Local Poet

by Paul Trembling

  “Johnnie Papadopoulos, you mean?”

  “You know him, then?”

  “Not well. Met him a few times, that’s all. He used to drink at the Duke of Clarence, just down the road from here.” I frowned, as memory kicked in. “Haven’t seen him around for a while, actually. I did hear that he’d been sent down for supplying drugs. But what’s that got to do with an RTC?”

  The coppers exchanged a glance.

  “There are aspects to the inquiry that we’re not at liberty to discuss,” said one of them. “But I think we’ve got all the information we need from you for the moment. We’ll be in touch.”

  After they’d left, I slumped back down on the sofa, feeling emotionally drained. I couldn’t understand the drugs thing at all – though it did at least explain why CID were involved.

  I went back to the laptop, wondering if there was any connection between the online accusations and the CID visit. A new post had appeared, from someone calling themselves BookLady: “Dear, dear Laney. Your black gull finally landed, and we are all poorer because of it.”

  It made no sense to me. I went back to bed.

  DAY 3: THE WAVE

  I had only meant to take a short nap. I woke up about three the following morning, fuzzy headed but unable to go back to sleep. The remnants of a dream were still hanging around my consciousness as a vague sense of unease and the image of a black seagull.

  I made some strong coffee and sat puzzling over it. As is normal with dreams, the harder I tried to remember it, the more insubstantial the memory became, until I was no longer certain that the black gull had featured in the dream at all. Perhaps I had merely remembered it from the blog post? For something that made no sense, it was remarkably difficult to forget.

  As the coffee took effect, it occurred to me that it might be a reference to one of Laney’s poems. So I went back to the internet. I didn’t want to face any more accusations, so I avoided her site. Instead, I did a search for her books.

  All three were available, on several sites and in various formats. I also found some reviews of her work. They tended towards the positive, with a good number being downright enthusiastic, but none of them mentioned gulls of any colour.

  Delivery of a paperback copy would take several days, and of course I didn’t possess an e-reader. But they were also available as pdf files. On impulse, I downloaded one: Postcards to Myself – the first she had published.

  I skipped over the opening pages, going straight to the first poem: “The Wave”. That sounded like the sort of thing that might include seagulls.

  Smoothly swelling muscle under shiny-wet skin…

  It didn’t seem much like a wave, I thought.

  Diamond-dust dancing along your head, each mote a brief incandescence.

  I had to stop and look up “mote”.

  You build yourself from the blue depths, gathering strength…

  Finally, I realized that she was indeed talking about a wave. I felt inordinately pleased with myself for this small breakthrough. Nothing to this poetry thing, really.

  Encouraged, I carried on reading. There was more about the wave. In fact it was all about the wave. Every second of its growth and development was described in minute detail, down to the streaks of foam and the varying shades of colour. It seemed a bit over the top to me. What was so special about this wave?

  I skim-read down to the end, looking for the punchline. Slightly to my surprise, there was one. Or a sort of one. But it made no sense at all.

  “No personal items on your desk,” says Mrs

  Howard, wielding a bin with executive authority.

  And the wave breaks, unseen, on a desolate shore.

  I had no idea where Mrs Howard had sprung from. But in any case, there was no mention of any gulls, black or otherwise. I gave up on the wave, and began skim-reading through the rest of the book.

  Laney covered a lot of subjects. There was a poem about clouds, another about a bus journey. An amusing description of a party caught my attention – isolated snippets of conversation, overheard at random and linked together into something wildly improbable. And there was a lengthy piece about a chimney: a large Victorian one, left standing on its own in a demolition site.

  Finally, I came across a gull. Not a black one; just ordinary grey and white. Laney described it with the same vivid detail she’d used to describe the wave. Sunlight on feathers, the cruel curve of its beak and the arrogance of its expression, its harsh and mournful cry.

  But something was wrong with this bird. Its voice was not heard over empty sea, but in the cramped confines of a scruffy urban park. It didn’t strut along a wide beach, but along the concrete rim of a rubbish-strewn pond. Its companions weren’t other gulls and seabirds, but ducks and geese and pigeons and common sparrows.

  And it didn’t fly. It didn’t soar. When it flapped, it did so with just one wing. The other was injured, torn and crippled. The gull was a prisoner in the park, a permanent refugee. Instead of riding the ocean winds, it must bicker with the other birds for scraps of bread and other rubbish. Its haughty gaze was all it had left of its previous life.

  It was surprisingly effective. I found myself feeling a deep regret for the seagull’s sad condition. But it didn’t seem to have anything to do with the black gull, and it was the last poem in the collection.

  Frustrated, I switched off. It was nearly seven. Time to be heading for work. Van or not, I needed to be doing something.

  Work, for me, was just a five-minute walk away. When you spend all day driving, you don’t need a long commute as well, so I’d found a flat nearby. The arrangement worked so well that I rarely drove my own car, which was quietly rusting away in a disused back corner of my workplace.

