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I was left holding
the headless doll
you called Jayne Mansfield
when the news came
that all over the world
synchronised dances
are being spontaneously performed.
But by the time I looked round
you had had it away on yer toes
and go-go gone
with a Rock Hunter lookee likee.
This is an avenue or maybe a crescent,
tree lined with coiffeured privet hedges,
a rectangular lawn Father manicures
with up and down stripes
every Sunday morning
before, as habit dictates, he prunes the roses
a-hum with Elgar and Vaughan Williams.
During a worker's tea break
he assimilates rich tea biscuits
to digest theories that the loss of Empire
is relative to a loss of standards, or faith,
or knowing one's place, or some other
variation to the enigma. Mother Dear stays
behind the net curtains, made to measure
from Marks and Spencer's, bakes cakes,
brews Earl Grey tea or percolates Brazilian
coffee, flicks through glossy style magazines
to keep in the know about the next must have
big thing. Shines the house with beeswax, polishes
the silverware with Johnson's, sings Elaine Page
as she waltzes with the upright
in this temple where everything is sparkling antibacterial.
| The dinning room-come-through lounge gallery proud, rich in family history: display cabinets of Royal Worcester, shining hall marked Georgian silver. A pair of landscape water-colours by a lesser known Victorian artist, a comforting tick tock tick tock from the carriage clock, London maker, centre stage on the mantelpiece. Solid silver candelabra, arms out - stretched across the dining room's mahogany table, and everything from bowls of fruit, vases, objet d'art to wine glasses, carefully positioned nestling on pretty pretty little lace doilies. |
Some things not found on display: Set of three flying ceramic ducks for the wall, the pin-art abstract that once hung in the hall. Chrome plated bonbon trays and crocheted sardines, cross stitch cushion of the Hay Wain scene, Spanish donkey, mini Eiffel Tower, 'we've been to Disneyland' baseball cap, plastic pink flowers, cute porcelain kittens, mirror backed sconces that came from Thailand, tacky Prince Charles Lady Di wedding portrait mug, fishwife verbals or even dropped haiches (take your elbows off the table). |
| Then there's the wedding day picture, caught in confetti rain outside St Peter's and the formal group shot, all of which seemed so terribly important to be in the correct order, wouldn't do, wouldn't do at all if 'cheese' was said and the best man was standing next to the vicar's daughter. Oh! look, there's Mother Dear and Father too in Rome before the children were born. Proud photographs of son Timothy, now at Cambridge reading business, phones every weekend to ask for cash hasn't quite started his fiscal class. Then there's pretty Evie as captain of the school hockey team, now she's just turned sixteen and prefect perfect, in line for straight 'A's, set to follow big brother down the Cam in a punt, maybe something to do with law or even as a medical student. |
Images that do not appear include: photographs of Great Granddad's lungs in the mud of the Somme, his arms and legs somewhere in Belgium. Granddad in his uniform eating a pork pie at the liberation of Belsen, Grandma Charlotte's GI black lover cheek to cheek at a dance in Cheltenham. Father at Cambridge reciting Betjamin and Auden, inhaled once - never quite been the same since. Mother wearing a roll neck jumper on a CND rally marching through High Holborn. Wedding day laughter caught on film, holiday snaps of happy days ice cream smiles, sand castle flags, vino, almost smell the sun tan oil. Timothy wrestling with his school friend Justin. Evie off her face, at her first illegal rave. |
| Upstairs, in the private world, a French walnut master bed dressed in white embroidery anglais, crowned by a bleached muslin canopy, and of course, a tasteful frilly valance, with extra added cushions to flirt with the idea of glamour. Her wardrobe preserved in an aspic of reverence, cocktail dresses dressed in cellophane kept still and ever so ever so quiet, designer evening gowns expensive outfits she's hardly worn, look back at her through velvet boredom, look back at her with scorn. Sensuous lingerie, that froths and foams in a scented drawer, yet never sees the light of day, or night, anymore. She can't even make up satisfaction, can't fake orgasms when there's no action, so she lays awake and escapes into the pile of books on her bedside cabinet. Pages groaning with romantic friction and heart stopping hoaxes, until in the dark she's all aglow with longings. |
