the art of tying knots - flax 003

8/14/2019 The Art of Tying Knots - Flax 003

1/32

The Art o Tying KnotsThe Art o Tying Knots

Rosie GarlandRosie Garland

Gill NicholsonGill NicholsonIan GrayIan Gray

Sarah FiskeSarah FiskeDavid GaneyDavid Ganey

short fction rom Lancashire and Cumbriashort fction rom Lancashire and Cumbria

Click here to open the bookClick here to open the book


2/32

Contents

Contents

1Go Forward

Go Back

Rosie GarlandLook Both Ways 04

Gill NicholsonAterwards 15The Box 18

Ian GrayHangman 10

Sarah FiskeBurnt Porridge at Versailles 20

David GaneyYou and You Alone 25Celias Mums Rat 29

ForewordAndy Darby 03

Foreword AndyDarby 03

Rosie GarlandLook Both Ways 04

Ian GrayHangman 10

Gill Nicholson

Afterwards 15

The Box 18

Sarah FiskeBurnt Porridge at Versailles 20

David GaffneyYou and You Alone 25Celias Mums Rat 29


3/32

2Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

This edition published in Great Britain by Flaxbooks,

26 Sun Street, Lancaster, LA1 1EW. Tel 01524 62166.

www.litest.org

All works their respective authors

The Art o Tying Knots (fax003) Flaxbooks

All rights reserved; no part o this publication may be reproduced, stored

in a retrieval system, or transmitted, by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission o the

publisher and individual creators.

Flaxbooks is the publishing imprint o Litest

Lancaster and District Festival Ltd trading as Litest.Registered in England

Company Number: 1494221

Charity Number: 510670

Editor: Sarah Hymas

Design and layout: Martin Chester at Litest

Photography: Jonathan Bean

AcknowledgementsAterwards by Gill Nicholson won the Word Market ESSP Competition 2005


4/32

Foreword

Lets assume youre having the usual sort o day and youre eeling relatively

well balanced and The Art of Tying Knots drops as daintily as a computer ile can

on to your desktop. You open it with a click and begin reading, and as you do

so your head inclines slightly.

By the end o these stories I ind mysel describing them, or thesensation o experiencing them, as o-kilter, charmingly imbalanced or

unbalancing.

Do these stories rom writers rom Cumbria and Lancashire set out

to unbalance? Or are writers who live or work here imbalanced simply by

existing in our little corner o England? Or is it Flax, putting books into

computer iles instead o onto paper?

Whatever the reason, being set o-kilter by Rosie Garlands Look Both

Ways is immediately invigorating. Then rustration sets in, with Ian Grays

Hangman, as we are introduced to a young pyromaniac awaiting judgementwith a disturbing lack o hope. In Gill Nicholsons Aterwards we observe

how just one side o a relationship is orced to move on as a consequence o

bereavement and in The Box another kind o leaving is planned. The title, The

Art of Tying Knots, is ully earned with Sarah Fiskes delightully knotty Burnt

Porridge at Versailles. And without being spiteul one can only hope that your

exs never ind love as it is ound in David Ganeys You and You Alone, as he

takes unbalanced to a new level.

As you read the stories in The Art of Tying Knots the characters quickly

unravel into your world and meeting them may set you o balance or days. Soyouve been warned, read this and you too will be askew.

Andy Darby

Artistic Director

Foreword

3Go Forward

Go Back

Contents


5/32

RosieGarland

RosieGarland

4Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

Read Look Both Ways

Hear Rosie read fromLook Both Ways

Read Rosies Profle


6/32

Look Both WaysEveryone deserves an interesting exit. Better than a bare-gums, blurred-eyes,

arthritic-ingers drit into the void. Im illing the tank with unleaded: shake

the drops o the nozzle and head out aster than the ive miles per hour Im

supposed to stick to. I slow down on the slip road. Stop and let him in, ignore

his Birmingham, please? Later, when its too late, I wonder whether he said

that at all.

Yeah, I say, not taking my eye o the white lines. I hate the M6.

Thanks or picking me up.

Yeah.

Id only been there ive minutes.

Yeah.

My lucky day. I need one. He snis, picks at his cus.

Downwardly mobile?

Pardon?Should have said what. Posh. Trying to hide it.

What?

Thats better. Your camoulage isnt working. I can spot you a mile o.

