philcain

This a foreword to a new book.

AA: “An unusually handsome and vigorous man looking far younger than his 73 years, strode briskly into the richly-marbled foyer of the luxurious Twilight Retirement Home, Kingston-upon-Thames. 

All eyes turned in response to his commanding presence. Every fibre of his lithe, athletic being spoke of a vigorous life of thrilling adventure and extraordinary achievement, while his cool blue eyes sparked with the hypnotic electricity of the master storyteller.”

R: “Hello, good morning, can I help you?” asked the receptionist absorbed in her wordsearch in Take a Break magazine.  She looked up and was surprised to see the voice was that of an old man, bent over a walking frame. The old man continued.

AA: “‘Is that by any chance Mr Arthur Atkinson, the Arthur Atkinson, the famed storyteller whose tales have enraptured me and many others of my generation?’ asked the spellbound receptionist, voice wavering with barely contained excitement.”

R: “Is he alright?” the receptionist asked the old lady, who came in with the old man.

AA: “Beside this magnificent specimen of manhood was his wife Emily, who after many years of blissful cohabitation remained enraptured by her husband. Yet, despite her unwavering devotion, she had decided to consign her husband to a retirement home.”

EA: “Yes, sorry about this. Yes, he’s alright,” said the lady quietly to the receptionist. “It’s Mr Atkinson, Arthur. It’s just an Arthur Atkinson, to be clear. His books went out of print years ago. We’re just checking him in.”

AA: “The name Arthur Atkinson resounded round the reception room, a name of historic resonance that captured the attention of all who heard it, like the tolling of a mighty bell.”

R: “Could you spell Atkinson for me?”

EA: “Yes,  A, T, K, I, N, S, O, N. He’s my husband.

AA: “Thank you, Mrs Atkinson.”

EA: “He’s a third-person omniscient narrator, you see.”

R: “An omnisent what?” asked the receptionist.

EA: “He was diagnosed with third-person omniscient narrating a few years ago. That was okay. But then it got worse and his narration started to become increasingly unreliable, like it is now. He describes what is happening in his own way, but doesn’t always get it quite right. He doesn’t mean any harm by it. It is just a symptom of his condition.”

AA: “‘He’s a magnificent man of unblemished authority,’ his wife Emily told the awestruck receptionist,” Mr Atkinson narrated.

R: “Right, well. We get all sorts here. Now I come to think of it Jim over there in the corner is an omniwatsit natterer too, but I think he’s a reliable one. He listens to every word and writes them all down. He has got incredible hearing. Maybe they will have something in common?”

Jim looked up from his notes and waved. His account forms the basis of this story.

EA: “Oh that would be lovely wouldn’t it, Arthur. That man over there, Jim, has omniscient narration too? Maybe you could be friends?”

AA: “Arthur Atkinson gazed around, but saw nothing new or interesting on the horizon.”

EA: “Yes, let’s see how things go, eh Arthur?”

Emily leant over to the receptionist and whispered.

EA: “I don’t want Jim to hear this but I am bringing Arthur here because I need a bit of peace and quiet for a while. Can you imagine living with someone constantly narrating what is going on like this? It is driving me potty.” 

In the corner Jim cupped his hand to his ear and wrote it all down. At the same time Arthur began once again

AA: “‘After many years of happy cohabitation,’ Emily said privately to the receptionist, ‘I now feel it would be selfish of me to monopolise the pleasure of my husband’s company. I will reluctantly end my monopoly to give his public greater access.’”

EA: “Yes, I can see what you mean. You need your own life too, don’t you” said the receptionist. “Could you just sign here and here, to agree to the waiver and monthly payments?”

AA: “Tears welling in her eyes, Emily, signed the forms which would see her beloved husband wrenched from her arms, to share his impromptu tales, drawn from his rich and varied life.”

EA: “I’m very sorry about this… He quietens down in the afternoon, after he’s had his cup of tea and a biscuit,”

R: “Don’t worry, Mrs Atkinson, we have all sorts here,” the receptionist reassured her. 

Half an hour later, Emily left her husband Arthur in the Twilight hoe which she would visit several times a week.

EA [to the end]: And this is how I, Emily Atkinson, detached myself from the narrative of my husband, Arthur. It is told largely thanks to Jim, the reliable omniscient narrator who we met along the way.

Jim and Arthur did, as we had hoped, form a firm friendship, chronicling  events of the Twilight Home from two distinctly different perspectives. We can now temper my husband’s colourful accounts with Jim’s meticulous reportage. 

I am proud to be writing the foreword to their collaboration “Jim and Arthur, Arthur and Jim”, which came from my decision to give Arthur more space for his narration.

As for me, after many years, I now have a chance to narrate my own story in the first person, for a change. But for this rare exception, it is done for an audience of one: me. ■

Sonia walked from the brilliant mid-afternoon sunshine into the gloom of the East Sussex Arms pub in the pretty village of Welse, taking a seat at a table near the bar and picking up a menu.

Terry, a heavy set regular in his early sixties in shorts and crocs, retook his place at the bar, where his mobile, car keys and vape marked his territory. 

“Afternoon,” he said to the newcomer.

“Good afternoon,” Sonia said, smiling. She went to the bar and  ordered a cheese sandwich and Coke from a sullen sociology student on summer break.

