Monica watches
as Benedict and Jim
practise judo on the grass
off the path
to the farmhouse.

She cheers Benedict on
standing on the edge
clapping her hands excitedly.

Her other brother Pete
leans against the fence bored,
hands ******
in his jean’s pockets.

How long are you going to be
practising this judo ****?
the film starts
in half an hour,
he says.

Benedict throws Jim
to the floor
in a  quick movement,
Monica raises her hands
to the air.

Knew you could do it,
knew you could,
she says, patting
Benedict on the back
of his jacket.

Jim dusts off
his jeans
with his hands,
looks at Pete,
then at Monica.

Caught me off guard,
he says,
she put me off
with her yelling
and clapping.

Can we go now?
Pete says,
moving off the fence,
now you’ve done
your judo stuff?

Can I come?
Monica asks
looking at Benedict.

No way,
Jim says,
don’t want no girl
dragging us down.

I am not any girl,
I’m your sister,
she says, staring
at Benedict.

He looks at Jim
then at Monica.
I don’t mind if she comes,
he says.

I do,
Pete says.

Monica pouts
and folds her arms
over her small *******.

The farmhouse door opens
and their mother comes out.
I thought you
were going to the cinema?
she says.

We are,
Jim says,
just going.

They won’t take me,
Monica says.

Of course they don’t
want you with them,
her mother says.

Anyway I have some chores
I need help with.

Monica pulls a face
and glares
at her brothers,
but looks at Benedict
pleadingly.

Maybe next time,
he says.

Not with us she don’t,
Pete says.
With me though, maybe,
Benedict says,
giving her a wink.

Come on in Monica,
leave the boys be,
the mother says.

Monica follows her mother
towards the farmhouse,
gesturing her middle digit
at her brothers
while her mother’s back
is turned.

Benedict smiles,
watches as she sways
her small hips,
blows him a kiss
from her open palm.

Jim shakes his head
and follows Pete
to the bikes
by the shed,
while Benedict,
takes a kiss
from his lips
and throws it
at Monica’s
departing back.

Her head turns
and her hands open
to catch the thrown kiss
moving slightly forward
so as not to miss.

Yiska sits on the sofa staring.
Music on the radio, background
noise. Naaman walks the length
of the locked ward, right hand
in his dressing gown pocket.

White bandage, blood stained,
wrapped around his left wrist.  
Avshalom’s razor did the job
unsatisfactorily, he muses,
feeling the soreness where

the wound’s wrapped. Yiska
taps the sofa seat and beckons
for Naaman to sit beside her.
He sits down, hands on knees.
She’d found him in the locked

ward washroom wrist slit,
blood drenched. She talks to
him, low voice, muttering words.
The nurse at the desk eyes them.
Slit wrong way, Yiska says, the

Romans had it down to a fine art.
Naaman senses the wrist throb.
He smells her soapiness, wants
to wrap himself into her. Some
deem it a sin to take your life,

she says. Doesn’t matter a ****
once you’ve gone, she adds, tracing
a finger along his artery. More
ways than one to go, Yiska says,
reaching the bandaged wound.

Naaman says, I know, I tried each
in turn, failed me each. She smiles.
That hanging **** was a no no, she
says. Need to go beautifully, not
boggled eyed with protruding tongue

like some rabbit hung. The nurse
takes his hand and feels the bandage
hold. She unsmiling looks at both,
their conversation dumbed. Naaman
senses the nurse’s hands trace a

line around the wound. Unimpressed,
she moves away, eyed by Yiska’s dark
stare, watches the nurse talking to
another standing there. Makes work
for them, Yiska says, no feathers in

their caps if you break through to the
other side. Naaman sniffs her soapiness,
warms to her nearness, seeks to dissolve
into her otherness. Sylvia had it off to
pat, Yiska says, head in the oven dozed

to a death. Sylvia? Naaman asks, his eyes
skimming along her thigh where night
gown showed. Plath, she says, the poet,
back in 63. Naaman drinks in her dark
valley where her night gown gapes, his

black dog mood barks in his brain. Look,
Yiska says, pointing her finger window
wards, after the freezing snow, comes rain.

Sonya talks
endlessly
her Danish

stark beauty
saves her from
boring me

to no end
the Wagner
opera

in London
had gone well
a good meal

and fine *****
then back home
to her place

a ****** of
Delius
then it's bed

lying there
after ***
she talking

of the art
of being
what we make

of ourselves
from our birth
to our graves

I'm thinking
of the dame
singing loud

in Wagner's
Das Rheingold
how her *******

stole the show
as they say
the show's not

over till
the fat dame
sings her last

ending note
then Sonya
talks no more

and we lay
down in bed
to make love

with Wagner's
opera
going round
in my head.

The day after
Janice’s gran
had taken you
to see the film

The Ten Commandments
you had gone with Janice
to Jail Park
to ride the swings

and she talked of the film
and the parting
of the Red Sea
and the drowning

of the Pharaoh’s men
and the horses
and the writing
on the two tablets

of stone
shame the horses
had to drown too
she said

they hadn’t done
anything wrong
it’s a matter of being
in the wrong place

at the wrong time
you said
but those poor horses
they didn’t ask

to be the Pharaoh’s horses
you swung high
on the swing
your feet reaching up

towards the sky
Janice was beside you
she wasn’t swinging so high
and those poor slaves

she added pushing
her swing higher
by moving her legs
and arms

why were there slaves?
why can’t people
be nice to each other?
I can imagine Cogan

in my class
being a bit of a pharaoh
given the chance
the fat ***

you said
maybe he’s not
treated right at home
she said

maybe that’s why
he’s like that
no he’s just a prat
you said

who likes to bully
other kids
does he bully you?
she asked

he promises
to smash my face in
but when I waited
for him the other day

after school
he didn’t show
you said
my gran said

to be kind to people
and try to see
their better side
Janice said

I do try
you said
but his ugly dial
gets in the way

and she laughed
and said
we mustn’t laugh
it’s a shame when people

have to bully others
I’m sure he’s got
a good side
your feet were now

almost touching
the sky’s rim
well if he has
he must keep it

in his pants
you said
she smiled
and shook her head

her brown sandals
and white socks
seemed to scrape
the sky’s skin

but gran said
Janice almost sang
that none of us
is free of sin

and her voice drifted off
into the blue
just the two swings
on that Monday morning

and Janice
and you.

We leave the cinema
after the film
it's getting late

Sophia says
you go to my place?

won't your parents
be there?
I ask

no they out
not be back  
till late
she says
they go to theatre
in London see play
by Polish writer

I see
I say
looking at her
standing there
but it's still late
I say

it not matter
I get you coffee
then maybe see
what happen
she says

I am reluctant to go
to her place
as it's a good walk away
and it means
I'll have to get
a taxi home
and take the risk
her parents aren't
home earlier

Sophia says
I show you
my parent's bedroom
it is good

I look at her
standing there
smiles
blonde hair
neat dress

ok
I say

so we take a taxi
to her parents' place
(save time and effort)
and she takes me
in by the front door
and turns on the lights

see no one here
she says
place to ourselves

she take my coat
and we go
into the lounge

I get coffee?
but wait after yes
we go see
my parents' room

so we go upstairs
and she opens
her parents' bedroom door

she says
they have big crucifix
above bed see
so the Christ can see them
keep them safe
but he has eyes closed
so not see them
doing stuff
she smiles

I look in the room
and there is
the big wooden crucifix
with a plaster Christ
painted with all
the skin and wounds
and such

now I show you
my room
she says

she takes my hand
and we walk along
the landing  
and she opens
the door to her room

what you think
it good yes?

yes it is good
I say
taking in
the single bed
with matching covers
pillows and curtains

but now we can
have coffee
I say

not yet
she says
we have the *** first
and then coffee?

but what if
your parents'
come back early?

they not be back yet
be hours

she is eager
she undresses
as she shuts
the door behind us

I stand there uncertain
fiddling with my tie

come on
she says
not waste time

she is already
down to her underclothes
and she begins
to unbutton my jeans

we have it
you not want?

just as I'm about to reply
we hear a door
open and close
and voices downstairs

she freezes
her unbuttoning
and looks in mid air
as if there was
an answer there

quick get dressed
she says

and she runs
to the light
and switches it off
and puts her clothes on
in the darkness

I look at her outline
shadowy
her Polish curses
fill the air in whispers
razor sharp

I tighten my tie
and prepare
in my mind
to die.

Your mother
stood over
the washtub
the steam rising upward

she poked the boiling wash
with what she called
her copper stick
pushing it down

and around now and then
wiping sweat
from her brow
and you stood watching

seeing her push
the washing down
with the stick
as if she were a good pirate

plunging with a sword
the bad pirates
from some skull
and crossbones ship

and when she lifted the stick
water fell back down
like grey watery blood
what’s for dinner today?

you asked
it’ll have to be cold meat
and beans and mash
as it’s washday

and I still
have much to do
she said
and yes it was Monday

and Tuesday was stew
and so you left her
with the washing
and imaginary pirates

and the steam
and heat
and went out to play
in the Square with Jim

then along under
the railway bridge
to meet Helen
with Battered Betty her doll

and take a walk
to the Neptune’s
fish & chip shop
for 6d worth of chips

and held Helen’s hand
on the way back
to the Square
then to that place

under the railway bridge
and kissed and left her there.

Dotty lies in Willie’s bed,
he’s gone to fetch Sammy
his poet friend and will return
in a few days. She sniffs
her brother’s pillow, smells
his hair oil and aftershave.

She snuggles into the bed
for warmth, pulling his duvet
tight around her, imagining
it’s him holding her, his arms
about her. She has a headache,
a coming near the edge, migraine.

Feels sick, light leaking through
the curtains makes it worse.

She puts her head under the
duvet, shuts out the bright light.

She smells him better here, his
love of scent, his personal choice.

She hears birdsong from the garden,
a blue ***, great ***, unsure which.

Willie’d know. She squeezes her
eyes tight keep out whatever light
might intrude. Willie’s left her some
of his poems to type up and file away.

Later in the day, she muses, once
the sickness and migraine’s gone.

He had a good day yesterday with
the poems, she recalls, him reciting
over and over as they walked, her
scribbling down, pencil and pad,
her finger and thumb holding the
pencil tight until they felt numb.

