a memoir by Peter Street

part 4

1984: Day Centre

Strange was the way I was becoming used to the stench of stale shit and piss that wafted down the corridor from the toilets in the Day Centre. That first day, when the electric doors of the centre clicked open the stench nearly exploded my nose .

  My Social Worker thought it would be good for me going to a day centre; meet all the other crips who could perhaps give me support, help me get my head straight and help fill the hole in my life.

  For a full week my nose was taken over with the stench. Everything stunk of shit and

piss. It had even taken over the smell of our local curry house! After a week or so, it seemed like the whole place had been scrubbed clean and sanitised. I was relaxed. No more smells. The other guys in the centre where now helping me to get my life straight;

plan it. I needed that help for I was to planning as Hitler was to the

  Peace Movement! It wasn’t long before I was in their gang, even though I was the show off: I could move both legs! Yes both legs. Not only that but I could stand. They were all

so impressed – wow.

  So, Monday, Wednesday, Friday: we were all in the centre 10 – 4pm. Tuesday was great:

it was a day in the snooker hall. Friday, we kept fit by going to the gym – piece of piss. My life was a piece of piss. Not only that but I was on all the benefits that were possible, the

guys made sure of that. They had been doing this routine for about eight years. I was the apprentice. Yes, it was great. Then occasionally we were even given free tickets to local boxing matches. We were picked up by car, had three or four, free lagers usually bought by people who felt sorry for us and then we were taken home, we were usually pissed.

Life couldn’t get better!

  Six months later, it was the first time ever that I had been able to afford to take my

family for a holiday in the Lake District. Ironic really. In my other life, I had been working

all the hours god had sent and all I could afford was a week at Blackpool in self catering.

  Now was different, I was classed as seriously disabled, Ok, I couldn’t walk, never mind work and I was still suffering fractures from my osteoporosis. But we were going on a posh holiday. We managed to borrow an electric wheelchair from a friend and we then had a week of fresh air, Kendal Mint Cake, Morris Dancers, sun shine and for the first time in nearly two years, we had sex. Ok, it was a fumbly kind of sex. I couldn’t do much, Joan

did everything and it was wonderful and then later I cried with happiness because at thirty years of age, I never thought I was ever going to be able to have sex again. Joan was my wife, my lover and best friend. She was my hero. She was the one who had been strong through out. I used to hear her crying when she was in the bathroom. She never knew

that I knew. She used to come into the front room red eyed and she say “ I think I’m starting with hay fever!”

  We were on the outskirts of Kirby Lonsdale making love. Everything about the holiday seemed to put us on the starting line back to normality, that’s if normality exists!!

  Back home, I couldn’t wait to tell the gang about my holiday, and our sex. More importantly: to tell them about walking: my first few steps in two years. A few steps, yes, but I had walked. Monday morning. My head, my lungs everything about me was full of

fresh air and a happiness I had not felt since before my accident and then the electric doors of the centre opened and the full force of the stench came back to me and

knocked my head back.

  The guys in the gang admitted there was a smell. A smell. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

A smell. That was a bit like saying George Best was just a footballer. I let it go, because I knew my time at the centre was up. It had served its purpose. I had to get away because

I was going to stay alive and taste every minute of my life. My time at practising at living

was over. I was going back into Society and bollocks to this. Kirby Lonsdale and everything that had happened there had allowed me to dip my toes in normality and I wanted more;

I wanted to swim in normality. How I was going achieve it was another story.

  After dinner, me and the guys talked dreams and memories. They talked about shagging and the rugby scrums where they broke their necks and what they would do if they could go back. I took them back to my time in Kent. To my time in Private Service has Head Gardener on a large estate.

  I talked to them about how my wife worked in the house and how she had to Hoover

the carpets backwards as she left the room so as not to leave footprints in the carpet.

How she had to leave just two sheets of toilet paper hanging down from the role and how she had to wash and dry the soap on all the wash-basins in the house and then wipe them dry.

