Hallmarks of Helen

Hallmarks of Helen

“Johnny! Can I have a roll up Johnny!”
Her voice echoed down the hall, the sincere syllables ricocheting across the walls, tap dancing down the stairs through his eardrums seamlessly, because the speech was from a ghost. The allure of her persuasive percussion trickled through his memories fleeting and diminished, forever fading like fleeting wisps of smoke folding and fading with intricacy.

      John Bowlingbroke lived at 19 Bentley Drive, not that the cars were special or he had a license. The ginger wandering of little feet had long since flown from his home and learned to stand and love of their own accord.
       Johnny was past retirement age just, but he had barely worked for years regardless. His fatherly duties were finished and he was shell-less now, a soft vulnerable man subject to reminiscing and trying to kiss ghosts. Business was his leisure, he spent his hours whittling away at night talking to the telly and writing letters to himself, but is only ever embittered by the lack of reply. Yes Johnny spends his hours on leisure, but he always feels shortchanged.
       Her. Her, Helen his wife and the mother of his children is gone now, along with his namesake and brightest and grandest achievement; his son. If he should wish to he can recall Helen’s hallmarks in an instant; her voice he has kept for company, a recording that coughs into life dripping with crippling kindness. A grandson’s bedtime storyteller, little boy blue drifted off in delight at his loving narrator as she lulled him with her lullaby, soothed into sleep as she chased the words off the page.
     She to Johnny and all of whom that her gap-toothed gambler’s grin warmed could not forget her even if they had tried; succumbing to the abyss of absence that her leaving had evoked. Her memory was unconquerable, unsullied with the passing of time. Johnny willed her to fade, to reduce his ailment and allow the life-sapping wound of a life without her to recede into a more manageable dull ache. He could perhaps live and sleep easier if her face became blurred like inky tears running down a newspaper in the rain.

      On days that were growing closer together all the time, Johnny would lay stagnant and hopeless in his bed, mountains of cider cans and half-eaten tins of cold beans. He lay and sank into his head, framed by silvery lank hair which to be kind was unkempt. He went to war with himself, and allowed his thoughts to stray into an incoherent splutter, a scrapheap of false starts.
    His mind goes to war. Thoughts of her are a no-man’s land where the unrequited want and need to see or hear Helen solidly in the physical sense for a single fleeting moment, a swear or a complaint from her, anything to feel the warmth of her words against his cold dulled ears. Or some emotive evidence that he isn’t clinging to a sunken ship, that her reflection dancing through trickling streams bearing an iceberg smile of delight wasn’t just a daydream spanning the years, that he isn’t just lost at this very moment, staring into some murky puddle by the roadside. But such pretty foray into his misery is flanked, as is often the case for all of us by gratefulness.
       Some old Irish song might play by chance in the pub or on the radio. Christy Moore warbles away and by his third line I am held to ransom by the past. My mind is triggered and you’re there in your armchair; resplendent in one of your many mad wooly hats that you knitted yourself, sugary tea and framed by a silhouette of smoke. Some sunny daydream where your cocksure face lined with the years that weren’t always kind to us, but were always ours.
     But such shallow illusion lacks the final delivery, like an empty gun.

But truth be told I’m glad that it is so, no hazy holiday from reality could ever create anything more than a caricature of how wonderful you were, the hallmarks of Helen.
       I have a theory that I am looking for a word, one immaculately tailored phrase that would paint a picture of our summer years, and wrap you up sparkling and pretty in packaging. Because you were a gift to me from somewhere, but I can’t place whom or why gave me this gift because you’re a gift that no one wrote a card for.
       I don’t want to stray into exhausted clichés by writing a caption for your image that would do you no justice. All I can say with all honesty is that I cannot compare you to any character or fairytale because you are what you are; so much better than any fiction.

So now I need to write a card for the present.
        
         You belonged to me and I have misplaced you. Sounds so trivial, like a telly remote behind the sofa but I know you know I know.

Your coat still hangs in the hall, I can’t bring myself to hide it away on the off chance that you might need it when the weather bites. I’m not eating too well either and I know that you wouldn’t be happy about the state I’ve got myself into since you went away. You never were fond of my madcap melodramatics and I’m afraid they’re all I have left to cling to now you’re gone. Your old gold rests around my finger, but I can’t bend it into my hand’s likeness. It was worn dainty on your finger this Claddagh ring it bears your hallmarks, Helen.

