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Jerusalem Long before the 'care in the community' concept, I delivered bulk tea to mental homes all over the south of England. These imposing structures were invariably located off the beaten track in immaculately tended grounds. Sometimes as cheerful inmates helped me unload the plywood chests, I found myself comparing their quality of life with that of a single parent long distance lorry driver struggling to keep the day job. Once, when night-stopping in the area, I was invited to a New Years dance but decided against it since it was nearly April. When I did get to experience life on the inside, I was no longer curious about the inhabitants, the ambience or the architecture. In fact I didn't care much about anything. Having undergone my second detox and stayed dry for the longest month of my life, I was accepted for a place on a month-long rehabilitation programme at an alcohol addiction unit. Two days early and bored, I tried to motivate my vallium-numbed brain to show interest in fellow group members as they trickled apprehensively through the lounge entrance. Bartholomew arrived in the early evening,
on his mother's jewellery-clad arm, carrying a half-open Gladstone
bag with the purple sash of his dressing gown trailing on the
floor. Vaguely curious, I raised my head from the William Blake
biography I wasn't reading, deafened by the clattering of his
shoes on the polished wood floor. God, those shoes! I swear the
soles were inch thick - heirlooms, I speculated, regularly re-soled
by successive generations. My gaze wandered from scuffed grey
corduroys to leather-patched tweed jacket, to soiled violent
red mohair waistcoat, to yellow silk cravat. But his face was
more little-boy-lost than debonair playboy, pasty white from
the small pointed chin to the unkempt quiff of streaky fair hair.
I was reminded of my late teenage years and a teacher who would
dismiss me with "The brain of a child in the body of a man
- the perfect fool!" That this Beau Brummell look-alike
was a member of our group should have been a sobering thought,
had he not reminded me so much of a patronising employer, a tied
house, a losing battle against feudal injustice and a broken
marriage. At twenty-five, Mary was our youngest member
by far and she it was who disturbed our nervous lethargy with
the horrendous tale of her desperate, addictive life. Such a
confession, commonplace at AA meetings, seemed particularly poignant
when told by one so young and attractive. As the baby of seven
girls she had been the favoured one, but now she carried on her
fragile shoulders the guilt of having been on a week-long bender
while her mother had died of cancer, calling her name. How the
hell, she asked, could she learn to live with that? "Control it?" asked Mary incredulously. "You're something else, you know that? Your mother's probably mortgaging her mansion to pay for your bloody treatment and all you can do is sulk!" "How dare you! Do you really imagine I could sink as low as you?" Mary looked at the ceiling. "God, this is all we need - an alcoholic who thinks he's different." Although the pupils were dilated from recent drug treatment, her eyes were wild and accusing. "The only way you're different Bart is that you've never had to share anything in your life! Trust me, there's no soft option here. Tell him Allan!" She turned on our resident mentor who shrugged but said nothing, an attitude he was to maintain throughout. Inspired by our historic and grandiose environment, when the others went to lunch I dallied a while for a closer look at the décor, including Bartholomew's forsaken shoes with their clog-like upturned toes. By my side stood the pole used to open and close the high sash windows, while above the fireplace an inviting ornate picture hook supported an impressive engraving by Blake with descriptive text. The afternoon started with another educational lecture, followed by role-play made more interesting by the hostility between Mary and Bart. Later, in the relaxation class, we were invited to lie with our backs on the floor and imagine we were looking down upon ourselves sitting by a cool stream on a sunny day. As the session came to a close, giggles became uncontrolled laughter as all eyes focused on Bart's shoes, laced together and hanging over my short hand-written excerpt "And did those feet in ancient time, Walk upon England's mountains green?" The course, in and out of the classroom, was emotionally tiring. Bart had to be badgered into assisting with the washing up and would rather go without than help prepare a light early evening snack for the group. Mary gave up complaining about his disruptive influence and tried to convince him that alcoholics can't control their intake. Her youthful enthusiasm persuaded me to drastically rethink my future. On the last day it was she who compiled a list of members' contact details, which she copied and handed round as we said our largely tearful goodbyes. Initially many of us stayed in constant touch by phone, but when Mary's money problems led to her line being disconnected, she took to writing meaningful, poetic letters on an almost daily basis. Six months on the letters became less frequent and when she phoned me from her sister's flat just before Christmas, I feared the worst. "I'd ditched that lazy bastard I lived with, redecorated the flat, sorted out my money problems, then who do you think shows up?" "Mary, you sound…" "Pissed? Yeah, 'fraid so, back on bloody treadmill. Who'd've thought, eh? Me! After all my preaching." "We've all slipped Mary; it's bloody hard. There, but for the grace of God and all that.. Can you get someone round? Have you phoned Doug? Maybe he could take you to a meeting tonight." "No, I'm too far gone for that, I need a detox - like now, today! I asked to get back into Brockatate…, Brocklith… you know where I mean. Guess what they said? I can detox at home! At home! What bloody planet are they on, eh? Vallium delivered to your door. OK, bring it on; I've got some vodka left to wash it down. They're pathetic!" She became maudlin and incoherent after that and I could hear her sister saying all the wrong things to her before slamming the phone down. I thought of visiting her but, to my shame, didn't feel mentally strong enough to handle it. Mary's body was found in her flat in mid-January.