  As usual for that time of day, some of the lads were still hanging around the office, having a cup of tea and winding up the office staff before they went out on their runs. I was gratified by their reaction when I turned up: rough-edged but genuine sympathy. The general attitude was “It could have been any one of us, mate”. It was good to feel that I had people on my side – the label “murderer” still hung in my mind, as did the memory of the CID visit and their probing questions.

  Colin, the operations manager, came bustling out of his office telling everyone they should have been out on the road five minutes ago – as he always did at that time. It was the main reason everyone hung round for an extra five minutes. The Morning Wind-Up was a genuine company tradition. He stopped short when he saw me.

  “Ah. Rob. Wasn’t expecting you today. Are you sure you’re ready to be back at work?”

  A fussy little man, Colin, always quoting various rules and regs to give himself a semblance of authority. He was saved from being a complete disaster as a manager by having a genuine loyalty to his staff, once you got past the jobsworth attitude.

  “Need to be doing something, Col. I’m going nuts just sitting around all day.”

  He nodded. “Your van’s not back yet, and I’ve split your run among all the others – SO THEY NEED TO GET GOING!” Once he started raising his voice, it was the signal that the game was over for the day, and the lads began cheerfully wandering out.

  Authority reasserted, Colin nodded in satisfaction and turned back to me. “There is a little job you can do, if you’re sure…?”

  I was sure.

  It was a one-off delivery to be made to a place not on any of our normal routes. We get a few jobs like that, and the firm keeps a Fiesta van for such purposes. It was all loaded up and ready to go. I just had to sign the keys out and make an easy ten-mile trip.

  Except that when I got behind the wheel I started to shake.

  “Get a grip!” I snarled. But when I closed my eyes I saw Laney, looking at me so calmly as she waited.

  I opened them again. The Fiesta was visible from Colin’s office. If I didn’t get started soon he’d be down to see what the problem was.

  I started the engine. Put it in gear. Reversed out into the yard. Concentrating hard on eac
h action, refusing to think about anything other than exactly what I was doing. Living in the moment.

  I drove carefully out of the gates, paused for a break in the traffic, and then turned into the street.

  “I can do this!” I told myself. Then I noticed that I was gripping the wheel so tightly that my knuckles were white. “I can do this,” I repeated, and forced myself to relax.

  It should have taken me less than an hour there and back, including time to make the delivery, sort the paperwork, and have a cup of tea and a chat with the customer. It took me more than two. When I got out of the van my arms were aching from tension, and my shirt was stuck to my back.

  Still, I felt as though I had won a victory of sorts. I could still do my job.

  Not that there was much of a job for me to do just then. No more unscheduled deliveries needed. I hung around for a bit, trying to help out in the office but mostly getting in the way. So I went down to the warehouse and gave them a hand preparing orders for the next day. But they had the job pretty much covered, and before long I was at a loose end again. Enough was enough. I went and told Colin that I was calling it a day.

  Still, it was a bit early to go home and sit in an empty flat. Instead, I walked for a while without going anywhere in particular, and struggling to resolve a problem.

  Laney’s death wasn’t my fault. I knew that, and PC Henshaw had confirmed it. Stepping out into the road like that had been Laney’s choice, not mine. But it had been my hands on the steering wheel, my foot on the accelerator, my van that had taken her life. Responsible or not, I couldn’t get past that.

  And in a way, I realized that I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to just shrug my shoulders and forget the whole thing. I couldn’t just dismiss Laney like that. She had been a living person; someone who did things, felt things, just as I did. Somehow, that needed to be marked out.

  But that left me feeling guilty for something that wasn’t my fault. What was I supposed to do about that? I’d already ditched the idea of counselling. Wandering past a church, I thought about going in and having a word with the vicar. After all, the church was well clued up on guilt; that was part of its regular stock-in-trade.

  I hesitated there for a moment. I hadn’t been in a church since a mate had got married three years ago. I wasn’t sure if I’d be comfortable opening myself up in such a place. Wouldn’t that be just another form of counselling, with the added bonus of having God sitting in on the conversation?

  An elderly lady coming out of the church gave me a suspicious look, which helped make my mind up. I moved on.

  A little further down the road was a library. That gave me another idea. I couldn’t change the past, I refused to ignore it, but I could at least explore it. If I could discover more about Laney, understand her and what she was saying in her poetry, that might be a way of at least acknowledging who she had been and what I had done.

  Somehow, it felt right. So I went inside.

  It wasn’t until I was already past the doors before I remembered that I was even less familiar with libraries than I was with churches. I hadn’t been in one since I was at school, and that had ended badly, when I was evicted for trying to stick someone to a chair with chewing gum. It had seemed funny at the time.

  But it was too late to change my mind. The middle-aged lady behind the desk had already spotted me and was looking expectantly in my direction.

  “How can I help you?” The fish symbol on her cardigan marked her out as a God-botherer; there was no getting away from them today. On the other hand, she had a warm smile and the question sounded genuine.

  “I’m interested in poetry.” To my ears, that sounded ridiculous. Did I look like the sort of person who read poetry? I half expected her to fall over laughing.

  Instead her smile broadened, and she nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, good! I love poetry myself. Was there any particular sort you wanted to read?”

