Shenanigans

Introduction
1 Blueprint for a tale

Imagine a rectangle of blotting paper, not pink but green, well-worn and faded randomly to ochre, biscuit and in parts to grey, the left-hand edge torn roughly and curving so the piece is wider at the bottom than the top.

Take a piece of loose wove-string, frayed and widespread at its end, and soft and flexible, tight-twisted near its source and three times or more in length the width of the paper.

Take an empty bottle (wider necked than wine for preference), part-fill with inks, a slightly dilute mix of Burnt Sienna, and some Quink of Prussian blue.

Then dip the string into the ink, inch by inch to absorb, to soak the loose-wove end the most, until all but the finger pinch is immersed.

Remove with care, then slowly lay the string, wide well-soaked end at left-hand edge, to start, and allow to curve, to bend, to almost loop and wind its way at rest across the mottled, patterned green, to leave a mark – an estuary, a river-line, across a landscape, for a map.

Within one loop, a loop whose open-end is well-defensible, will lie a Yorkshire town, like Yarm, but imaginary:  a place I plan to populate with part-invented people, some already met, to pontificate upon their creativity and their interactions.


2 Street plan for a story

And on the ink-stained paper map, within the river loop, a rounded entire leaf,  bisecting stalk and central vein the road from south, extending north across an ancient, buttressed, three-arched bridge of hefty Yorkshire stone.  

The either side-ways veins are narrow car’s-width wynds, paved not with rounded cobbles (like the High Street) but with runny-iced biscuits of shiny blue-grey bricks.  

West Street, a bow, which links the High Street ‘string’ but curves along the river’s edge (its northern end becomes ‘True Lover’s Lane’) has huge variety in its several dozen dwellings, no two the same in size or shape or age.  

Along the eastern river’s edge, where long ago were wharves, the many-storied dark brick warehouses now replaced with blocks of oblong-patterned, balconied, big windowed flats, their river views and ‘penthouse’ claims raising the price above and beyond the High Street’s historical, over-the-shop irregular and sloping flats.

But behind the shops (and the many pubs), at the back of the narrow cottage fronts which line the wynds are secret courtyards, surprising gardens and more light than ever imagined.

Striding across the whole of this looped and Tees-surrounded town a many-legged high arched railway viaduct, built of seven (or seventy, I forget) million red bricks, across which trains are forced to rumble slowly, for fear of falling off. 



3 Cast list for a play

Within the loop of this Tees-surrounded town, live folk we’ve met before.

Tony, to-be-published poet, and Chloë, cool and grey as granite mist, efficient, self-sufficient and part-blind to Tony’s talent, being gallery-immersed and success-seeking.

Dan: Dan loves his flame-haired, hot-wired etcher/artist Annabel; oft-times also inspires, but sometimes swims (or not) away from home, dispensing sweet-smiled sex and memories, most recently of all with Liz.

Liz, too often lonely through the absence of her prideful Leo:  desire-inspiring, satanic-seeming spouse, thus far thought faithful since his Liz is loved for more than just her cooking, not so plain as some would say her face ...

Felix, vigorous vendor of Viagra and part-time picture framer, well-fed and fond and faithless as his spouse, sweet Caroline, whose lack of confidence compels her to consume both cake and alcohol, the resulting curves a muse for Annabel’s commission and for Tony’s words.

And sliding, smiling and seducing several of these small-time sinners, Edward, night-club owner, hard to read, but known to have a past, a sister and a double-barrelled, definitely-deceptive, name.


Meeting


Annabel 4 Dan
Annabel and Dan – such a well-matched, aye-wrapt couple that by the end of their first term at university their friends referred to them as ‘Dannibel’ and likened them to a circus act: a constantly conjoined couple.

Annabel was Art of course, unmissable as she strode around the campus, Burne-Jones hair and big-boned body ever-suggestive of a Titian Venus.   Baggy paint-stained tent-sized sage green shirt, black floor length skirt and over-flowing patchwork bag of books and stuff.   Good humoured too and talented.