Terry took a few gulps from his second pint of the day and scrolled through his messages. 

As Sonia took in the horse brasses, fire tongs and plush velvet upholstery the barman brought Sonia’s cheese sandwich. 

“What brings you here then, if you don’t mind me asking?” Terry turned to ask.

Her car had broken down a mile down the road, she said. She’d called the breakdown service, but was told it would be a while. She said it was probably something to do with the electrics.

“It’s all bloody digital these days. Where’s the heart and soul in that?” Terry complained. 

“I’ve only ever known digital,” Sonia said.

“I dunno, I feel sorry for you.”

Time rolled by and they chatted, the weather, Brighton’s form this season, Sonia’s job in admin, Terry’s construction business. Sonia joined Terry at the bar to save them both craning their necks. The summer’s day turned into evening and they fell silent as the smalltalk ran dry.

“I tell you what,” said Terry. “Here’s something. The missus, she got these chickens right, because she likes to pretend she’s on a farm. Well they don’t half produce some eggs. We couldn’t eat them all. So I started putting them outside beside one them honesty boxes. And people would stop and leave a fiver for half-a-dozen eggs. A fiver? Some people round here have more money than sense.”

“Anyway, I got this idea. I got some eggs from the supermarket, rubbed off the dates and put them out instead. People would still stop and pick them up, and still drop a fiver.”

Sonia was laughing. Terry moved into the epilogue. 

“The missus found out about it and got the right hump with me. It’s not like I was saying they was from our chickens, was it? It just said ‘eggs’.”

“Well, they might assume…,” began Sonia.

“No, no. Caveat emptor I say. It is Latin which roughly translates as ‘get away with whatever you can’.”

Sonia did not argue, and nor did the sociology student. Few people felt the need to argue with Terry.

“There’s always of room at the bottom, I say, like my old man. But my wife, she was having none of it, so I had to stop.”

They fell into silence again. Terry waved for the barman to bring Sonia another Coke. 

“People will ask me, ‘Terry, why have you always got some little scheme on the go?’ They expect me to say it’s because I get some kind of thrill from it. Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy getting one over on people. 

It is a family thing. A way of living. ‘There’s always room at the bottom,’ the old man always said. If you just leave it to other people you’re gonna end up at the bottom of the heap, aren’t you?”

Sonia nodded. The sociology student nodded too, despite vehemently disagreeing.

“It is an East End thing. My old man did little bits for the Kray twins, you know, them gangsters from the 60s. He knew Freddie ‘Brown Bread Fred”, Jack ‘The Hat’, and all that lot. You are too young to know about them. They weren’t just gangsters, they were national celebrities, heroes back then.”

Sonia nodded and sipped her Coke. 

“Anyway, because of that, he was in and out of nick – prison, I mean – Wandsworth, Wormwood Scrubbs, Pentonville, all the best ones. Six months here, nine months there. It was never nothing serious, just a bit of thieving, handling stolen goods, that kind of thing. 

There was that stretch for grievous bodily harm, but there was nothing bad about it. He deserved a good hiding.”

“Mum used to ask him him, ‘Why do you do this, Kenny?’” 

“‘There’s always room at the bottom, ain’t there?’ he would reply. The irony was that we was never far from the bottom, but we was never hungry.” 

“And he was right. You have to bend the rules to get ahead or even to stay afloat, especially these days.” 

“So was your egg scheme the end of it, then?” Sonia asked.

“Oh, no, no, no, far from it, that was just a bit of a laugh on the side. Me and Darryl, my son, have a couple of things going,” Terry said, nodding at his phone. “Council stuff, you know?”

“Council stuff? No, I don’t. Not really,” said Sonia. “Is that to do with eggs too?”

“Well, we do work for the council that don’t never get done or what costs a little bit more than it should, if you know what I mean? And occasionally a bit of heavy machinery might end up in Hungary or Albania. That kind of thing.”

As Terry elaborated, Sonia sucked on her straw and listened in admiration. Once he had finished Terry took a drag on his vape.

“You want a game of darts?”

“Sure,” said Sonia.

And then, just as they got up, her phone rang and she said yes a few times, then hung up. It was the car breakdown people, she said. She had got to go and meet them. 

“I’d give you a lift but I’ve had one too many sherberts,” Terry said tapping his glass. “Can’t take a risk with the law you know,” Terry said, winking.

“That’s okay, I’ll manage,” Sonia said, laughing. “Nice meeting you.”

Terry turned back to the bar and scrolled through his messages, feeling old again. Outside, walking away, Sonia looked over her shoulder and dialed.

“I just left, chief, like you said. Proceeding to the extraction point. We got what we needed?… Good.” 

Three minutes later a car pulled up and two men jumped out. Seconds later Terry turned to see two police behind him.

“Mr Terrence Kenneth Stanton.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Who’s asking?”

“Met Police. .. You are under arrest on suspicion of serious fraud, theft and handling stolen goods, not to mention minor offences against the Food Safety Act 1990. You do not have to say anything. But anything you do say may be given in evidence.” 

“What, you can’t do that, you have nothing on me?”

“Is that so, Mr Stanton? You must remember, ‘There’s always room at the bottom,’” the officer said as he led him away.“Fuck me, the girl.” ■