  There were different sorts of poetry? “I wasn’t really looking for something to read. I mean, I have been reading some. I was just looking for some help in understanding it.”

  This time she did laugh. “You want to understand poetry? You’d better have a lifetime or two to spare!” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’ll let you in on a secret, shall I? I’ve been reading poetry since I was a little girl, and a lot of it I still can’t understand!”

  “Then why…”

  “Because it’s not always about understanding. Sometimes it’s just the flow of the words, the rhythm of them, the images they create. Sometimes I read poetry to enjoy the experience of reading poetry.” She saw my mystified look and sighed. “And sometimes you can understand. It depends a bit on the poet. Was there anyone in particular you’ve been reading?”

  I nodded. “Laney Grey.”

  Her eyes suddenly misted over. “Oh, yes,” she said softly. “Laney. Dear, sweet Laney.”

  “You knew her!” It was meant as a question, but somehow came out almost as an accusation.

  Fortunately, she took no offence. “Oh, yes. Very well. She often came here to do readings and workshops. She was here only last week.”

  A nod of her head indicated a small extension off the side of the room. It had been set out with a circle of chairs, one of them bearing a card with Laney’s name and a black ribbon. There may have been other writing as well, but the rest of the card was obscured by the pile of flowers that covered the seat and overflowed onto the floor.

  “It was only meant to be a little memorial by the staff here. Just our way of saying goodbye, I suppose. But so many people have added flowers and cards…”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  “It’s a tribute to how many lives she touched. And is still touching, I suppose. I’m afraid that all our copies of her books are out, but I can put your name on the waiting list if you like – Mr…?”

  “Seaton. Rob Seaton.”

  “I’m…” She pointed towards her left breast. I looked, but saw only tightly stretched white linen. Seeing my confusion, she glanced down, and blushed. “I’m not wearing my name tag. Again! Sorry – Sandra Deeson.”

  We shared embarrassed smiles. “I wasn’t looking to get a copy. I’m not even a member, actually. I downloaded one of her books onto my laptop, and I’ve read it – some of it – but I think I must be missing something.”

  Sandra nodded. “I know that feeling. The thing to remember with Laney’s work – with a lot of poets, in fact – is that what you see isn’t necessarily what you get.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

  “What the words say isn’t what it’s really about.”

  I turned the thought over in my mind, trying to find an angle from which it made sense. Sandra gave me a hopeful look, which I met with a slow head shake.

  “OK, let’s try an example. Which of her poems do you know best?”

  “I suppose ‘Wave’ is the one I’ve read most.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Good choice! What did you think it was about?”

  “Well, a wave, obviously. But there’s that bit at the end with the waste bin – it doesn’t fit!”

  “So where’s the waste bin?”

  I thought back over the words. “It seems like it’s in an office somewhere. But how do you get a wave into an office?”

  “The same way that you get a lake into a library.” She nodded at the wall behind her, where a calendar displayed a sunny view of Windermere.

  “It’s a picture?”

  Sandra nodded, and there was almost an audible click in my mind as things fell into place.

  “She’s got a picture on her desk – a picture of a wave. A postcard, perhaps. And she’s looking at the picture, thinking about the wave, when someone comes along and dumps the picture in a bin.”

  We exchanged smiles, equally thrilled by my breakthrough.

  “So that’s what it’s about!”

  Sandra replaced her smile with a frown. “Well, no. Not entirely. That’s wha
t happens, yes, but that’s not what it’s about.”

  My jaw may not have actually dropped, but it certainly sagged a little. “But…”

  Before I could organize a sentence, a group of youngsters in school uniform made a dramatic entrance, chattering loudly. Sandra smoothly switched roles from tutor to sergeant major.

  “This is a library! There will be no running and you will talk quietly or leave!”

  The noise level dropped significantly, though children continued to pour through the door. Most dispersed down the aisles, but a large number began queuing behind me at the desk.

  “Sorry about that. It’s kicking out time at the school. We get a lot of the kids coming in while they wait for their bus or their parents. I’m going to be busy for a while… Here, if you fill this in and bring it back, I’ll get your membership sorted out, then we can find some books to help you out.”

  I took the form and began to step aside, cultural conditioning making me conform to acceptable standards of queue behaviour. “So what is it about?” I asked as Sandra began taking books from her next customer.

  She found time to give me a slightly harassed smile. “It’s about being there,” she said.

  I walked home, which took about ten minutes and was enough time to give up on the whole poetry thing. PC Henshaw phoned me as I was walking through the door.

  “Accident Investigation have finished with your van, and they haven’t found anything that would have contributed to the incident. So you can make arrangements to collect the vehicle. Within twenty-four hours, ideally, or the garage starts adding storage charges.”

  “No problem. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” The thought of driving again, especially in that van, set my guts churning. I suppressed my reaction. I would have to deal with it sooner or later. “Does this affect the investigation at all?”

  “Not really. It just confirms what we already thought.”

  “Good. It’s just that I’ve been reading some nasty comments lately, online. People saying it was a drunk driver and so on. They’ve even called me a murderer. It might help if you could put that straight. Officially.”