After they returned home and sat
by the fire and he spoke them out
one by one. She loved the one about
winter dawn. She turns over, faces
the wall, her head buried into Willie’s
warm indentation. In the darkness
she recites the poems one by one,
the words pouring from her lips,
following each other like children
out to play. She shuts out the dawn
chorus of birds that celebrate the day.

Where are you now,
Ajanta? Your
Father calls, his

Voice coming from
His room along
The hall. By the

Window, you say.
Ajanta, what
Are you doing

There? Looking at
The sun; feeling
The sun’s warmth on

My hands and face.
The sun is not
Good for you, your

Father replies;
It will dry your
Skin and harm your

Eyes. Remember
What it did to
Your grandmother.

You stifle a
Giggle with your
Hand and watch the

Boy from along
The street passes by
On nimble feet.

His hair is well
Combed and he is
Well groomed. You are

Much too silent,
Ajanta, when
Children are too

Silent, mischief
Lingers, Father
Says, his shrill voice

Carrying down
The hall like some
Unseen spirit,

The tone harsher,
And the meaning
Firmer. I am

Looking at the
Sky; the birds are
Flying high, you

Say, watching the
Boy’s ******
Motion and you

Wonder if he
Will turn and look
Up at you. Have

You no work to
Be doing, child?
Does your mother

Not require
Your help about
The house? You lift

Your eyes skyward,
Sigh out softly,
The boy turns and

You wave and he
Smiles and waves back.
He has diamonds

In his dark eye’s
Brightness; he has
A tiger’s strength

In his strong stride.
Adjanta are
You there? Father

Calls out, his tone
Tougher, tighter
Than a tiger’s

Grip. Just coming,
I can smell the
Summer and the

Scent of flowers,
You reply. The
Boy has gone and

Taken off with
Your dream. Come here,
Adjanta, your

Father calls, where
Is the pen I
Lent you? Where are

My books? You turn
From the window
With a deeper

Sigh, ****** at the
Sky’s blue and bird’s
Flight and the hot

Image of the
**** boy for
Your dreams tonight.

I am a practitioner of art,
said Alice, oil and canvas
are my daily bread, charcoal
blackens my fingers, darkens

my soul, my dreams are of
*** and men lost, I bed sad
men in my thoughts. My art
keeps me from asylums, takes

me from the doctor’s couch
to the lonely studio, the air
full of fumes and stale food
and my unwashed body.

My mother was a slave to
the kitchen sink, her life spent
in domestic chores, in my father’s
bed, in the worrying times she

popped the pills, drank the
bottles dry. I am the spyer of
secret lovers, my sister’s men
in her double bed, the laughter

and tears in equal measure,  
the flowers and bruises all fondly
kept, the split lips and black eyes,
she wore with pleasure. I am

the painter of other’s souls, images
oiled in with the darkest colours,
their features blended with the
darkness of their lives. My brother

sat with his demons, supped with
them in his lonely hours, injected
the nightmare makers with the
addict’s skill, he slept uneasy in

another’s bed, chased by his
demons and women until he died,
a bullet in his head. I listen to Parsifal
on the old Hifi the Wagnerian opera

is my secret drug, my opener of days,
my closer at nights, the background
to my daily arguments and fights.
My father was my only healer, his

loving touches healed my hurts,
stitched my cuts and wounds, he
watered down my temper’s scorns;
he alone shared my soul’s foul deeds,

knew my heartaches, my scars of ***
and doctored my soul’s lack. He was
cornered by the cancer’s hold, its
icy fingers in his bones and skin, its

deadly smell in his breath and flesh
and his parting words were lost in
the final rattle. I am the artist of life’s
dark wars and ancient wounding battle.

Alice chalks
secretly, in
red and white,
a caricature

of the new
nanny her
father has hired.
The stick like

figure is spread
eagled across
the side wall
of the house,

red hair, eyes
and mouth,
white long
protruding

teeth and
four fingers
on each hand.
She has heard

her parents row;
the new nanny
took her by
her small hand

to the nursery
and sat her in
a chair; stay
there, she said.

She draws a
thin white line
of chalk through
the nanny's heart.

She stares, smiles,
and wipes her
hands on her
pinafore and

put her hands
behind her back.
Her father had
punished; her

mother had
cried and rowed
and now Alice
waits outside,

by the wall,
staring at the
caricature, the
stick nanny

with an arrow
through her heart.
The sun is dull;
rain threatens;

birds sing; the
thin maid walks
with a mild limp.
Alice waits for

rain; her hands
sense the area
of punishment
pain. Mother

loves and hugs
and kisses. Her
Father glares
and shouts

and smacks
and never misses.

Alice walks with
the thin maid
to the stables, holding
the thin hand with

red knuckles, the
mild limp crossing
the narrow path like
a wounded ship. Do

you like the horses,
then? the maid asks,
bringing the eyes
upon the child,

holding tight the
pale pink hand.
Alice nods, yes,
I like the black one,

like its dark eyes
and coat. The maid
eyes the pinafore,
the hair tidy and neat,

the shiny shoes, the
tiny hand in hers.
Have you ridden
any yet? the maid

asks. No, not allowed
as yet, Alice says,
feeling the red thumb
rub the back of her

hand. Shame, the maid
says, perhaps soon.
Alice doesn't think so,
neither her father nor

the new nanny will
permit that; her mother
says she may, but that
amounts to little, in

the motions of things.
She can smell the
horses, hay and dung.
The red hand lets her

loose. The stable master
stares at her, his thick
brows bordering his
dark brown eyes,

conker like in their
hardness and colour.
Have you come to
look at the horses?

he says, holding a
horse near to her.
She nods, stares
at the horse, brown,

tall, sweating,
loudly snorting.
The maid stares
at the horse, stands

next to the child,
hand on the arm.
You're not to ride
them yet, he says,

but you can view,
I'm told. Alice runs
her small palm down
the horse's leg and

belly, warm, smooth,
the horse indifferent,
snorting, moving the
groom master aside.

The maid holds the
child close to her.
Be all right, he won't
harm, he says, smiling.

He leads the horse away,
the horse swaying to
a secret music, clip-
clop-clip-clop. Alice

watches the departing
horse. Come on, the
maid says, let's see
the others and lifts

the child up to view
the other horse in the
stable over the half
open door, then along

to see others in other
half doors. Alice smiles
at the sight and smells
and sounds. She senses

the red hands holding
her up, strong yet thin,
the fingers around her
waist. Having seen them

all, the maid puts her
down gently. Ain't that
good? the maid says.
Alice smiles, yes, love

them, she  says. She
feels the thin hand, hold
her pale pink one again,
as they make their way

back to the house, the
slow trot of the limping
gait, the maid's thumb
rubbing her hand, smiling

through eyes and lips,
the morning sun blessing
their heads through the
trees and branches above.

if only, Alice thinks, looking
sidelong on at the thin
maid's smile, her father
did this, and showed such love.

Mary wakes from
her, troubled, uneasy
sleep. She turns and
sees Alice behind her

looking at her. What
are you doing here?
she asks, sitting up,
looking down at the

child. Wanted to be
near you, Alice replies.
You can't come into

my bed, what will
they say if they find
you here? Mary's voice  
rises higher than she

meant. They won’t,
Alice says, no one
knows. They'll miss
you, Mary says, look

for you, and if they come,
what then? The child
sits up, rubs her eyes.
I'll hide, she says. Mary

sighs, lays back on the
bed, looks at the ceiling.
The child lies next to her,
head on her thin shoulder.

You can't do this, Alice.
But I have, the child says.
Your bed's lumpy. If they
find you in here, I’ll lose

my job and God knows
what'll happened then.
There is black spider
creeping along the dull

ceiling, slow movements.
We mustn't tell them,
Alice says. She runs a
small finger along

Mary's arm. You can't
stay here, Mary says,
you must go back to
your own bed before

they find you've gone.
Don't you love me any
more? Alice softly asks,
looking sideways at the

maid beside her. Yes,
of course I do, but this
mustn't happen again.
I'll be gone, then who

will you have to love,
now your mother's ill
and locked up? Alice
frowns and looked at

her hands, small, white,
pink. Mother used to
let me into her bed and
cuddle her. Her pink

fingers join and she
makes. I'm not your
mother, Mary says,
I’m just a maid who

wants keep her job.
Alice looks at her.
You said you'd be my
adopted mother. Mary

looks at her biting a lip.
Yes, I did. She looks
away, at the window
where lights begins

to show. All right,
but you must go back
now, before you're
missed. Can I come

another time? Alice
asks, her bright eyes
gazing. Yes, if I say so,
no creeping into my

bed at night unless
I know, Mary says.
Alice nods her head.
Best get back then,

she says. Be careful.
I will. And if I’m seen,
I’ll say I was sleep
walking, Alice says.

You mustn't lie, Mary
says. Should I tell them
the truth then? Alice asks,
smiling, getting down

from the bed. Be careful,
sleep walk just this once.
The child nods, opens the
door and closes with a

click. Mary gets out of
bed, opens the door, looks
along the dim passage.
The child has now gone.

Silence. Cold morning
air. A hard frost maybe.
What if she's seen? What
then? She shuts the door,

pours cold water from a
white jug into a white bowl.
Morning wash. Hands
into the water and throws

into her face. The coldness
wakes her. Far off a bird
sings. What if she's found
out of bed? What a turn up.

Poor kid. Me another mother
Nearby a church bell rings.

Her parents are rowing.

Alice hides in a door way
of the semi-dark passage,
pressing her back against
the door's old wood.

His baritone bark,
her mother's soprano screech,
words reaching beyond
walls hold and depth.

She closes her eyes
against the dimness
and half light,
to hear more or better.

She has evaded
the nanny's search,
ignored the siren's voice,
had hidden and smiled.

The row goes on,
voices higher,
her ears catch at sounds
that float her way.

Far off,
she hears the nanny's voice
grow more desperate
in the morning search.

She misses
her mother's touch and hold,
misses the bedtime
reads and kisses,
instead,
the nanny bids her goodnight
and shuts out the light
with neither kiss or hold
or any caress
as her mother gave.

Silence greets her ears;
the row has ceased.  

The semi-dark
embraces her unkindly,
her closed eyes bring
no comfort to her mind.

A bang and slam,
the row restarts,
Alice opens her eyes
to the semi-dark,
the vibrating voice
of her father's bark.

