Telling Stories

by Geoff Palmer

  The aforementioned porticos, perches, props, etc. are mostly attached to the front of the building in order to break its slab-like form and encourage the uninitiated into utterances to the effect that it must at least be an interesting place to live. The back view, restricted to tenants and those unfortunate souls with unsaleable real estate in the behemoth's shadow, is just fourteen rows of identical doors. Well, not quite identical. Someone seems to have picked up a pukey-colour paint surplus which has been splattered over a random selection of them, one colour to each door on each floor. Thus my own candy pink door is complemented by my immediate neighbours' fluorescent yellow and toxic green ones. So from the front I appear to live in a UFO and from the back a paint-by-numbers kit started by a loony. What a multifaceted life I lead.

  One of the more noteworthy things about the building is its lift. It does of course adhere to the axioms for lifts in council flats — (1) it rarely works, and (2) when it does work the stench of urine makes it unusable — but what is remarkable is that it is totally incapable of rising beyond the ninth floor. The reasons, according to council engineers, are inexplicable and its repair is apparently impossible, but teams of lift technicians from around the globe still occasionally arrive in their hard hats and matching overalls to peer down its unspeakable maw and scribble on their clipboards.

  Actually, when I first moved in, floor nine-and-a-half was a common destination, requiring much banging on the walls and yelling because, in line with the remaining axioms, (3) the emergency phone was missing a handset and (4) the alarm bell downstairs was stuffed with paper.

  The stairs are another architectural marvel. Delightfully cast in pre-stressed concrete, landings alternate vertiginous, draughty views of the city with long, bleak perspectives of rows of Technicolor doors, all the while displaying the stains and splats of unspeakable substances underfoot. One of the larger unspeakable substances is usually found between floors eleven and twelve in the form of Harry Purvis, the building drunk, wedged in a patch of sun and anaesthetised against the draughts. In more cogent moments he is likely to indicate his other preoccupation, that of street corner preacher, with some slurred malapropism like 'The wages of sin is dearth.'

  Thus, by a combination of elevator and stairs, is it possible to reach my abode at l3b. Thirteen, you'll notice, the dreaded thirteenth floor. That peculiar number missing from so many street addresses and office tower blocks.

  So you get the picture: council flats, buggered lift and bloody stairs. In case you're wondering where all this is leading, it is by way of explaining why the policemen who kicked in my candy pink door at five o'clock one Saturday morning were so out of breath.

  Early to bed, late to rise is a maxim I've followed for years. It does nothing special for one's health, wealth or wisdom, but, like a cat, I find it a perfectly amicable way of passing the day. Some people paint, some write, and some — God forbid — play sport; I sleep. A mad German film-maker once claimed that everyday life is an illusion behind which lies the reality of dreams. I am an explorer in that latter world, a Henry Morton Stanley thrashing through the undergrowth of somnolence, charting rivers of rest and discovering vast inland lakes of drowse. Were it to become an Olympic sport I would, without doubt, hold the triple crown for quickest comatose, longest languor and rapidest recovery, which is why, when my door burst inwards on the end of a policeman's boot that morning, I was instantly awake.

  Actually, 'burst' is a rather generous description. The best my front door has ever managed is a slow canter. It is a hugely solid thing mounted on massive hinges and you can feel the weight of it as it swings to and fro. There are reports of small children, pets and old ladies being squashed like flies against the kitchen wall when caught by the in-swing of one of these monoliths. A formidable object to deter the most determined burglar or jack-booted copper except for one thing; the lock's striking-plate is screwed into a door iamb made, apparently, of compressed cardboard.

  Thus I was actually awakened by a sequence that went something like thump-creak-KA-BOOM!-wheeze-gasp-pant. I instantly recognised the KA-BOOM! as being caused by the loss of the kinetic energy of a largely immovable object as it struck a breeze-block wall at the termination of its swing. It could mean only one thing; I had visitors!

  Myths About Fat People #153: Fat people can't move quickly.

  The KA-BOOM had barely subsided above the wheeze-gasp-pant scherzo that followed before I was awake, out of bed and wedged in the doorway of the lounge, my torch pointing primed and ready at the intruders in my kitchen. I didn't switch it on immediately, partly because I didn't really know what I was dealing with and partly because above the wheezing and panting they were trying to speak.