His orehead corrugates in the rear-view mirror while I tailgate our

drivers hogging the middle lane at exactly seventy miles an hour. One by one

they obey my lashing headlights and huddle back into the inside lane.

You said, I hate the M6, he says eventually.

I do.

But were on the M1.So?

Um. Nothing.

I havent got a problem with the M1. You got a problem?

No.

Good. Whats that smell?

RosieGarland

5Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

Look Both Ways


7/32

Pardon? What?

You smoking?

No.

Sure?

I dont smoke. Its a bad habit.

Just dont smoke in my car, Ok?

Ok.

I balance my ingertips on the rim o the steering wheel at ten to two.

Its always ten to two. Why isnt it ten past ten?

What?

Better.

Uh?

Now youre getting it. Yknow. You said what when I asked a question.

Then grunted. Even better.I take the exit to Leicester Forest Services so ast we judder over the

hatched-o area. It makes my lip sweat, doing that.

Christ, he squeaks. Youre not the only one. Is this Deliveranceor

something?

No. You sure aint got a pretty mouth, boy. Go on, say it or me.

What?

Got it in one. I like you.

We get out o the car and I slap him on the back. He coughs the whole

time it takes us to walk rom the bottom end o the car park to the whooshingdoors. I take the opportunity to tell him a story.

These services are the biggest pile o crap in this entire pile o crap we

call a country. Bring back Thatcher, I say, sneaking a look at his response, but

hes still hacking his lungs up. Im lying, but all artists are liars. Even worse

than Watord Gap, I continue. That song may have been true once, but not

RosieGarland

6Go Forward

Go Back

Contents


8/32

any more.

He unbends, looks at me with watery eyes.

The song? I gasp. You dont know the song? Nothing like a good tune

to cure a broken heart.

I power up as the doors open or us. I love a big entrance, as mygrandather used to say. Watord Gap, Watord Gap, plate o grease and a

load o crap. I lick the ends o my ootballer perm at the man selling RAC

membership. He smiles back.

A kid stares until mother slaps its ace sideways. Mum, whys that man

got ladys hair? it squeals.

They cant help themselves, I say to my new riend.

But his head ducks: embarrassed.

Suddenly, I hate the way people like him crawl into me. The smile; the

thoughtless happiness, the way hes young and cant wait to get older. Tricklingdown my throat, sloshing against the walls o my stomach in an alkaline tide.

Makes my knuckles go into overload. You could use me to clamp illegally

parked vehicles. I loathe him so loudly he must be able to hear. Dont say a

word. Im still generous. I give warnings.

I wasnt going to.

Thats our. Words.

The breeder drags her brat towards the shop. It owls its head at me or as

long as it can. I mime wringing necks and it inds its mothers skirt and takes

a good long sni.Coee, I say, illed with sudden, guilty aection. Im buying.

They only have dolls house size pots, so I get us two each. I ask or real

milk, not that shit in plastic thimbles, and the serving bint looks like Im

asking or plutonium.

My comradely warmth lasts the irst pot and most o the way through

RosieGarland

7Go Forward

Go Back

Contents


9/32

the second. Hes pecking at his cup like a sparrow.

What the ucks the matter with you? I say it gently, but it still makes

mouths purse up and children giggle.

I just dont like the taste o coee, he whispers. Im sorry. Really. Look,

Ill just get another lit. Ok?He scrapes his chair back.

Im taking you.

Its ok. Really.

I said, Im taking you. Dont rock the boat.

Hes too weasel to make a big uss. I watch him looking around at the

bad-tempered breeders and their suede-headed throwback brats. A boy on the

next table starts to bawl. His ather hunches over him, clothes-pegs the tiny

nostrils shut, clamps his palm over the gaping mouth. The wailing hiccups to

a stop. Dad hangs on a ew more seconds, then unclips thumb and oreinger.The kids eyes dilate in moist adoration.

Im your only way out o here, I beam. You know it. I look at him or a

long, aectionate minute. You inished? I nod at his mug.

Oh, he says. Yes.

Youve got places to be.

No hurry.

Well, I have.

Oh. Sure.

He ollows me to the exit, pauses on the ribbed mat no-one is botheringto wipe their eet on. It has started to rain.

You got something against water?

No. I just need to go to the toilet.

Its the rain. Ill wait.

Hes gone a long time.

RosieGarland

8Go Forward

Go Back

Contents


10/32

RosieGarland

9Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

I couldnt go, he says.