A slither of light appears
from the passageway beyond,
one walks slow
along the carpet's length,
footsteps soft
against the rowing sounds.

The thin maid appears,
stands gawking,
hands red and thin
by her narrow sides.

What you doing here?
Alice shrugs.
Come, the maid says,
this is no place
for tender ears to wait.

Alice hesitates,
then, taking
the proffered hand
walks along the semi-dark,
the voices
like the drowned
upon the sea,
then off along
the lower regions of the house,
where sounds don't reach
so wild, for one such as she,
a little child.

Alice sits
in the room
with blackboard

and easel
and small desk
and small chair

with Nanny
stern and strict
pointing at

the blackboard
with her stick
teaching her

her letters
the grammar
paragraphs

sentences
by long rote
and command

and Alice
knows now that
any cause

of Nanny's
discontent
will bring her

punishment
her father's
hard hand smacks

whack and whack
she sits still
taking note

but bored she
stares out high
windows at

tall tree tops
and blue skies
thinking of

her mother
locked away
(ill in her

head Nanny
coldly said)
then she thinks

of her new
adoptive
mother who

works below
stairs(low stairs
her father

often says)
the one with
the red raw

fingers thin
and young who
secretly

said she would
be her new
adopted

mother but
to strive to
learn to do

her best and
so she does
but thinks of

the time when
lessons are
over she

can sneak down
below stairs
and along

passageways
to where her
adoptive new

mother works
and feel her
embrace her

earthy smell
her soft cheek
against that

rough cloth of
apron the
red fingers

caressing  
her long hair
whispering

words but still
the nanny
drones on the

lesson now
taking its
toll boredom

sinking in
wishing her
adoptive

mother would
come and take
her away

for a walk
to the horse
stables or

into town
holding her
hand the red

hand holding
her pink one
or dreams of

snuggling
up to her
in her bed

feeling her
motherly
tender warmth

but Nanny
still drones on
the long lesson

word on word
keeping her
from the arms

and caress
and earthy
smell of cloth

of her new
adoptive
young mother

below stairs
Alice yawns
secretly

her small hand
over mouth
knowing this

blowing soft
from her palm
to her young

adoptive
mother a
secret kiss.

The stables
where horses
snort and move

and grooms work
and sky dull
and greyish

Alice walks
holding on
for dear life

to the hand
of Mary
the one she

has chosen
to be her
new mother

fingers red
with washing
chores and things

but it's warm
as she holds
the hand tight

Mary talks
of cold nights
noisy bed

attic mice
and spiders
in corners

of the room
Alice says
I could stay

in your room
keep you warm
cuddle up

hold you close
as I did
with Mother

in her bed
before she
was locked up

with illness
of her brain
Mary sighs

feels the hand
in her own
small and warm

small fingers
tiny nails
pink and pure

different class
than her own
we will see

Mary says
stable sounds
horses snort

their large heads
looking out
******* eyes

large white teeth
busy grooms
at their work

Alice looks
inner fear
but draws near

wants to stroke
Mary lifts
Alice up

her red hands
wedged beneath
small armpits

mother's love
smells the soap
in the hair

on the blue
pinafore
Alice smiles

feels the horse
smooth and hot
on her hand

Mary holds
feels the heart
beating soft

as she holds
Alice up
to the horse

secret child
adopted
in her heart

none must know
of this love
secret pact

lift her on
a groom says
Alice thrills

lifted there
Mary holds
the groom laughs

in loud barks
in the blood
this horse love

the groom says
Alice smiles
happiness

shining out
of her eyes
Mary holds

her tightly
keeps her there
on the horse

safe and sound
then later
after that

lifts her down
to the ground
as the horse

with the groom
walk away
come on then

Mary says
let's go back
your father

will wonder
where you are
Alice nods

holds the hand
soft and warm
wants to be

close to her
but she sees
by the house

Nanny stand
arms folded
grim features

dressed in black
Mary holds
the child's hand

tighter still
walking back.

You sit next to Randal
By the river. He brings
Out the postcards he’d

Bought. Best send one
To your mother, he says,
Don’t want her worrying

About you and how you’re
Doing. You take the offered
Postcard and put in on your

Knees. Amsterdam. Randal’s
Been here before, he knows
The place well. Came last

Year with the French girl.
You wonder why he dropped
Her soon after their return.

Maybe she wouldn’t let him
Or maybe she did too often
And that put him off. You

Look at the picture on the
Front of Amsterdam at dawn.
Ann Frank’s Haus yesterday.

You remember that. Haunted
You; you felt some aspects
Of her were still there. What

To write to Mother? Why bother?
Part of you thinks, she’ll look
Between the lines, see things

That aren’t there, imagine things,
Suggest you did this and that.
She never trusts. Randal writes

His scribble fast, usual crap:
Weather, food, whatever. He’ll
Not write to say he shafted you

Twice the other night between
Hot sheets. His parents don’t
Know him; think him so sweet

And clever. Shaft girls, smoke
****? Never. You take a biro
From your bag and neatly write.

Dear Mother, we are well and
Enjoying the sights (guess what
We do at nights? Leave that out)

And the weather’s fine and food
Is plentiful and yes, I do change
My underclothes each day and yes,

We have separate beds in the hotel.
(Lies are cheap) you pause. Randal
Has done, he licks a stamp, presses

It onto the back. Finished? He asks,
Placing his hand on your knee, giving
A squeeze, sending a buzz between

Your knees. You smile, nod, and
Hand him the card. He reads and
Shakes his head and grins. All lies,
He says, and all those hidden sins.

Alice walks down
the steps to the dark
passage to the kitchen,
and stands at the door

looking in. Smells of
cooking, heat, bright
lights and sharp sounds.
Mrs Broadbeam in

white, and hair pinned
back, red flushed of face,
gazes at her. What are
you after, Miss Alice?

Mary, take the young
miss to the scullery
and fetch her a small
bowl of dried fruit,

she bellows over her
shoulder. The thin maid
comes over, red hands,
wet, eyes beaming.

She nods and takes
Alice's small hand,
and takes her across
the passage to the large

scullery, and lifts her
onto the bench. Sit there,
and please don't budge,
or I’m for it if you fall,

and goes off to the kitchen
to get a bowl of dried fruit.
Alice sits there, feeling
the hardness of the bench

under her bottom, no
longer painful where her
father smacked. She eyes
the large room with pots

and pans and plates and
dishes, knives and forks
and spoons of all sizes,
having been washed or

about to be washed. She
looks at the three large
sinks which come up to
her chin. The windows look

out onto the courtyard and
the small chapel with its
solitary bell. She can hear
voices from the kitchen,

banging of pots and pans,
sizzling and steam sounds.
She looks at the woods
beyond the chapel. She has

escaped the new nanny
with her beady eyes and
dark hair and moaning voice.
Her mother cried that morning

when she saw her after waking;
her eyes red and blotchy.
Her father shouting, storming
from the room, his eyes fire

and flamy. The thin maid enters
carrying a bowl of dried fruit.
Here you are, she says, be
careful not to choke, and hands

the little girl the small bowl.
Thank you, Mary, she says,
taking in the eyes and smile
and hair in a frizz. She eats

the dried fruit. The maid
watches, then carries on
washing the dishes, humming
a hymn, her hands becoming

redder as the water soaks.
A voice sounds in the passage
way, a voice calling Alice's
name, heavy tread, clapping

of hands. Alice freezes,
enlarges her eyes, holds
the bowl shaking. The maid
puts a finger to her lips and

walks out to the passageway.
Seen Miss Alice about here?
the nanny asks firmly. No,
can't say I have, the thin maid

says, hands dripping water,
eyes vacant, hair looking dull.
Well if you see her tell her to
go back to the schoolroom,

the nanny says, her voice brittle.
Will do, if I see her, the maid says,
indifferently, scratching her thigh.
The nanny goes off mumbling,

her footsteps echoing until gone.
What an ****, the maid says.
****? Alice says. Never you
mind about that, deary, best get

eating up and I'll take you another
way after. She smiles and touches
Alice’s cheek, leaving a damp
patch behind, a tiny tingle.

Alice eats the dried fruit,
ears cocked, eyes bright,
eyeing the thin maid as she
washes and stacks the dishes

high. She likes the hands that
rise and fall in slow motion as
if blessing, just like her mother's,
sans redness, when caressing.

In the night
Alice walks
from her room

along dark
passageways
passing by

Father's door
nanny's room
down the stairs

creeping soft
shadows loom
tick of clock

sight of moon
through window
and its glass

deeper down
servant's end
darker still

talks in sleep
or snoring
from rooms passed

till at last
she reaches
Mary's room

with small hand
and fingers
she opens

up the door
and goes in
shuts the door

behind her
with soft click
there she sees

Mary's bed
metal frame
double size

grey pillows
greying sheets
thick blankets

on the bed
and within
snuggled deep

Mary sleeps
Alice peeps
in half dark

(moon's bright light
splits the night)
and listens

to the sounds
of breathing
mutterings

and soft snores
Alice waits
senses cold

bite her toes
and fingers
quietly

she climbs up
on the bed
and enters

to the warm
rough covers
in between

snuggles up
to the maid's
narrow back

and hot smells
of nightgown
and warm flesh

Alice slips
her small hand
all around

Mary's waist
her other
hand resting

on her chin
listening
to the maid's

rise and fall
in her sleep
safe at last

Alice thinks
safe and hot
drifts to sleep

soundlessly
as far off
a dog barks

a clock chimes
and Mary
in her sleep

dreams of home
far away
unaware

that Alice
is behind
sleeping there.

And what good would it do? she asked,
Knowing it made none,
Not as far as he was concerned;

He just burned
With the odd deep angst,
And pulled and punched,

And spoke his mind,
As if anyone gave a dog’s hair,
And only she

Knowing where it’d all end,
Sat staring at the moon,
Listening to some singer croon

From the radio,
Feeling the last blow
Fade away,

Until the next one
Tomorrow, or some other day.