Leaving Home

The evening prior to his departure was escaping him, like grains of sand slipping through his fingers. That age old mistress; time had tied the arms of his watch.
“Michael!”
his mother cooed from the hallway.
“Mikey could you print the directions off for tomorrow please!”

“Yes alright! I'm going to do it now!”

He replied with vocal annoyance, something he immediately scolded himself for afterwards.
He was knowingly being ungrateful, especially given the lengths his parents had gone to enable him to come this far in the first place. But it wasn't just that, there was a much stronger, more obvious emotion behind this self reprimand. Michael knew just how much he would miss the tiniest most meticulous details of his home, and his family. He listened intently to his Mum's absent-minded singing as she cooked, savoured every syllable and attempted to preserve exactly the way she sounded in his memory. The way her voice was flecked with subtle Irish mirth that had faded with the passing of her days in London, and the way that her T's tiptoed towards her teeth as she talked, that steady pronounced beat like a metronome. Tick Tock.

Dinner was a delicate affair but it wasn't met with any regret, just fondness and reflection. The gravity of the decision to move home rather than commute was beginning to sink in, a wormhole of an abyss that left Michael's stomach in knots. He knew though unmistakably he wanted the new experience, to cast off all that was familiar and embrace some new adventure. As naïve as that sounded even to himself, he believed in it earnestly.

The stew bubbled away in the centre of the table and the thick aroma of meat and carrots sailed up the nostrils, seducing their bellies.

“So, err what do ya do in creative writing?”
His dad asked, stumbling through his sentence.

'' 'Cos to me creative writing just sounds like poems and that sorta stuff”

Michael hesitated and chewed his words along with his food.
“Creative writing has loads of bits n' bobs you can do with it. Anything you fancy really; poems, stories, Journo work, articles... There are so many jobs to take from it”

Mikey often felt awkward discussing books and words with his Dad, because he often felt there was something of a stigma attached to writing and literature from his perspective. His Dad possessed a razor sharp wit, but was not much of a reader.

Michael watched his father at the table and felt the most unbreakable love for him. His hesitant speech, his aforementioned wit, the thinning inky black hair that crowned his face and the jewels in that crown; his pearly white smile, teeth that seldom saw a dentist yet stayed spotless all the same. His eyes fell to his Dad's open necked shirt; a man forever tanned. He defied mother nature and adamantly declared on occasional colder days “Sunbathing from April to October!”

He had a gold chain that he had always worn, a chain Mikey remembered Dad telling him about as a little boy;
“My chain? Found it kicking through leaves when I was younger, probably a couple of years older than you are now. Never know what you might find if you look”

At least it was something quite like that, the memory was blurred by time like a ripple in water.

Michael awoke to the chorus of his generic mobile phone alarm, a noise seldom equalled in annoyance and fear of hearing. Groaning at the early hour at which he was awoken, he sat up with a start and noticed his tatty tabby cat, Shadow at the bottom of his bed. He was so named because as a kitten he was forever chasing and catching people's shadows. Mikey fondly ruffled the fur on his head as the cat purred contentedly. It was not completely out of character for his little newspaper tiger to sleep on his bed, but it was a rarity which pleased him to have fallen on his day of departure.

Looking around his room, Michael found it strange just how bare it was; before he had packed he felt his room could only have been inhabited by himself; messy and full of broken trinkets and toot. Now it was a blank canvas, waiting to be painted by his eager to occupy little brother, Liam.

Leaving home with heavy bags under his eyes and arms, he kissed his Sister and hugged his Brother goodbye, few words were exchanged but the fondness of the farewell was felt keenly by the three siblings. Michael felt that the goodbye was a lot more poignant than it should have been, considering he would be back at Christmas. But in that same moment he realised that perhaps he would never live at home the way he had done his entire life prior, ever again.

The journey was shorter than expected, though hindered by the fact that despite repeated reminders from his Mum, Mikey neglected to print the directions. Though she was not quite as annoyed with him as he had been with her for the reminders, she certainly had the right to be, which worsened his petty guilt. 

