against the perfumed water as I brought myself off, to thoughts of Katie lowering her bony behind on to my cock, my fingers gripping and marking her pale flesh with bruises my father would have to paint in the next day.
I bumped into Victoria (‘call me Vicky’) in the village shop yesterday. She was another of the local girls, now married with children in high school ties by her side and a basket full of sweet breakfast cereal and fizzy drinks. I managed to ask after Katie and she told me she’d disappeared to the city with a bad lot after Dad stopped booking her. I was grateful that, after the first shock of recognition, I could remember I never much cared for Victoria. She looked old and faded and seemed annoyed, even nervous, at meeting me. You’d think she’d be grateful for the distraction, for the chance to relive better days.
Maggie was the one that never left. She was the mother hen with the frying pan at the stove, distributing tea and cigarettes, laughing, and chiding the girls who complained about the poses they’d been set, the length of time they’d been forced to sit, the large boy who followed them aboutand destroyed their concentration. Maggie would hear no criticism of me, and those models who dared it had short careers in the Laird studio. Dad was famous enough by that time; there would always be more girls. Until there was Sarah, of course. And then there was only Sarah.
For me, now it will only be you.
Your Daniel x
27th November
The Studio
Dear Aubrey –
You’ll probably have a hundred reasons in a file somewhere to explain why I’m saying this, but really, Aubrey, you must take this as my final word: I have no use for more of your pills. Your letters, however, I have to admit are welcome. It’s good to have someone objective to write to; someone who’s not tied up in the emotional stuff going on here.
I’ve been thinking a little lately about our relationship. Maybe sometimes I am unfair to you. I blame you for not playing a part, and I’m not even sure anyone informed you that we were on stage.
I’m with Dad at the hospital for his check-up. Isn’t everyone meant to say they hate hospitals? I have to say I don’t mind them. I find the waiting rather restful. There’s the smell, of course – sanitised wards imbued with the stench of stewed shit – but it just makes it more intimate, like using a toilet when the seat’s still warm.
We wait with the very old. I try to mimic the other carers with their loud whispered questions and concerns. It’s hard to keep Dad in his chair. He keeps twitching his fingers against the armrests and then trying to haul himself up. I don’t know where else he thinks he needs to be, but, wherever it is, he wants to get there in a hurry. I’m getting kind of pissed off with him, but one of the other carers gives me a smile-grimace of sympathy and I’m forced to play the dutiful son. I get Dad a magazine and turn the pages of glossy smiles under his chin, trying to catch his attention. I’m like a child with a buttercup: do you like butter? What I want to do is just sit here and watch the nurses and the doctors and the patients. I want to be ignored by the women busy behind their desks and carry a chit of paper from the blue waiting room to the red waiting room. I want to follow the biro lines round every completed word search and drink overpriced watered-down coffee in the cafeteria. I could live here quite happily for months. I realise I’m hoping they’ll say that Dad’s too bad to go home, that we’ll get a little holiday in the hospital.
The doctor says he’s progressing well, but slowly. He says Dad’s speech still isn’t great, but he does have some words now, which should cut down on the frustration and tantrums. He mentions small strokes occurring all the time. Landmines in his brain. He reads all this off a clipboard after greeting Dad and taking hold of his hand. He lets Dad keep hold of his hand while he reads. Dad is
I bumped into Victoria (‘call me Vicky’) in the village shop yesterday. She was another of the local girls, now married with children in high school ties by her side and a basket full of sweet breakfast cereal and fizzy drinks. I managed to ask after Katie and she told me she’d disappeared to the city with a bad lot after Dad stopped booking her. I was grateful that, after the first shock of recognition, I could remember I never much cared for Victoria. She looked old and faded and seemed annoyed, even nervous, at meeting me. You’d think she’d be grateful for the distraction, for the chance to relive better days.
Maggie was the one that never left. She was the mother hen with the frying pan at the stove, distributing tea and cigarettes, laughing, and chiding the girls who complained about the poses they’d been set, the length of time they’d been forced to sit, the large boy who followed them aboutand destroyed their concentration. Maggie would hear no criticism of me, and those models who dared it had short careers in the Laird studio. Dad was famous enough by that time; there would always be more girls. Until there was Sarah, of course. And then there was only Sarah.
For me, now it will only be you.
Your Daniel x
27th November
The Studio
Dear Aubrey –
You’ll probably have a hundred reasons in a file somewhere to explain why I’m saying this, but really, Aubrey, you must take this as my final word: I have no use for more of your pills. Your letters, however, I have to admit are welcome. It’s good to have someone objective to write to; someone who’s not tied up in the emotional stuff going on here.
I’ve been thinking a little lately about our relationship. Maybe sometimes I am unfair to you. I blame you for not playing a part, and I’m not even sure anyone informed you that we were on stage.
I’m with Dad at the hospital for his check-up. Isn’t everyone meant to say they hate hospitals? I have to say I don’t mind them. I find the waiting rather restful. There’s the smell, of course – sanitised wards imbued with the stench of stewed shit – but it just makes it more intimate, like using a toilet when the seat’s still warm.
We wait with the very old. I try to mimic the other carers with their loud whispered questions and concerns. It’s hard to keep Dad in his chair. He keeps twitching his fingers against the armrests and then trying to haul himself up. I don’t know where else he thinks he needs to be, but, wherever it is, he wants to get there in a hurry. I’m getting kind of pissed off with him, but one of the other carers gives me a smile-grimace of sympathy and I’m forced to play the dutiful son. I get Dad a magazine and turn the pages of glossy smiles under his chin, trying to catch his attention. I’m like a child with a buttercup: do you like butter? What I want to do is just sit here and watch the nurses and the doctors and the patients. I want to be ignored by the women busy behind their desks and carry a chit of paper from the blue waiting room to the red waiting room. I want to follow the biro lines round every completed word search and drink overpriced watered-down coffee in the cafeteria. I could live here quite happily for months. I realise I’m hoping they’ll say that Dad’s too bad to go home, that we’ll get a little holiday in the hospital.
The doctor says he’s progressing well, but slowly. He says Dad’s speech still isn’t great, but he does have some words now, which should cut down on the frustration and tantrums. He mentions small strokes occurring all the time. Landmines in his brain. He reads all this off a clipboard after greeting Dad and taking hold of his hand. He lets Dad keep hold of his hand while he reads. Dad is
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