Alice sits in the large
window of her father's
library, looking at the
garden and trees and

fields beyond. Silent
except for distant voices,
from the billiard room,
where her father is

with friends of his.  
Laughter, deep, haughty.
She hates it when the
men see her, and want

to haul her, onto their
laps to play horse riding
and over hedges in the
fox hunt. She pretends

not to hear. The garden
view brings Dougridge
to sight; the gardener
pushing wheelbarrow

of manure. Seldom speaks,
nod of head, touch of
forelock type. The men's
laughter gets louder; she

imagines herself tucked
up in her mother's arms,
safe, warm, and out of
harm's way. Mother is

out for the day. Taylor
drove her; he of sour
face, dark eyed and hair.
Alice holds her doll tight

to her chest, arranging
the mother made dress.
One day, one time, one
of her father's friends

held her on his lap and
tickled her to tears, his
thick fingers squeezing
her thighs, his alcohol

breath in her ears, soft
wording sounds, she
didn't understand, she
wanted to get down,

and did. They laughed.
She still felt his fingers'
grip long after the laughter.
She sees the maid from

the kitchen throw stale
bread to the birds, thin
girl, thin arms and fingers
and features. Brought her

breakfast in bed once,
when unwell; sad, quiet,
sickly girl. The laughter
stops. Doors open

and close. Voices, greetings
and farewells, an odd laugh.
Then silence. No going
riding on a hunt today,

no horse-play; no perched
on knees with thighs finger
squeezed. She hugs her
doll and kisses its head.

Your mother will be back,
but not until you're asleep,
and tucked in dreams and
bed, her grumpy father said.

“Come and see where Alice lies,”
He said. My eyes
Caught sight of tombs and graves
With rest in peace and Jesus saves

Carved on stone,
And then, there alone,
Beyond the rest, beneath a tree,
Against a wall, and hard to see,

A tombstone stood erected,
Green with time, half neglected.
“They placed her here,”
He said, “out of fear.”

And pointing to the stone, which read:
I lie here not in sleep, but dead,
Waiting for the trumpet call
Which will resurrect us all,

In the meantime, not a sound
Or I will drag you underground.

Alice liked the soft
voice of her mother,
the telling of stories
as she fell into sleep.

She liked it when her
mother hugged her
tight and kissed her
goodnight. Her father

seldom came to story
tell or hug or kiss or
such; seemed it was
too much. His voice

was deep and harsh
as winds, his eyes
dark and shark like,
peering without those

feelings of love or
want or admittance
into his realm of deep
concern, cared neither

if she drowned nor
burned  nor if in her
dark hours she counted
unhappiness on her

fingers and toes; he
was her father, but
one of those. She liked
to hug and kiss her

doll, poor substitute
for a father's love,
it sitting there in hers
arms unblinking and

smile-less as her father
did; feelings not there
or if so, well hid. Alice
kissed her mother's brow,

her arms, her hands,
her fingers, too, what
was a deep sad fatherless
or seemingly so, girl to do

to bridge the space or gap,
but sleep in her mother's lap

Alice stands
in the room
by the stairs,
at the end
of the house;
the low end,
servant's end,
Father said,
don't go there,
but she does.

She goes down
the back stairs,
down long dark
passageways,
watching staff
in their world,
the kitchen,
scullery,
the wash room,
other rooms.

And this room.
She watches
the thin maid
called Mary
ironing.

Why're you here?
Mary asks.

To see you,
Alice says.

Why see me?
Mary asks.

I love you,
Alice  says.

Mary frowns.
You shouldn't
use those words,
Mary says
turning round.

Alice stands
her small hands
in pockets
of her blue
pinafore.

But I do,
I love you.

Why is that?
Mary asks.

You are kind
like Mother
used to be
before she
had to leave.

Mary heard,
rumours spread,
the mother
had to leave,
had problems
in the head,
locked away
so they say,
for a year
and a day.

She'll be back,
Mary says.

Alice sighs,
I love you,
I want you
to stand in
for Mother,
between us,
Alice says.

Mary sits
on a chair,
flushes red,
between us
I can be
I suppose,
Mary says.

Uncertain
of her pledge
she gazes
at the child
standing there.

Need a hug,
Alice says,
motherly.

Mary feels
at a lost
what to do.

Can I sit
on your lap?
Alice asks.

Mary nods
and opens
her thin arms.

Alice walks
to Mary
and climbs up
on her lap,
lays her head
on Mary's
silky *******,
smells apples
and green soap.

Mary hugs
her closer,
kisses on
the child's head.

Love you, too,
Mary says.

Our secret,
Alice says,
none must know.

None will know,
Mary says,
just we two.

Nanny's voice
echoes down
the passage
Best go now,
Mary says,
learn for me
at lessons,
do your best,
my daughter
adopted.

Alice nods,
kisses quick,
then goes up
the back stairs
out of sight.

Seen Alice?
Nanny asks.

Not at all,
Mary lies,
sees the dark
cruel eyes
scan the room.

She'll be pained
if she's caught
down this end,
Nanny says.

Then she gone,
her black skirt
swishing loud,
the black shoes
going click,
clack, click, clack.

Mary gives
a rude sign
with fingers
behind fat
Nanny's back.

Milka sat on the grass outside the farmhouse. It was a warm day and insects buzzed the air. Benny had just gone off on his bike; she hadn't wanted him to go, but he had  to be some place else and he had ridden off. Her mother had arrived and was carrying bags of shopping from the boot of the car into the house. She gave Milka a look as if to say: You could help, but said nothing, hoping that a look would indicate the need, but Milka looked back at the road hoping Benny would return to her. Although they'd had *** in her bed-while her mother was out shopping- she felt she needed him still, as if the *** had not been enough, as if her appetite was bottomless. The mother disappeared inside the house, then came out again to the car for more bags. You could help rather than sit there looking into space, her mother said. Milka got up from the grass and made her way over to the boot of the car and picked out two of the lighter bags and carried them behind her mother into the house and placed them on the kitchen table. Anything else? Milka said. Her mother looked at her and saw the stance of her daughter and how reluctant she seemed to be of any real use and shook her head. No, wouldn't want to put you out in anyway, the mother said. I can help if you want me to, Milka said. Make me a drink of tea, then, her mother said. Milka filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove and lit up the stove with a match, then put three spoonfuls of tea into the teapot. She took two cups and saucers from the cupboard and laid them on the top. Her mother put away the groceries and then sat down at the table and  watched her daughter going about the task of tea making. What have you been doing while I’ve been shopping? Her mother asked, you were in bed when I left. Milka looked at her mother. The kettle began to boil. She said, got up and washed and dressed and ate breakfast. Her mother's eyes scanned her. That all? Her mother said. Had she seen Benny along the road? Had she passed him? She gazed at her mother for any clues or maybe a hint as if her mother was testing her. Benny came for a while, Milka said, he's just gone. I know, I saw him along the road riding his bike, her mother said, he waved. The two females looked at each other for a few moments in silence. What did you do? Her mother asked. Questions and questions. As if she suspected. She looked at her mother's face. Took in the eyes. I showed him the baby piglets, Milka said, he thinks they're cute. She had shown him the piglets just before he'd left. After the ***. After the *** and while she was still damp and yet still hungry for it. He's a good boy, her mother said, I like him. I know you do. If only you were younger. Milka nodded and looked at the kettle boiling and whistling away on the stove. She put the hot water in the teapot and stirred the tea-leaves around with a spoon. He'd make a good farm helper, her mother said, shame he's otherwise engaged in that nursery work. Milka poured two cup of tea and added milk and sugar. She took both cups in saucers to the table and sat down. He has worked on a farm he told me, Milka said, when he was thirteen helping out after school. Her mother smiled. And sipped her tea. It'd be good if he worked here, her mother said, on the farm. Yes, you'd like that wouldn't you, having him about the place so you could fuss over him, wishing you were younger, wishing you were a girl again. Ask him, Milka said, knowing he wouldn't, knowing he was happy where he was. I will next time I see him, her mother said. Milka sipped the tea. She still felt damp and sticky. She'd go up and wash down later. She watched her mother sipping tea, looking at the table, thinking. If only you knew what we did earlier, you'd not think him so good. She moved her bottom on the chair, to get comfortable. The image of Benny in her bed was still stuck there in her head. Her arms around his waist. He entering her. She sighed. Her mother looked up at her. What’s up with you? She asked, studying her daughter closely. Stomach pains, Milka said, the first thing that came up in her head. Her mother studied her. Can't believe you're that age, her mother said, don't seem long ago you were pushing a dolls pram around the place. I'm fifteen and have the week coming up, Milka said, pulling a face. When I was your age I’d started work, her mother said. I will when I leave school in July, Milka said, secretly rubbing herself below. Time flies, her mother said, draining her cup of tea, must get on with the housework. She stared at Milka. You can help by tidying your bed and your room, she said. The bed. She had tidied it a bit after the ****** acts, but it may need proper seeing to. Yes, I'll do it when I've drunk my tea, she said, hoping her mother wouldn't venture in her room before her, hoping she'd not see any signs. Make sure you do. I've never seen such an untidy room, her mother said. If she'd seen it earlier it was a right mess. Seen us. At it.  She blushed. Her mother had gone. She felt herself redden in the face. What if she had returned early? What if she had opened the door? Her heart missed a beat. It seemed too surreal to think about. Where was Benny now? Seventeen and at work for two years and she wants him here working? If she knew. She went to the window and peered out. It was warm out and the sky was a brighter blue.

She said Hem
had hit her

I saw the bruise
on her arm

she was next to me
on the balcony
of the flats
looking down
into the Square

where'd he go?
I asked

don't know
you know
what my brother's like
Lydia said

we scanned the area
about the flats
over by the fence
that led
to the grass area

what did
your mother say?

She said
she'd have a word
with him
but he gets
away with it
and Dad said
o he's a boy
boys do that    

I had him
the other month
when he threw
that firework
at my sister
I said

I know
he told Dad
but Dad said
stick up for yourself
don't whine to me

I chased him
across the Square
and down the *****
and across the road
where I cornered him
against the wall
and thumped him
to the ground

she sighed
he never learns
she said

I looked at her
beside me
dressed in the grey
and red dress
her brown hair
straight and thin
the bruise was blue
on her arm
her arm was thin
as was she
altogether

let's not waste time
looking for him Benny
let's go
to the train station
and look at
the steam trains
going through

I sighed
I wanted to thump Hem

but I said
ok let's go
I'll get him later
if he'll show.

