Sharon Gerber-Crawford - Visits

„Er, ok.“

„Was will diese alte Frau, Mama?“ iii

„Dylan, das ist unhöflich. Die ist deine Ur-Oma!“

„Ja, aber ich weiß nicht was sie will!“

„Die Regeln erklären, natürlich.“

„What‘s that? What does he want?“

„For me to explain the rules, Granny.“

„Eh? A biccie. Does he want a biccie?“

„Oh Mama, darf ich eins haben?“iv

„No Dylan you had enough earlier!“

„Aber Mama, nur eins, bitte.“ v

„No, Dy-“

„Och let the wee cub have a biccie! Would you like a wee biccie?“ She slaps her cards down in delight. She gets up before I can stop her and shuffles over the shag pile onto the dirty carpet and out into the kitchen.

My son’s face is glowing with victory.

„Don’t get too excited.“ I say and feeling mean, add „They’ll be stale and soft and nibbled at the edges by mice.“

„Eeeh, Mama!“

„Oh shut up and look here. The aim of the game is to score twenty one. These cards here are worth......“

Visiting the Past

And so, I am lying in bed. In almost darkness. In between. I let them come. Images and whispers, snatches of thoughts and associations, just as suddenly snatched away again. I am tense. So tense that my right arm begins to go numb. I move, flinging my arm at some silly angle above my head. Free, blood assaults my veins. It hurts. A swollen sack of pain. Concentrate. I must concentrate. Images and whispers, snatches of thoughts.

It´s you – my namesake. Twenty nine years ago. July 1983. The second time we took up our friendship. In the mess of your parents’ house. Too much furniture, a pile of tyres, bin bags full of God knows what. The family dog, a young Alsatian, pisses in the hall against the telephone table.

„Shall I get a cloth?“ I offer, me, the good girl, the nice visitor.

„Och leave it be. ‘s good for the carpet.“ Your father says and pets the dog as if in praise. If he registers my surprise he doesn’t let on.

„Maggie!“ he roars „Wud ye put the kettle on!“ and goes into the living room to put the telly on. Maggie, a big woman spilling out of shapeless clothes, appears through a doorless doorway, sniffs the air, then seeing me, tries to flatten down her toilet brush shock of hair. Behind her, her spitting image, her eldest son Ian, smirks.

„Och it’s Craferd, aul’ Craferd.“

I stick out my tongue at him.

„Never mind him!“ shouts Maggie and pushes him back into the living room. „Go mik us a cup o’ tay, ye cheeky hallion, ye.“ And then to me „Sharn’s in the back bedroom tryin’ tae get wee Adele tae sleep.”

„Oh“

„Och sure ye’ll be alright. Go aun in. She´ll be pleased tae see ye.“

In the dim, curtains badly drawn, Sharon is bent over a cot singing softly. I make a big show of closing the door carefully, and am rewarded with a smile and a whispered invitation to come and look. An impossibly tiny baby, with big liquid eyes and jet back curls, is sucking on a dummy and staring riveted at her mother.

„She’s lovely.“ I whisper in awe. And indeed she is. Up until now I could never really see what all the fuss was about as regards babies. All this cooing and geeing and soppification. And then I stare too at her mother. Can this be the same girl who had tried to engage me in a conversation about my sex life at the toothpaste counter less than a year and a half ago? While I had blushed and stammered in my supermarket overalls, and tidied up rows of mouthwashes behind my weekend counter, she had looked at me knowingly.

„There are things you can use, you know.“

And while she was giving birth and learning to nurse I was drinking my way through my first year at university, learning little in the way of academic knowledge, but a lot about life. And politics, philosophy, unrequited love. And deeper meanings. Or so I thought. But now, perched here on the edge of a bed in a dusty cluttered room, I realize I know nothing. Nothing at all.

The meaning of it all

What is

love?

Frogs or

Aubergines bursting

at their purple seams

or me pushed gamely up against a small town wall

wanting it all

fuck hesitate!

fucking it up

in true film fashion

slipperless

pretending not

to believe in the myth

losing myself to learning lessons?

so then

what the fuck

is?

Me, aged six

The family garden in the 1970’s

Hair

Still there, still fair

pretty as the picture

I am looking out of

with my brother, and

a row of dolls, lined up

legs kicking the technicolour air

of the bright 60’s sunshine.

The family garden

still made of grass

stretching away behind us into the blue

Sperrin Mountains.

Idyllic you may think

but we are already old and worried,

discontent

posing for pictures

on a Sunday afternoon

The Protestant family album

Oh! How cute! Is that your brother?

Did he really have such white hair?

And weren’t you pretty, then!

Then.

And then we turned to play

upset the dolls

fists and legs flying in the air

For Gawd’s sake! Can’t a body

have a bit o’ peace around here!

Peace?

No!

Like the hair

It’s not there

Memory Tricks

Long legs hold me

I cannot breathe

sacks of flour in a dusty storeroom

we are hiding, but how?

Surely we are being missed

the dentist’s drill whines on children’s bones

the milk cart starts up

and out in the fields the smell of slurry

spreads, like the new healthy margarine

Tomorrow a magician will come

To trick coins out of children’s ears

From between their fingers

he will reward them with chocolate money

and orange lollipops

but you will get none

you will not be picked

again

amen

pull the cold leeches from the toilet walls

pick at your skin

don’t let them in

Exposure

Cold air

On cracked bone

The dentist drilling

„Open wide

Relax!“

Eyes squeezed shut

Spinning

Through the dust and debris

Of things past

A Northern Ireland sixties classroom

Palm outstretched

For the willow cane

For a pencil stuck

In a best friend’s head

For forbidden words

„Fuck you! You’re dead!“

Forbidden words

But worser still

The words left

Unsaid

Playing tig

In the schoolyard

Quickly caught, squashed

No room to breathe

„When a man marries a woman

He asks her if she wants

To make a baby.

She says yes, and then

He sticks his thing up her

Fanny“

No! No! No!

This is worse than custard

Force-fed in the school canteen

I run

The Journey Home

was ne’er much fun

A yellow bus, Mr Magowan

hacking and spitting us

all on board

for a twisty jaunt o’er

Gillygooley and Drumquin hills

I sit alone, mostly

Or with my brother

Counting rain drops on cloudy window panes

the others laughing, yelling, teasing

doing deals

and us? Small, so very small

waiting

in a vacuum of noise

every Protestant hedge

every Catholic tree

bringing us closer

and closer

end stretch

the yellow bus stops

C’mon get up, get out first

and maybe, just maybe....

But the seats have feet to trip us up

arms to hold us back