Sawn-Off Tales (6 page)

The Way you Say ‘Park'

H
E HAD BEEN
listening to her voice for years; the percussive, slightly guttural approach to Newton-le-Willows, the gorgeous ripe burr in the vowels of Hazel Grove, the absolute absence of sarcasm when she apologised for cancellations. Today he was singing along in his head as usual when he heard her inject a new enunciation into Eccelston Park, giving the word ‘park' greater emphasis and putting a little suppressed laugh at the end of it.

This was significant because it was his name. Parker. And each time she said ‘park' she made the same little flourish.

He decided not to go into work and instead stayed at the station, listening to the way she said ‘park'. The staff wouldn't tell him where her office was, but tomorrow he would discover her name and shout it on all the platforms. That way she would know that he loved her in return.

 

 

Lady Pleaser

D
ARREN WAS AT
the pub and Geraldine came round to keep me company. ‘I saw your bloke today.' She winked at me, long and slow. ‘That'll be keeping you smiling.'

‘What?'

‘The lady-pleaser!'

I laughed, pretending I understood. ‘Oh, sure!'

When she'd gone I rang Steph. ‘What's a lady-pleaser?'

‘You mean in facial hair? It's a tuft of stubble under the bottom lip which, you know, enhances things when he goes south?'

Darren had recently grown a tiny jut-beard. ‘Oh.'

When he goes south. Darren hadn't been further than the Midlands with me for years.

When he got back from the pub the pathetic sprout of bristles bobbed up and down as the lies poured out, but I could see through him like a cheap nightie. She was some barmaid where he DJ'd. What upset me most was that she had to customise him, when for me he was always perfect.

 

 

First Out

T
HE ALARM EMITTED
a vile digital shriek, the bed tilted and he climbed out. I rolled onto his side, now lovely and cool, and hoped for tea. Then I heard the computer bing-bong and the chatter of a keyboard. I slipped on my robe and crept downstairs. He was sat motionless in front of the screen on which an orangey-skinned woman in complicated underwear was being revealed. “Red hot amateurs” it said.

‘Dougie,' I said. He didn't move. ‘Do you always look at these sites?'

‘I suppose.'

‘Then what's this?' I hit enter and the screen filled up with platform numbers, times and destinations.

He began to quiver. ‘I'm sorry darling, it's just, ever since I stopped going in, I need to know about the trains. It gnaws away at me inside.'

I stroked his head. Outside the neighbour reversed his car into the thickening traffic.

 

 

Light Lunch

W
E SAT AT
a pavement table, the only customers brave enough for the September air.

‘I warn you,' I told her, ‘I have a chronic inability to attract the attention of waiters. So let's be nonchalant. Bury your head in the newspaper like you don't care, and your man in the apron will be straight over.'

After twenty minutes she frowned. ‘Shouldn't this have worked by now?'

‘Yeh. We'll move up a notch.' I popped over the road and brought back sandwiches. ‘Start eating. They hate it when you do this.'

We left the newspapers and sandwich wrappers on the table. ‘Never mind,' I said. ‘We've had a cheap lunch and we're up to date with the news.'

When I returned, the waiter was on a fag break and he helped me return the table and chairs to my car. He had no idea what a fool this made him appear.

 

 

With Tongues

H
E SAID HE
was in the Albanian Builders Federation and I interpreted this for the immigration officer exactly, leaving out that the federation was nothing more than a drinking club for blokes with cement mixers. My job was to interpret, the rules were very strict. Then he said that the reason for his persecution was that he was gay. Now this immigration officer was a
Sun
reader who always mouthed off about homosexuals. So I had to change what he said from gay to a member of New-Free-Albania.

The officer wrote this down and looked at him. ‘Who is the leader of New-Free-Albania?'

So I said in Albanian, ‘Who is your favourite gay singer?'

He thought for a long time then said, in clear English, ‘The Pet Shop Boys.'

 

I interpret for the police now and make things up all the time. It isn't a problem here, it actually helps.

 

 

On This Very Special Day

M
Y MOTHER LIVES
in Cornwall and I always forget her birthday. So I bought a whole batch of cards, scribbled messages on them, and gave them to my sister who would drop one off each year. Average female life expectancy is seventy-nine, so I bought twenty-nine cards. It didn't seem a lot, but there it is.

Ten years later my sister said she wouldn't do it anymore. Watching the pile of cards getting smaller was depressing. Why couldn't I have bought like a hundred cards?

I hate waste so I tried my dad. ‘There's not enough here,' he said. ‘A woman in Japan lived to one hundred and twenty-six. I'll do it if you buy another fifty.'

I looked at him in disbelief.

‘Those are my terms,' he said.

So I gave them to my mother who said it was fine and I believed her. After all, she brought me into the world.

 

 

Cica Lights

M
UM AND TREVOR
were getting serious, what with her new glittery top and the way she stroked the sleeve of his knobbly jumper like it was a hamster. But you can put up with that. When he bought me new trainers my heart sank. The box declared in scrolly italics, Clarks, and when I lifted the lid, pink lights winked through tissue and my worst fears were confirmed.

Cica Lights. A Nike copy with pathetic flashing bulbs in the heels.

I was dead if I wore them. Like the boy who wore a Blue Peter T-shirt on non-uniform day and had since developed a stutter and started hanging with the science-fiction lot.

So I told Trevor about the nights my dad stayed over and Trevor stormed out taking the shoes with him.

My mum was inconsolable. But relationships come and go. Your choice of trainer leaves an indelible mark.

 

 

The World Won't Listen

L
UCY SCREECHED TO
a halt, jumped out and stomped down the street. I sat for a time watching her diminishing figure in the mirror, then decided to catch her up. As I walked I noticed a sign in a shoe shop window:
THIS IS NOT THE RAILWAY STATION
and began to think about handmade signs. A lot of annoying things have to happen a lot of times to persuade you to make a sign. Company-made signs are obviously not good enough to communicate what the public need to know. They always have to get out their marker pens. Here was another, on a cake shop door:
WE DO NOT SELL PIES
.

I caught her up at McDonald's (
NO ROLLER-BLADES
) and followed her into the toilets where she sat down and cried in a cubicle. Blu Tacked above a murky mirror a sign said:
THE TOILET BRUSH IS FOR STAFF USE ONLY
.