All through double science Sheila thought about the boy shed seen go by that mid-morning break not that hed looked at her too much or responded to her shy smile but she thought of him even to the degree of inking in his name on her small palm John scribbled there in black smudgy ink and she thought he had looked at her he seemed to look at her the way he had turned his head indicated to her at that time that he had and the science teacher talked of something to do with gases and she copied what he had written on the board into her exercise book in her minute scribble with her head to one side has she did while writing her arm at an angle her small hand gripping the pen in an odd fashion he had smiled yes she was sure John had smiled as she had smiled she sighed softly her eyes lifted to the blackboard to take note of what was written her hands scribbled her mind wanted to think of the boy with the quiff of hair the smile yes yes he had smiled and she wanted to stand up and say HE SMILED AT ME as loudly as she could but she never would she was not that type of girl a elbow nudged her the girl next to her nudged her and nodded towards the blackboard the teacher was pointing out something and asked her a question and Sheila had not heard him ask her the teacher was staring towards her expectantly she blushed sorry Sir didnt hear the question she muttered looking at the board and then at the teacher who seemed put out then listen girl listen he said then pointing to another to answer the question he repeated and Sheila still blushing looked at the girl next door and shrugged her thin shoulders the girl looked at her blankly and looked away she looked ta the blackboard and read it through slowly as she could taking note what had been written about gases and she stifled a yawn and looked back at the exercise book and what she had written in her scribbled handwriting she looked at the inner page where she had scribble John and drew a heart-shape with an arrow through it she held the page open just enough for her to see it then opened the book to wait for further instruction regarding gases the teacher walked along in front of the class pointing to the blackboard and indicating a diagram he had drawn Sheila wondered if the boy allow her to hang around with him after all she had seen other girls walk round with the boys either in groups or singly why couldnt she? she asked herself sitting up and staring out of the windows at the grass and the blue of sky over the way and what if he said yes how would she feel then would she walk with him or would she feel too shy to  and then all of a sudden she panicked what if he wanted to kiss her as shed other boys do with girls actually kiss on the lips sort of thing and shed never ever kissed a boy before not even her brother Bert a panicky feeling crept into her stomach what then? what if he wanted to kiss her a piece of chalk pinged onto the desk in front of her and the girl next to her elbowed her again SHEILA are you with us today? the teacher asked bellowing her name out of frustration she nodded and blushed again have you been listening? he asked yes Sir she said what did I ask? he said she stared at him blood pumped through body as if she was on fire and she shrugged as words wouldnt come see me after class he said and walked along the front of the class and asked another a boy with his hand raised she watched the teacher and listened to what he was saying about gases and types of gases and the affects and effects and so on and she felt the need to yawn but put her hand over her mouth and let it out secretly as softly as she could she smelt her palm then gazed at the word John scribbled there and with her lips kissed the inked name as if it was he she kissed her lips on his and she felt spittle on her palm and wanted to leave it there so she could pretend it was his spittle and not hers she looked up at the teacher and tried to give the impression of paying attention to his every word the boy had his hand up again as a question was asked and the teacher nodded and smiled then just as she prepared herself for any potential question that may come her way-God forbid- a bell rang for the end of the lesson and a sense of release flowed through her despite having to have stay and see the teacher afterwards there was a movement of books being put into bags and chairs being moved and voices and talking and the slow moving of bodies towards the door but the teacher was eyeing her as she moved towards him her book tucked away in her bag her palm clenched into a loose fist to hide the scribbled John in her palm she stood before the teachers desk and he stared at her sternly Sheila have you something on your mind? she shook her head feeling the need at that moment almost suddenly to urinate well you certainly were not paying attention to the lesson were you? he asked something worrying you? he asked she was going to say something but she didnt know what to say she couldnt say she was thinking of a boy and about if or not he was going to want to kiss her so she said nothing just shrugged her thin shoulders and gave a vacant expression-an expression her mother said indicated a near death experience-you must pay attention the teacher said I am paid to teach you as well as the others the sciences and I feel it is my duty to do my best to do that do you understand? she nodded taking note of the leather patches on the elbows of his jacket brown and sewn on maybe she thought by his wife or mother now please listen Sheila or youll get behind with the lessons Ok? she nodded and he dismissed her and she walked towards the door wondering if the boy would be on the playing field during lunch recess and if she had the nerve to ask him if she could hang around with him and if he would want to kiss her and o my God she thought panicking what if he did and she blushed at the thought and moved along the corridor amongst moving throng of other kids on their way to lunch or home and a bite to eat and she stood thinking of the boy gazing at her black shoed feet.

She was sitting on the grass
on the sports ground
some other girls
were with her

he could hear
their laughter
and chatter
but when she saw him coming

she got up from the group
and walked towards him
leaving the girls
to giggle behind her

wasn't sure
if you'd be out here today
Christina said
he paused in front of her

taking in her neat hair
and smile
sure I am
he said

yesterday was one of those things
I got tied in to helping
the gym teacher after dinner
and well what can a guy do

when he's wanted
that's all right
she said
just I missed you

he smiled
he liked it
when she said
those kind of things

they walked up
the sports field together
the giggling girls
in the background

don't pay mind to them
she said
they're just jealous
not of you being with me

he said
why not?
she said
I'm nothing

to write home about
he said
I'd write home about you
she said

well maybe only
if my mother
was in on e
of her good moods

he laughed
she talked
of her mother's moods
her ups and downs

of her father
and her elder brother
and he always being
where she was

coming into her room
or catching her
when she came out
of the bathroom

semi clothed
he listened
but only half heartedly
he wanted

just to hear her voice
to sense her being there
her hand just inches
from his own

her body
a mere touch away
they passed by others
boys and girls

some at ball games
some just talking
some playing chasing games
laughter following

they reached the upper fence
of the grounds
and stood gazing out
at the passing traffic

the hills in the distance
the woods behind
she talked of a girl in class
whose sister was pregnant

and how the girl
was going to be
an auntie at 13
he took her hand

her thumb
rubbed his hand
she became silent
words stopped

she leaned in
and they kissed
lips touched
tongues tongued

hands held
squeezed
they parted
she looked back

at the sports field
he watched her profile
the way her dark hair
was brushed just so

and the cheek
the colouring
he sensed her hand
her fingers slim

he ran his thumb
over them
she looked back at him
and said

wonder what my mother
would say if she
could see me here?
naughty girl I guess

he said
and the rest
she said
what would your mother say?

poor girl probably
he said
she laughed
no seriously

I don't know
he said
as long as I was good to you
she wouldn't mind

and of course
not doing anything
I oughtn't
she gazed at him

such as?
she didn't say
he said
Christina looked back

at the sports field
maybe one day
we may find out
she said

yes maybe one day
he said
taking in her slim figure
clothed in the green skirt

and grey cardigan
her white ankle socks
laughter rose
from a ball game

some one called
a ring rang
from the school
it echoed around

the grounds
best go back
she said
back to the brain washing

he said
still he sensed her hand
in his
as they walked the grass

she in thought
until other girls came
and she went with them
leaving his hand behind

and he watched her go
her swinging hips
her fine figure
set him all aglow.

All and all in the dying dream,
And the lost girls scream for the pretty years,
And the fears of light has scraped their bones

To tones of harsh and brutal sounds.
All and all in the breaking dawn,
The dead and born have shed their skins

For the seeping sins of he and she,
Who groped to be with flesh and lust,
Who rust their souls in damp and dust,

And must, might, and sickly kiss
The mouldy miss of dames and such,
And loved her sad and all too much.

He holds the tiller
of the boat with
his left hand, white
pants and tee shirt,

boater just so, and
the young dame there
reclining to one side
dressed to the nines,

yakking away, hat
plonked on her head,
him thinking of the
one that got away,

his arms stretched
out wide kind of fish,
the other guys so
impressed when he

said, but the dame,
all she yaks of is how
long it for took her
to chose what to wear

and what went with
what, and does my
*** look ok in this?
or she talks of what

one of her next-door
neighbours said or
did or didn’t do or
she yaks of shoes

how she saw this
pair to die for O,
she says, you should
have seen them,

my eyes were oozing
eyes of joy just to see
them, but he, letting
her words drift by,

thinks of the boat he
almost bought, the
one he saw in port
the other day, god

how he loved it, the
size and colour, the
way it was set out in
the water, floating

there, bobbing slowly,
like some beautiful
dame ready for the
off.  Sea breeze moves

the boat, wind shifts
the sails, she still sitting
yakking, her lips opening
and closing, fish out of

water kind of thing, he
wonders why he brought
her along, why he didn’t
set sail alone, the whole

horizon of sea and sail,
and not her constant
yak and miserable moan.

My name is Milly Aswillbe,
I wish there was just one of me,
But in fact, there’s twenty-three,

Each takes their time and place
To occupy my frame and face,

And have their stint upon the stage
Being good or madly rage

Or being sweet and kind
Or being wild and speak their mind,

Each has a different name from mine
One of which is Cassy Kline,

But each is odd to some degree,
For each is some part of me.

I sit on the grass
of the playing field
at high school

hey Naaman
Ro says
who's the skirt?

he points over the field
at a girl
looking at me
searchingly

no idea
I say
why?

she's been gazing at you
for ages
he says

I look at her
standing there
dark hair
sad looking face
gazing back at me

I saw her in the playground
the other day
when it was beginning to rain
and I called out to her
I remember now
I say

Ro shrugs
so what?
she's just a piece of skirt
he says
how about a kick around
with a ball?
he asks

sure I’ll be there
in a minute

he goes off
with the ball
to join other boys
on the field
calling him

I watch him go
then look at the girl
she looks away

I walk over to her
hands in my pockets
put on my Elvis smile

she hesitates
as I approach
you ok?
I ask

she looks at me
her eyes are dark
as her hair
deep and warm

just looking at you
that's all
she says
nothing wrong
in looking is there?

no nothing wrong
I say
want to have a walk?  

she looks at her feet
the shoes are well worn
the black faded

your fiends might not
like me with you
if you want to play
their ball game
she says
not looking at me

we can walk
no harm done
I say

she looks at me
her eyes are shy

don't know
she says

ok
I say
up to you

I begin
to walk off

wait
she says
I guess I could
walk with you

I wait for her
she comes beside me
and we walk away
from the boys
and their ballgame
and along the fence
towards the play area
with seats and benches
along the walls

I feel her nervousness
she seems tense

relax
I say
I won't bite

we walk by the wall
she says nothing
her eyes on the ground

you got any
sisters or brothers here?

she shakes her head

what's your name?
I ask

Shoshana
she replies
looking across
the playground
your is Naaman isn't it?
she says

yes
I say
how did you know?