  'You might have ... let us ... get our... breath ... back,' gasped an older voice.

  'I didn't think ... it'd give ... that easily,' gulped a younger, more nasal one. 'I just sort of ... leaned ... against it and it ... opened.'

  'C'mon ... Better get a move on. ... That crash would've ... woken the dead.'

  'Precisely!' I boomed, flicking on my torch and catching them both in its beam like two startled possums in the headlights of a car.

  They both jumped. The younger one returned the challenge of my torch with his own — a feeble, flickering, yellow affair — while the other dabbed at the walls looking for a light switch. (Another council concession to ergonomics is to put the light switches in the least accessible place. In this case on the opposite wall at the entrance to the lounge, right where I was standing.)

  'This is no place for camels,' I added cryptically, 'but be warned, there is a loaded Zumbooruk trained on your ankles.'

  For a second they both looked even more startled, glancing into the darkness outside the beam of my torch. The older one recovered first and stopped fondling my wallpaper long enough to say, 'There's no need for that, sir. We're police officers.'

  'Prove it,' I said. And as they started to reach inside their jackets I added, remembering all those TV cop shows, 'S-l-o-w-l-y.'

  They did so with the exaggerated care of mime artists. I'd never seen a policeman's ID so I didn't really know what I was looking for, but when they both held up cards in clear plastic wallets that had photos attached and 'POLICE' written in large blue letters across the bottom I said, 'Well, that's all right then,' and snapped on the light.

  The three of us stood there blinking rather stupidly for a second. Whether the 'Jesus!' muttered by the older one was directed at the sudden influx of light on his optics or the prospect of the man-mountain in maroon jammies in the lounge doorway, I don't know, but the younger one lunged forward, knocked my torch to the floor, grabbed my wrist and handcuffed me to the tea-towel rail before the imprecation had faded.

  'Hey, you made me drop my ...'

  'Warren Arthur Mason, we have a warrant for your ...'

  'It's broken.'

  '... for your arrest on sus ...'

  'Look, the glass is cracked.'

  '... on suspicion of...'

  'And it's Dombey, by the way.'

  'On suspicion of ...What?'

  'Eric Arthur Dombey. One out of three's not bad though. Are you psychic?'

  The two of them exchanged looks.

  'Is there a Warren Arthur Mason here?'

  'Never heard of him.'

  'I should warn you that we've got a warrant to search these premises.'

  'Ooo, that's exciting. Can I see it?'

  The older one crouched down and examined the damaged torch, then began scanning the floor all around.

  'What was that thing you had pointed at our ankles?' he asked and they both looked at me quizzically.

  'A joke,' I shrugged.

  He straightened. 'A smartarse, more like.'

  'Yeah,' muttered the other, giving me a folded-up piece of paper which I opened out with some difficulty since I was still handcuffed. The younger one started to search the kitchen cupboards.

  'Tea bags are in the caddy. Mine's white with three,' I muttered, finally
resorting to clenched teeth to help unfurl the warrant. 'Ah, excuse me,' I added, 'you seem to seem to be in the wrong place. This says 13d.' I nodded at the 13b screwed to my own door.

  The older one snatched the warrant away, read it, then fixed his mate with a truly withering stare. 'You dork, Roger. You monumental plonker.'

  'Eh?' was all the dork and monumental plonker could manage as the older one suddenly became very attentive, uncuffing me, handing me the damaged torch, apologising profusely and promising to make good all repairs.

  'You called me a smartarse.'

  'A joke,' he shrugged.

  'What about my door?'

  'Don't worry, sir. I'll get someone round first thing.'

  'It is first thing!'

  'Well maybe second thing.'

  They bade me good morning and as they left and headed towards their rightful destination the berating continued. 'This is the sort of thing that gets us a bad name, you know ...'

  'What d'you mean gets?'

  'It's the second time you done this to me this week.'

  'Sorry Bill, it was a mistake. I'm only human.'

  'If that's the case, you've no business in the police force.'

  'Next door but one,' I called after them helpfully. 'It's anthrax orange.'