Dan, dark and narrow like the black ink lines he mainly drew, crisp but warm like toast, grey smiling eyes and dartingly light-footed, was instantly and utterly be-smitten, first sight, first light at the first of the freshers’ forced fun ‘get to know you’ nights.

Since neither lacked experience of alcohol, and both disliked the type of desperate over-crowded bunfight which ensued, each had remained seated at the rush to the bar, each smiled at the other across the suddenly empty space, he tilted his head towards the door, she nodded, and they got up and walked to the nearest quiet pub they could find.



It ain’t necessarily so
Felix and Caroline, boy next door to girl next door from birth, sundered only when they got to school, where separate doors for boys and girls still subdivided sexes.

Caroline a little princess, elocuted to improve her chances, not especially bright but ringlet blonde and blue-eyed dolly pretty so her slightly insufficient wattage wasn’t seen as lack.  

Felix could not fail to be her prince, he did charming to perfection, his love for her reflected back to him in spades.   An only son, undoubtedly deserving of a princess, deep doted on, a lad who knew his worth within the circle of his peers, was open, social, friendly, plumply comfortable.

Upbringing blinkered and parochial, their much encouraged admiration had been managed by their mothers to the point of culmination in a marriage.   Matrimonial contentment was much hoped for but since they were elsewhere inexperienced, untried and untested, it was unable to be unequivocally guaranteed.


Proving the old wives’ tale
Liz, well aware that at first glance she failed to attract attention, had the wit (had wits aplenty if the truth be known but preferred to keep them hid) to supplement her lack of looks with other skills, one of which was to attract and keep the friends she loved with fabulous, well-cooked food.

By twenty-two she’d delicious dinner parties sussed:  sold her skills (at goodly profit) and was trusted by the shiny, shallow, showpiece wives to stay unnoticed, Cinderella-simple, in the kitchen.    A good proportion of their spouses – or maybe they were not so good – when settling up her bill, made sure to take her number ‘for next time’ (although the type of time they had in mind had nought to do with food.)

Three years cooking, fucking, flashy surface, paucity of truth beneath, then London palled:  Liz procured herself a passage on a super-yacht, hotel-sized, rich-owned, sailing south.    Once aboard, surrounded by more bored, but beautiful and brainless, slow-browned breasted birds of prey, she sunny smiled and served up sumptuous fare.

And landed Leo, prize of prizes, man of mystery, unknown wealth and colossal sex appeal, who adored her, who was happy just to marry and move north.

Does this man, does this woman, take?
Anthony Clough Murgatroyd brought parental wealth and their as yet unquestioned values to his marriage.
Chloë Carrington’s contribution was a well-honed work ethic, a beautiful face and a change-of-name deed poll on which the ink was barely dry, since although she had long dropped ‘Carly-Jayne Clumber’ for its lack of cachet, she had omitted to make it official.
His father approved, seeing ‘decorative’ as essential, ‘hard-working’ a bonus, but it was the latter which persuaded him to promise the deposit on gallery premises as his wedding gift.
His mother would have liked to know more – Chloë’s parents? ‘abroad’, her father’s occupation? ‘something diplomatic’ and her briefly seen brother had been equally good-looking but gave nothing other than Chloë away.
Their courtship had been whirlwind, sex had seemed supremely satisfactory, assumptions made, truths unspoken and time spent alone together minimal.
And at the reception they learnt that Chloë’s heart was set on a gallery some seventy miles north of the parental home.



First five years

Getting started
Dan and Annabel, well graduated, each a First Class Hons despite distractions, had then to deal with daunting 'where to next?’ dilemmas and decisions.   Dan had been definitely offered a not too desperate job in Darlington near to where he spent his youth, while praise and promises and prodigious verbal accolades for Annabel emanated from down south, the metropolis, where smoke and posers interchange and lie with no intent to tell the truth. 

Sensible, the pair decided that to be together certain would be better than apart unsure, and began their life of couple-dom in a dingy flat and while Dan went to work Annabel continued painting.    As Dan’s designs and drawings became ever more desirable, Annabel was delighted to be sought and bought by London galleries, until a bastard cheating dealer allegedly ‘lost’ a lot she knew she’d sent.  

