Black Rock Secrets

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!''