Black Rock Secrets
Amongst the neatly
manicured lawns and freshly painted trellising of the municipal park sits a
large black rock. It's about as big as a Ford Sierra, give or take a bumper,
and gleams in the sunlight like an outsize patent leather shoe. The reason for
its highly polished appearance is plain to see, if you hang around the park
until lunch time, when the children from the local Primary School are let out.
''Last one to the rock’s a wally.” Is the usual war cry, as
fifty or so pocket-delinquents’ race past the dozing lollipop lady. To the
third year smokers at the front it's a make-do screen against prying park
officials. To the slower second years, weighed down with Nintendo’s and lunch
bags it becomes the fin of a giant Somethin-asaurus breaching the green slimy
sea, or even the tip of a dragon's claw probing for wholesome tit bits. For the
naive first years it's simply a slide that craves attention.
Not all its attendants regard the rock with the same degree
of awe and affection. Vagrants and wino's curse the fact that it lies smack in
the middle of their nocturnal stagger from the off licence on Queens Street to
the park toilets. White flannelled bowls players call it the blot on their
pristine landscape and campaign tirelessly for its removal, so that yet another
perfect green rectangle can be installed.
On one particular cold day, in February, when all colour had
drained from the park, and the school kids were condemned to indoor playtime,
the black rock became just another shade of grey. An old lady shuffled through
the massive iron gates, carrying an easel under one arm and a bum-weary
shooting stick under another. It was deserted and quiet, save for the plaintive
cry of a land-locked seagull, poking its orange bill into the tired grass
"Storm at sea, eh''? Said the woman, as she pursed her
lips and blew softly.
''No fish down there I’m afraid. I'd try the lake if I were
you. That's if the Parkie don't shoot you first'' With that last comment she
let out a short squeaky laugh that swapped coats with a bout of chronic
bronchitis. Muffling the wheeze with her coat sleeve she continued walking,
while the itinerant bird flew away.
It’s funny how public spaces change with the seasons. The
people that frequent them also change, like new actors in some long running
West End play. Summertime brings with it a whole pot pourri of visitors for
immediate as well as more nostalgic reasons. Winter throws open it's doors to a
more rattle-bag crowd. The tramps still come, as do the joggers and dog
walkers, but along with these hardy perennials are more solitary souls. Perhaps
the season draws them out.
The old lady stopped a few feet in front of the stone,
unfolded her shooting stick, and jammed the spike into the grass. She took out
a few twisted tubes of paint from one deep pocket and withdrew a stunted
horsehair brush from another.
''Wot yer paintin,
lady?'' said a loud voice from behind her. She spun round clutching her chest
and screamed at the onlooker
''Don't you ever do
that again. You almost gave me a heart attack!''
The object of her wrath furrowed his grimy brow and dropped
the bottle of cheap Sherry from a gaping mouth.
''Shorry lady, I wosh only curious,'' said the old man, as he
bent to retrieve the bottle, now glug-glugging its contents into the soil. He
raised it to his lips again, took a final swig, and spat out a small pebble.
''Shit! Now I'll ave ter scrounge another one fer tonight''.
As the tramp went through an alternative hand-grenade drill,
Lilly studied him closely. His
appearance bore all the usual hallmarks of living rough and acquired
alcoholism. Dried vomit epaulettes on the shoulders of a thick army greatcoat
instantly elevated him to the rank of alcoholic first-class. He had large
bloodshot eyes, a broad weather-scoured face, and grey wisps of hair that
peeped out from under a shrunken woollen cap. She thought he'd probably spent
some time in the forces, as the screeched orders seemed word perfect, if a
little slurred and disjointed, plus the occasional stagger was more regimented
than freeform.
''Prepare to pull the pin, sho, enshuring that a good grip is
maintained at all times, hic''
''There's a litter bin not ten feet away, said Lilly pointing
to a green receptacle emblazoned with gold lettering. Why don't you just drop
it in there?''
The man paused momentarily, his arms held straight out, like
a fast bowler in freeze frame. Lilly gulped, audibly, and just had time to duck
before the spinning missile shot through the space where her head had been,
exploding on impact with the large rock.
''I name this ship H.M.S. ROBBY. God blesh her and all who
shail in her.'' He saluted, with an exaggerated flourish and promptly fell to
the ground.