I heard someone
call you the other day
she says

I want to touch her
feel her hand or arm
or maybe talk longer
but she seems out
of her comfort zone
and I hold back

best go now
she says

and walks off
back to the girls' area
and I watch her go
holding on
to the slight perfume
she had
I sniff it in it
breath in into me
it's not bad.

Do you believe that?

Nima lights up
a cigarette
after the question.

It's a matter of faith
not scientific fact.

She smiles.

Even faith
needs some basis
on the possible,
I mean
a ****** birth?
you believe that?

Benedict looks at her
sitting there
by the fountain
in Trafalgar Square.

With God
all things
are possible.

****** birth
is possible?
you think that?

He looks
at the jawline,
the cheeks pale,
******* holding
the cigarette.

Sure, I do,
like other
articles of faith.

She shakes her head,
stares at him.

Nietzsche said
some place
that God's only excuse
is he doesn't exist.

Without God
there is no purpose
in anything,
he says;
it's all pointless,
absurd.

She sighs.

Maybe that is
the reality,
this absurdity,
but it doesn't mean
therefore
God must exist,
she adds,
looking out
at the people
in the Square,
by the fountains.

Without God
there is no beginning,
no beginning
therefore no end,
just endless turmoil,
he says,
looking at needle marks
on her skin
where the juice
ran in.

Let's go
for a beer and burger,
she says,
then I must get back
to the hospital
before they go
over the top.

He nods and they walk
through the Square,
pass the fountains,
and people,
and she flicks
her cigarette ****
as she went;
like her,
like her life
all spent.

All
They found

Of Private Fry
Was one solitary blue eye

Lying in the mud
Of the trench

Staring up
At the gun smoke

Sky.

Miryam walked with you
through Tangiers
miles from the base camp
still feeling tired

from the previous night
after the late evening
on the beach
hugging and kissing

each to each
not going further
that time
back to the tent

(your tent colleague out)
you and she
lay there
almost making out

but then he was back
and she had to leave
mouthing words to you
as she left

behind his back
then the morning ride
to Tangiers
on the back

of the truck
the smell of the city
the aromas
the people

almost Biblical
the snake charmers
the shops in alleys
the kids

trying to sell you
hashish on corners
and she held your hand
clutching her bag

with her other hand
her curly hair
orangey red
and she talking

of bags and clothes
and how back home
there was
so much more

to buy
and her hand
warm in yours
her small thumb

on the back
of your hand rubbing
as she walked
and you felt

and sensed her
and recalled her
a few days back
on the beach posing

for a photo
with a camel
and a Moroccan guy
in that skimpy

bathing suit
( giving the guy
the heat)
and you taking

the photo
with the borrowed camera
and she stopped
in a side street

looking at clothing
beautiful colours  
and this guy
brought out

two cups of mint tea
while she decided
what she wanted  
and you sat there

beside her
smelling her perfume
looking at her hair
and lips

and how she held
the small cup
in her hands
sipping

breathing
talking
her eyes
bright lights

her small **** pushing
against the cloth
of her purple top
and the tightness

of her jeans
on her thighs
and the whole scene
like something

you'd seen
in one of those
coloured pictures
in the Bible

the people passing
some with donkeys
one guy
with a camel loaded

and you watched
her sipping
her hands holding
the fingers curved

about the cup
and she talking
of what to buy
and you drinking

her in
all aspects
with your greedy
all too human eye.

All undone,
as he does,

Ingrid knows,
every time

picks on her,
punishes,

nothing new,
but she knows

afterwards
even when

the wounds go
and pain stops,

it will come
like seasons

once again.
Her mother

is too weak
to stop him,

too frightened
to say boo

or say no,
and as she

walks over
the bombsites

with her friend
Benedict,

listening
to his talk

of brave knight
fighting bad

with sharp sword
or strong bow,

or share his
bag of sweets

or soft drinks,
in London’s

50’s streets,
being his

high lady
in distress,

or be there
by her side,

9 years old
as she is

but seeming
much older,

his friendship
and sharing

and boyhood
Robin Hood

sort of love
and sharing,

makes the days
of darkness

of wounding
punishments

easier
and her mind

much bolder.

Alma notices
the minutest

degree of chill
from him. He

may make love
and he may not,

but she can sense
if he’s been else

where in times
between. She can

smell another girl.
That time he said

all those words,
brought flowers,

perfume and chocs
and such, but she

knew they were
for some other or

seemed as much.
She looks at him

sitting there, that
glint in his eyes,

that devil may care
stare, that smile,

but all the while,
there’s some other

girl’s assets he’s
musing, some other

he’s had or soon will
do, he’s there, but

he’s not with you,
she says inside,

keeping it all in,
holding back tears,

stomach in knots,
heartbeat racing,

wanting him, but
not, trying to act

cool, but all too hot.
She allows him to

make love, feels
nothing, permits

his kisses, touches;
wonders who he

pretends it is he’s
making love to,

which one he’s
kissing in his head.

He’s gone now,
she’s undressed

and scrubs him
off as much as

water, soap and
brush allows. She

lies in the bath,
water like menstrual

flood, slit wrists,
cool dampness,

soaked in blood.

Abir and I
were told
by a prefect
to go and stand

in the assembly hall
after lunch
for running down
the wrong stairway

but we'll be late
for lessons the other way?
Abir said
I don't care

the prefect said
rules are rules
no running down stairs
and not down

the wrong stairway
so we stood
in the assembly hall
by the window

waiting
for the punishment teacher
to come for midday assembly
and hand out

corporal punishment
had to happen one day
I guess
I said

hang on
I have a plan
Abir said
come on

so I followed him
out of the hall
and along
to the prefect room

we spotted the prefect
coming out
of the room
do you smoke?

Abir asked
sure I do
the prefect said
well

if you let us off
you can have these
Abir said
the prefect looked

at the packet
of 20 Senior Service cigarettes
where'd you get these?
the prefect asked

my old lady
gave them to me
Abir said
the prefect

sniffed the packet
ok off you go
but don't
let me catch you again

he said
we went off
there you go
Abir said

bribery works
did your mother
give you the cigarettes?
I asked

no
I liberated them
from the shop
across the road

while other kids
were distracting him
Abir said
I said nothing

as we walked along
to the assembly hall
and took our place
in the lines of boys

Abir smiling
I with a cool face.

Milka sits in the park.
Milka has a mood.
She stares ahead
with eyes

sharp as razors;
her hands either side
of her on the grass.
I sit beside her.

I look at her
staring ahead.
My hands are
around my knees.

Her eyes are icy;
one could freeze in them.
Nearly caught us
that time,

she says.
Nearly being
the operative word,
I say.

Her words
have an edge to them;
one could slit
a throat on them.

Her mother nearly
caught us at it.
We were in her room.
We were on her bed.

Door opening
and closing down stairs.
Kids ride by
on their bikes.

Small kids
with goofy smiles.
Milka stares at them.
Milka follows them

along the grass
with her icy eyes.
I remember her panic
in her eyes

as we heard the sounds
of her mother in the kitchen.
Milka dressing in haste.
Milka hopping

on one leg.
I dressed in a trance.
Sounds seeming nearer.
A guy walked by

with his dog.
The dog had out
a long pink tongue.
White teeth sharp

as Milka's eyes.
God knows what
if she'd caught us,
Milka says.

Mm-mm,
I say.
Laughter near by.
A group of girls

giggling like geese.
One girl wears jeans.
Her **** holds it well.
Flushed as a slapped face

Milka having dressed
waited for me
at the door of her room.
Sounds from the kitchen.

Her mother busy.
The sun warms us.
White clouds overhead.
I smell her perfume.

She breathes heavy.
Moody as blues.
The girl in tight jeans
has gone into the duck

pond area out of sight.
Milka sighs.
Milka looks at me.
I think she

believed you,
Milka says.
She does you.
Butter wouldn't

she thinks
in your mouth.
Three boys kick ball
across the way.

Milka studies me.
I look at the boys
at their game.
Tidying my room

with me,
Milka says,
she believed that
because of you

and that you said it.
It had been
a close thing.
It had been close.

My pecker stiff
in my jeans
as I spoke to her mother.
Her mother smiled.

Her mother said
it needed tidying.
I liked her mother's smile.
Warm and cosy

as a mother's love.
Cosy and warm
as a hat on a head.
Milka says,

nearly made it
in my single bed.

She was almost tempted
To jump from the bridge
Despite the crowds that
Passed, despite the coldness
And filth of the water below,
But she didn’t; she walked
On and slit her wrists in the
Hospital corridor instead;
In some dark place no one
Noticed until the blood
Followed her footsteps
Like a worrying child.

Two men stopped her
And took her to nurses
Busy at some sideward
Desk; found her in the
Corridor, they said, blood
Everywhere, doesn’t answer,
Though, we’ve tried that,
Won’t say a dickybird,
Maybe she’s dumb or deaf,
One man suggested, standing
Back as if to see her better,
Watched the young girl as
If for the first time, taking
In the blood soaked jeans,
Tee shirt, hands and arms
And turned away, nodding
To his companion, with a
One of those druggy types,
No doubt, suggestion in the
Slow movement of his head.

Then she was gone, taken by
The nurses behind curtains,
Low voices, murmurs; their
Interest slipping away, the
Men moved on, chatting
How Cardiff would do in
The next match, and don’t
Tell the wife about the girl,
She’ll get the wrong idea,
Then there’ll be hell
To pay, one said, walking
Through the doors into
The afternoon sunshine.

She was almost tempted
Speak, to say how the devil
Tempted her to jump, how
The voices told her what to
Do, but she said nothing,
Just watched the nurses
Dab at her slit wounds with
Wads of bandages and frantic
Touches of their hands, while
Up on the ceiling, she noticed
A fly buzzing around the naked
Bulb, looking for a way out
From death; just like me,
She thought, just like ****** me.

Chanan closes his book.
His companion
has gone sightseeing.
The coffee is drunk.

The day is fine, the sky
a watery blue,
pale clouds drift.

He sits and meditates
on another coffee,
another cigarette,
watching passing crowds,
visitors and natives
of Dubrovnik.

He raises a finger,
a waiter nods,
goes off.