The car welcomes us by opening the irst time I point the electronic ob

at it. It needs new batteries. These are ucked. I show my teeth to him so he

knows its a joke. I worry about you, I say as he squeezes into the back seat.

Like, youre not even putting on your seatbelt. Clunk click. Though youre too

young to remember that one.

He iddles with the strap. Stops. Look, he says. I need to walk around

or a bit. Carsick.

I lean into the back and snap the buckle shut. Im taking you to

Birmingham.

But were on the M1.

We leave the car park and glide down the slip road. Mirror, signal,

manoeuvre.

I dont want to go there, he whines.I pull onto the hard shoulder. Stretch over the passenger seat and push

the door open. Youre not a prisoner.

He snatches air in small tight pus. I lit the handle at the side o the

seat and it leaps orward on metal runners and hunches into the ootwell.

Go on then.

Its raining, he says.

I know, I say. Its not like Ive got handcus.

He crumples into a corner o himsel. I wait or the length o time it

would take to drink a can o cola, then pull the door closed. There is a scattero raindrops on the inside o the window.

Birmingham, I say, and put the car into gear. Its a good place when

you get to know it.


11/32

IanGray

IanGray

10Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

Read Hangman

Hear Ian readfrom Hangman

Read Ians Profle


12/32

IanGray

Hangman

11Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

HangmanLast lesson o the day I was to supervise the Unit. The Unit ulilled a number

o unctions. Most days it was a punishment room where kids who had

misbehaved spent a ew hours doing mundane writing tasks. Other times it

was a cooler where kids who had lost control, temper, a ight, were held or

hal an hour to calm down, lick their wounds and consider their place in theuniverse. Sometimes it wasnt used at all. So, an hour supervising the Unit

could either be a blessing or a curse. Supervising one kid, no matter how

challenging was never really a problem, but the Unit held a maximum o six

kids ive in enclosed cubicles and one at the supervisors table and in the

last lesson o the day, that was a unique kind o purgatory as the sixty minutes

crawled by.

On this day Im talking about however, I wasnt expecting much trouble.

The senior kids were out on some visit and it was still too early in the term

or the others to have kicked up much o a uss. I opened the door to ind ayoung Biology teacher sitting at the table with a small boy with wild eyes and a

lushed ace. Clearly he had just arrived rom some crisis.

He wont sit in a cubicle, but hes a bit calmer now, arent you Cain?

said my colleague.

Cain simply glowered.

Mr. L will be back or him in a while, the young teacher went on,

looking intently at Cain, he has to make some calls irst.

Mr. L! Nick Leonidas, also known as Leo, Nick the Greek or Old Nick,

Pastoral Head and hatchet man. Nick normally only dealt with the UpperSchool so Cain must have stepped out o line in a big way. I looked at him.

As i sensing my unspoken question, Cain spoke up, with a hint o

bravado, I set ire to the gym, didnt I.

Ill leave you to it, then. The young teacher picked up some olders and

let the room.


13/32

IanGray

12Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

Cain sat back in his chair, stretching his little legs in ront o him. He

exhaled loudly and appeared to relax.

Alright Cain?

Im gonna be permnently excluded aint I?

It wasnt really a question, but I answered him anyway, dunno, Cain. Notup to me.

He looked at me baleully and shook his head in disbelie at my naivety.

Got orm er ire startin aint I? On a red card an all.

He stood up, pushing the chair over as he did so. I straightened up,

expecting him to make a run or it, but he just wandered over to the window.

There wasnt much o a view, just the boiler room.

You have to sit down Cain, youre not allowed to leave your seat. You

should be in a cubicle really.

He turned away and lung himsel into a cubicle. He began to drum hiseet against the wall. It was very irritating. But that was the Unit; kids were sent

there because they were irritating.

Hes takin his time aint he? he said at last.

Who? I said.

Him! Leo, Mr. L!

Like Miss said, he has some phone calls to make.

Nah, hes lettin me sweat. Thinks Ill start to get scared. He lited his

head to look at me. You wont get out o here when the bell goes. Well both

have to wait or im. Like I said, he likes to keep yer waitin.I nodded as i I were complicit in the arrangement, but began to wonder,

like Cain, just how long would Mr. L take to make his calls, and whom he was

calling.

Suddenly, Cain was out o the cubicle and was rummaging in some

drawers.


14/32

IanGray

13Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

Cain, youre making a real mess. Can you put all that in the bin please?