  I told them how I had to take flowers in for the table and how they had to be no more than five inches in height. I told them how Mrs Boss, the owner used to come into the greenhouse topless. She was only a few years older than me. Her family money meant she couldn’t work because of tax purposes. So, on the very hottest days she would either spend time working in another part of the garden or she would sun bathe topless or even totally naked! What ever she did I could not look. It was a “ written warning” offence if I did. Mr Boss made it clear from the start that I hadn’t to look. “It was her choice and we have to respect that!”

Up in the nineties!

Her freedom allows her

to walk in naked;

we both know I mustn’t look.

Waiting for my weakness

to turn round,

she works the cucumbers:

nipping out the male flowers.

A game deeper than nakedness!

the passion-fruit climbing

that white wash wall are bitter.

On the way out,

she slams the glass door.

I cool down the tomatoes.

By now the gang were gripped. I was talking about things that had happened about three four years ago on a private estate that was about a mile from the main road. A Shangri-la: our Shangri-la where we were well out of ear-shot of traffic. Wonderful. I talked to the guys them about the day when I was walking my five year old daughter around the back

of the big house, when we were both startled by an incredible loud rumbling. Frightened, she started crying. It felt, sounded, like thunder was rolling down from the pine woods where it had been sleeping. Then we saw them: about thirty or forty horses of a fox hunt

chasing across the fields towards us and there must have been at least fifty maybe sixty hounds, yelping and barking. I picked my daughter up and hid behind a big beech tree while they passed. I had heard about fox hunts but I never seen one before. It was truly horrific. My daughter didn’t sleep that night or the night after.

  One of the more pleasant jobs on the estate was to feed and care for the chickens. Charlie the big white cockerel with a red comb on the top of his head was everyone’s favourite, who became a part of the family. Collecting the eggs was just one of those magical experiences in life that you very rarely forget. Yes, we had a couple of problems

with the other chickens mainly pecking and then eating their own eggs. We read once

they start that, there can be major problems later. So we had to nip it in the bud. So, I made a small hole in one of the eggs, blew the inside, out. Then carefully filled it with English mustard.

  The next day we heard an almighty noise and saw the culprit who had been pecking the eggs, running around in circles, shaking its head. That stopped it. That was the only problem we ever had. With all the jobs done we made out weekly trip into Edenbridge.

On our return we saw Charlie lying dead without its head. All the other chicken had been taken. My daughter screamed. The culprit we guessed was a fox. Mrs Boss was furious she swore she’d fix the fox.

  A week had passed when we heard Hunt coming across the fields, horns blowing, dogs yelping and I saw the fox. It was her revenge! The fox passed within a few feet of me. I

had never seen a fox up close before.

  He was such a tiny beautiful thing. I felt so sorry for him. Then with little regard for anything the Hunt just came crashing through everything………

Her Chickens: Her Revenge

Down the narrow road we drive,

off tarmac onto buttercups

kneeling and ducking the front bumper.

Through rear windows

my two daughters watch

slim figures kelly-doll-up-again:

golden sun hats swaggering.

We free-wheel into our dream-pocket

into a countryside

we’ve never seen before:

crimson blobs, scatters of feathers,

headless chickens:

chewed electric cables twitching…

The girls scream.

I feel the fox watching us :

We smelled his stink

2.

After the cremation

I crack to life the Atco

Sssh! Demand the shrubs and flower beds

of my mowing and Beatle-singing”

“Respect for the chickens!”. they whisper.

So in silence I barber the main lawn

of its summer beard…

Until a suddenness of screams and yells

stumbles me in circles.

Trees inside the wall-garden stretch up,

point and shout over there!

I run towards a distant thunder

galloping across the fields

and watch a company of scotch pines:

cover for the fox

soldering down the hill.

Breathless I stand between two oak minders,

waving my arms, protesting

at fancy-tailored dummies

shagging backs of horses:

spunk spurting from mouths,

dribbling chins

what fun! What sport What ho!

3.

I find the fox

drowned in the pool,

chased onto its cover.

Pulling him out, I want to gloat

I want to open his mouth and shout

Where’s our fucking chickens?

I feel his tongue dangle down,

kiss the back of my hand.

My fingers slot into his rib cage

bloated with chlorine,

his eyes still open

for a final glimpse.

Peter Street © 2008