Chanan notices
across the way,
at another table,
a woman sitting,
hat red
at an angle,
slim fingers holding
a holder with cigarette,
the red lips,
the blue dress,
cleavage,
crossed legs,
red shoes.

He studies her,
takes in the hand
on knee, the hand
with holder,
the fine way
of inhaling
and exhaling,
the smoke drifting.

She leans back,
sky gazing,
in between drags
she sips her wine.

He takes in
the fine figure,
the turn of head,
the shoes of red.

He imagines her
(while his companion
is out seeking the sights)
coming to his room
at the hotel,
soft music playing,
lights down low,
wine bottle and glasses,
the usual patter,
the romantic air,
the twin bed waiting.

His coffee comes,
the waiter departs,
the woman stands
as a man approaches,
dark haired,
slim figured,
trimmed beard,
well dressed,
an air of affluence.

They go off
arm in arm,
she wiggling
her hot behind,
her red shoes,
tap-tapping.

Chanan stumps out
his cigarettes,
sips his coffee,
nothing ends
like it seems,
he is left
with an empty evening
and a lonely dream.

I watch
as Yehudit
walks towards me,
the sway of her hips,

her hair held back
with grips,
her blue eyes lowered,
her hands

in the pockets
of her dark green coat.
It's late November,
chill winds,

greying sky;
we meet on the edge
of the woods.
Got held up,

she says,
Mum wanted me
to help fold
the washing.

She knows you're here
meeting me?
Yes, of course,
although didn't

say where;
she assumes
it's at your house
with your mother

keeping an eye.
She looks towards
the wood.
May have been

a better idea,
than out here,
she says.
We can go

to my place
if you like,
my mother
won't mind.

Then we won't
be alone.
Yehudit looks at me.
We can always sit

in the front lounge,
I suggest,
no one goes
in there much.

She looks
at the woods.
Ok, then,
your house it is.

We make our way
towards the house,
through the back gate,
in through

the back door.
My mother's at the stove,
preparing dinner,
steam rising

from the pots and pans.
Ok, if we go  
through to
the front lounge?

I ask her.  
Hello, Yehudit;
sure you can,
she says,

watching as we walk
through the middle room
into the front lounge
and close the door.

We sit in
the two seater settee.
Her hand finds mine.
We're next to each other.

No wind, no rain,
just us, alone;  
outside
the pitter patter

of rain,
and the wind's moan.

You walked down Bath Terrace
having been to Jail Park
on the swings
and slide with Janice

and she had her red beret
on the side of her head
like some French girl
I nearly bayoneted

my old man last night
you said
I had my toy rifle
he brought me

with the rubber bayonet
and I was charging out
of the sitting room
into the passage

and caught him
in the guts
as he entered the room
what you doing?

he asked
I was bayoneting Germans I told him
I’m not German he said
I’m your father

and he stormed off
into the sitting room
to his favourite chair
by the fire

and I stood there thinking
it’s only a toy gun
and I was only having fun
Janice looked at you

and said
if I’d done that
to Gran she’d have spanked
my backside

but you wouldn’t
have had a rifle
with a rubber bayonet
you said

girls don’t have rifles
with bayonets
I might have done
she said

ok
you said
you can borrow mine
and see what happens

no thanks
Janice said
I know what would happen
you climbed over

the metal fence
by Banks House
and sat on the concrete remains
of the bomb shelter

looking toward the coalwarf
where coal wagons
were being loaded
with black sacks of coal

and the horses stood there
in front patiently
eating from nosebags
Janice was sitting pretty

in her red beret
her hair tied
in a ponytail
her coat buttoned up

to the neck
talking about her gran
and the pet bird
in the cage

and you listened  
to her taking in
her hands on her knees
her small fingers

not the kind
to hold a rifle
with a rubber bayonet
more the kind

to hold a baby
or rock a cradle
or stroke brow
you wanted to ask her

for a cowgirl’s kiss
but didn’t know how.

Her brother stopped
you in the high street
and said, Have you heard
about Judith? No, you

replied, thinking maybe
she’d divorced or won
the lottery or had another
child. Her brother hesitated

momentary then said, She
died of cancer. It seemed
as if he’d stabbed a knife
into your gut and twisted

the blade, all the memories
of you and she walking home
from school, arm in arm,
laughing, kissing, the lessons

of school gladly forgotten,
or sitting by the pond in summer,
the birds in the trees overhead,
she and you holding hands,

kissing lips to lips, those alone
moments, those long ago summers,
those dark wintery nights,
she captured in the car headlights,

you wanting her closer and all
those images flashed before your
eyes as her brother’s words sunk in,
he standing there, knowing even

after all this time how you and she
had once been lovers, childhood
days like shadows on a far away wall,
the trees swaying and her saying

back in that moonlit lane, I’m engaged
to another, after you had proposed
innocently some years later, once
school had done its worse. Now her

brother’s words had pushed their
way into your mind, her smile, those
eyes peering into yours, that I love
you gaze, long ago, in happier days.

Helen and you
walked home from school
the long way
you wanted to show her

the man
in the pie and mash shop
cutting up eels
for jellied eels

or for the pies
how he would stand there
with his knife
and take up an eel

and holding it
firmly on a board
would cut off its head
and then proceed

to slice it up
into small pieces
and into a bucket
on the floor

and when you showed her
standing outside the shop
peering through
the window

she said
O my God
and put a hand
to her mouth

and spoke
through her hand
and added
poor eels

to end up
in someone's stomach
and the way
he cuts them up

and the pieces
still moving afterwards  
and she moved away
and walked up the road

still holding a hand
over her mouth
you don't fancy
pie and mash then?

you said
not with eels in it no
she replied
through her fingers

you smiled
not funny
she said
poor little eel creatures

yes I guess it is
a bit brutal
you said
but fascinating

to watch
I don't think so
she said
taking her hand

from her mouth
you both went under
the subway of the junction
she slightly

in front of you
her two plaits of hair
bouncing
as she walked

her green raincoat
tied tight about her
you whistled
so that it echoed

along the subway
bouncing off the walls
all along
the artificial lights

giving off
a surreal sensation
how can people eat eels?
she asked

just the sight
puts me off
don't know
guess they don't think

of it being eels as such
just as something to eat  
you said
you both came out

of the subway
on the other side
and walked along
the New Kent Road

by the cinema
she looking
at the billboards
through her thick lens glasses

are you sure your mum
doesn't mind
having me for tea?
she said

well we're not actually
having you for tea
we usually have
beans on toast

or jam sandwiches
she slapped your hand
you know what I mean
she said smiling

no Mum don't mind
you said
she invited you after all
I pleaded against it

but she wouldn't listen
you said smiling
Helen's face frowned
and she stood still

really?
she said
no I'm joking
you said

and she nodded her head
uncertainly
looking at you
through her glasses

I'm just kidding
you said
you touched her hand
she smiled

and you both walked on
and across the bomb site
the uneven ground
the puddles of rainwater

you your mother's son
and Helen
a lucky woman's
daughter.

Her mother cries;
shouts vibrate
the passageway,
her father bellows
four letter words
that seem to pull
at Enid's ears.

She sits
on the side
of her bed
half dressed,
waiting for the row
to end before
she ventures out
for breakfast and school.

There's a bruise
over her right eye,
it fills out
like a painted blob.

She caresses herself
against the sounds;
bites her lip
in anticipation
of her father's return.

A door slams shut;
silence filters in.

She can hear
her mother's sobs,
deep throated,
gut wrenching.

Enid stands up
and goes
to her bedroom door,
peers out;
he's gone;
her mother's
in the kitchen,
sobs echoing.

Enid shuts the door
and gets dressed;
her stomach
is rumbling;
her hair
is in a mess;
the bruise spreads
like a red
and blue stain.

After breakfast
and her mothers' silence,
Enid goes off
to school
and meets Benny
by the Square's *****.

You've got a bruise.

I know,
banged my head
against a door.

Same door
as last time?
Benny asks.

She looks back
at the block of flats.

Same one.

Benny walks beside her
as they go down
the ***** and onto
Rockingham Street,
his eyes scanning her,
taking in the untidy hair,
the bruise,
the smell of damp cloth.

What's upset
your old man, now?

Who says he's upset
about anything?

The bruise
over your eye.

She looks at him:
the hazel eyes,
the quiff of hair
over his forehead,
the small smile
that isn't a smile,
but seems like one.

Accident,
he didn't mean to.

You're accident prone;
running into doors
and fists
and backhanders.

She stops
and stares at him:
not your business.

Benny stares back at her:
who's then?

She walks on,
brushing at her hair,
dabbing at the bruise.

She hates arguments
and rows,
she always seems
to lose.

Yiska pares her nails,
files away
along the top
in a focused motion.

Her fingers grip
the nail file,
her eyes are looking
at the Indian woman
sitting cross legged
on the sofa,
mumbling to herself.

Naaman watches
them both, standing
by the door
of the ward
his dressing gown open,
the cloth belt confiscated.

The morning sun shows
smears on the windowpane,
the kid who comes each day
in care, stands there
licking like some cat.

A book of philosophy
is wedged in Naaman's
dressing gown pocket,
a torn off cardboard lid
of a Smarties pack
is the marker,
he's on the Spinoza page.

Yiska puts the file
in the pocket
of her nightgown
and stares at her nails,
bringing her fingers up
for close inspection.

A nurse passes by
and holds out her hand
towards Yiska.

You ought not have
that file,
she says.

Why not?
Yiska says.

Some might use it
to cut open their wrists,
the nurse says.

Yiska gives up
the nail file reluctantly,
staring at the nurse,
who walks off
towards the ward office
to lock away the file.

The Indian woman
puts her hands on her knees,
closes her eyes.

Naaman sits next
to Yiska and says,
Nothing's sacred here.

She's right though,
Yiska says,
someone may
have used it
to dig open their wrists.

I would have done,
after he left me
at the altar
on our wedding day.

I'd have slit my wrists
or neck or any place,
if it had got me
out of this hell hole
of a world.

I'd not have left you
at the altar,
Naaman says.

But he did,
she says,
laying her head
on his shoulder,
wiping her nose
on the back
of her hand.

Naaman studies her feet
which are bare,
no slippers or socks.

She has folded her legs
beneath her
so that her feet
stick out at the end,
her knees showing
where the nightgown ends.
After the last ECT,
Naaman woke in
the same side room,
she after him,
on another bed.