  Five minutes later they frog-marched a third party past my kitchen window. The older one waved at my door and mouthed, 'I’ll get that seen to.' He was as good as his word. The first council repairman to be seen near the building in over a decade appeared mid-morning, papier mâchéd the door iamb and abseiled off the landing to avoid an angry ambush of other tenants who had grown old and grey waiting for him to appear.

  Sunday, March 29

  When I first moved here I spent ages looking for a flat. It was the wrong time of year. University was about to start and, though there were plenty of advertisements, the places I saw were either the inevitable student slums or filled with avaricious occupants looking for candidates with qualities I didn't have, such as a stereo, microwave, TV set or car. I was offered digs at one shambolic hovel but the mess was too depressing, the music too loud and I didn't much like the look of the third flatmate. I think he was dead.

  In the end I decided to turn the tables. I'd get the flat then I'd advertise for room-mates and I'd do the selecting, but it didn't work out like that. The first place I looked at was a nicely kept one-bedroom flat and I've been here ever since.

  This house was once a rambling, middle-class Victorian home. High studs, heavily curtained windows and aspidistras in the hall. At some stage in its later years it was hacked beyond recognition into five flats; three medium-sized ones upstairs, a large one next door and mine, a sunny, single bedroom place tucked away in the back corner. Subdivision is not the only indignity the house has suffered. There's something wrong with the way its been decorated too. There's lots of bold colours and bright patterns everywhere — carpet, wallpaper, lino — but while not quite clashing, they don't seem comfortable together either. It's like the doors. The original ones are solid panelled rimu, now heavily painted, while the new ones — inserted to give access to the dissected rooms — are light, hollow-cored and have a nasty wood veneer. The outside is the same. It's well maintained — don't get me wrong — the landlord is forever fussing and fixing, but a place this age looks undignified with candy pink doors.

  As I said, I'm tucked away at the back. To reach me you go down the driveway at the side, turn right before you come to the carport, go past the first door on your right, follow a bit of a zigzag on the path through some bushes and you're there. 113b. If it wasn't for the pink you might miss it altogether.

  I like being down here. It's private, it's quiet (unless the people upstairs are having a party), and I have my own patch of garden bordered by bushes and a rambling rose that looks as though it might have been planted by the original Victorian inhabitants. It's nice to have a patch of garden — not that I do much with it — but it makes my little place feel complete somehow. The rest of the garden is communal and so somehow impersonal, like a public park. The landlord looks after it, mows the lawn and stuff, but lets me do what I like with my corner. It's the best bit of the house too, since it faces north and gets the sun all afternoon. Well almost. About four o'clock the sun sinks behind a huge, ugly block of flats two streets away and then I'm in shadow.

  The people in the big flat next door are Indian — the Hamidullahs. They've got two children of about primary school age but they don't seem to run around screaming and yelling like other kids; in fact the whole family's very quiet and polite. Whenever I see them they just nod hello and smile. I wonder if they're shy or don't speak much English. Or maybe I embarrass them or they think I'm amusing. After all, they're so small and slight.

  Practically the only time I see the people upstairs is when they hang out their washing in the back garden. We meet occasionally at the clothesline but mostly I just see them from my kitchen window. It's funny, technically we all live in the same house, but I don't even know their names.

  I like to keep the flat neat and tidy in case anyone comes round. Sometimes I feel stupid rushing to get the bed made and the dishes done before I go to work because practically the only visitor I ever have is the landlord, come to collect the rent. I can't help it, I like to give a good impression, it's the way we were brought up. Or at least the way I was brought up. Quite frankly, Stuart can be a bit of a slob at times and he just lets Betti clear up after him. Mum would be appalled. I can still hear her saying, 'Slovenly habits, slovenly mind.'

  I did get some visitors early one morning though, as Eric said. Two stern but polite policemen. It was about six o'clock in the middle of winter so it was still pitch black outside. They were carrying torches and I guessed that's what they'd been rapping on my door with because they made a hell of a din. I'm usually a pretty light sleeper but they woke me up with a start. It was a Saturday morning too and I usually sleep in.

  I opened the door, still groggy at being woken too quickly, and one of them held up a card in a plastic wallet, just like they do on TV, and said something like 'Warren Arthur Mason?' to which I managed something like 'Nuh?'

