Seven Miles For Doris. ( The Sycamore Story).

Seven miles to go. He was making good time. The road was empty and the car was behaving itself. The radio was playing “Happy” by Pharrell Williams. He took this as a good sign. Today would be a happy day.

Six miles to go. He knew exactly what he’d do when he got there. He’d park the car and walk along the old footpath that led to the hill. From there it was just a ten-minute walk uphill and then he’d see it. It was a special place. A secret place. Their place.

Five miles to go. He thought back to how they first met. The walking holiday. Both of them single. Both of them wanting and hoping they might meet someone with the same interests. They just sort of clicked. The endless jokes about her rucksack. He said it was bigger than she was and he was right. She was so petite.

Four miles to go. They swapped numbers. Both hoping that this just wasn’t a “Holiday thing” He called her as soon as he got home. They arranged to meet. Georgios in the city. He had pizza. She had Carbonara. She wanted to pay but he was having none of it. He was the man and that’s what men did. He kissed her for the first time that night. She tasted of cheese sauce and bacon. Two things he loved most in the world.

Three miles to go. Within a month she’d moved into his flat. They became inseparable. They did everything together and every year on September  28th they went to their special place. It was the place where he’d first plucked up the courage to talk to her. They’d been walking and stopped at a large Sycamore tree in a gap between the hills. He offered her a liver sausage and onion sandwich. She accepted and laughed at his choice of fillings.

Two miles to go. He couldn’t really pinpoint the day it all started to go wrong. It just did. Little things started to irritate her. She said she didn’t like him picking out her clothes for her. Stupid really because he just wanted her to look her best. Suddenly she decided she wasn’t happy being at home all the time. But he’d made her give up her job because she always looked so tired. Besides, a woman’s place is in the home. All she had to do was cook and clean.

One mile to go. She said he was controlling. What did that mean? He had no idea. If making all the decisions on the home, holidays, food, clothes, her hair and make-up were controlling, then perhaps he was. But it was just to make her life a lot easier. She didn’t have to worry about anything. Just have his tea on the table at 17.57 every evening and that was it.

Half a mile to go. Almost there. He was sure that by now she would have come to her senses. She left on a Wednesday. He’d come home from work and she was gone. No note. Nothing. It was a shock. No tea ready. He had to get fish and chips that night. Which was upsetting because they only had fish and chips on a Friday! That was six months ago. Today was September 28th. Their day. He knew she’d be here.

He pulled into the car park and stopped by the Pay and Display machine. He bought a ticket. It was two pounds fifty. But she was worth it.
He started his journey up the hill and was soon in sight of their special place. He could see a small figure standing at the bottom, in the gap. He smiled. He knew she’d be here.
As he got closer he realised something was different. Something was wrong. Then he realised. The Sycamore tree had gone. It didn’t matter. At least she was there.
He was less than six feet away from the small framed figure in front of him. The person was looking down at the ground staring at the fallen giant Sycamore.  Sawdust was scattered everywhere.
He spoke her name.
“Doris?”
The figure turned. To his surprise, it wasn’t Doris at all. It was an old man in his seventies. The old man spoke and at the same time shook his head.
“Scandalous isn’t it? Beautiful tree like this vandalised. Someone came here in the early hours of this morning with a chainsaw and cut the thing down. Whatever would possess someone to do something like that?

Welcome To Docker Town.

You’re lost. You’ve taken a wrong turn in a scary part of the city. The Peasouper has played its trump card and you’re in trouble. You’re in Docker town.

You see a light and a sign. You push a door and you’re in. The smoke’s so thick you have to swallow hard and your throat’s in danger of closing and never being able to open again. Your  eyes squint and begin to water until they finally start to focus on their surroundings.

A woman sits at the end of the bar dressed in clothes that ought to belong to her daughter. It’s mutton dressed as lamb. She’s waiting, hoping, praying that someone will buy her a drink. Very few do.

There’s a man just three feet away from her wearing a suit two sizes too big for him. He’s lost weight, and convinces himself that it’s because he’s “looking after himself.” The truth is, he’s never been overweight in his life and he’s using the toilet much more than he used to. He puffs out his chest and orders another scotch, large of course, no ice.

Three men are sat by the fire. It’s not alight even though it’s freezing outside. They’re working men. Hands rough and scarred, from unloading barges that come into the nearby dock.  They’re all drinking the cheapest beer the landlord offers. Voices are raised from another corner. Two men square up to each other, each hoping that the other won’t throw a punch. A bigger man steps between them and pushes them apart. They’re both glad of the interruption.  The landlady shouts out “Oi, not in here, take it outside.” Her blouse buttons straining to keep back the enormous white breasts that she knows keeps the punters coming in.

There’s a blackboard on the far wall. Written in chalk are the words “ Fresh Food Served Here.” It’s just sandwiches. There’s a stack of them on a shelf behind the bar, they’ve been there for hours and are beginning to curl up at the edges. Cheese, ham or egg. The egg ones don’t smell too good.

There’s a man drinking from a pewter mug that he keeps behind the bar, makes him feel like he’s at home, because he has no real home. But here everyone knows his name. It’s an hour before midday and yet at least three people are slumped in a chair too drunk to move. Pubs open early in Docker Town.

You can hear music, a piano is playing and through the haze you see a man sitting on a stool playing something vaguely familiar. People are singing along. All out of key, but so is the piano.

The landlady spots you and shouts “Oi gormless, you buying a drink or what?” You just nod and point to a beer tap. She pours you a pint and you pay with the few coins you have in your pocket. You take a sip, it’s warm and looks and tastes like the river that’s just a few yards away.

You turn and quickly leave by the same door you came in from, hoping that no one notices. The cold air hits you like a punch from a heavyweight boxer. It takes away your breath and you gasp repeatedly until your lungs decide to get up off the floor and carry on. The street outside is full of men. Old men, young men, desperate men. All wanting and crying out for one thing. Work. Some will be lucky today some won’t. The lucky ones will go home smiling. The others won’t go home.

A man stops you and grabs your arm. “Spare a couple of coppers guv?” You try to pull away but his grip is firm. “Please Guv!” His voice has gone from a question to a cry. You keep walking. You dare not look at his face. He lets go and falls to the floor. Other men just step over him as though he’s not there.

One colour describes your surroundings. Grey. Thick smoke and fog hangs in the air and you soon realise that it was healthier being inside the pub. Up ahead is a crowd of men standing by a lamppost. All wearing caps and boots, hunched over with hands in pockets. You pass them. One of them shouts at you. “Any work guv?” They think you’re management because you’re dressed differently to them. You don’t stop. Just waive your hand and keep your head down.

You can see the dock gates up ahead. So close. Close to normality. A woman to your left is standing outside a derelict building. “Want business love?” You make the mistake of looking up at her. She smiles. A toothless smile. She raises her tattered skirt above her knee. Hoping for a reaction. You shake your head and move on hurriedly. She shouts out after you. “Stuck up bastard, I can do more for you than your missus indoors.”

You reach the gates and you’re out!

Goodbye To Docker town.