He was halfway to asking if he could plug his own music into the car, when he stopped himself. He wanted to remember everything exactly as it was on that journey, without interrupting it with his own selfish whim.

His parents helped him carry his things to his halls, and in spite of their pride and their tireless care and aid, he could feel himself consciously slipping steps ahead of them, as if to conceal them.
“You complete fucking bastard”

Michael muttered to himself with menace. He slipped behind and planted himself between the two of them, and felt like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

They stayed and helped him settle in, and drank a cup of coffee to fuel their return journey, a journey that he would not have to take.
The love in that room was unmistakable, and emanated from every pore.

“You've done alright for yourself ain't ya boy?”
His Dad spoke fondly
“But who's gonna make me tea now eh?”
Michael smiled but had no reply.

He walked with them to their car, kissed them both and held them in a tight embrace.

“Whatever I achieve now is down to me, but I could not have had a better start.”

Mikey whispered in their ears

They both kissed Mikey and his Mum put her sunglasses on.
“You're crying aren't you?”
Mikey laughed, stifling a tear himself.
“You always cry!”
“Take care boyo!”
His dad said in his 'chirpy world couldn't faze me' tone

“Eat well! Take care!”
His mum cooed in the same voice she had the previous evening, which felt an age away.

As their car drove past him for the last time in a long while his mum called over
“He's left home!”
Even with sunglasses she could not mask her glistening tears.

As Mikey walked back to his halls, he felt sad but joyous at the same time, very much so on the cusp of new beginnings, but also at the end of a chapter in his life. 

The prospect of a completely fresh start with new faces and possibilities was an exhilarating thought. He felt that the familiarity of his home town as much as he loved it, had grown stale and stifling. He felt like newspaper splattered with a palette of paint, a much needed injection of life.

He thumbed through his possessions all bundled in bags, so pregnant with character and memory. Photographs particularly seemed to drip with sentiment. They were the first things he put up.

He had left his door open to catch any flatmates that might walk past, the first of whom was one Wesley Paton, whom Michael offered a rancid Tesco budget beer of which they later consumed several, and wandered off to see what Brunel had to offer them. 

Leaving Home

The evening prior to his departure was escaping him, like grains of sand slipping through his fingers. That age old mistress; time had tied the arms of his watch.
“Michael!”
his mother cooed from the hallway.
“Mikey could you print the directions off for tomorrow please!”

“Yes alright! I'm going to do it now!”

He replied with vocal annoyance, something he immediately scolded himself for afterwards.
He was knowingly being ungrateful, especially given the lengths his parents had gone to enable him to come this far in the first place. But it wasn't just that, there was a much stronger, more obvious emotion behind this self reprimand. Michael knew just how much he would miss the tiniest most meticulous details of his home, and his family. He listened intently to his Mum's absent-minded singing as she cooked, savoured every syllable and attempted to preserve exactly the way she sounded in his memory. The way her voice was flecked with subtle Irish mirth that had faded with the passing of her days in London, and the way that her T's tiptoed towards her teeth as she talked, that steady pronounced beat like a metronome. Tick Tock.

Dinner was a delicate affair but it wasn't met with any regret, just fondness and reflection. The gravity of the decision to move home rather than commute was beginning to sink in, a wormhole of an abyss that left Michael's stomach in knots. He knew though unmistakably he wanted the new experience, to cast off all that was familiar and embrace some new adventure. As naïve as that sounded even to himself, he believed in it earnestly.

The stew bubbled away in the centre of the table and the thick aroma of meat and carrots sailed up the nostrils, seducing their bellies.

“So, err what do ya do in creative writing?”
His dad asked, stumbling through his sentence.

'' 'Cos to me creative writing just sounds like poems and that sorta stuff”

Michael hesitated and chewed his words along with his food.
“Creative writing has loads of bits n' bobs you can do with it. Anything you fancy really; poems, stories, Journo work, articles... There are so many jobs to take from it”

Mikey often felt awkward discussing books and words with his Dad, because he often felt there was something of a stigma attached to writing and literature from his perspective. His Dad possessed a razor sharp wit, but was not much of a reader.

