Wednesday, March 17, 2010

stasis

Tennyson Court. But surely even the Lady of Shallot, distracted as she is, wouldn’t mistake the dark, shuttered Bingo hall off in the distance for Camelot. And if, cursed as she is, she felt driven to jump in a boat and cast off, I reckon she’d only get about halfway through her death song before she ran aground somewhere between the probation offices and the off licence.

I park by some bins. The board with all the numbers on has been ripped up, so it’s a guess this is the right place. The blocks rise around us square and squat, more like military emplacements than domestic accommodation. The planners have been bold, lopping off the top of the hill and putting in its place a stack of housing units, a health centre and what looks like a multi-coloured assault course. Tennyson Court guards the approach, and a single rack of concrete steps leads up to its entrance like a mounting block for the scaffold.

The sun comes out.

A psychiatric social worker meets us at the door. He’s leaning on a stick, but by the look of him I guess it belongs to the patient.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he says, and leads us inside, pausing in the echoing corridor to give us a briefing.
‘Jack isn’t doing so well. He was discharged from Southview a couple of months ago, but he’s really gone down hill in the last couple of weeks. Not coping, very low, not compliant with his meds, general self-neglect, not eating and so on. He’s got a UTI and a bit of a chest infection going on at the moment, to add to his woes. That’s about it. Flat’s a state, as you can imagine. Says he won’t go in, but I think we can persuade him and frankly he’s got no choice. Okay?’
With his battered brown leather jacket and scrubby ginger beard, he has the demeanour of a charismatic young Captain describing a mission. I expect him to tap a map on the wall with the stick. We’re here, the other chaps there.
But instead he turns round smartly and uses it to prod open the door to the flat.
‘Jack?’ he says. ‘Jack, the ambulance people are here.’

The lino floor that tacks hold of our feet as we walk inside, the junked-up furniture, the curtains, cornicing – even that cuckoo clock – everything seems coated in a soft brown sludge. It’s like walking into a neglected fish tank; even the air has a honey-sick, unfiltered heaviness to it.
‘Jack?’
There’s a framed poster on the facing wall: Muhammad Ali standing over the body of Sonny Liston. First round, first minute, it says.
On the next wall, there’s a spread of family photographs, leached of colour, curling at the corners, all of them taped together into a patchwork of smudged faces, ghostly poses.
The cuckoo clock suddenly tries to mark the hour, giving out a jarring, wheezy kind of clunk. The bird door remains closed though, and the leaping deer at the bottom that presumably makes a circuit, gives a little jerk of the head and stays where it is.
‘Time to get up, Jack.’
The CPN pulls back a curtain that looks to be woven out of old tobacco strands, to reveal a darkly shadowed alcove and the etiolated figure of a man lying on top of a foetid divan.
‘Time to go,’ he says.

8 comments:

Rach said...

I am sure I even start to sniff the smells that are around you as you take us on your journey..x

Spence Kennedy said...

With poor Jack, it was definitely a case of wiping your feet on the way out... :/ x

ViatorT said...

I went on my first 999 shift for 'work ex' toher day and I could never quite get the way people said that,now i certainly do!
and the whole smell so bad you could chew it..*EURGH SHUDDER*
next one in 6 hours...oh dear!

Spence Kennedy said...

Good luck with your work experience, VT. You'll soon get used to the olfactory pleasures of the job (a packet of mints is always useful) :/

cogidubnus said...

I've said it before and I'll say it again (and again and again) Spence...your writing is truly exceptional...not only does it it take us there, but it rubs our noses in it too...and there are so many other internal references too... (unconscious or are they?)...like:

"Four gray walls, and four gray towers,

Overlook a space of flowers"...ring any bells?

And just how much of your parallel of society reflected at a distance is conscious and how much unconscious? Wish I knew...you really are a clever F***er....I tell you again mate...when you write that book, I'll be first in line to buy it...

Spence Kennedy said...

Cheers Cogi!

That's very kind of you to say so. I think as far as the 'is it conscious or unconscious' thing goes, if you hit on a good image, it starts to take on a life of its own, and all sorts of connections sprout. That's what I hope for, anyway!

I must admit I quite like Tennyson. There's something a bit absurd about some of his poems - Mariana in the moated grange, The Kraken...All of them ridiculously overblown, but good fun. Like eating Toblerone - uncomfortable, but addictive. (Okay, not such a good image...)

Thanks again, Cogi. If ever there was a book, I'd send you a freebie (but don't hold your breath, mate) :0)

lulu's missives said...

Hi Spence,
Lets get one thing straight - I'm first in line for your book, if you ever get around to writing one!!!!
:-)
As for the Lady of Shallot, love the poem and the painting, both so evocative, just like your writings.
x jo

Spence Kennedy said...

Hey Jo
I don't think the book would shift many copies though - unless I had a nice free gift with every copy, maybe a plastic stethoscope and a cool clipboard. x