There are certain things that Mother Dear keeps quiet. Like Mother's little helper isn't the lady that 'does' but comes as a pill, she has prozac love. She had told the doctor life's not treated her too well of late, well the last twenty years at any rate. It's the pressures from the past moving in to form a depression, she has never told anyone about the adoption. It remains her whisper, her rumour, her black cloud that hovers, more than twenty years on, maternal missings threaten, will it want the lie that it was conceived out of passion, or raped by her Father after a business function in Hendon. On top of this stress she's healing a broken heart after neighbour Sarah ended their wonderfully sordid afternoon romance. These days she pretends a lot, and feigning migraines wins time alone with her nine inch friend. |
| His suits hang sombre still, and a mass of white shirts like queuing ghosts, ties folded and catalogued by colour, pressed underpants, top pocket handkerchiefs. There are outfits for the golf club, very jazzy, and casual wear for the firm's casual pub outings, he considers these ever so slightly risky, a daring hint of being trendy. As for bedtime reading, inducement into the world of dreams, with Accountant's Weekly or some tiresome company's annual report, for his turn over is strictly profit based with the only stimulation coming from a rise in interest rates. |
Father has some secrets too, when alone in the house there's a suitcase cleverly hidden where he keeps his evening dress and his high heeled shoes. There's a Mini Mouse outfit with a wig and ribbon, he's ventured out in that, well as far as the garden. There's also lots of leather, and self abuse is so his pleasure, he even thinks that nipple clamps should be available on the NHS. Accessorises his ball bags with bulldog clips, enjoys catching his foreskin in his zip. Wears an anal bung to Sunday dinner, so important the family all sit down together. |
| Timothy's room is almost a shrine, nothing is ever moved or touched. Yellowing posters of now fading rock stars, an electric guitar (unplugged). His cricket bag sits and creases, the season is not for another term yet. Piles of summer clothes precision folded, waiting expectantly for sunshine and good times at weekends in the Brighton clubs, and tucked-away Chelsea pubs. CDs and books in alphabetical order somethings are written in DNA. |
Timothy has tried to say; 'Mum, Dad, I'm totally gay' instead he leaves little clues, like the protective box in his cricket bag that has Justin's name on it, the tube of KY in his bedside cabinet, or the extensive stash gay porn in his closet. It would seem, some topics aren't up for discussion, not even a change in career, moving away from banking to mince about in fashion. |
| Sweet Evie, hormones stirring with teenage rebellion, a room full of chaos, a bed full of urges. Smiles from rock stars in 'let's do it' poses, an antique dressing table covered with make-up explosions. A carpet of clothes, empty wardrobe, hangers are a free thought; they go where they roam. Abandoned mugs are a fungi statement; sometimes spilled. Stains are always another issue. There are scarves and shawls with fringes, shimmering jewellery, just hanging out looking Bohemian, although in truth it's just ordinary mess and disorderly. |
Evie's secrets are locked away in a schoolgirl's doodles of hearts and coded squiggles. You can search all you want you won't find her hymen, that's gone; not missed a long forgotten fumble. Es in a vitamin bottle, weed stash in her fluffy pencil case. She seems to be learning how to hide modern life; a box with a cunning false bottom and disappearing a packet of condoms. God bless Blue Peter; thank heaven for getting shagged and wasted. |
| A guest room growing with cheeky chintz, a lonely wardrobe wanting to be used, a single bed eager to help with a dream, chest of drawers with a Gideon and a nice view overlooking the garden. There is a place for everything. |
A hobby room, where Mother and Sarah performed certain positions. Father masturbates whilst sniffing Evie's trainers. Timothy first swallowed school friend Justin. Evie fucked Gavin, Nigel and Jim. Everything has it's place. |
P. A. Levy hides in the heart of Suffolk countryside (UK) learning the lost art of hedge mumbling. He has been published in several magazines, although these days he spends far too much time controlling his characters on the Clueless Collective website.