Lilly stood up and gingerly walked over to the tramp to see if
he had injured himself in the fall. She felt the oddest feeling as she crouched
over him, watching the slow rhythm of his chest, rise and fall. It wasn't pity
or repugnance, but a sense of overwhelming sadness, as though this sleeping
giant were some dotty Uncle who'd fallen from
favour. The type of relative who's spoken of in whispers or unflattering
generalisations when curious children are nearby. A vague memory had left some
sort of impression. - Once vivid, now dormant and diluted by time, like a blind
tasting; the flavour recognised but not the food. The more she concentrated the
less she remembered. She gnawed at her thumbnail, but nothing surfaced, only
blood and frustration. A thin film of spittle ballooned on his cracked lower
lip. She had the urge to wipe it off with her handkerchief
''No!'' she yelled, and kicked at his muddy boots. There was
no response, not even a groan.
''What am I doing?'' she cried, clasping both hands to her
mouth. ''I don't know this man. He's a stranger, a complete stranger. Just some
drunk sleeping off Wednesday's hangover. Just paint the stupid stone and go
home.'' With that she turned, glancing round to see if anyone was watching,
before setting up the easel. From around her waist she unbuckled an old
ammunition belt, sliding out the remaining tubes of paint from each stiff
canvass loop. Her hands trembled as fingers numbed by the cold tried to cope
with unscrewing tiny tops. Impatience made her stuff them back into the
pockets.
''Ok, sketch today, paint tomorrow. Pencils.... where did I
put those bloody pencils?'' A frantic search ensued. Frisking herself for the
elusive HB's, a coat lining surrendered two small splinters of charcoal. The
large canvass was unclipped from the easel, to be replaced by an A4 sketch pad
littered with numerous doodles and half finished drawings. That's the trouble these days, she thought. I never manage to complete anything. She swivelled round on the
shooting stick to check on sleeping beauty.
''Perhaps I should paint you instead. I could do with
brushing up on my still-life subjects.'' This was followed by a light chuckle,
not prolonged enough to incite another coughing fit, just one of those ticklish
‘nut-in-the throat’ affairs. The tramp grunted and, opening both eyes performed
what can only be described as a kind of slow motion sit up. He thrust both his
arms straight out and reached the half way position before collapsing back onto
the grass, with a loud thunk.
Eat your heart out Jane Fonda. Thought Lilly, wincing at the sound of
scalp hitting turf. The snoring resumed, bringing with it a noisy bout of
digestive gurgling’s and anal fanfares.
''Jee-sus!'' exclaimed the old woman. ''All you need is a backing
track, and you'd make a bloody fortune.'' She resisted the urge to start conducting,
turning her attention to the drawing, and began scratching a rough outline of
the black boulder. As she etched and smudged, a weak finger of sunlight
caressed the surface of the wet rock, giving it more depth and outline. The
veiny striations of quartz and mica sparkled like fools gold, before a passing
cloud snuffed out their momentary brilliance.
''Killjoy!'' said Lilly sarcastically, squinting at the
monochrome sky. ''I knew I should have taken that photo in June. I wouldn't
have had to sit here in the teaming rain, hatching haemorrhoids, as well as
having to contend with other distractions.”
Strange, she
thought, staring at the stone. In all the
time I've been coming here, I've never touched it. I've had the opportunity,
that's for sure, but it never seemed important till today. Can't figure out why
it should be now. With that she
stood up and stretched, rubbing the blood back into her numb posterior. Around
the base of the boulder she saw a shallow moat, only a gutters width,
containing submerged fag ends and faded sweet wrappers. Any emerging childhood
reminiscences were quickly quashed though, by the sight of a knotted condom and
a syringe crossed together like some druggy coat of arms.
This stone witnesses
everything. Every pimply arse. Every hurried coupling. Each Torniquet’ed
forearm, bloody nose, whispered lie. It sees it all. Year after year it sits
and waits for some new sensation to sustain it. Better than any great oak tree
or dark alley. You can scratch your name on it, and a few years later, if
you’re suffering an identity crisis, you can return to see who you are. By then
the memory's done its usual glossing -over-the -truth- bit and everyone’s
happy.
