#this pub is ancient and so much of the stained glass has been repaired like a collage

[confusinglyamusingly]

Adding this stained glass I loved at the Mermaid Inn in Rye

Medieval stained glass fragment incorporated in a later window at the church of All Saints, East Barsham (Norfolk)  

image from here

[davidastbury]

Mr Crow

I am trying to tame a magpie. Each day I go into the garden and look for him, peering behind bushes, calling - ‘Where’s Mr. Crow?’ - and making clicking noises; a weak imitation of magpie language. Suddenly, with a clatter of wings, he swoops down and glares at me. I step towards him and he backs away; I retreat and he moves forward; all the time watching me with a flickering eye.

Yesterday I flooded a hollow in the lawn and left him to splash about. He was like a human singing in the bath. Dunking his head, slapping the water with his wings, shaking and preening. And cocking his head to what I was saying - ‘Who’s a beautiful crow?’ Who’s the most handsome crow for half a mile? Who’s a big softie?’ He glared back at me and stamped his feet, beak wide open, a choking,inarticulate outpouring of aggression.

I didn’t mind at all, I know he loves me.

Manchester

Perhaps she is actually Anglo-Saxon - someone whose ancestors squelched through the bogs of ancient, wooded England. All those centuries of being taxed by the bastard barons, of wars civil and uncivil, of battles on the moorland in Yorkshire, of debtor’s prison, of the slums of Manchester’s Ancoates and Gorton.

Or perhaps her family, led by a great, great, great grandfather, came and set up home here - fleeing pogroms in Poland, or potato famine, or pestilence - desperately seeking safety and survival.

Whatever ... throughout it all the mums and dads kept having babies, and here she is to prove it - this wonderful girl swinging three carrier bags, coming out of Selfridges.

After He’d Gone

The office door was locked but someone let me in; she shouldn’t have, but she knew me. His desk had been pushed to the side of the room - you could see where it used to be, the carpet tiles were darker in that place. It had been his desk and now it stood alone with the silent patience of a tethered animal. Drawer one, drawer two, drawer three - empty; drawer four jammed, and I didn’t want to force it. Phone on a wire on the window-ledge, some arch-lever box-files with springs like mouse traps, an open packet of rusting staples.

And his swivel chair with the dicky armrest - it snapped downwards if you pressed on it. He’d reported it to maintenance, but it was never fixed.

I didn’t stay - there was nothing left and there would be no goodbyes - not now, not ever.

King Street

A sense of place. A location - city centre; the same street between two more important streets. And together we walked along this street to buy something - something that was important to her - at her age - it was actually very important to her. So we walked quickly because she was afraid the shop might sell out and she wouldn’t get what she wanted - what her best friend already had and what she felt she must have too.

And we were lucky; she got what she wanted. We were back on the street and she walked on air; she smiled at everyone, couldn’t stop smiling - and I was happy too.

Catchup

We were a mixed bunch; clever and silly at the same time. Frank studied rocks and fossils - Ian was going to be a star on TV - George was starting a blues band - Geraldine who wanted to marry David (although it took forty years to achieve this ambition) - Geoffrey who was in love with a lady who was (fortunately) happily married - Kevin who was so charming but seethed with hidden anger - Elizabeth who habitually feigned outrage, genius at the ‘meaningful’ glance - Mary, aggressive and coquettish, very sharp insults - Kath, mysterious but pleasant, couldn’t take her eyes off Mary - Ronald, nice, withdrawn, haggard from self-abuse - Don, crackling with financial ambitions - Brian who got drunk and wrote like Joyce - John the antiquarian with his tweed suits and bow ties - Michael the anarchist, wiping his glasses and talking revolution - Lynne who never stopped smiling, the only person liked by everyone - Jim the bearded pharmacist - Chadwick (who would call a child Chadwick?) budding tycoon from the council flats - Hugh, meter-reader and philosopher.

Missed a lot out of course.

Just a bunch of people.

No harm in us.

No real harm.

No harm.

Teacher Training College ... 1965

Lecture over and boyfriend waiting for her outside!

And the Manchester streets - so sombre, industrial and soot stained - telling the history of triumphant capitalism and the deprivation and poverty endured by the masses. You could see it in the opulent Victorian hotels, the confident banks, the warehouses and sewing factories, the back alleys and dirty pubs with opaque windows.