  I was standing with my back to the light, I guess, because he shone his torch right in my face and said, 'Is there a Warren Arthur Mason on these premises?'

  'Who? What? I don't ...'

  At which point the other one said, 'Er, Roger,' and nodded at the door jamb. The first one looked at it a second, said, 'Oh' and 'Do excuse me, sir, we've made a mistake. Sorry to have disturbed you. Good morning.'

  I closed the door and went back to bed, though I do now recall hearing a bit of a scuffle upstairs as I dozed off. When I woke up it felt like I'd dreamed the whole thing. In fact, I thought it was a dream until I overheard two of the girls from upstairs talking about it as they hung out their washing. I even opened the kitchen window so I could listen in.

  'Did you hear all the excitement this morning?' This was the small, delicate, rather pretty blonde girl who lives with a snotty, slouching, unkempt and smelly oaf who's into motorbikes. (Why do oiks like that always have such attractive girlfriends?)

  'Well, yes. A bit of it.' This from the very tall, very plain girl who, I think, lives alone.

  'They arrested that creepy guy in "d".'

  'Oh. Oh really? I thought it was a fight.'

  'You thought it was us, didn't you? No, Donny and me are all right at the moment. Yeah, they dragged away old creepy.'

  'Really?'

  'Had him handcuffed and everything. I peeked out and saw them bundle him into the car.'

  'Gosh.'

  'Donny was really panicking 'cause he thought they'd come for him.'

  'Why's that?'

  'Oh, he's got some unpaid fines and stuff.' (Typical!)

  'So what did this guy do?'

  'I don't know, but it sounded like he put up a hell of a fight.'

  'I'll say!'

  I almost went out to add my bit about nearly getting arrested by mistake, bu
t I thought they'd realise I'd been listening and think I was a Peeping Tom or something. I didn't want them to think I was nosy.

  After they'd gone, I thought about what I thought I'd dreamed and went out and checked the number on the door jamb. Sure enough, the screw had come out of the top of the 'b' and it was hanging sideways at a funny angle. An easy enough mistake to make by torchlight, I suppose, and they'd been very polite about it. Goodness knows how long it had been like that. I must have looked at it every day but never noticed it before.

  I never did find out what the guy round the front had done. I saw someone in 'd' the following week, carrying out his stuff in old cardboard boxes and a couple of weeks after that a Maori nurse moved in. I wedged the 'b' back in place with some folded newspaper until the landlord could fix it. Just in case I had any visitors.

  History

  At this stage of the proceedings no doubt the reader is curious about my origins, my history, my background, my upbringing and 'all that David Copperfield kind of crap', to quote Holden Caulfield. For I have one, and it is probably more real and cogent than your own.

  I shan't go into detail, however. This is not one of those enormous and interminable American novels that thrash around in a morass of meaningless detail about early life because so few of its readers have had one themselves, crouched, as they are, in front of a television sets, games consoles and computer screens from pre-school to puberty.

  That spring — after the spiky silhouettes along Elm Street had shaken off their winter coverings and thrust, first tentatively, then lavishly, new buds and blossom into the crisp New Hampshire sky — on April 12, 1962, at around eight in the morning — though something in me tells me it was earlier, maybe ten minutes to eight — walking to school dressed in my yellow galoshes which I 'd scraped the mud from the night before with an old fork I'd found in the garden shed, favourite fluffy green socks with a kind of cross-stitching around the top in a dark-grey nearly black thread, patched blue jeans with the dark blue, almost navy, braces covered with hearts and moons cut out of an old felt hat that Grandma had worn to church for nearly twenty years and had only recently replaced with an identical one, the flaps of my favourite red-checked hunting cap pulled down over my ears but not knotted under my chin because that's what girls and faggots did, (God, I wish I could remember whether I was wearing my orange sweater with the patched elbows or the purple one with the off-white silhouettes of deer gallivanting round the middle of it), walking with my best friend in the whole wide world, the blind, mute, crippled, brain-damaged son of the local otolaryngologist whose name escapes me for the present but who was to later have such a profound influence on my life, that I discovered to my delight that publishers actually paid for manuscripts by the sentence length …