No. I didnt put it there. Im not picking it up. Its not my mess.

I know its not your mess, but you threw it on the loor ...

People shouldnt put rubbish in drawers. Thats what the bins are or.

For someone who tried to burn down the school, I thought, hes very ussyabout litter.

Can we play Hangman?

Yeah, i you like. He riled through some sheets o notepaper and

selected one that wasnt creased or covered in scribble. He drew the dashes,

and the beginnings o a scaold.

Hey, whaddya doin? I protested.

You get a clue and I can start to hang ya.

Ok, whats the clue?

Its a ilm star.Man or woman?

Man. Thats two clues. He drew another stroke on the scaold.

I began by working through the vowels, and he entered an eand an o.

I suggested some common consonants t, s, l, and he gleeully inished the

scaold and began work on the condemned stick igure. None o my letters

itted, apparently, and he went on drawing the unortunate igure, even adding

extraneous detail, such as a beard and spectacles and somewhat whimsically, a

top hat.

At last, he couldnt think o more details to add to the drawing and noneo my letters seemed to it. I could sense him getting restless, rustrated with

me. What time is it? he asked.

Quarter past. Ten minutes to go. A kind o lethargy seemed to settle

over him, and he sprawled across the table, apparently sulking. I wanted to

keep things light.


15/32

IanGray

14Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

Ok, I give in. Who is it?

He illed in the gaps, but I couldnt read what hed written. It made no

sense, but Cain was used to people being unable to read what hed written.

Its James Bond!

I looked at the piece o paper, the crude drawing and the reversed letters cheyms bonit seemed to say. O course! I exclaimed, but does he count as

a ilm star? Hes not real is he? Cain rowned. This was clearly too much or

him, so I decided to move on quickly. Ok, my go.

Do a ootballer.

I thought or a moment, then drew the dashes, Stevie Gerrard! said Cain

almost beore I had inished. I shook my head. Wayne Rooney, then! Joe Cole!

Whoa, whoa! Youre supposed to get the letters, not guess it in one go!

Is it though?

No! Youve had three guesses. I should hang you or that. Now, go orthe letters. Try the vowels irst a,e,i... you know!

Maybe he did, and maybe he didnt. But he made a stab at it, every so

oten guessing wildly at the name o a player as it came to him. The little

drawing o the scaold and its victim accumulated more detail. Much to

Cains delight I added struts and trapdoors, ingers and buttons. At last, as I

could think o nothing more to add, and was about to draw the atal rope, the

door behind us opened. We both turned to see Nick Leonidas standing in the

doorway.

Right Cain, come on lad, said Nick briskly, but not unkindly. Cain gotto his eet and walked towards the door. Nick looked at me over Cains head.

Thank you sir, Ive got him now, you can go. Cain turned to me and

smiled nervously,

See ya, sir.

See you, Cain, I replied. I wondered i I would.


16/32

GillNicholson

GillNicholson

15Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

Read Afterwards

Read The Box

Hear Gill readfrom Afterwards

Read Gills Profle


17/32

AfterwardsGillNicholson

16Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

AfterwardsAterwards Steph knew she had to think about clearing out his things.

Everybody said it was a necessary part o moving on, what you did once the

ashes were scattered. Shed taken Will in the urn, tipped him into the tarn

when no one else was around. To make sure the current caught him, she

waded in wearing beach shoes, staggered up to her waist holding Will alot.The ashes loated away, their trail o scum like cast willow blossoms. She illed

the urn with water and sank it too but wished she hadnt, because ater she

clambered out she saw it lying there. She hoped it would sink into the mud,

the evidence buried. But no one had seen her. She squelched back to the car

sobbing unrestrainedly, dried and changed out o her wet clothes wailing and

cursing. Then she drove home with the radio on ull blast.

Steph was still undecided about getting rid o Wills stu. Why shouldnt

she just leave everything until she needed space or something else? People

would not like it; the embarrassment o a dead mans jacket, his baseballcap and panama on the hallstand. Steph did not want empty pegs. Wills

shoes were kept on shelves in the utility room. They were going mouldy. She

couldnt take them to Oxam. His slippers were imprinted with his toes and

heels. It would be easier to start upstairs.

She tackled his wardrobe, hearing his exasperation at its old-ashioned

awkwardness as she wrestled with the hangers. Without sorting them, she

bundled shirts into a bin bag or the charity shop. The boys wouldnt want any.