Michael watched his father at the table and felt the most unbreakable love for him. His hesitant speech, his aforementioned wit, the thinning inky black hair that crowned his face and the jewels in that crown; his pearly white smile, teeth that seldom saw a dentist yet stayed spotless all the same. His eyes fell to his Dad's open necked shirt; a man forever tanned. He defied mother nature and adamantly declared on occasional colder days “Sunbathing from April to October!”

He had a gold chain that he had always worn, a chain Mikey remembered Dad telling him about as a little boy;
“My chain? Found it kicking through leaves when I was younger, probably a couple of years older than you are now. Never know what you might find if you look”

At least it was something quite like that, the memory was blurred by time like a ripple in water.

Michael awoke to the chorus of his generic mobile phone alarm, a noise seldom equalled in annoyance and fear of hearing. Groaning at the early hour at which he was awoken, he sat up with a start and noticed his tatty tabby cat, Shadow at the bottom of his bed. He was so named because as a kitten he was forever chasing and catching people's shadows. Mikey fondly ruffled the fur on his head as the cat purred contentedly. It was not completely out of character for his little newspaper tiger to sleep on his bed, but it was a rarity which pleased him to have fallen on his day of departure.

Looking around his room, Michael found it strange just how bare it was; before he had packed he felt his room could only have been inhabited by himself; messy and full of broken trinkets and toot. Now it was a blank canvas, waiting to be painted by his eager to occupy little brother, Liam.

Leaving home with heavy bags under his eyes and arms, he kissed his Sister and hugged his Brother goodbye, few words were exchanged but the fondness of the farewell was felt keenly by the three siblings. Michael felt that the goodbye was a lot more poignant than it should have been, considering he would be back at Christmas. But in that same moment he realised that perhaps he would never live at home the way he had done his entire life prior, ever again.

The journey was shorter than expected, though hindered by the fact that despite repeated reminders from his Mum, Mikey neglected to print the directions. Though she was not quite as annoyed with him as he had been with her for the reminders, she certainly had the right to be, which worsened his petty guilt. 

He was halfway to asking if he could plug his own music into the car, when he stopped himself. He wanted to remember everything exactly as it was on that journey, without interrupting it with his own selfish whim.

His parents helped him carry his things to his halls, and in spite of their pride and their tireless care and aid, he could feel himself consciously slipping steps ahead of them, as if to conceal them.
“You complete fucking bastard”

Michael muttered to himself with menace. He slipped behind and planted himself between the two of them, and felt like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

They stayed and helped him settle in, and drank a cup of coffee to fuel their return journey, a journey that he would not have to take.
The love in that room was unmistakable, and emanated from every pore.

“You've done alright for yourself ain't ya boy?”
His Dad spoke fondly
“But who's gonna make me tea now eh?”
Michael smiled but had no reply.

He walked with them to their car, kissed them both and held them in a tight embrace.

“Whatever I achieve now is down to me, but I could not have had a better start.”

Mikey whispered in their ears

They both kissed Mikey and his Mum put her sunglasses on.
“You're crying aren't you?”
Mikey laughed, stifling a tear himself.
“You always cry!”
“Take care boyo!”
His dad said in his 'chirpy world couldn't faze me' tone

“Eat well! Take care!”
His mum cooed in the same voice she had the previous evening, which felt an age away.

As their car drove past him for the last time in a long while his mum called over
“He's left home!”
Even with sunglasses she could not mask her glistening tears.

As Mikey walked back to his halls, he felt sad but joyous at the same time, very much so on the cusp of new beginnings, but also at the end of a chapter in his life. 

The prospect of a completely fresh start with new faces and possibilities was an exhilarating thought. He felt that the familiarity of his home town as much as he loved it, had grown stale and stifling. He felt like newspaper splattered with a palette of paint, a much needed injection of life.

He thumbed through his possessions all bundled in bags, so pregnant with character and memory. Photographs particularly seemed to drip with sentiment. They were the first things he put up.

He had left his door open to catch any flatmates that might walk past, the first of whom was one Wesley Paton, whom Michael offered a rancid Tesco budget beer of which they later consumed several, and wandered off to see what Brunel had to offer them.