But the Unions had become tough; they protected people.

She looked forward to the coming revolution in schools - class sizes would be reduced, bright new schools would be built with swimming pools, libraries and language laboratories. Elitism in education would be ended and the old ways would be swept aside and a new future would dawn.

Of course this didn’t happen. Class sizes haven’t changed much, most schools are in disrepair. Unions have been emasculated and seduced by sly government tricks; teachers stressed to breaking point by box-ticking, inspections, parental interference, policy u turns, and so on, and so on.

She married the boyfriend who waited outside - they had a few good years, but he did rather well in his career and went off with a girl from the office. She got out of teaching as early as she could, grabbed the reduced pension - and happy to settle, neatly divorced, with her kitchen garden, book club, and black Labradoodle.

An Afternoon ... 1965

Her lecture was cancelled and she never knew why. Her boyfriend was also free and was spending the day at a friend’s, helping him repair faulty audio equipment - so she phoned him and they arranged to meet up outside the Medical Library. It occurred to them both, instantly, that his house would be empty. Normally it was crowded with other students who shared the place - officially and unofficially. They could have it all to themselves; do what they wanted; make as much noise as they wanted.

They met; a flurry of kisses and hugs and without mentioning it, they set off towards his house. It was settled without saying any words. They walked quickly. He was animated, chatting and joking; nervous, as if it was a first date, as if he had to impress her - as if his life depended upon it.

She loved him when he was like this. She would have enjoyed keeping up the anticipation - perhaps stop at one of the bars for a quick drink - perhaps call in at the bookshop - something like that - something that would have kept the atmosphere at boiling point - prolonging the enjoyment of seeing his thin concealment.

They turned off the main road and came to the house. He moved ahead, fumbling an assortment of keys, and she looked at the back of his neck - planning to bite it. He kicked away the pile of mail and held the door open. She noticed his slight breathlessness and smiled up at him - basking in the pleasure of causing all this disturbance without even raising her little finger.

Janet ... (Mary Notnice’s friend) 1965

She lived on the outskirts of the town - in the countryside. Her home had once been the tied cottage of a farm labourer, but had been sold at auction when the farm went bankrupt. Her mother used the sheds and enclosures, keeping all sorts of animals - goats, sheep, rabbits, poultry and so on The mother was nice; a sincere, decent woman who seemed to be always busy, always cheerful.

There was no dad around; I never found out why. I once hinted at the subject - not wishing to bluntly ask - but she didn’t take it up. Something in the way she deflected my hint told me that it wasn’t a fully tragic story, instead she showed an amused, forgiving tolerance. As if his absence was the result of ancient, masculine folly, described in every song, book, film in human history. No doubt an amorous misdemeanour; a betrayal with one of her friends possibly, where the uncompromising truth would stand as plainly as the nose on her face. And so they lived their little lives in their little house, more in disappointment than sorrow - as if the missing husband and father wasn’t held entirely to blame - because he hadn’t been able to help himself.

Janet had a beautiful, tranquil disposition - she could have written this ...

Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,

For such as we are made of, such we be.

(Twelfth Night)

The Room

The house is still there - and the trees. Most of the front garden has been lost to car parking; the area where the stone fountain used to dribble in the sharp sunshine has now become a turning circle for the resident’s vehicles.

But he’s not interested in the front - he would like to go ‘round the back’ and peer at the upper windows - at one particular upper window. This had been their room - many years ago - not for long, just one winter, their only room, their only winter. He would like to see what he saw then, when in the mornings he had looked out at the snow in the garden, the trail of a fox or dog, the dripping moss on the brick walls.

And yet he isn’t fooling himself; his motive isn’t totally prosaic. There had been so much joy in that room - remembering how in the cold light her silhouette frazzled like a Bonnard and their laughter rebounded from the stark white walls, and there was nothing in the world that could equal their happiness or their unconquerable belief in each other.

Surely all that joy must have sunk into the bricks and wood and plaster of that room. Would it be asking too much, so many years later, for just a little of it to be given back to him?

Conversation between the Kray twins.

‘Fancy a cuppa’ Ron?’

‘Yea - thanks Reg. Four sugars’

‘Fancy a biscuit Ron’

‘Yea - I could murder a McVitie’