Wills medication, stored in the bottom, she popped rom their oil blisters,

not looking at the calendar o uture days they had promised. She pouredthem into the lavatory bowl expecting the gushing water to sweep them away

but it took three goes. Then she peered inside the wardrobe or a inal check.

But or lu it was empty.

Though it matched their bedstead, Steph wanted to be rid o the

wardrobe. That night she climbed into bed just as conscious o Wills absence


18/32

GillNicholson

17Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

now as she had been the night ater he died. His pillows were stacked up on

his side. It was no use jettisoning them to sleep with cold space on both sides.

She would part with the whole suite. In the morning she would ask the boys

about the unwanted urniture and ind hersel a single bed.

There was a mess ater the removal men took the bedroom urnitureto the auction. Dust was no problem but the unpainted space revealed on the

wall was. Will had not been able to push the paintbrush behind the wardrobe.

If youll clear everything out first, Ill shift it when I feel better finish the job off

properly, hed promised. She had agreed but the moment never arrived. There

was no paint to match the ice-blue walls; shed checked all the tins stacked in

the garage.

She set about Wills bedside chest o drawers next, stuing his

underclothes into plastic bags with the KY jelly, and culinks hed never used.

There, underneath his socks, she ound more pills; not a ew days worth, butbeta blockers going back months. Her heart thumped and a cold clamminess

iltered into every pore o her skin. She shook her head; reused to allow the

questions entry. Switly, she went downstairs and out into the garden. This

time it would have to be burial, under the carpet o grass. She dug erociously

making a small deep pit, not caring about the mice and moles.

Her single bed was delivered just as she stamped the last sod into place.

She made it, struggling with double sheets and duvet. Steph had thought the

blank where the wardrobe had stood was a sign o Wills optimism. Now it

shouted another story. She stared at the patch o old wallpaper: huge pink andred roses, gaudy, sentimental. They had both hated it. She would have to see to

it; cover it up somehow.


19/32

The BoxGillNicholson

18Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

The BoxNat was panting, his ace only inches rom Christophers. You okay? he

whispered.

Christopher opened his eyes and rolled away still clutching the cowslips

rom the cli-ledge.

Fuckin hell! Your arm! Nat was kneeling, pointing. Christopher looked.A dirty cut oozed blood. Better not let your mum see that, he said.

Back home, Christopher thrust the lowers at his mother but she saw the

blood and gripped his wrist instead.

Youve been climbing again with that Nathan. She ingered the wound.

Christopher bit on his lip. This needs cleaning. Stand still, Ill get something

to put on it. She rummaged in the cupboard or tissues and disinectant.

Didnt I tell you to be careul?

Its nothing, Christopher said.

Its not nothing. I cant do with it, not any more. You and Nathan God knows what youll do next. She looked distraught. Christopher gnawed at

his ingernail. His mother threw the dirty tissues in the pedal bin and turned

to ace him. Christopher stepped back. You havent orgotten were going to

Grandpas? she said. Your ather wants to leave straight ater tea. Go and get

the things you want rom your room.

The cowslips lay wilting on the table.

Jennys bedroom door was locked. None o the games he used to take to

Grandpas would be any good without her, although shed been a crybaby when

she lost. I only Nat could come.The journey took hours. There was too much room on the back seat.

Christopher leant orward, close to his mothers head. He studied the irst grey

hairs. Nats mother had hers dyed. Blonde.

His ather cleared his throat. Your mother and I have been thinking ...

its time you got away rom home ... met up with boys rom dierent ...


20/32

GillNicholson

19Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

backgrounds. He must be talking about staying at Grandpas. Weve decided

its time you went to a really good school; youll get an excellent education and

mix with well, interesting and intelligent boys and girls come to that.

His mothers shoulders were rigid; she did not turn her head.

Christopher sank back.Next morning Grandpa was in the workshop sliding his hand over junky

pieces o urniture, making paths through dust.

Your mother says youll need a big box, with a good lock, or boarding

school. How about this? Stains and scratches covered an old mahogany

sideboard.

Christopher said nothing.

Well, have a look at this. Grandpa held a tiny box. Christopher stroked

the wood. Beeswax, Grandpa said. Christopher looked inside and snied. It

smelled o pencils.Thats neat, he said.

Keep it. Grandpa closed the lid. Its yours, just to remind you that

this ... he patted the old sideboard, will look as good as that when its made

into your big box.