True
enough, jagged initials began appearing. Some were sanded smooth by elemental
fingers. Other, fresher ones, hastily chipped out or painstakingly carved by
the narrow blade of a knife or tooth-edged key were plain to see - F.K. WOZ
ERE. And a date. In some places the autographs had been overwritten two or
three times, maybe by jilted girlfriends or supplanted lovers? Lilly stroked
her hands over the cool scorings, jamming fingers into older, deeper
engravings, while skipping over the more superficial ones
This tactile exploration was becoming vaguely erotic. Like
petting the glossy coat of some fat lap-cat and feeling the dormant power
beneath its thick fur. For one split second she had the urge to taste it, as
though it would reveal some fragment of itself to her. She suddenly remembered
licking pebbles on a school trip to Llandudno. On the way home in the coach,
Mrs Bradshaw, a frosty old dame had slapped the back of her hand saying firmly,
''Don't do that child, didn't you see the dogs on the beach?'' When the old
fart had gone she'd popped the whole thing into her mouth and sucked it like a
gob stopper.
Lilly smiled wistfully; completely unaware that someone was
behind her, watching her every movement.
''Find anythi'n intresti'n amongst the graffiti?
She screamed again, clutching her chest in an action replay.
''Twice! Have you ever thought of...of clearing your throat
or doing anything to forewarn me of your imminent arrival? I swear you do it on
purpose. She took a couple of deep breaths to steady her nerves before
continuing. ''Well, what do you want now? I haven't any money you know.''
The man flinched as the rush of words came pouring out.
''I...I didn't mean to startle yer. I'm sorry lady. I have
this habit of creepi'n 'bout the place. You never know when the warden’s
nearby. He hates me, see. I'm the fly in his ointment. Most of the other blokes
doss down under the Band stand. Don't want any trouble. Me, well I kinda like
the old park, reminds me of when I was a child.'' he paused, and Lilly thought
she saw his eyes redden slightly. ''Anyways, me and this stone go way back'' As
he spoke, he moved alongside the rock and patted it affectionately. ''I see
them you know, the artists who make there marks on my stone. I remember their
faces. It might be a few years but they all come back, to look and linger a few
minutes. Some of 'em go right to the spot. Others circle it a few times to get
their bearings. There was this one guy...
''Is this leading anywhere, interrupted Lilly. Only I'm very
busy.''
The old man lowered his
eyes and rubbed his hands together, silently. Lilly felt a twinge of regret at
having snapped at him. His script's probably
the same every day. It's just the audience that changes.
''I
made my own mark you know, down there, where the water laps the side'' said
Robby, almost resentfully.'' He crouched down on his haunches and scooped away
the water. ''Here it is RN. NINETEEN FORTY SEVEN. Robert Newton, Nineteen Forty
Seven.'' He gave the explanation slowly,
his voice steady and distinct. ''Nineteen
Forty Seven. I was twenty years old then. Full of myself. God, I was full of
myself. At that age you think you're indestructible. Capable of anything, don't
yer?''
He looked up at Lilly for a moment, and then sprang up and
stumbled through the bushes on the edge of the grass. She followed his gaze and
realised the warden was advancing towards her in a curious half run half walk,
as if running would somehow affect a
loss of dignity. She smiled, ruefully and looked back to see the leaves of a
large Rhododendron quivering gently.
‘‘Let’s see what all the fuss was about, eh?'' She stooped
down and swished away at the pool of water that had quickly reformed. Lowering
her head she squinted at the rock face.
''Here we are. RN. 1947.'' Just as she was about to stand up
she caught sight of the top portion of some other lettering below, half buried
in the alluvium. Pawing at the soft mud, with anxious fingers, she stopped to
read the inscription.
''Damn! I can't make it out. It's obscured by all the filth.'' She cupped both hands and scooped up some
water from a nearby puddle. Throwing it at the rock loosened the
filled-in-grime. She pecked off the remainder with the end of her paintbrush.
''Has he been bothering you Madam'' said a rather officious
voice from over her left shoulder.
''LOVES LILLY MAKEPEACE?'' she said, incredulously. ''Loves
Lilly Makepeace!''
She repeated it over and over to herself, quietly at first
and then louder and louder, until the whole park could hear her shouting. The
warden removed his cap, and scratched his bald head before speaking.
''Another bloody drunk,” he said, under his breath, shaking
his head and tutting. ''Come on now, enough's enough, move along will you?”
The figure hunched over the stone, ignored the first few
requests, and it wasn't until the Parkie cleared his throat and tapped her on
the shoulder that she turned to look up at him.
''Loves Lilly Makepeace, she said, softer now, her face
streaked with fresh tears.
''That's me, she said again. Lilly Makepeace, that's me!''
