Kings Cross Unable to recall what time of day, a ringing on the street door bell.

In itself unusual, no one ever comes to this flat other than Brenda. Hardly bothered to open the window and look out. Mark home, school holiday. He went to the window, came back quietly said "Mummy is downstairs". Thought he must be joking, had given her up, nevertheless curious. Looked out, could see this rather glamourous woman, long hair, fur coat, standing between the rubbish and the street door. It did look vaguely like Jennifer... too well put together, too altogether out of her class. What such a person was doing round here, could hardly imagine. The woman looked up "Well, aren't you going to let me in!". Momentarily hardly knew what to do, looked like a hermit with my woolly hat, baggy trousers...not shaved for days... the flat more or less a shambles. Mark became very agitated. Told him to wait while went down to sort it out. Yes, Jenny all right, a very expensive one, the works, including a sun tan, hair, so different, become thick, absolutely straight, not one strand out of place, as if stepping straight from another World, another Planet maybe she had. The reunion between mother and son went only as expected after such a long silence. Perhaps other men would have strangled her on the spot, indeed there are very frequent cases reported of men doing just that in the "Hackney Gazette". But taken by surprise, my guard completely down, dishevelled, half beaten by time and circumstances... unable to say anything at all to this woman... so composed, cool, so expensive... Reminded me of the elegant expensive ladies along the Old Brompton Road. " Oh. Good evening driver, could you possibly run me to Annabels'? Actually I am in a frightful hurry". They always are, always will be, never speak. The mirror comes from their handbags , a quick perk, a quick adjustment to the coiffure, the Channel sprayed discretely, its aroma drifting into the driving compartment. How had Jennifer become one of those ? No trace of the girl I had known, the one who had hysterics as I dragged her trunk up the stairs, how we had fallen straight in the bed never getting out of it other than briefly, very briefly. All that another time, long ago in my existence. Another Peter, another person... I, simply a shadow of that person. Numb, completely numb inside my being, nothing at all between us... Total strangers, different sides of the tracks. Nothing she wanted from me... not now, not any more, not ever... Only the boy, the boy... she wanted him... wanted him back, to take him, my last shred. She wanted to take him... to take him to America, to California, to El Segundo.. .not simply round the corner, not just up the road. Went to the window, surveyed the putrid piles of rubbish, the disconsolate, squabbling, seagulls soaring about the Pond, the bleak, ice covered landscape. No question in my mind... Mark silent... he knew the situation precisely, knew all to well, the hardship out there on the wretched streets, my having to say "Take him".. the difficult part. How she could simply walk in here and walk out with our son, to her, a forgone conclusion. Obviously, I, not worth considering, no consideration necessary, just someone who had cared for her child while she adjusted herself to the good life. Now, time to collect... half expected her to offer me money... compensation.. such was her attitude. Kept an axe behind the door, still there to this day, considered the idea of chopping her up, shoving the remains in a couple of black plastic bags, put them on top of the pile outside the house... Who would care?... round here!? No question of the smell, the rot, people had been walking about with handkerchiefs over their faces for weeks. No one willing to verify as to her coming, or going. No one

caring about anything whatsoever, only survival. No one asks questions in Hackney...it being most unhealthy. Again, Mark and I, stuck here over Xmas. Last year had been bad...this was going to be worse. Desperately looked about for a solution whereby she would not get all her own way, to show, maybe, the old dog still had teeth... Asked where she may be staying? "The Hilton". Thank you........What possible chance? what option did I have? Hackney to the Hilton ?... about one million miles! Hardly feel it possible to describe what was going on in my head. So many thoughts pulling in so many diverse directions. Perhaps holding out against the obvious, in some hope Jennifer would relinquish the whole idea, simply take her coat off... I make the tea, she play with Mark, would wake from rather a bad situation... eyes opening with relief, sad dream ended. A long scenario of lost children, of stepping to oneside, unable or unwilling to fight any further, maybe my strange education in the Air raid shelters, the endless films, huddled in the "Pavilion" at Mare street, ignoring the wailing sirens on the Town Hall opposite, distant, muffled, gunfire, the meaningless, banal attitudes of Metro Goldwyn, R.K.O. Universal, Ealing Studios, books I had managed to get hold of and read, all without doubt, contributing to my own profound sense of fatalism... to go with the tide of events, this particular tide .. in full flood. Virginia's remark ..my being 'a Gambler', not quite, even in the darkest moments, absolutely on my knees, the real situation remained clear. This, a very dark moment in my existence...

