A little bit embarrassingly I put this as an addendum on one of my writer job CVs to show that I could write. It certainly isn't the best thing I've ever written, but I was in the awkward position of having to find something quickly (the deadline for the job was fast approaching and as an idea of adding a story only came to me at the last minute) and that it would be sufficiently decent despite my having no long term literary ambitions for it. I might have been a misjudgment not to have added a better piece of work on the CV as I had absolutely no response (though I did note that there were well over 100 applicants for this particular job). Anyway *flexes fingers - hears the cracks and lets them fizz expectantly over the keyboard.* And...
When we
were about 8 and 10, always at bedtime, and providing she left her door open,
I’d watch my older sister sitting on the side of her bed with her legs crossed,
hunched like a crab, writing something into a red leatherette covered book. I'd
watch her peering through her little Gandhi spectacles, writing in that round
curly lettered handwriting of hers as her plaits dangled in front of her. Then
she’d dart the page before locking the book with a little in-built padlock and
attach the key to her constantly worn charm bracelet. My interest in this item
grew from bored curiosity to a maddening need for answers. It was the lock that
did it.
She
had a money box too; like a miniature bank cash-box – an ugly black square thing
that looked like it had been made from left over armoured plating from a tank
factory, totally immune to the hairgrips and paper clips I’d used to try to get
it open. But I knew the contents of the box amounted to little more than three
apple snail shells, a folded picture of Cliff, and a couple of defunct
farthings. Compared to the book, this was only of passing interest, fuelled
mainly by brotherly menace.
After several attempts at stealing this
mysterious book thing from her desk and prising open the pages, nearly breaking
my finger nails; and a failed attempt to obtain the key once by slipping her
charm bracelet into my pocket after she’d left it lying around outside the
bathroom, she informed me that it was her 'secret diary.’ After allowing for
this exotic fact to sink in, I dug out my ongoing Christmas list and looked at
the items listed, staring at it with new eyes. I then scratched out the number
one entry: ‘Magnetic Robot ‘and inserted the words ‘lockable diary’ in its
place.
That
Christmas, I got one. It wasn't lockable; instead it was a ‘Scout’s Diary,’
full of kids doing stuff I didn't do like tying knots and earning merit badges
for good deeds. But it was a diary. My initial disappointment that it wasn't
lockable waned when I found a loose floorboard in my lair and a secret cavity
in which to stow it. I could now record my life in complete secrecy; I’d write
in it every day and one day show it to an astonished world.
The Diaries Begin
Thursday 18 October 1968.’
Dear diary, I felt poorly at school today and had to sit in the assembly hall
with my sister. She was made to sit with me until I told the truth. Spangles is
always suspicious if we say we feel ill in class.’ (Age 12)
My sister sat and glowered at me. Her hair
now brushed moodily forward, tumbling over her suspicious face where her
girlish plaits once hung sweetly. I was her brother; therefore I was a liar as
well as a thief. And here I was, lying my way out of lessons. She was relieved
and skipped off to her friends when Mrs. Spangler, who made no pretence of her
dislike of boys, exasperated, sent me home. The hobble home wasn’t a tough,
sports injury limp, it was one of those clutching belly, ‘I feel fragile’
hobbles. I felt sick and depressed. One light however shone my tortured route
home: it was a Thursday, and my new Tiger comic would be waiting for me.
Very little interrupted my comic obsession,
whether sadness, illness or pain. I’d stuck with my Tiger through crippling
migraines, breaking off only to stumble to the bathroom to release the headache
demon by inducing warm, sour, throat-scoring vomit that filled my nose with the
sore-stink of acid. But, eyes still fizzing, my mouth sluiced and sweetened,
I’d be back to the comic. Even when the words wavered, and the superheroes
looked like smudges, I’d carry on. Comics were my solace and my comfort, a
sublime private entertainment no matter how I felt. On new comic delivery day,
I’d be almost paralysed with delight.