Christopher rowned. Can you make it sos its light inside when the

lids astened down?

Light inside! Hadnt thought o that one. Grandpa cleared his throat.

Tell you what, ventilation holes each side. That should do it. He put his

arm around Christophers shoulders. And youll have the key, to open it andshut it just as you want.


21/32

SarahFiskeSarahFiske

20Go Forward

Go Back

Contents Read Burnt Porridgeat Versailles

Read Sarahs Profle


22/32

Burnt Porridgeat Versailles

SarahFiske

21Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

My mother, Lady Jervaux, ran a circus, and her mother beore her, and great-grandmother Le Dodo beore that. I have been tracing this maternal line back.

Back to times when emale circuses were perormed in the throats o caverns,

the hum o orests even the swashy brine o seabeds. But this is no time or

imparting mysteries o the emale psyche. All I will say is I have inormation

in my possession that is older than the Dead Sea Scrolls older than theory,

or time. Evidence o my genetic inheritance which testiies to the act that my

own amily my emale line are descended neither rom the pink and white

chastity o Eve, nor some glubby lie orm.

I have no wish to challenge the concept o evolution. Quite the contrary.It is clear to me that the bulk o humankind did crawl rom the sea. And oh so

slowly, barely an ounce o initiative between them mate with monkeys.

I just happen to know that my own ancestors did not. My amily stepped

straight ully ormed, upright and breathing into immaculately vowelled

lie. When Mummys great aunt, Dolly Bognor, reached the summit o Everest

in 1900, equipped only with a knapsack, Thermos lask, and the plus ours o

a man she had slain at the source o the Nile in 1860, she was overwhelmed

by such an acute sense o dullness, she took out a scouting knie and etched

the word bugger into her palm. This incident played dreadully on theminds o three generations o Royals. Old Widow-Weeds dying o envy in

1901. And thirty-ive years later grandson George rasping Bugger Bognor

as his embalmers unpacked their bags. Dolly Bognor had winning ways, nut-

cracking thighs and unstoppable appetites. In short, she could twist any man,

woman, or beast o the ield around her little inger. At the Great Exhibition

Burnt Porridgeat Versailles


23/32

SarahFiske

22Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

o 1851, she had pole-vaulted Crystal Palace naked, with three hundred pink

lamingos salivating in her wake.

Have you ever considered how much more economic and eicient it

is to be a person o small stature? Dolly Bognor was ity inches in her stout

shoes. My amily are all compact. We can sit our to the back seat o mostjalopies and still have oodles o legroom. Mummy always used to say that

the tall should be taxed in times o war. They cost so much more in spam and

shoe leather. She wrote constantly to The Times about it. And I think I would

have to agree with her. When I watch cat-walking models today, I think all

right, youre tall. But whats the point o you? What does your height have to do

with the price o ish?

So much o lie as we are taught it, is back to ront or inside out.

Mummy always insisted we wore any clothes Nanny Gravelax had made or

us, inside out. She said gratitude depended on it. That to conceal those hourso painstaking stitching would be a gross disservice to an old woman already

hal blind and crippled by arthritis. We girls were thus the butt o constant

ridicule. And my ather orever complaining that his daughters wore rags and

looked state-educated.

Each Michaelmas, Daddy would hoist us down through the pantry

hatch into the thundering bowels o the house, to meet the boiler men a

precaution against them mistaking us or their own ospring, and perhaps

mislaying us in the complex central heating system. Mummy conided in me,

quite recently, that Daddy also wanted to acquaint them with our inordinateplainness hoping it would deter any thoughts o beastliness, or proiteering

rom white slavery. When I suggested a little huily to Mummy that Jocasta

and Cornelia might be somewhat stodgy, but I had never thought o us

younger ones Imogen, Lilith and mysel as entirely plain, she roared with

laughter. Darling! she cried, embracing me, youre simply hideous!


24/32

SarahFiske

23Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

My sister, Imo, has carried on the circus line. She perorms around the

Bermuda Triangle in the ark she excavated in the Caucasus. Sadly her troops

o perorming pigs keep expiring on her. Her whole lie is one long near-

death experience. Mummys philosophical, saying in one breath poor old

Imo and the next well, she wont go short o bacon. And i she pops her clogsbeore the pigs Im sure theyll clean her up.

