how quickly changes could happen. So let's say our goodbyes now, because there would be nobody to tell me he'd gone. So we did.
He was still 'with' me for another three weeks. Then, once again, he wasn't. Never was again. It took me nearly four months to accept it, to try to jam that wee radio beacon of hope within me. My wife... never asked.
I'm happy I wasn't Dave. I'm happy I made a friend like no other I've had in my seventy one years of jumbled up existence. I'm happy that we supported each other.
We never met. Never shook hands, never had a pint together, never sat on the sofa watching a game. And I miss him. I miss a man the rest of the world would think was a stranger to me. I miss him more than I ever missed my parents, more than I ever missed my kids when they left home, more, probably, than I will miss my wife. How can that be? Life is communication. Life is in words, emotions, sharing. Gerry's gone. He took so much of my life with him.
Once upon a time there were two kingdoms who were constantly at war with each other. The wars were never about anything important, but the kings of both countries were always taking offence over silly things. So they had the War of the Trampled Asparagus (which left a peculiar smell behind for weeks after), the War of Black Cats (it fizzled out because nobody wanted to cross the road), the War of One Hundred Beefsteaks (that was a particularly bloody war), the War of the Idle Tinker (more of a skirmish than an actual war), the War of the Martins (nobody could ever figure out if this had begun as a fight over birds or people with boring names), the Lost Columns War (quite a peaceful one in the end), and many, many more.
This went on for years and years and years, and the people of both countries were getting sick of it, what with their sons getting killed and their young women raped and the asparagus crops ruined. But the kings kept finding reasons to attack one another, although they never did any of the fighting themselves. Or went near to where fighting took place. Or sent their sons into the fighting. And they kept their women, and their vegetable patches, at a safe distance from the enemy.
And so yet another war began, this time because one king accused the other (it doesn't really matter who was who) of deliberately displaying badly drawn cats, felines that looked full of evil, knowing full well that his opposite number's regal symbol was a pouncing tom. And that, for those mad monarchs, was enough reason to send out the troops. Again. This war, which began life as the War of the Wicked Puss, would come to be the known as The War to end All Wars, and later as the Peace of the Gilberts. And this is why.
I don't think I've told you yet, but the army of one side, let's call them the Northish Army, wore blue uniforms. And the army of the other side, we'll refer to them as the Southish, wore red coats. It was the Fourteenth of May in this long ago year, in a distant century, and there was a small battle taking pace, only about thirty on either side. Neither side was really winning, but they weren't losing either. Which suited most of them well, except for their stupid young officers, who still believed in daft notions like patriotism and glory. As darkness was falling each officer commanded one of their men to sneak forward along the edge of the cliff and see if they could find out exactly where the enemy were, with a view to mounting a night time attack. Each man set off, reluctantly, and cautiously edged forward, wondering how long they'd have to be away from their friends until they could turn back and say that at least they'd tried. So neither was paying as much attention as he should to what was around him, and both got a big surprise when they found themselves face to face, barely a meter apart. There was just enough light from the moon for one to see that the fellow he'd encountered was wearing blue, and for the second to see red. Both hoped the other would run away, but neither did. Both hoped the other would say something, but neither did. So, each at the same time, realised that this other man, was, according to customs of the time and the whims of their king, their enemy.
So they fought. But without weapons, without conviction, and without any real desire to hurt their opponent. They danced around one another for a few minutes, took the odd swing and missed, until the man in red tripped over a tussock, staggered into his adversary, and both found themselves falling over the edge of the cliff. On the way down they were convinced that they were going to die, but luck was with them. They fell into the huge wooden wash tub of the village that sat by the beach. The washing had long since been done, but the soapy water, still surprisingly warm, remained, and it was deep enough to break their fall so that they didn't break any bones, but each took a blow to the head and fell unconscious immediately. Luck was even more in evidence, because they both finished sitting in the water, with their faces just clear enough so they wouldn't drown.
They came to in the morning when one of the women of the village found them there in the suds and splashed some water into their faces to see if they were alive. Spluttering, sore and surprised, they looked at the woman, looked at each other, and gave big sighs of wonderment that the luck I mentioned had spared them. Both wanted to laugh, but found that it hurt too much. But they couldn't help themselves when they eventually emerged from the tub. A night spent in frothy cleanser had leached the dye from their jackets, the colours mixing in the water, and their clothing had both taken on the new hue. A fetching shade of light purple.
They agreed that this clearly indicated they were on the same side now (even more so when each discovered the other's name was Gilbert) and that they should become friends - and their kings and officers could go hang if they didn't like it. The woman said how lovely it was to watch them seeing sense and didn't they know that that was how all the people, in both kingdoms, felt about these stupid wars? And if they could become friends like that couldn't they persuade their fellow soldiers to do the same? They both saw the sense this woman talked, so they came up with a plan.
Each went back to his platoon and led them forward along the cliff, saying this was the best route to spring a surprise on the enemy. They'd arranged to meet near the place of their encounter the night before. When the two groups came upon one another the Gilberts sprang into the middle and said they were friends now, because they both wore the same colour, and wouldn't it be good if everyone did the same? All the men agreed, except the stupid officers, so they were grabbed and thrown over the cliff at almost the exact same spot as the fall the night before. Everyone heard a big splash. The Gilberts told the other men to take off their coats and throw them over the cliff too, then they led the way down to the little village.
When they got to the beach they found the two officers dead. That 'almost' had been enough. Nobody was upset about this as the young men had been truly horrible. They also found their coats in the big sudsy tub, being worked hard by the woman and her friends. The women told them the job would take a few hours, but if they went round the corner there was a party waiting for them, with food and drink and music and dancing. A Peace Party they said.
It was a wild party. The men had a wonderful time, and slept the night away in an exhausted stupor. When they woke they found that their coats were now dry, and were all the same shade of purple as the two Gilberts. Keeping together they went from one of bit one army to another, spreading their message of peace to both sides, and all the soldiers turned on their stupid officers and wanted their coats dyed purple. The people rejoiced to see the war ending this way, the kings fumed and shouted, but had to run away for fear the people would turn on them, and both countries became republics and signed a hundred year treaty to be allies and collaborators in progress.
And that, children, is why every Sixteenth of May is Wear Purple for Peace Day, and why I dress up like the Emperor Nero.