Home at last, stumbling through the door, I
looked across the hall and saw my Tiger, sleeping on the worn mat in the porch;
pristine, lit by a dusty ray of late autumn sunshine, shimmering with seductive
newness. I took it to my private lair, slinked away with my prize as a real
tiger might, then sat on my bed to inhale the inky flavours of its print, its
pictures and its promise. Wrestler Johnny Cougar would face another terrible
adversary, Skid Solo would be racing against cads with superior technology, and
the opposing football team would be out to nobble Roy of the Rovers. It didn't
matter that I knew this. It was the familiarity I craved the most.
And
then the unthinkable happened. My interest waned. I was page flipping, not
getting to the end of the stories. Suddenly Roy of the Rovers didn't seem quite
as captivating. I closed the comic and lay down. Put on my pyjamas and sat in
bed clutching my belly. I looked at the comic. The strength of my feelings for
the comic now locked in battle with my pain. I picked it up again and read the
cover. Then I was flipping again, backwards and forwards. Finally, I dropped the comic to the floor and
it flapped lifelessly to the carpet like a flattened hero. My eyes felt
full. Fluid rattled in my nose. I didn't
feel like being brave. Further down, my appendix grumbled, preparing itself to
explode and fire poison into my blood.
Starting Work
‘Monday 11th August 1972. ‘Dear
diary, the reason I stood today in a
carpenter’s workshop wearing my new blue bib and braces overalls with four
corned beef sandwiches and a flask of tea with sugar, stowed in a tartan duffle
bag slung over my shoulder, was because this was my first day as a proper
adult.’ (Age 16)
‘Am I in the right place?’ I said to a fat
man wearing a brown overall as I wandered into the yard. This turned out to be
the foreman, a notorious hater of new apprentices, due to, as I later learned,
their callowness and youth being disruptive to the old guard of grizzled ex
national servicemen who preferred to work grumpily alone. The scrappy remains
of his hair were tar black but greying bits were fighting through and looked as
stiff as wire wool. Filaments of hair poked from his collar showing despite his
bald head, hair was thriving everywhere else. Spiders legs crawled from his
eyebrows and his heavy-lidded eyes were as brown as the bundles of teak stacked
by the door. I noticed a stumpy pencil behind his ear, conveniently placed,
like a cigarette stub.
‘I’m Mike,’ I said, putting out my hand
as my dad had said I should.
‘Good for you,’ he said, ignoring my hand.
‘Stick that thing in the grub room and meet me by the mitre saws.’ I nodded.
The 'thing' was my duffle bag. I was never that keen on it myself but never
thought of it as a 'thing'. I looked at it now in a new light, my old PE duffle
bag, a reminder of the recent cross-over from childhood. I didn't know what a
grub room or a mitre saw was, but didn't want to ask too many questions so
early on.
I
guessed the grub room was the place I first went into where two old guys were
sat slurping muddy looking fluid from dirty looking flask cups and reading red
topped newspapers. What the Hell a mitre was, was anyone's guess. The only one
I could think of was the tall hat I wore in drama when I stole the role of
Archbishop of Rheims from Melvin Foreacre after auditions, due to being
slightly taller, and impressing Miss Strummer with my high, flat toned diction
when reading aloud. But now I was 16,
with no school kids anywhere, just old
guys slurping coffee and talking about mitre saws and grub rooms and pursing
their lips at pictures of naked women.
On my way home I’d mused about my strange first day in the timber yard.
‘It’s not wood,’ I was told, ‘It’s timber, it’s always timber’. I thought about
those workmen and their odd insularity, particularly their Page 3 obsessions.
If I’d wanted to see a naked female body, I thought, I only had to ask Samantha
to take her top off, which she would, if her dad wasn't home, and if she was in
the right mood. Sometimes I was even allowed to take her bra off, a devilish
task of finger trembling complexity that reminded me of those obsessive
travails with my sister’s lockable diary and money box about eight years
earlier. I’d thought about my diaries as well. I was an adult now and thought
perhaps I should end them.
Today…
I’m sitting on the floor of my lounge
reading through a box of really old diaries. There are boxes everywhere with
some that date right up to today. I’m
reflecting on my obsessive nature and my need to write. Once those story plots that burn within me
are vented, I’ll make a start on my autobiography. Everything I need is right
here.
Copyright © @2013 (Michael J Ragan) All
rights reserved