But we all know that the circus spirit is dying. The emale genetic

line about to expire. Daddy sold our elder sisters to the CIA. Americans!

Mummy was appalled. And Jocasta and Cornelia, still puy with puppy at and

pubescent shame, were nudged up the aisle by the barrel o a gun. Daddys

little joke. He was cock-a-hoop. Couldnt wait to be shot o them. Ater the

weddings, Mummy called us younger sisters into the nursery and bound our

bodies with bandages. A precaution, she said, believing that Jocasta and

Cornelias bumpy bodies might have upset Daddys equilibrium.Within eighteen months both married sisters had produced big-ooted

sons with evangelical teeth. We younger siblings didnt altogether take to being

aunts. On the odd occasions they visited, we used to unravel our bandages,

scamper up the lime trees and catapult the little yanks as they lay screaming

in their prams. Never managed more than a split lip or two! They dont visit

now o course. Too embroiled in the War on Terror. Mummy calls them the

braying mules so little chance o heirs.

We younger sisters have no children. Imos up her armpits in pigs,

Lilith poor love still idling time in Broadmoor or stabbing Daddy.And me? I am as I keep trying to tell Mummy pure iction. But she just

wont have it. Calls me a deeatist. Chases me with the garden ork, screaming,

i youre not real, why the buggeration are you running, Girl?

Ive tried going through the photograph albums, pointing out my

absence, and standing beside her in ront o the Queen Anne mirror in the


25/32

SarahFiske

24Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

hall. But she simply accuses me o being pert or tricky. And as a last resort, she

always says, What do you know about Versailles?

And on cue I reply, the porridge was burnt. Which makes her laugh

delightedly. Presumably, she reasons, I couldnt know that the porridge was

burnt at Versailles, i I hadnt tasted it. And I couldnt have tasted it i I wasntreal. I dont actually remember ever going to Versailles. But I would suggest

that a chateau in France would be quite unlikely to serve porridge. When I put

this to Mummy this morning, she tapped her nose and winked. Exactly!

But I have been to Versailles?

No, she said.

So I cant have eaten burnt porridge there! I exploded.

Which means, Darling ... she licked her lips, that you told a little

porky-pie.

And why on earth should me making up some gibberish about porridgeprove my existence?

Because you did make it up, she said. Think about it. And with that,

she raised the rile to her shoulder and started shooting conkers hell or

leather o the chestnut tree.

I think a lot about mortality these days. Mummys in particular.


26/32

DavidGaney

DavidGaney

25Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

Read You and You Alone

Read Davids Profle

Read Celias Mums Rat

Hear David readCelias Mums Rat


27/32

You and You AloneDavidGaney

26Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

You and You AloneAngela and Rowan loved each other. Utterly, thoroughly, completely.

All was love. Angela was crammed to the brim with pulsating pink jelly; Rowan

was on a speeding motorbike screeching down a long curving road.

But there were small imperections: a raction o time when the

speeding motorbike shuddered and gasped, a tiny issure in the pink jelly.And the cause o these wrinkles were the ex-lovers. Neither Angela nor

Rowan was young, so over the years they had collected an assortment o ex-

wives, husbands, boyriends and girlriends. Not to mention the many lings,

lirtations and encounters they had each enjoyed. Although they rarely met any

o the exs, the knowledge o their existence and o the intimacies their partner

had shared with these strangers oppressed them. At night Angela would wake

up and imagine she could see the ex-lovers swaggering up and down in ront

o her, pointing and laughing. Rowan said he sometimes elt as though he was

lying under many thick, heavy blankets, and the blankets were all the exs.This went on. Dark cavities appeared in the pink jelly. The speeding

motorbike coughed and puttered, threatening to stall.

Something had to be done, and the solution was simple. They would

kill all o their ex-lovers. When the ex-lovers were dead, the couple would be

utterly content and it would be jelly and motorbikes wall-to-wall.

They agreed on the deinition o an ex you had to have slept with them

more than once, spent a whole night together, and shared drinks or ood. This

criteria helped reduce the list, but there were still a lot o people to kill.

They agreed that Rowan would kill her exs and Angela would kill his.That way it would be harder or the police to trace the murderers. And to

make it even more diicult to connect these suspicious deaths twenty-six

in total each o the killings would be carried out dierently. Rowan listed

the various ways available and matched the victim with the method, based on

his knowledge o that persons preerences. A certain ex-lover hated water, so


28/32

DavidGaney

27Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

drowning was out. Another was araid o heights, so the push o the cli was

not possible. Someone hated blood, so the knie was not an option. One had

a ear o being buried alive so suocation would be unkind. On a big sheet o

paper they worked out a detailed plan which indicated the dates o each o the

ex-lovers deaths. Next to the date o completion Angela drew a big pink starand scribbled the word hurray.