By then they they’d left the flat and bought a tiny house in Iarum, just two doors down from Felix, who did framing, and a street away from Chloë Carrington’s contemporary and well-established gallery.   Annabel called in by chance, discussed her work with Chloë and was asked to bring a few along - if Chloë thought them good enough she'd put them on display.


Wedded unbliss
Married life began in Felix’ mother’s house, not much change for Felix except sex on tap, but that quite soon became a dribble, as both of them became inhibited by the banging of the headboard on the wall between their bedroom and his mother’s.    He didn’t mind so much but Caroline couldn’t help but be self-conscious of cacophony so she called a halt to all conjugal antics, pouting prettily but perfectly determined.

Inexperience and innocence was anyway inhibiting, since Caroline assumed scene-setting candles and canoodle-soft sweet music utterly essential for the (otherwise) considered somewhat smutty deed, while Felix felt a simple five minute (if you’re lucky) fuck would amply fit the bill.

It might have ended there, in tears, but for the fact that Felix’ mother went with all her workmates to Majorca for a week:  Caroline, consulting friends, had laid her plans, was accommodating, eager and available:  encouraged kiss and chase and sex on table 'til Felix, crying ‘mercy’ underneath her bouncing buttocks agreed to find accommodation just for them.

And since this coincided with a change of occupation which required a relocation, to a tiny house where Caroline could create a cosy love nest just for two. they carried on quite happily for the next half dozen years.


Leo and Liz walk the line
Leo needed anonymity above all else

He shared some secrets with his best beloved wife but most of them stayed camouflaged as shadows cast by fairy tales, as invisible as never-was, their existence never guessed at ... and yet, and yet, there was no doubt he emanated mystery, invited investigation, tempted men and (mainly) women to wonder what he did when so long away from home, no longer dancing passionate attendance on his plain, and plainly undeserving, puzzlingly well-worshipped spouse.

Liz needed stimulation, of the mind, as much as Leo’s loving lusting ministrations: body sated, she created and sought to fill her head with tales and fables, as well as other folks with food more fabulous than they’d ever before dreamed of.

Among her books of menus, recipes, addresses, was a plain unlabelled one, in which she wrote ideas and words, snippets overheard of conversations, mis-relations and sensations, whispered all too often within earshot, since the chattering upper classes considered cooks incapable of overhearing the auricular or transcribing the oracular.

Overwhelming too was Liz’s need for fun-filled fucking in the frequent absence of her spouse - no commitment, nothing heavy, her motto ‘easy come then easy go’ - and she’d become adept at spotting those who could.

But there was no doubt that each walked separate taut and tricky tightropes through their daily lives;  a mistimed glance, perhaps to check the other wasn’t watching, and every chance that it would end in worse than tears.


Refocus

Tony found within two months that marriage wasn’t quite what he’d expected and instead of coming home to waiting, warm and wifely welcome, consolation for the crushing boredom of his current occupation, he found her always busy in the gallery downstairs.

Having captured him (him, and a portion of paternal cash) Chloë had re-focused her attention:  it wasn’t that she was uncaring but her cherishing was lacking and she had to tell him she was not his mother but his wife, had to spell it plain and simple so that Tony could appreciate both difference and benefit.    But as Chloë gained success and satisfaction Tony felt increasingly frustrated, not so much at Chloë as his life, seeing that her glow was from a culmination that escaped him, which at the worst of times found him seeking solace from a bottle, earning him her condemnation, his self-disgust and a coruscating headache.

Eventually with stealth and machination he managed to manoeuvre rich redundancy, with a super stonking pay-off, giving him a year to stay guilt-free at home, and secretly to write.

Chloë wanted him not underfoot and anyway his writing required walking by the river for the working out of words and of ideas and soon, somewhat against his wishes, he found himself in daily conversation with the unambitious and admiring Caroline.   And since both suffered somewhat from their spouses’ insufficiency, the inevitable occurred – which was quite inspiring too.