The Empty Grave of Edgar Allan Poe

ANCIENT WISDOM

          “He’s waving again.”
          “He’s always bloody waving.”
          “You’re a bit tetchy this morning.”
          “‘Tetchy’? Where’s ‘tetchy’ come from?”
          “It’s a word.”
          “Just about. Besides what d’you expect? I’m sick of all this.” I look down at my little woollen trunks and shiver in the cold.
          “He’s shouting now.”
          “What about?”
          “Can’t make it out. Probably just wants know where he is.”
          “Tell him.”
          Frankie shouts, “Fleetwood, 1955.”

*

          Out of the corner of my eye I can see Frankie standing there, in shorts and a T-shirt with racing cars on it. He’s got a tin bucket in one hand and a wooden spade in the other. Out of the corner of the other eye I catch the hem of my mother's dress, blowing in the wind. It is light grey with dark grey polka dots. Below me I can see the sand and near my left foot a frozen dash of white, a splodge of seagull shit hanging in the air.

*

          “What's the longest word in the English language?” Frankie asks.
          “Antidisestablishmentarianism,” I reply.
          “No, alphabet.”
          “Why?”
          “Because it contains 26 letters,” says Frankie triumphantly.
          “Antidisestablishmentarianism has got 28.”
          “Oh.”
          “You should have said, what word contains all 26 letters.”
          “Oh.”
          I hate word games. Particularly when I’m forced to play with an idiot.
          “Should I do it again?” asks Frankie.
          “No.”

*

           Chess is worse. I can picture the board and the positions of the pieces and which have been taken, but Frankie’s hopeless. Our games always end in arguments. It would save time if we just discussed politics. Frankie thinks that Margaret Thatcher is the best Prime Minister we ever had. Then again what’s the point in saving time, we’re not going anywhere.
          At least he’s stopped singing. There was a period a few months ago when Frankie decided to sing every song he knew, starting with ‘On the Good Ship Lollipop’ and ending with a selection from the works of Andrew Lloyd Webber. If that wasn’t painful enough, he then decided to compose his own. Torquemada could have learnt a few lessons from Frankie. I began to think that maybe there was such a place as Hell after all.

*

          “I reckon we’re lucky,” says Frankie.
          “How come?”
          “It could be worse.”
          “How?”
          “We could be all alone, lying on bearskin rugs in our birthday suits.”

*

          My trunks are itching and I’m bostin’ for a wee. And I’m freezing cold. I’ve been like this for two years now. Frankie’s been here longer, but at least he’s got his shorts and T-shirt with the racing cars. Plus he had the foresight to relieve himself behind the sand dunes. On the other hand he reckons he feels a bit peckish; all the time. And then there’s his bucket. Full of wet grey sand. A heavy burden to carry for all eternity.

*

          “He’s shouting again,” says Frankie.
          “What’s up now?”
          “Wants to know what happens next.”
          “Tell him.”
          “I don’t know.”
          “So tell him.”
          “Can’t be bothered. It’s not like having a proper conversation, shouting all the time. I’ll get a sore throat if I’m not careful.”
          My wife comes into the bedroom. She’s crying again.

*

          Frankie is in reminiscent mood. “I used to enjoy going on holiday to Fleetwood. There was always plenty to do. Go on the pier and play the machines or climb the Mount and have a look at the clock. Then there was the putting green and the crazy golf, and the marionettes. D’you remember them?”
          “They were crap.”
          “They weren’t that bad. Bit different. We used to get up early and go down to the docks and watch the trawlers going out.”
          “I bet you went on the Knott End Ferry too.”
          “That was great.”
          “Why? You went across to Knott End, walked up the jetty, then got back on the ferry and came back. It was pointless.”
          “Summat do. Made a change.”
          What I wouldn’t give for a trip on the Knott End Ferry now. I’d be happy if that seagull shit landed on my foot.

*

          “I took my wife to Fleetwood just after we were married.” I didn’t like talking about Jennifer to Frankie, ever since he told me he used to watch us in bed together, but sometimes she still crept into the conversation. “First time I’d been since I was a little lad.”
          “Had it changed much?”
          “Couldn’t tell. It was closed.”

*

          “God I’m hungry.”
          “I thought you were just peckish.”
          “Same thing. Can you smell chips? I can smell chips.”
          “We’re in Fleetwood what d’you expect?”
          “Could eat a bag of chips, and a fish.”
          “And mushy peas.”
          “And a nice cup of tea to wash it all down.”

*

          “D’you think she’ll get married again?” asks Frankie.
          “Who?”
          “Your wife. She’s not that old. Still got a good figure, nice set of...”
          “Deck it!”

*

          “‘Dunner cry for me Argentinaaaaaa.’”
          He’s singing again.

*

          “I don’t like the nights,” says Frankie.
          “We used to catch a tram and go to Blackpool. That was good. I enjoyed that. Go in the Tower and see the zoo. Only time I ever saw my dad dance with my mum, in the Tower Ballroom.”
          “Reginald Dixon on his organ. I remember him. But no, that’s not what I mean. I was talking about now. When it gets dark and you can’t see anything. Dunner seem right that. We’re still stuck here but it all goes dark. Get scared sometimes.”
          “Just think of Blackpool. Close your eyes and remember the illuminations.”
          “I can’t close my eyes.”

*

          Jennifer comes into the bedroom with Mark Handley, the man we get to service the gas boiler. They get undressed and get into bed. Jennifer switches off the light. I’m grateful for small mercies.

*

          “It’s funny isn’t it?” says Frankie.
          “What is?”
          “How things work out. I mean I was born just after the war, a couple of years before you. My dad didn’t get a camera till, oh it must’ve been 1962, ’63 around then. So no baby pictures, just like you.”
          “There wasn’t the money about in them days.”
          “Exactly. So it’s funny how things work out. Earliest picture of me I’m sat on my dad’s motorbike and sidecar with Bunty Lovatt, the girl who lived next door. As far as I can recall her dad didn’t get a camera till after my dad. In fact I remember Mr. Lovatt borrowing ours when he went the School Sports Day when Bunty came first in the running race and the egg and spoon. Very athletic was Bunty. Nice pair of legs on her.”
          “So why is this funny?”
          “Well, not funny really, figure of speech. I was just thinking. If I hadn’t wandered up behind you at this exact moment then I could be spending eternity with Bunty Lovatt. And I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

*

          Our world spins as Mark Handley picks up the photograph then tosses it into a cardboard box. I see his face as he closes the top. I hear him going up the ladder into the loft. Then all is quiet again.

*

          “He’s shouting again,” says Frankie.
          “Ignore him.”
          “It’s dark.”
          “I know.”
          “I’m scared.”
          “Maybe you should sing something.”
          “You don’t mind?”
          “No.”
          “‘On the good ship, Lollipop...’”