Six months later the ex-lovers were all dead. It was summer and Angela

and Rowan were sat on their patio holding hands and drinking sparkling wine.

Are you ull o pink jelly? he asked her

She was.

And was he speeding round the bend on his motorbike?

He gripped invisible handlebars in his ists. Vroom vroom.

There they sat in the gathering twilight thinking about what they had

achieved. It had gone well. It had been hard work, unpleasant oten, but all inall, worth doing. Their world was now perect.

Until they began to discuss what had happened to their ex-lovers bodies

ater they were killed. Three had been buried (Angela and Rowan attended one

o the services) but they had no idea what had happened to the others. Apart

rom one, who had made it known that he wished his ashes to be shot into

space in a small capsule. His new wie had loved him deeply and was certain

to have made this happen. His name was Roger Farringdon. The capsule

containing his ashes would be circling the earth now, even as they spoke.

Angela and Rowan looked up at the sky. It was a clear night and stars weretwinkling. It bothered them that Roger Farringdon was up there, spinning

in space. It was as i Roger Farringdon still had power over them, as i he was

looking down on them, laughing. Typical o a man to want to live orever.

They scoured the sky or evidence o the capsule, and ater a time imagined

that they could see a tiny pinprick relected o the moon, driting balletically.


29/32

DavidGaney

28Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

As they watched this speck o light circling the earth a thousand miles up,

abruptly they elt powerless. Was it only Roger Farringdon? How many o the

other ex-lovers had chosen this option? They didnt know. It could be more

than one.

What should they do? Suddenly the sky was ull o dead souls, strange-eyed constellations looking down on them, mocking their puny lives.

The jelly inside her trembled as though it were about to melt. The motorbike

slowed down.

There was work to be done, and the options were clear. It was love or the

universe one o them had to go.


30/32

Celias Mums RatDavidGaney

29Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

Celias Mums RatI was alone, away rom home, and bored, so I lay on the hotel bed and scrolled

through the names in my mobile phone. It was then I came across the strange

entry. Celias mums rat.

I had no idea Celias mother owned a rat. And i Celias mother owned a

rat, why had she elt the need to buy it a mobile phone? And why had I at somepoint needed the rats number, and needed it requently enough to enter it

into the phones memory? Or, rather, elt a need to know that i the rat called,

I would know who it was. Maybe at some point I had decided to avoid the

rats calls or at least wanted time to prepare an excuse as to why I wouldnt be

able to assist the rat. Yet surely, i Celias mums rat were important enough to

own its own phone, the rat would have a name? Ater all , we didnt call Celias

mums boyriend, Celias mums boyriend. We called him Raymond.

I imagined the sleek, smug-aced rodent lying on a miniature chaise

longue, the mobile clamped to its ear, squeaking away to other rats withsimilar luxurious accessories. Budgies have mirrors, hamster have wheels,

what do rats have? They have phones. But how do rats communicate to

humans on the phone? Was there a computerised system to translate their

squeaks into rudimentary requests? Like ood, bedding, water? Handling

maybe?

I looked about me at the bleak hotel room. The clock said 11.30. Celias

mums rat might eel a sudden desire to be handled at any time. Celias mum

and Raymond might be out. My phone would ring and the robot voice would

say I WANT YOU TO HANDLE ME NOW, PLEASE.

It was a chilling thought. I turned o my phone and tried to get to

sleep. But the ear o the rat ringing wouldnt leave me. I switched on my

phone again to see i Id had any missed calls rom the rat. Nothing. Then

I remembered Celias mum had bought a holiday home in Stratord. The

phone entry meant Celias Mum Strat.


31/32

DavidGaney

30Go Forward

Go Back

Contents

I tried again to sleep. Yet the idea o the rat was adhesive and wouldnt

leave me. Celias mums rat was real. For the rest o my lie the creature would

exist and at some point the phone would ring, the demand would be made,

and I would drop everything. To assist Celias mums rat in all its endeavours

had become my purpose in lie.


32/32

Close the bookClose the book

the art of tying knots - flax 003

Documents