The Man in the End Terrace MP3
Read by Gloria Sanders
South Cleatlam is more street than village - two rows of mean terraces facing each other, built a hundred years ago for the men at the pit that closed as soon as it opened. Out back there's the netty, and then the farmer's fields. Cheryl’s dog got lost in the fields one time. Her brother said the tractor ran it over; it got sliced up in the machinery and spattered all over the place. Cheryl’s brother found this very funny, so she told him the owl that sat on the fencepost would peck his eyes out, and Cheryl’s brother said fuck off and took a Stella out the fridge, but ever since then he looks warily at the fencepost whenever he passes it.
An artist has moved into the end terrace. He wears little round glasses and says ‘Hello’. Nobody else says ‘Hello’. They say ‘Fuck off,’ if they’re kids, or ‘Now then’ if they’re old and wanting to be friendly. The artist sits out in the field with an easel and paints, but like Cheryl’s told her mam, he can’t be a proper artist because he doesn’t paint what’s there; it’s all daft shapes and the wrong colours. Today he’s done a slash of red right across the canvas, but there’s nothing red in the field, wrong time of year for poppies, there’s just an ache of coal dust and loss which breaks her heart, so Cheryl loses patience with his wrongness; she kicks his easel to the ground, stamps on the canvas and screams at him. The man backs off, hands raised, and says very slowly: ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ like she’s a foreigner or something.
And that’s actually bloody funny, because Cheryl’s not exactly like everyone else round here, though she covers it up well. She turns around quickly so he can’t see her laughing and runs home to tell her mam.
She’s still giggling when she launches herself through the door. Mam’s peering at a tiny book, but she closes it, pops it in her pocket, smiles up at her daughter. Cheryl says she thinks she’s frightened the artist, and Mam says, ‘What d’ye do that for?’ but she isn’t cross. She says he probably deserved it. His type – what do you expect? Cheryl wonders what ‘his type’ thinks about, and Mam says, probably the best way to iron his socks, and they splutter with laughter, but Mam says she really shouldn’t have spoilt the man’s painting. Cheryl starts filling up, she can’t help it, but Mam gives her a hug and it’s all fine.
Cheryl’s brother comes in, swings the fridge door open and gets out a Stella, pulls the ring and it snaps off so he swears and gets a hammer and huge nail and Mam shakes her head, but she catches Cheryl’s eye, her brother doesn’t notice, too busy. The can splatters open at last and he’s exultant, he’s a hero. He leans back against the table drinking it with his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and that sets Cheryl off again, so she runs out into the field and lies on the grass, ribs aching.
She wonders if the artist is lonely, and what he’d be like. She might be only sixteen, but she’s done it often enough to know all men are different. Some are kind and funny, some are rough, most are idiots. They’ll do what you want if you’re sweet to them. Cheryl’s picked up plenty of tips over the years. Mam’s still popular, and she does very nicely, thank you very much, so they’re always able to pay the leccy.
*
The next time the artist is painting outdoors, Cheryl goes and watches. The artist looks worried when he sees her, but he’s too busy painting his shapes and slashes to stop. Cheryl finds if she squints she can see there’s something about the coloured marks that really does describe the day, the sun beating down on the fields, and the crows in the trees, and even the chirping grasshoppers. She can’t work out how he’s doing it, so she forgets about imagining what he’d be like, and watches the art instead, and after a bit she decides art is better than sex when it’s done this well. She says as much to the man and he fumbles with his brushes and drops them on the ground. She helps him pick them up and hands them back and he says, ‘Thank you,’ very polite and proper.
She’s brought a couple of cans and asks if he’d like one, but he says no thanks, not while he’s painting, and she says, ‘Mind if I do?’ And he’s like, ‘Be my guest,’ and he smiles and she feels dead grown up. This is nice. This isn’t South Cleatlam at all, this is the South of France. She says so, and the sun’s baking down and he says, ‘That’s very perceptive, yes, I’ve always loved Cezanne, I’m so pleased it shows.’ She doesn’t know what the fuck he’s on about, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll have him, and it’ll be nice, but no rush.
She’s dead careful to talk proper now so he’ll understand. She tells him about the owl, but not about it pecking her brother’s eyes out. She talks about her mam and about love and about how they’ve got books in their house, and there’s not many can say that. There’s even one with poems. And she says how her dog ran away across the field, and her brother said the thresher had got it and it was splattered all over the place, that’s why the red slash on his painting upset her, and she’s dead sorry about spoiling it.
He says he understands. He actually talks to her properly, like her mam does. He says he used to be married, but his wife had had a miscarriage and that was what he’d been painting – the pain, and the bleeding. They’d separated afterwards. There was too much hurt.
Cheryl doesn’t know how to reply, she thinks she’s going to cry because she remembers when that happened to her mam, so she walks up close and puts her arm round his shoulder, just like her mam does when Cheryl’s upset about something. The artist stays very still for a while, but then he carries on painting, and doesn’t shake her off. His shoulder is hot, and she likes how the muscles in his back move as he brushes the colours across the canvas.
He finishes, and he says how intensely beautiful this place is, and she’s like, what, South Cleatlam? Fuck off! But she doesn’t say so out loud. She thinks what her mam’s like when one of her favourite gentlemen calls round, the softness in her eyes, the way she takes his hand. She helps the artist pack up and carry the stuff back to his cottage, and he asks if she’d like to come in, so she does, and he makes up a jug of some drink with lemonade and chopped up oranges and mint leaves and blue flowers. It’s sweet and delicious and bursting with colours. She means flavours, but with this bloke it’s colours, always colours, and she puts her glass down and takes his hand and leads him upstairs. All the houses in this terrace are the same. She knows where to go.
*
Afterwards they’re under the sheets and the sun is beaming in through the window, and somewhere a fox is shouting and the kids are doing a skipping game in the street, and it’s the most perfect time ever, and nothing will ever be so wonderful again. She kisses him once, so lightly he barely stirs, then she leaves, quietly, and goes back home.
Mam is making chips. ‘Where’ve you been all afternoon?’
‘With the artist.’
Mam looks out of the window and doesn’t say anything. Then, ‘I knew a man who wrote books once.’ She goes to the shelf and takes one down, leafs through the pages. There’s a slip of paper. She reads it and smiles, then puts it back.
Cheryl doesn’t say anything. She sits very still.
‘It was before you were born. He was clever. Too clever for me. We only did it the one time, but it was the best. The bluebells were out.’
Cheryl thinks about this for a bit.
‘How long was that before I was born?’
Mam pours herself a Stella, stares at the bubbles, wipes the condensation with one finger.
‘You’re pretty clever yourself,’ she says, and she laughs, shakes her head and gets a packet of burgers out the freezer.
(c) Catherine Edmunds, 2019
Catherine Edmunds is a writer, artist and folk/rock fiddle player. Her published works include two poetry collections, four novels and a Holocaust memoir. She has been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize, shortlisted in the Bridport four times, and has works in journals including Aesthetica, Crannóg and Ambit.
Gloria Sanders trained at Drama Studio London. She regularly narrates audiobooks for the RNIB and recently joined the cast of Time Will Tell's Dracula at Whitby Abbey. She often works as an historical interpreter at heritage sites around the country and has continued her training in clowning and historic fooling.
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