He had seen her there,
spread out
in her white nightgown
as in a shroud,
eyes shut,
mouth open,
teeth showing.

When she woke,
she said,
I hate that treatment,
gives me a fecking headache.
Me, too,
he said.

She stared at him,
her eyes opening wide.
Sit me up,
she said,
or I'll puke.

He got off the bed
and helped sit her up.

She sat on the edge
of the bed and said,
Thanks, you're a life saver.
She kissed his forehead.

The Indian woman picks
at her toes with her fingers,
her forehead is lined,
her black greying hair
is tied behind her head
in a knot of cloth.

Yiska laughs.
You certainly gave
the nurses a joint heart attack
last week
with your hanging attempt
in the boghouse.

Dark place at the time,
Naaman says.

She nods.
Like headless chicken
they were, she says.
I tried to OD,
but I was found too soon,
she adds.

The kid at the window
turns round.
He pokes his tongue out
at them both.
Naaman had bopped him
the other day
when he pinched
Yiska's arm.
Short memory, I guess,
Naaman thinks.

The big day nurse
comes in with morning
teas and coffees,
his broad smile
and jovial voice
brighten the day.

Yiska's hand lies
on Naaman's thigh,
he hopes
it will never leave,
but always stay.

You walked from the Downs
having seen the sights
Jane wanted
to show you

the view of the farms
the houses
the sheep wool
caught on wire fences

the church tower
small
like some frail snail
and she talked

of birds and flowers
and having seen
this butterfly
(unknown to you)

and her finger pointing
as it fluttered by
and you took in
her dark hair

her eyes
brown lighter
in sunlight
her pale complexion

the grey dress
white socks
old shoes
(for walking on

rough places
she said)
and she showed you
the hollow tree

and you went inside
and sensed her
near you
the smell of apples

and soap
and you felt the need
to kiss her
but didn't

just let it pass
dream maybe
of having done so
and you listened

to her words
how you wanted
to take each syllable
and hold

and turn it over
like fresh fruit
and squeeze
the meaning from each

and when you reached
the lane you paused
and she smiled
and said

you're quick to learn
yes I guess I am
you said
and you took her

into the cottage
and your mother
was washing clothes
in the big copper

steam coming out
and she standing there
sweat on her forehead
and you introduced her

to Jane and they talked
and you watched
and saw how
thin she was

how small her *******
easing against
the dress cloth
and your mother

nodding her head  
and they smiled
and talked
and you wondered

how the fingers
of your mother's hands
got to be so red
and such

but guessed it must
be the water
and soap suds
and years

of washing clothes
in damp
and that old ringer
she used to have

and how you loved
to see the water squeezed
from it like clear blood
and Jane looked at you

and you wanted
to swim in her dark eyes
and find the essence
of her soul

then she looked away
and deep inside
you wanted her
always to be

and never
to go away.

You must practice, Yochana's mother says, you need to have the Schubert off better. Yochana moves her thin fingers over the keyboard, eyeing the music-sheet on the piano stand. Her mother walks behind her, eyes on her fingers' movement. Angela said some boy pays you attention, the mother says, focusing on the fingers, how they seem too stiff. What boy? Yochana says, pausing her playing, please to stop, eyeing her mother, thinking on the boy Benedict, the kiss he gave her on the cheek. Angela spoke of some boy at school in your class, the mother says, and play on, your fingers are stiff while playing. There is no boy, Yochana says, lying, but trying to do a professional job at it, but not that good as her eyes give her away, proceeding to get her fingers playing over the keyboard once again, bring the Schubert back to life. Then Angela is either mistaken or lying are you saying? Her mother says. Yochana says nothing, wondering how much Angela had said, and how much pressure Mother put her on the poor girl. I've told you about boys, you have no time yet for boys, not while at school at any rate, and it then needs to be the right boy, and I cannot see there being that kind of boy at that school, the mother says slowly, but with emphasis on the word -right boy-, and still the firmness in the way of speech. Yochana comes to the end of the Schubert piece and puts her hands in her lap. She sits stiff. She hears her mother breathing, pacing behind her. Still too stiff in playing, she says, and this boy and I assume there is a boy or Angela would not have mentioned one and I do hope you are not taking to the art of deception, Yochana, as you do not have that skill to any great degree. Yochana turns and looks at her mother. Just a boy in class and it's nothing, she says, never going to mention the kiss on the cheek, she thinks, eyeing her mother's eyes. And what is he up to, this boy? Nothing, just a boy in class who stare sat me. And why does he stare at you? Have you been encouraging the boy to stare? Yochana shakes her head. Her dark hair moves from side to side. Of course not, she says, seeing Benedict near her in her mind. So why does he stare? the mother asks, leaning over Yochana, her hands each side of the piano-stall on which Yochana sits. Maybe he likes to stare at me. Don't be flippant, the mother says, Angela says he seems too friendly with you. Too friendly? Yochana senses herself blush and tries to add distraction by turning and playing a few bars of Beethoven, he's just a boy who stares and jokes. Then discourage him, the mother says firmly, or I will write to the Head and complain. I do discourage him as best I can, she lies, bringing the Beethoven along fiercely. A slap drives her hands from the keyboard and into her lap where she digs them deep between her thin thighs. Don't try and distract me my girl or you will  be pushing me to my limits and you know what that means, the mother says. Yochana looks down at the keyboard, senses the sting of pain on her hands. She nods. I will ask Angela to keep an eye on this boy and you it seems. Angela and her big mouth, Yochana muses, looking at the motionless keyboard, black and white keys. She sees Benedict kissing her again on her cheek just out of the blue that day. It was sudden. Smack on the cheek. Damp, warm. He standing there smiling. She stirred up, but pretending not to be. Understand me? Her mother says, turning Yochana around to face her, gazing into her daughters eyes, through the thin wired framed glasses. Yes, I understand, she says, trying not to look at her mother, attempting to hide her tears coming, the sting of hands. Then go to your room and focus on the English work, otherwise you will get behind with that and you will need that if you are to make anything of yourself at that school, her mother says, standing back allowing room for her daughter to rise up from the piano stall and move. Yochana walks away from the piano looking away from her mother, her eyes watery. And remember, girl, you are only fourteen not twenty one, still a child, the mother says at her daughter disappearing back. Yochana says nothing, but walks out of the music room and up the stairs, one foot climbing after the other in a slow determined fashion. She knows what her mother is implying. She remembers how strict her mother can be. She walks to her room, opens the door and enters, closing the door behind her and leans against it. Tears fill her eyes. Angela's big mouth. No doubt innocently said. Mother pushing it. Squeezing all she could out of the dim girl until it had all she needed. I'll see Angela and have a word. Keep it quiet. Mouth shut. Or I'm for it, I'll tell her, Yochana  says to herself, moving away from the door and picking up the English grammar and lies on the bed. That sort of boy. That kind of school. Was Benedict that kind of boy? What kind was he? She didn't know. Not her mother's idea of a right type of boy. Kiss on the cheek. She felt her cheek where she recalls he kissed her. Fingers feel there. The sting in her hand is still there as she moves her fingers. She puts the English grammar book beside her on the bed and closes her eyes, pushing out tears. She places a hand to her cheek. Rubs it. Takes the fingers from her cheek and puts the fingertips to her lips and kisses, then slowly blows the invisible kisses towards the window, hoping to God her mother doesn't see the invisible kisses flyby and go.

Picking out
the right sized stone
was just the start
and Lydia helped

picking up
this one then
that from
the bomb site

and showing it
to him
in her small palm
he took it

and placed it
in the catapult sack
and pulled back
and aimed

at some tin can
he'd set up
some distance away
and it go

and the tin can
went flying with a zing
and she laughed
and said

you got it straight on
and clapped
her hands together
then looked around

for another
while he went
and set the tin can
up again

on the stone wall
of what had once been
the side of a house
now blown

wide apart
he watched her
searching
all intent

as if
she were seeking gold
or coins that had dropped  
she liked being

his ammunition collector
better than being
at home
with her snoring

older sister
and her mother
in hell frozen over mood
and her father

sleeping off
the night before *****
better here
with Benedict

being his
ammunition supplier
his right hand girl
besides he often

bought her a drink
of pop or sweets
from the Penny shop  
his 9 year old features

seeming older
and her 8 year old face
seeming younger
thin

pale
her hands
frail looking
fingers

skin and bones
here
she said
here is this OK?

and she ran to him
and showed him
and he said
yes just right

and he put it
in the sack
of the catapult
and aimed

then said
hey you want to try?
but she shook her head
no I might hit

something
I ought not to
and besides
I like watching you

and so he aimed again
and let it go
and it zoomed
through the air

and caught the tin
and it flew spinning
with a yelping sound
and hit the ground

and she thought
of her big sister
throwing up
in the early hours

after the binge
and night out
and her mother
bellowing out

in the early hours
you ****** *****  
and her father saying
O quit the mouth

let the kid learn
her own way
and she Lydia
turning over

away from
her sister's ****
and back
the sound of vomiting

in her ears
and he tucking
the catapult in
the back pocket

of jeans
thought of his younger sister
getting herself
run over by a car

cuts and bruises
a small scar
otherwise OK
the other day

and right
he said
looking at Lydia
come let's go

get us
a penny drink of pop
from the Penny shop
and she smiled

and walked beside him
his John Wayne swagger
cowboy hat
on his head

ready to shoot
any bad cowboys
who came along
bang bang dead.

I am not beautiful,
said Yehudit,
I am just that
in the eyes of those
that look and see
or do not
and say as I.

I look in the mirror
and see just me
who ever me is
that I see
and undecided
I give way
to thoughts
of some fiction
of my brain
and then I am me
and just that again.

But beauty
some say they see,
and seeing think
it's me,
but I see not
what they may see,
I see no beauty
here or there
upon my features
or skin or hair
or eyes or smile,
but they that do,
may put it there
with over love
or love excelling
or just love struck.

I see the mirror image,
the reflected face
and deep set eyes
and smile sometimes
and know it well,
seen often,
taken in
and put aside,
and so,
seeing nothing
have nought to hide.

But he says
I have beauty,
that he sees it
and knows it
and can dream of it
and touch it
and kiss it,
and having
such words
he can almost
convince even me,
that she
whom I look at
and see, is she
whom he sees
and not
the real me.