Threw a spanner in her works, she would have to return him within three weeks, after the New Year, in time for school, in case Mark disliked life in the other World. Hardly aware where El Segundo was, or the Hughes Corporation. Jennifer would not relish my turning up there, knowing I would soon find it. Agreed readily, relieved at the sudden defusing of a tense situation . Silence There really was no one at all now, had managed to dislodge the last vestiges of contact. Yes, drove them mechanically to the Hilton, cruised down Park Lane as if other punters in the back, they, not saying anything. Mark locked on to her. Swept into the forecourt, did my "U" turn. Linkman opened the door, bowing slightly to Jennifer, to my recollection who never spoke to me, she and Mark offering a slight, discreet wave. Watched as they disappeared into the depths of the chrome plated, air conditioned, cushioned other World. Neither looked back. The Linkman, whom I knew well, gave me the odd glance, not quite sure what was happening, aware something had . . Xmas Day... Two boiled eggs and a look out of the window.

Not so terrible... other men having traumas with their "Families". My consolation... none of that... no bickering, no squabbling with intransigent children. No expensive holidays, no travelling to see the Mother in Law, no anything at all. A bleak, intensely cold, grey day, even the Pub remained closed after the long drunkenness and shouting of the previous night.., the high pitched screaming from the females, a signal to arouse the men from their stupor into positive action, to push the girls... very young white, tall black men... against the walls or onto the grass of the Common, to quickly copulate, quickly return to the lights, the noise... to their half finished bottles and glasses, an incident, an interruption to drinking. No, I had no one to fall on or into... the panacea of the Television, mindless numbing of the brain, hour after hour of interminable nothingness. As always, as ever, crept out into the night, crisp frozen, air fresh, gentle, a undisturbed mantle of snow along the deserted streets. Pleased at the total isolation, the complete absence of any other vehicle, only my tracks wending their way through the white wastelands of Hackney, knew that once I did hit Shaftsbury Avenue... the World would return to life, bright lights, not too crowded streets. Plonked myself on the Hilton, more as a act of bravado, not another cab insight, doorman most pleased to see me, kept me busy through until the dawn, a long, low, pale streak through the tangled clouds, the bare trees of the Park. Susan to very sharply pull me up when I said, maybe thinking out loud, loud enough for her to hear me. "My life ended when Jennifer went" It simply slipped out of my mouth, regardless of my almost paranoid attitude of keeping it shut. In retrospect the remark held a great deal of truth. I was to make one or two attempts to whitewash that situation, be as other "Normal men" leading a "Normal life" who was I kidding? only myself. Hardly a matter of cynicism, beyond that, if such a position is possible. As I become older the women become younger, my only interest.., youth itself, for it's power, its urgency, it's life. Fascinated, told Cynthia this... told her "I would not go to Heaven" my obsession with such, so young females. To any one in the street, no more, no less. 'The Dirty Old Man'. Cynthia staunchly defending my attitude... even set about finding me one or two candidates, for my Birthday, producing a Virgin, the keys to a flat and the stipulation .England expects that this day Every man I, to resurrect my whole life, flick through it ... my net total of birthday presents had been, until then, the incontrovertible pair of slippers. Ruth had bought me a very expensive, framed, print by Paul Gauguin. Virginia had come up with a book on Bee Keeping... My trip to Greece with Moira that April had produced a comb. A Virgin ! " something else!" as a certain party would have said.. Slightly surprised Jennifer appeared back on the scene as promised, little I could have done about it if she had not. As I was to find out, America is a very big country.

Mark, subdued on his appearance here in the flat. Tried to put a brave, hopeful face on the situation... Getting his train set down getting it up and running. They, doing no more than standing about waiting, unsure. Each heavy moment ticking by the overcast atmosphere. Again, searching about for something too say, asked the completely wrong question. "What did you do on Xmas day Mark?" He looked at his mother ... then, half at myself. "We went sailing" his voice flat, as if the incredible experience of the flight, Sunlight on the Water, Wind in the White Sails, some dream, which he had now woken from, woken abruptly, back in the grime of Darkest Hackney. That was it. Told him to get his bits and pieces... his Teddy Bear, the old blanket he always slept with. An air of disbelief, a element of fear flickered forwards and backwards between mother and son as they, almost on tip toe, went through the flat, hurriedly gathering up pieces of what had been.. their lives, pieces of myself. Jennifer, on her very best behaviour going into the huge hall cupboard taking everything she had been forced to leave on her ignominiouse throw out. Never realised she had accumulated so much gear... her perfume still lingering, about all that would remain of them... Rather expensive car sitting down in the street, outside the pub. Geyser, looking apprehensively up at these windows... the "Boy friend" They stood in the hall, street door half open. I never offered any help down the stairs... I had helped her up. Maybe, momentarily she felt some sorrow, perhaps recalling that first morning on her crutches. Pygmalion, always saw the situation, on a lower scale. I, not a professor, she could quite easily have been a flower girl. They waved as they rustled down the stairs, some urgency, as if, at the very last moment, I might simply blow a fuse barring their escape, it had been all too easy.

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