At the inquest, because of elapsed time, the coroner was unable
to establish a definite cause of death. Police described the
traditional debris of medication, empty bottles and cans. Her
sisters testified that experience had taught them to give their
feisty sibling a wide berth when she was 'back on the sauce.'
Since Brocklethwaite, and especially after she got rid of her
boyfriend, Mary had been coping well, attending regular AA meetings
and training for a career away from the bar trade. Confirmation came when Mary's next door neighbour took the stand. "Sometimes we didn't see each other for weeks. You see I couldn't stand her layabout partner, but we got friendly again once she'd kicked him out. Then one night I came home late and saw a pair of men's shoes lying by her door. Thick brogues they were, as if they'd been left there for somebody to clean. You know, like they used to do in hotels? I thought it funny at the time but I took it as a hint and kept my distance." In my anger I thought of Blake's poem set to music by Charles Parry, the patriotic anthem with lyrics that no one at Brocklethwaite could explain.
By the time the train reached Guildford I felt calm enough to phone Bart for directions. His mother answered in a familiar controlled voice, the voice of one used to being in charge. "I'm afraid you're too late," she said. Did I detect a trace of distaste? "dear Bartholomew passed away two weeks ago..." After a while I stopped hating Bart. We had, after all, agreed we could call on one another for support. Mary wouldn't have wanted his shoes in her flat and with hindsight I doubt any one of us in Mary's position would have been strong enough to insist he left the vodka outside too. Jerusalem still haunts much of my waking moments though, especially when life deals me a bad hand and a glass of old malt appears at the top of my wish list. I've read up a little on William Blake since then, but it seems I lack even the perception of HYPERLINK "/wiki/British_National_Party"British National Party who made the piece their official anthem. Tonight, watching Last Night of the Proms, I see hundreds of Bartholomews in Union Jack hats mouthing the words in front of an animated conductor. Are they better informed? "And was Jerusalem builded here among those dark satanic mills." Who cares? Uplifted by the stirring music, I close my eyes and think of Mary's infectious, carefree laughter, a scarce commodity at Brocklethwaite, on that isolated occasion, the moment she realised what was hanging above Blake's immortal words. That's meaning enough for me. © 2008 Eddie Bruce
Eddie Bruce lives with his wife Muriel in Waltham Abbey, Essex, U.K. Most of his plot-led tales are based on fact, with anecdotes culled from an unusually varied career as distillers clerk, whisky blender, coal miner, builder's labourer, brewer's drayman, London bus driver, trucker, mobile librarian - and a few he can't remember. He was born and brought up on the Malt Whisky Trail of Speyside, before moving on to Fife, Glasgow, Luton, Sough, London, Jersey and North Sutherland as the "spirit" moved him. Along the way he met some interesting characters and has endeavoured to portray a few of these in his stories. Many of his stories are autobiographical in nature. As a recovering alcoholic he wrote them in an effort to recall the past, hoping that by doing so he might better understand where it all went wrong - or at least find a clue to his real (sober) identity. |
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